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Those who do not want to lose their blindfolds for fear of the light, deserve the dark.
– Quechan proverb
Cusco, Peru
"Not far now!" shouted my daughter, Jessie, from the front of the line.
Eight of us, a motley crew, were hiking along a train track. It took us 20 hours by bus to get there from Lima, leaning back and forth through endless switchbacks into the Andes. Now, just before sunset, the rails glinted in the fading light. The guy in front of me, a nomad from Australia, was merrily humming a tune I'd never heard, matching its cadence to his feet crunching the gravel. Further up the line, a couple from Arizona lit a joint, the funky sweetness wafting over our heads.
I inhaled the crisp mountain air and chuckled. Whenever I travelled with Jessie, it was bound to stretch my comfort zone. She’s the freest spirit I've ever known, a world citizen, at home in whatever exotic locale she chooses. She had successfully monetized her escapades through YouTube and a podcast, calling them Wander and Wonder, so now she was unfettered, roaming at will, needing only her iPhone, laptop, and a Wi-Fi connection. And how can I describe the companions she draws to these treks? Bohemians? Naturalists? Alternative outliers? Take your pick, but I always find them enjoyable.
On that night, she was guiding us to the home of a modern-day shaman, a man named Jorge Vega she had discovered through her network. He had agreed to let her feature him for one of her online episodes.
Vega’s story intrigued me, especially since I’m a professor at a liberal arts college. Educated at Harvard, he returned to his homeland of Peru to teach economics at the University of Lima. He had always aligned himself with leftist politics, but the crucible of the Peruvian Teacher's Strike in 2017 radicalized him further. He vehemently voiced his opposition to President Pedro Pablo Kuczynski’s right-wing government and began to encourage activism among his students. The school's administration objected, then attempted to censor him, so he made a dramatic decision, resigning from academia to live among the poor in Cusco. There, he married a local woman, a community organizer in her own right, and the two of them worked tirelessly to strengthen farmers' collectives.
That portion of his life’s arc was remarkable enough, but Vega had another incarnation. He had studied shamanic practices with a Quechan elder and now, alongside his organizing efforts, he offered spiritual guidance. From what Jessie had told me, it was an odd departure, something Vega’s family and friends never expected.
Jessie planned to dig into all of it, and was thrilled that he would participate. She had been generating online buzz for a month. I asked to accompany her because I was curious to meet Vega, but also because a visit to Machu Pichu was on my bucket list.
I heard Jessie say "this way" as she led us onto a side street that ascended one of the hills surrounding the city. Cusco's economy thrives on tourism, but the money only spreads so far. A third of its residents live in poverty, and this colonia was visible proof. The dirt street was lined on both sides with humble adobe homes, most of them covered with chipped whitewash. The dwellings seemed half-finished, their roofs studded with rebar, as if this was a temporary settlement. Twilight grew deeper and I could hear chickens clucking from backyards as they prepared to roost.
Jessie paused at a red wooden door, barely visible, then turned to the rest of us. “Stay back a bit and let me speak to him. I wasn’t sure how many of us there would be and I don’t want to impose.”
She knocked and the door opened promptly, interior light spilling onto the street. A thin man of medium height emerged. He had dark hair, a lean face, and was wearing simple slacks, shoes, and a black shirt. Wrapped around his shoulders was a colorful shawl, which I knew was called a manta. Woven into its rich alpaca fabric were totemic images of animals and geometric forms.
Jessie is fluent in Spanish, and I could hear them conversing. Vega turned and let his gaze sweep over our crew, his face lighting up with a smile.
“Bienvenido,” he called, gesturing for us to come inside. Then, in flawless English, “You are always welcome here.”
Vega’s home had two rooms. The larger one contained a kitchen, sleeping area, and a dining table. The other was bare and unfurnished, with traditional blankets and sleeping pads piled along the walls. Overhead was a skylight, a break in the thatch and tile that covered the roof, and I could see stars beginning to poke through the darkness. Vega told us we could use as much of the bedding as we wished for padding or extra warmth.
Dinner was delicious, and somehow, we were all able to fit around the table. Vega’s wife, Killa—Quechan for moon—was short, thin, dressed in traditional garb, with bright eyes and a quick smile. She was also a skilled chef. Our fare was pachamanca, a traditional Andean dish of meat, vegetables, and local herbs, cooked underground in an earth oven. Its heady aroma filled the room, sluicing my salivary glands. Killa served it with a choice of strong Yerba Mate tea or chicha de jora, the fermented corn drink of Quechan culture.
For most of the meal, we engaged in small talk, but near the end, Vega asked for our attention.
“I understand that Jessie has given you the highlights of my story. If it is agreeable with all of you, will you take turns giving some background on who you are and where you come from? I would like to hear your stories.”
Again, I was struck by his impeccable mastery of English, not surprising for a Harvard grad. He had an ease and charisma, holding court the way I imagined he had done countless times in his classrooms. His presence wrapped its arms around all of us. We readily nodded and began.
Noah, the young man from Australia, was taking a gap year to travel before medical school. After Peru, he planned to spend time in Patagonia.
The couple from Arizona—Michelle and Kevin—ran a string of successful Airbnbs in Sedona and Scottsdale, spending much of their time trekking the globe. They were ardent fans of Jessie’s YouTube channel and podcasts.
Jen and Emily, two friends from Scotland, had hooked up with Jessie online. They were in their mid-20s, bubbly and gregarious, also on extended travels before the next chapters of their lives.
C.J. was more of an enigma. A man in his mid-40s, he had a dark beard, long curly hair, and the physique of a wrestler. During our entire trip, he had been preternaturally silent. When we attempted conversation, he was polite but left such huge gaps in responding that it was clear he preferred quietude. Now, he surprised us, telling how he had left his home in Massachusetts after his wife died prematurely, intent on traveling to some of the places they had always discussed. Machu Pichu was one of them.
Finally, it was my turn, so I gave the condensed version of my teaching career, my love for Jessie’s mother, Ellen, and the ways that both of us stayed connected to the daughter that gave us such pride.
When I was finished, Vega said, “Are you a Christian?”
The question was so out-of-the-blue, so abrupt, that I was taken aback, even a bit defensive.
“Why do you ask?”
Vega caught my tone and body language. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I did a little research before this visit and saw that the college where you teach has a Christian heritage.”
I paused, trying to get in sync with his intent. “No,” I finally said, “I’m not a Christian. The institution’s roots are barely visible today. It’s not required to profess any particular faith to teach there. If it had been, I would have gone elsewhere.”
Vega nodded. “Again, I don’t mean be too bold. And I will not go into what Killa calls one of my tirades about how Christianity in the Americas has so often colluded with power structures and worsened oppression.”
Killa cleared her throat and rolled her eyes. It made Vega laugh.
“My wife keeps me in check. What I’m more interested in is a passage from the Christian New Testament. Perhaps you know it. It’s when Jesus says that he comes to us in the disguise of the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned.”
“I’m familiar with it,” I said. “Why does it interest you?”
“Because I’m a student of not only the spiritual traditions of my own people, but of those around the world. I know that many revered Catholic saints had their conversion experiences because they believed they had encountered Christ in disguise. I think of St. Martin of Tours, who had a vision of Jesus coming to him as a naked beggar. Martin cleaved his cloak with a sword and gave half to the poor man. Later, in another dream, he saw Jesus wearing the half he had given away.”
“That’s true,” I said, warming to our unexpected discourse, something I craved with my colleagues. “Do those stories speak to you?”
“They do, but not because I’m Christian. It has to do with my own tradition. Have you ever heard of apus?
“No.”
“In Incan mythology, they are the spirits that live in these mountains. It’s believed they have the power to shapeshift and appear in many forms—coyotes, pumas, condors, or even as humans. Their intent is usually to teach a lesson.”
I nodded and said nothing. I looked around the table, expecting that we were boring the others to tears, but they were listening intently.
“In 2016, I had the most lucid dream of my life,” Vega continued. “A beggar came to me with an outstretched cup, asking for alms. His face was grizzled, and he was dressed in rags. I reached into my pocket, withdrew a few coins, and gave them to him. He turned and started to walk away. Then he suddenly looked back at me, his face more youthful. He said in a very clear voice, ‘What will you tell your students?’”
The memory was obviously emotional for Vega. He took a deep breath and settled back in his chair.
“That’s trippy,” said Noah. “Do you believe that was an apu visiting you?”
“I do,” said Vega, “and it changed me. Profoundly. People have always felt that what caused my departure from academia was my organizing and protesting for the teacher’s strike. That was certainly part of it. But the seed planted in that dream by that apu is what ultimately drove me to be where I am this moment.”
He looked down, as if the memory was still too powerful to fully absorb. His upper lip began to tremble. There was an awkward silence as we entered into his vulnerability.
“Kevin and I are firm believers that spirits communicate with us,” said Michelle, as if to break the discomfort. “In the red rocks of Sedona, there are petroglyphs from the tribes that inhabited that area, and many of the images speak of the spirit world.”
“In Scotland,” said Jen, “there’s the myth of the selkies who can shapeshift from seals to women.”
“And they often appear,” added Emily, “to lead people on a spiritual quest to Tír na nÓg, the other world.”
Jorge lifted his face, looked around the circle, then lowered his head again. The intensity of his emotion was palpable in the room. Killa suddenly stood from her place at the table and walked behind her husband. She placed her hands gently on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. I could hear her whispering something to him in Quechan. He gathered her arms around his shoulders like a comforting blanket.
C.J. may have been quiet during the day, but he was a world-class snorer at night. Even with ear plugs, I could hear him rumbling. I couldn’t understand why it didn’t awaken the others.
I was restless for other reasons. Vega’s story had moved me in unexpected ways. He didn’t seem to have an agenda, but was simply sharing a life-changing epiphany, one that had forever altered the course of his life.
I thought about my teaching and the tenure I’d recently received. I thought about my students, most of them from middle to upper middle-class families that could afford the steep tuition. They were usually good pupils from solid families, but they were clearly sheltered from the harsher realities of our world. While other college campuses experienced protests for various causes, ours might see a random sign or two.
Sometimes I felt iconoclastic, with an urge to puncture all that complacency and status quo, but frankly, I feared the administration would label me a radical. The ethos at the university was to guide learners into their own conclusions, not to use our lecterns as pulpits. I mostly agreed with that philosophy, and I calmed my rebellious urges by downplaying my influence. I’m just a middle-aged professor, I said to myself. Who will really listen to me?
But I couldn’t quell my concerns about current events in America. The rise of Christian Nationalism. Demagogues as leaders, arrogantly crashing through guardrails that protect democracy. The widening gap between the haves and have nots, celebrated by brazen oligarchs. The growing intolerance for immigrants. Rising prejudice towards those with various sexual identities. And, as Jessie always reminded me, the unsustainable consumption that fueled global warming.
It was enough to cause despair, but again, what could I really do? I thought of some verses from T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
Vega wouldn’t hear that snickering. His conviction to follow his own star made me feel an unexpected twinge of shame. It spoke of a passion and drive I hadn’t known for years.
As I tossed and turned with these thoughts, breathing in the earthy smell of the room, I heard a flapping of powerful wings and saw a shape pass over the skylight. I looked up to see a huge bird perched on the roof, its head a fleshy pink, its beak curved like a talon. It peered down at me for a moment, then took off, dissolving into the night sky like disappearing ink. The noise had awakened others.
“Dad,” whispered Jesse from her sleeping mat. “Was that a condor?”
“It sure looked like it.”
“But what the hell would it be doing here at this hour?” said A.J. “Condors aren’t nocturnal.”
“Sort of creepy,” whispered Kevin.
“Especially after what Vega shared at dinner,” said Michelle.
Even under two warm blankets, I felt goosebumps rise on my skin.
In the morning, Jessie spent two hours with Vega recording his journey. When we left, thanking them profusely for their hospitality, both Killa and Jorge hugged us. When Jorge embraced me, he held me longer than I expected.
“Tupananchiskama,” he whispered into my ear. “It means ‘until next time,’ because I sense we will meet again.”
Then he released me and held my eyes for a few seconds with his intense gaze and smile.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I whispered, my voice a bit hoarse.
We left and made our way to Poroy Train Station for our trip to Aguas Calientes, the city known as the portal to Machu Picchu. We had booked tickets to the site for the next day as well as hotel rooms that overlooked the Urubamba River, only a 20-minute walk to the entrance of the sacred ruins. Our plan was to get up before dawn and hike there to experience the sunrise.
We spent the afternoon in the city, taking photos for each other in front of the statue of Pachacuti, the Incan emperor who oversaw the building of Machu Picchu. We went from there to the bustling Mercado de Aguas Calientes with its maze of stalls selling native foods and handcrafts. Since we all had different shopping agendas, we set a time to rendezvous back at the entrance, then went our separate ways.
The color and bustle of the market was intoxicating, especially the bright and intricate costumes of the women selling their wares. The air smelled of food dishes, fresh flowers, and the loamy aroma of potatoes, the staple of the Incan diet. I had never seen such a display of spuds—purple, green, yellow, red, orange, in a variety of shapes. I bought some dried coca leaves, chewing on them the way locals do, letting the mild stimulant enhance my enjoyment of the scene. I sampled a couple empanadas and a tamale, washing them down with chicha de jora.
I was intent on finding a gift for Ellen, so when I saw a particular shawl, I knew it was perfect. I approached the older woman tending the stall. She was dressed in a pollera and manta, the traditional dress and shawl. My Spanish isn’t great, but it’s passable.
“Cuanto por esta manta?” I asked, pointing toward the prize I desired.
She looked up slowly, and what an amazing face, bronzed by the sun and her lineage, her wrinkles speaking of vast experience. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, and they seemed to glint with an inner sense of humor. She gave me a price, we dickered a bit, and I handed her the money. She wrapped the manta in plain brown paper and presented it to me. I thanked her and began to walk away.
Then her voice called out to me from behind, “Señor!”
I turned around, wondering if I had shortchanged her. Her eyes were now dead serious.
“What will you tell your students?” she asked, speaking crisp English, her voice completely different from how it had sounded moments before.
A shiver ran up my spine. “What?” I exclaimed.
She just nodded, looked down, and began arranging some of her wares.
I was still tingling when I joined the others at the entrance.
The next morning, we hiked to the entrance of Machu Picchu. I hadn’t told anyone about my surreal experience in the mercado, not even Jessie. I was wondering if I had imagined it, a byproduct of chewing coca leaves and drinking corn beer. All I knew was that the moment—fictitious or real—was an extension of how Vega’s story had affected me. I was clearly out of my depth, both emotionally and psychologically.
Let me tell you something. No matter how many travel videos you see about Machu Picchu, there is nothing like visiting in person. When we walked through the portal and I saw those iconic remnants against a backdrop of clouds and Andean peaks, it took my breath away. I felt like we were entering a mystical city in a mythical realm, the impression heightened by the gradual light of dawn spreading over the landscape—a slow, dramatic reveal.
Jessie reached over and took my hand. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“More so than I imagined.”
Then she took her hand, gently gripped my chin, and turned my face towards her. “Are you all right, Dad? You’ve been unusually quiet since our visit to the mercado yesterday.”
She had a raging intuition. I shifted my eyes, a dead giveaway.
“Something happened that I don’t even know how to explain. Just give me some space and I’ll get there. In fact, I’d like to just walk around on my own, if that’s okay.”
She searched my eyes again—my delightful, intuitive daughter, an old soul if there ever was one. “Of course, Dad. Let me know if you want to talk.”
She kissed me on the cheek, let go of my hand, and we separated to absorb the wonders of that place.
I wandered among the ruins, savoring the mountain air. I climbed to the Guardian House and asked another traveler to snap the classic postcard picture, something I had promised Ellen. Then I hiked back down and continued to walk aimlessly, enjoying the many llamas that graze unmolested among the stone structures.
Some of my friends speak of thin places—sites where the supposed veil between this world and the next is more permeable. I had always scoffed at the notion, but I felt it now with an edge of vertigo.
I found a low wall and sat in the sunlight, surveying the vista as cloud shadows shifted over the landscape. My eyes were drawn to a family walking by. They had a girl with them adorned in traditional garb. A severe cleft palate twisted the lower part of her face. They were almost out of sight when the girl turned and locked her eyes on mine intentionally. She lifted her right hand and pointed at me, nodding her head.
I suddenly heard a powerful flapping of wings as a huge condor landed on the stone wall near me. Like the girl, it turned its flesh-covered head and stared right into me. I rubbed my eyes and called out to another group of tourists passing by.
“Do you see that?” I exclaimed.
“See what?” they asked with tolerant smiles.
I turned back, but the great bird was gone. In my ears, I heard Vega whisper, “Tupananchiskama.” I heard the Quechan woman ask, “What will you tell your students?”
I knew I would never be the same again, not in my perception of reality, or in how I would communicate to those in my classes. And at that moment, surrounded by the ruins of that timeless place, the thought filled me only with excitement.
Krin Van Tatenhove is a writer, visual artist, and spiritual adventurer. His 40 years of professional writing experience have led to countless articles and 17 books. You can freely download most of his work—including art collaborations—by visiting krinvan.com. He is married, has four children, and lives with his wife and disabled adult son in San Antonio, Texas.
Image created by Krin Van Tatenhove using Adobe Photoshop AI
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