Part 1   

     I am posting this story as I write it. As I have promised to have a portion for you each week, I have not completely proofed the document and ask for your indulgence. I will be making the corrections during the week but wanted you to have everything I have completed. Please enjoy and be patient...this trip happened many years ago and while the recollections are vivid, I am working to preserve the detail as it happened. Please enjoy!

     I was naively honest. "I'll take one of those Shirley MacLaine adventures,” was how I answered the question about what I wanted from my trip to Peru. I had no idea the person I was speaking with would put me in touch with a direct descendant of a lost civilization and I was about to embark on a journey that would change my life.

 

     It was 1983, and I was psyched up by the out of body experiences described in MacLaine’s book, Out On A Limb.  When it came to understanding this life and an after life, I was still looking for answers to the lingering questions I first posed as a teenager about Catholicism to the Jesuit priests that taught my first year of High School. When no answer other than faith was offered, a spiritual void developed. After 10 years of parochial education, I transferred to the public school system where I had to search for a God that was suddenly difficult to find. While the pledge of allegiance affirmed our nation was under God and the money I earned in my part time job said we trusted God…the Father, Son and Holy Spirit that guided me as a child, was now conspicuously absent from my daily routine. Out On A Limb suggested that “I am God,” but I was more than reluctant to trust my soul to Hollywood. Similar thinking, however, grew as a popular culture response that caught on with many that, like me, had began to explore the practices of eastern philosophies and religions to reconcile Catholic or Christian childhoods with contemporary, western metaphysical beliefs. As a, now, young man living in Santa Cruz, California, I was growing with one foot nurtured by the ‘60s and the other running headlong into the future.

 

     Upon arrival in Lima, I met with a colleague in the travel business known for her familiarity with Peru’s famous and fabled past. She suggested I go to Cuzco and find Anton Ponce De Leon as, “he will show you what you came here to find.” With a few phone calls, a Cuzco local that did personalized tours and knew of Anton agreed to meet me at the airport, show me around the city and work to arrange an introduction. The guide spoke a little English but was fluent in both Spanish and the native Quechua. Armed with High School Spanish and excited that I would have local help, all that I had hoped for was falling into place.

 

     Cuzco is the historical capital of the Inca Empire (1200's-1532) and plays host to travelers as they begin their journey through Urubamba River Valley that leads to Machu Picchu. The Urubamba, known as the Sacred Valley of the Incas, is now a collection of agricultural villages on the valley floor with archeological sites perched on the surrounding mountainside. The train from Cuzco to Machu Picchu runs along the valley floor making a couple of stops for locals and tourists alike. Cuzco was awesome.

 

     Juan was at the airport as agreed. He had arranged for a hotel and placed calls trying to locate Anton who was, apparently, out of town. Although I was anxious to see Machu Picchu, I wanted to visit the many archeological sites in and around Cuzco, so his suggestion to stay in town for a few days was fine with me. The city sits at 11,000 feet and arrival by air does not allow for acclimation and I would do much better hiking with some time to adjust. In the hotel lobby, pots of coca tea, mate de coca, are served to help offset the affects of altitude and is a quick initiation into local ritual. Over a few cups of tea, Juan and I were making the most of my limited Spanish and his English.

    
     I did not waste any time conveying my intentions for a more spiritual journey and he returned a confirming smile as I told him why I was in Peru. His eyes told me that we were like minded and he would do his best to help me make the very most of my time in his country. Juan, who was in his late twenties, had grown up in Cuzco and knew the area like any boy knows his backyard. In this case, however, his backyard had served as home to one of histories most advanced yet mysterious civilizations. Very little is known about how they managed to move huge stones to mountainside locations without animals or machinery or the advanced engineering required build without mortar or wheels. The history was fascinating but there is a feeling of immense power, a sense of greatness that permeates places like this. I would experience this feeling again in coming years on the rim of the Grand Canyon, in Pele’s lava tube on the Island of Hawaii and at the vortices of Sedona. I would also learn that attracting this power is something we can do at any time, in any place.

 

     There was no word on when Anton might return to Cuzco but we had learned that he was working on a project in the Urubamba and often met with friends for lunch at a small hotel about halfway to Machu Picchu. Juan set me up with a train ticket and reservation at the hotel and while he could not go with me right away, agreed to stay in touch and accompany me when I made the trip up to Machu Picchu. The hotel was a convent that had been converted into a bed and breakfast and the proprietor was from Great Britain. Normally, I do very well with language differences but I did not have the skills to explain myself in Quechua and I was happy to find someone that spoke English to help me. The proprietor knew Anton well as he sometimes could be found chatting with visitors; “just over there,” as my attention was directed to an outdoor area where the mid-day meal was served. “I will let you know when I see him and introduce you!” I could not help but think how perfect my timing had been and went for a walk into the neighboring village.


Part 2

 

     The convent turned bed and breakfast was austere but comfortable. My room had vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams, cream colored walls and fine wooden furnishings. The king bed took up a large amount of the living space with table and chair arranged as a writing space against the single window offering a view of a rose garden. I could imagine nuns walking through the garden at vespers chanting prayer with rosary beads counting each repetition. A hand woven cloth of Alpaca covered the wall opposite the bed and other handmade objects de art made of llama dressed the top of a single end table nested against an overstuffed chair; a perfect arrangement for reading or morning coffee and toast.

     The days began early with long walks through the country side punctuated by long conversations with locals as everyone enjoyed my attempts to communicate. While I did well with anyone that spoke Spanish, the native Quechua was spoken by most and my feeble attempts were met with huge smiles featuring every combination of missing teeth. The enthusiasm and dental challenges both a result of the habitual chewing of coca leaves by everyone of advanced age.

     On my third day in the Urubamba, I set out to climb a near-by peak, well-known for ruins of an Inca settlement. Stones weighing many tons found their way up steep trails without the aid of machinery or wheels. As I panted in the changing altitude, I received my first formal lesson in the use of coca. Everyone, it seemed, had a pouch of leaves accompanied by small pieces charcoal that were retrieved from the stalk of banana plants that were routinely burned for easy disposal. The green, flat part of the leaf is stripped away from the stem by pulling it between your teeth, perhaps part of dental challenge. The leaf, without the bristle of the stem is then folded around the charcoal which acts as a catalyst for the stimulant in the coca. This small package is this placed towards the back of the mouth between the cheek and gums with the saliva activating the chemical process. In a few minutes, a mellow feeling of well-being lifts your spirit as additional oxygen finds it way into the blood offsetting the problems caused by altitude.

     Hikers will routinely stop and replace the depleted leaves as they make their way uphill with one, small but unpleasant side-effect. Just imagine what it’s like to place a piece of charcoal in your mouth and suck on it for a few hours. While the leaves keep most of the grit contained, you will notice that you soon have a mouthful of black, not so pleasant tasting grit. No amount of spitting changes things but fortunately, Mother Nature supplies the remedy. At what always seems to be the perfect distance down the mountain, sprigs of anise appears. The freshness of the green plant and the licorice flavor combine to form the perfect antidote cleaning up the grit and refreshing the taste buds; coca on the way up, licorice on the way down. Oh yes and anise is a well-known aphrodisiac…you may want to plan your hike with someone close to you.

     Each afternoon, I would return for the mid-day meal in hopes that, the now elusive, Anton would stop by for lunch. The Brit that ran the hotel would greet me with a smile as I approached but, with a slight turn of the head, would tell me “not today my friend.” The proprietor and I became well acquainted as we would talk as he served lunch to me and a few other guests that all seemed to share the same penchant for exploring the meaning of life in this remarkable place. After 10 days, I maintained this routine hoping to meet and talk with this knowledgeable man before my trip to Machu Picchu. I wanted to make the most of the experience and thought learning from him would allow me a greater appreciation for what I was about to experience. After all, he was said to be a direct descendant of the Incas and held in high esteem by everyone, it seemed, as a great teacher. I had learned, however, that Anton was building a refuge in the jungle known as Samana Wasi, (The Gathering Place or House of Rest), are the translations I was given). I did not know what meaning, if any, this name held nor was anyone certain of the precise location. I felt like Michael Valentine Smith in Heinlen’s Stranger in a Strange Land…..waiting is.

     Unfortunately, I am not the most patient individual and as two weeks approached and passed, I decided it was time to depart the Valley and head up to Machu Picchu. If I was going to meet Anton, it would have to be on my way back to Cuzco. I called Juan and asked him if he would join me and show me around the Lost City of the Incas. Becoming acquainted with the hotel owner now yielded a great favor as he was well-acquainted with the family that ran the only lodging located adjacent to the ruins. Reservations were commonly made at least a year in advance and my new friend was able to obtain use of a room normally held out for problems with lost reservations or special guests. The alternative as lodging in a nearby village required a short ride by train and left you at the mercy of the schedule. Those staying at the on-site property could rise early, or stay late and enjoy the ruins without the larger number of daytime tourists and also take advantage of the sunrise and sunset. This was huge!

     Juan called to say he was driving up to the convent B&B and would be a day behind me getting to Machu Picchu. He wanted to have his car for us to use in the Urubamba and for my return to Cuzco as we could use the car to visit some marketplaces and other sites that I had not yet visited. A part of me had hoped we could go up on the train together but I wanted to take advantage of the room reservation. I liked hanging out with Juan as his historical knowledge and local relationships added much to the time we had already spent together. Juan’s familiarity with the Incas combined with his ability to translate Quechua, made traveling with him like having a walking encyclopedia and  Spanish to English and Quechua to Spanish dictionaries.

     With plans for the trip finalized, I boarded the train for the three hour ride to Machu Picchu. The trip runs along the valley floor and then makes a hard climb up to the mountain top location of the ruins. As we left the Sacred Valley and began the steep ascent, the train came to a sudden and unscheduled stop. Looking out the window towards the front of the train, a huge mound of dirt and rock was visible on the tracks directly in our path. Soon, we would hear that a landslide had occurred at some time prior to our trip and after the last run of the train in the opposite direction. It would be several hours before a crew and equipment could be called out to remove the debris. As I sat on the train awaiting the outcome, I could not help but think about the ruins we had visited while chewing the coca leaves. How did the Incas move those huge rocks?

     Whatever method of moving those large stones was used, we could definitely use their help now as clearing the tracks was not going to be an easy task. The train was backed down the tracks and ran in reverse back to the station near my Valley hotel. Machu Picchu would have to wait until tomorrow. As I trudged back into the courtyard, my British friend stood smiling with Juan and they greeted me like an old friend coming back from some great adventure. “It is so good to see you!” Good, I thought, I just sat on a train all day, part of which I spent going backwards and I’m missing out on the room at Machu Picchu. “Did you hear about the landslide,” are the words that accompanied the unspoken thought. “Sure, it’s fantastic.” Now I’m wondering if the language barrier was an issue but the Brit spoke English albeit his brand of the language. Juan finally explained. Just after I departed that morning, Anton Ponce de Leon called to say he was coming down for lunch. Upon arrival he learned that I had been waiting at the hotel for a couple of weeks hoping to meet with him. As the conversation continued, it was discovered that I had arrived in Cuzco the very day he had departed for the Urubamba and now I had missed him by a couple of hours.

     News of the landslide, however, reached the hotel as arrangements were made to provide food and lodging for many of the passengers. Synchronicity was about to finally work in my favor. Juan spoke to Anton who agreed to meet with me. “He’s sitting right over there,” and I turned to see a face and a man that I will never forget.

 

 

 

     Anton was furtively engaged in conversation with someone, (student, friend or colleague, I am not sure), that had flown to Peru from Italy to visit with him. On the day I arrived in Cuzco, the two men had left for the Urubamba to stay at Samana Wasi. Samana Wasi was located in the jungle in close proximity to where I had been staying and was a project that Anton had envisioned for many years. The language challenge did not leave me with what I can call a complete understanding but I concluded this, house of rest, was intended as a place for the young or elders without homes or a place to stay. I also received the impression there were fundamental teachings available here about personal and spiritual growth for those that wished to gather, share and learn. At the time, however, I knew nothing more about Anton and the Italian visitor than they had been staying near me and we had been missing each other by a matter of moments for the past couple of weeks. All it took was a landslide to finally bring us together. After my trip to Peru, however, I would no longer look at coincidence as some kind of accident but rather understand that all things happen with perfection of time and place. To this very day, I know the lessons and learning continue and our meeting has a special place in my life experience.

    

     Juan escorted me over to the table and Anton greeted me as one does an old friend that has been away for a while. The Italian had spent the last two weeks in what sounded like a private counseling session. I say “sounded,” as Anton did not speak English, and, at the time I did not know the fluency of his Spanish. I thought Anton was conversing with Juan in Quechua which Juan would translate to Spanish and then the two of us would do our best to come up with the appropriate English. At present, I believe I was mistaken and the translating may have been slower to include Italian in the process. At this time, I am not sure as the process felt a bit cumbersome although we all smiled and, in the end, communicated very well. After the introductions, we agreed to meet later on that evening as it so happened that this was a farewell lunch as his guest was returning home and I had been invited to Samana Wasi. I could not help but think what the two had been doing that would induce someone to fly from Rome to Lima. At this moment, I have discovered that Anton is working with a seminar company in Italy and will be speaking there this spring. Could it be this was the formative days of a relationship that continues to the present?

    

     The day had already been long. I had boarded the train early in the morning for the trip to Macchu Picchu and with the tracks rendered impassible, had no choice other than to turn around, (well, back up would be more specific). Anton wanted a few more hours with his friend which gave me time for lunch and a nap before setting out to Semana Wasi a couple of hours before the sun set. I remember the timing only because the House of Rest was not accessible by car. Juan and I jumped into his VW bus, (what else?), and after driving for an amount of time I cannot specifically recal, we pulled over and parked. “Ok, this is it,” he said in Spanish … which I think was more like “te gusta,” meaning “you like,” but I heard – “this is it pal!” It was then I had the very first reservations I had ever had about my time with Juan.

    

     Here I am in Peru. I had not even thought about the tourist warnings concerning the Red Brigade since leaving the U.S. Juan was referred to me by a business associate and we had spent many hours together. However, I had just driven into the jungle with what amounted to a complete stranger. While the hotel manager knew where I was going, there was not another person on the planet that had any idea of what I was doing or where I was headed. For that matter, I didn’t really know what I was doing or where I was headed. I knew nothing of Semana Wasi other than I was going to meet Anton Ponce de Leon at some place in the jungle.

    

     All of the trepidation passed about as quickly as it showed up and Juan and I were quickly on our way trying to beat the sunset. Oh, I forgot to mention, Juan had never been to Semana Wasi and his verbal directions were more like, “take the road to the first turn past the old church and follow the dirt road over the creek, park the car and walk." These, by the way, were not the precise directions but used to illustrate the absence of signs or precision. As for the walk, our conversation had stopped and it appeared that Juan was using the last minutes of light to continue navigating by landmarks. Personally, I can get lost trying to go around a city block. A few minutes of walking and the trepidation I had felt quickly returned. 

    

     Was I nuts? Here I am in the middle of nowhere going to meet someone I don’t know with someone I just met. Is this the way they kidnap stupid Americans looking for metaphysical bliss and sell them back to worried relatives? Well, if this was the plan, they had the wrong guy as I had left home about sixty seconds after I graduated High School and never looked back. I was tossed back and forth between divorced parents when I was young and my mom had recently passed away. It would still be a couple of years before I would return home to get to know my father as an adult. Besides, money was not a family commodity held in excess. I started to see Juan in a different way. The dude was strong, knew where he was and his head was turning in every direction as if he was looking for someone.

 

     I have no idea how long we walked but with everything running through my head, I have the feeling a short distance felt much longer. I followed Juan and when he came to a stop, I paused and finally looked around. I kind of laughed inside as I could see the surrounding landscape and it was easy enough to tell the view was the same one I was accustomed to seeing from the valley floor. I now have the distinct impression we were not very far from the hotel and I had started quite a story borne more from news stories than reality. While I did not know exactly where I was, I had let my imagination run just a little too much...the laugh was now internal embarrassment that fortunately only I knew about. I shook my head from side to side and looked up but needed one more fleeting thought before I was ready to let the fantasy go. 

    

     As Juan turned around to wait for me to join him, he must have seen what I had been feeling. His eyes widened and the brows both jumped up simultaneously in an expression of questioning surprise. What I remember hearing was something like, “are you ok Amigo?” I didn’t really click in right away as another part of me was playing out some great drama  where he turns around with a machete in hand saying “te gusta!” Man was I relieved as there was no weapon, he really was my pal and I really was on an awesome adventure to meet this wonderful teacher learn about the Incas. “Let’s go brother,” and just like in a movie, Anton appeared with that big smile on his face, one hand raised to greet and direct us.

Part 4

     I recall we had made it to Semana Wasi before the sun had set. Anton walked us towards a couple of modest looking buildings and pointed out the one that was his home and one was a place for participants to gather for meetings and learning. I do not remember the details of his home, only that there was a brief introduction to a woman I assumed was his wife while we sipped tea. We then adjourned to the other building which contained a circle of cement in the form of bench-style seating around a fire pit that was dug into the ground in the middle of the room. There were remnants of coals aglow in the fireplace which sparked easily with the addition of some wood. Soon we were seated around a warm fire. Juan was translating for us. Juan’s English was way better than my Spanish but it took the two of us to get the job done. Anton was a picture of patience and we all laughed at ourselves as we scrambled for the correct words or gestures to communicate.

     With each response, Juan would work out the translation with Anton although I was still the weak link in the language chain. I realize the geography of the United States is a limiting factor in our ability to speak other languages but in all of my travels, I have always found that, as an American, I generally possess fewer language skills than those I meet. This deficiency in language is something I wish I understood better when I was young as the ability to converse with those in foreign lands adds significantly to any travel experience. I have, however, always devoted significant time to Berlitz language guides before travel and occupy myself on long plane rides learning as much as I can before arrival. I cannot say I anticipated the need for Quechua and was happy I had my High School Spanish.

     Anton seemed to know exactly what I wanted to learn even beyond what Juan had shared with him. He knew I was a young man searching for meaning in my life; attempting to understand my parochial education and how it fit with my present spiritual beliefs and hunger for more understanding. What was life like for Anton as he grew up in this land of Catholicism and an ancient metaphysical past? Were there really aliens that visited here? How did he explain the lines at Nazca and the superhuman feats of strength or intellect it took to move large masses of stone in this mountainous part of the country? What do you think of meditation? Of Prayer? The questions were rolling off my tongue and Anton … wait a second. What has happened here?

     At first I just shivered with a doubt filled realization. Like a passing breeze chilling my body…but it wasn’t cold; the fire was burning bright. Next, I felt the tears as my eyes pooled. I closed my eyes to allow myself to absorb what was happening and as they opened, my glassy stare met Anton’s gaze. Both of us were smiling. The tears now rolled down my cheeks and I was filled with this sense of grace and light…when I say light, I mean this in both ways. In terms of weight, I felt airy and light, sitting on the warmed cement but I could not really feel my body nor was there any sense of the hard surface. I also felt light in terms of brightness. It was if I was glowing.

     I do not want you to take these descriptions as anything too far out as that part comes next. I remember a similar feeling when, as a young boy, I would pray and on many Sundays when I received communion. Those times were complicated, perhaps tarnished, by ever-present feelings of guilt and shame. It would not be until I was much older when I would feel this very same way just before a plane I was on crash landed in a field in Colorado. I now describe this state as being held in the hands of God, (see story by clicking here and scroll to October 16, 2009 - If I could Wake Up Anywhere). This would be, however, the first encounter I would have with the sensation in such a heightened state. While startled by the realization, Anton and I did not miss a beat and continued with our conversation as if nothing had happened. I cannot speak for Anton as I did not ask him about his perception of what transpired. From his body language, it has always been my assumption that he already knew what was going to happen and that, perhaps, there was some meaning or power in this place that made such occurrences common place.

     This is my belief of what had happened...Juan was no longer a part of the communication between Anton and I. At some point during the exchange, we were able to understand each other without the benefit of the translator. I would speak to Anton and he to me. I understood everything he said and, as he was answering my questions, I presumed the same was true for him. Juan was sitting in quiet amazement…not surprised, he was amazed.

     My next memory was of the sun coming up. Light from the outside began to fill the room, the fire had burned down and I felt the effects of a long conversation. I did not feel tired. I guess you could say one part of me felt stunned in a way. I did not have a watch so I cannot give you a precise accounting of time. What I do know is that we sat down to talk within an hour or two of sunset or 9PM at the latest and it now had to be somewhere between 4 and 5 in the morning. I do not remember exactly when Juan stopped translating but Anton and I had spoken for hours before I left that morning.

     Anton and I agreed to meet again in a few days in Cuzco. He would be returning to his home there and promised to help me understand the one subject we had not discussed that night. While I wanted to ask and I think he knew I wanted to know more, the subject of extraterrestrial life had not been broached. It was if the subject would have detracted from what I had absorbed and was inappropriate. Whatever the reason, we hugged and again, my eyes met his. Anton has these eyes that are like deep pools of wisdom. I have seen these eyes on a few people that have lived rich lives and it as if they share in some kind of select group of kindred souls…Old Souls.

     Most of what happened that night was not a part of my short-term memory. Either nothing registered in short-term memory or I was just not thinking about what had transpired until several days later when Anton and I finally parted ways for my trip back to the States. The event is, however, stored in my long-term memory as I have recounted the evening many times since, (although, interestingly, I have never written about it until now). What I now believe is there was a definite lapse of time for which I cannot account. We sat and talked by the fire for at least 7 hours and I do not remember drinking water, walking outside to pee or how I could have sat for that period of time without stretching or some other movement. I can only account for our arrival and the first hour of conversation. I remember noticing that Anton and I were conversing directly and the look on Juan’s face and then boom! …dawn broke and our conversation had found a natural end.

     Next week, I return to Cuzco and Anton and I meet once again.