August 8: Incan Empire

Empowered by teenage ambition and with the help of some ignorance, two other United Planet volunteers and I began our trek to the gates of Machu Picchu at three in the morning. The early departure from the city of Agua Caliente was justified by the promise of being within the first 400 people to enter the ruins. Making it under the quota meant achieving the desired entrance stamp to climb Waynapicchu, the iconic mountain that perpetually watches and protects the great city. The hike could not have been made without the help of my two-inch F.O.R. South Bay flashlight (a token of gratitude for playing and, in this case, fortunately, losing in a CYC basketball tournament) as the faint glow of the stars did not offer enough luminosity. As if my body was crying from exhaustion and sleep deprivation, I had soaked my entire outfit with sweat in the 36-degree mountain air. We reached the entrance. My group had made it.

After a tour by a Peruvian lady who had obviously memorized the English translation of her lecture—oblivious to the fact that she was leaving out key prepositions while explaining the agricultural and urban sectors of the city—my two fellow volunteers and I made our way to Waynapicchu’s trail head. We flashed the stamps that we had lost sleep for and began our hike into the sky. Knowing that my dirty Nike running shoes were sharing the same footsteps as the Incas propelled me up the seemingly eternal staircase of the mountain. At the top, I stumbled to the edge and extended my arms—for a couple seconds feeling the ancient energy of the valleys and mountains very much alive around me. The spirits of the early culture lifted me into the atmosphere, guiding and accepting me into their eternal home.