Ollantaytambo is at the end of the road; the only way onward is by train. The ruins here are magnificent, the site of the only battle the Spanish ever lost against the Inca. Local peoples were of no more importance than the rocks and streams. I wonder if we have learned anything in the centuries since. Don’t we still judge other cultures by our own sense of values and desires? Imposing our own moral stamp on other regions of the world?It's a local holiday in Ollantaytambo and we saw dancing in the streets and ate roasted alpaca cooked with potatoes and chica on metal disks over a fire, to the amusement of locals who are obviously not used to travelers joining in their festivities. Everyone drinks chicha by the litre, but fermented corn is powerful stuff and I didn’t feel up to it at this altitude. Hamish took a great big cup of it to resounding cheers. I drank Miranda, the non-alcoholic version instead.
As we walked along lanes past high walls that promised hidden gardens, we got glimpses of domestic life - courtyards, some grand, and some no more than dirt, homes with mud floors, little furniture and no electricity. And yet everyone manages to always look so well groomed, with clean clothes and shining hair.
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