Pachacuti turned over in his grave. A challenging maneuver, since a tree root had been growing right thru his chest for the last 150 years.
“Why don’t they pave over these irregular steps?” he heard the Argentinean woman , walking on the ground above him, complain.
“Can you believe it? That Guard guy told me not to touch the rock,” a European man growled. “It’s a rock, for christ’s sake!”
Pachacuti twisted harder against his anchoring root, trying to remove himself further from this craziness.
Rocks are gifts to us, he tried to yell to the tourist. Gifts from the Earth – from the Pachamama – to us. She died trying to save her children, and she became the mountain. The rocks are Her body!
He twisted in furious frustration. The rocks are for creating. For building our city. The filth you slather on your hands from those little tubes will hurt the rocks. Why can’t you understand something so obvious?
“Where do they sacrifice the virgins?” a middle-aged North American woman twanged.
We are not animals! he tried to scream from below the earth. We are not Mayans. We are the civilized descendants of Inti, the Sun. we do not sacrifice people.
“They need to air condition the bus. This is intolerable.”
You sit. You let the oil from deep inside Pachamama carry you, while your muscles turn to flab. And you complain?
“We got an AWEsome photo of us flying the Seahawks 12th Man flag from one of them temples!”
Such low aspirations! We covered these stones with woven fabrics of magnificent colors. With Inti’s blood – with gold – we reflected Inti’s face from our temples! These stones were covered in gold,. We polished the silver in these buildings until it was worthy of the sons and daughters of this city. And you can only fly a flag?
“They give you a little box lunch to take to Machu Picchu. It’s so cute!”
Pachacuti is amused by your description of your food. Ours, too, can be “cute.”
But mostly, it’s quinoa. Please tell me why, after you eat, you drop your garbage on our city?
“Keep a lookout. I’m going to score some of the sacred water from the ritualistic fountain, and take it home in this glass vial. It’ll be mystical.”
‘Ritualistic?’ ‘Sacred?’ It is our drinking water. Please, help yourself. Drink some.
“Dude! Check it out! I’m the first one in at six A.M. and I’m gonna set the record for running up Huayna Picchu and back. Meet me at the gate at seven-thirty!”
A lot of MACHO. But no PICCHU.
Ah. I see you are not all worshipers of Inti.
“You come quickly! I stamp passport. Say ‘Machu Picchu’ Hurry. Bus waiting.”
So, you are proud that the silver bird, drinking up Pachamama’s oil, brought you to our city. And you will display many pictures for your friends. But, tell me. Will you understand what you have seen? Understand, even deeper, how, we, too, have a connection to your Asia homeland from thousands of years ago?
“Ah’m tarred, Maude. Let’s us git back to the ho-tel fer a Pisca Sour.”
Inti is disappearing again as He has 205,860 times over this city. My comfort is that these people called tourists will leave for a few hours. But they will return tomorrow. More than two times as many people as when our city was alive. Viracocha, the Creator, must have a Great Plan to allow such insanity. I will wait to see what it is. I will wait so long this root will die of old age and become the soil. But I will be here, waiting.
Sex, Drugs, and Public Health 