Whispers from the Sacred Valley

Right now, I’m sitting in a small café in this mountain city, with Negra Presentuosa by Susana Baca gently playing through my headphones. It feels as if she’s telling a story—tender, soulful, sacred.

Through the window, the winding streets of Cusco unfold beneath me—ancient, bustling, alive.

Every time I find myself in a highland city like this, face to face with such vastness and majesty in nature, there’s always a quiet emotion that rises from somewhere deep within—something hard to name.

A kind of ache, soft but undeniable.

Shangri-La, La Paz, Uyuni, Iruya, San Cristóbal de las Casas, Quito…Every mountain city I’ve visited in seems to have left a similar mark on my heart.

But this time, though there’s still a gentle stirring within me, I feel unexpectedly calm.

In this thin, high-altitude air, I somehow feel closer to my own heart.

Looking back, the days I spent in Cusco, Machu Picchu, and the Sacred Valley felt wrapped in a kind of quiet magic. There is something sacred and indescribable about this land—something that let me witness everyday life and ancient culture in the Andes, that brought me closer to the rise and echo of the Inca empire, and that, without a sound, gently led me back to myself.

It also quietly brought a few precious, deeply felt connections into my life—and into my world.

The first time I heard this song was at a night in Urubamba.

I was having dinner with my new friends—Tae-Son, Man-Son, and Alma, at a cozy, delicious Italian–Peruvian fusion restaurant.

The song quietly found its way into my ears, softly passed through a place deep inside my heart, and then, silently, it stayed.

And that day—it was perfect.

The road trip with them was pure, wholehearted happiness.

Fate is such a mysterious thing—we clicked instantly, as if we had known each other for a long time.

That kind of soulful connection always moves me, and fills me with gratitude.

Whether in daily life or on the road, you don’t meet connecting spirits every day.

It’s not something ordinary or to be taken for granted.

So when the time to say goodbye came, the wave of sadness that rose in my chest didn’t surprise me. It was because the connection was sincere that the feelings ran so deep.

I’ve grown used to farewells over time, but every time I part from people I care about and like, a quiet ache still stirs in my heart.

We first met while queuing for Machu Picchu tickets in Aguas Calientes, I’ll share the full story later, but looking back, we said goodbye more times than I can count,

and somehow… we kept finding our way back to each other.

After returning to Cusco from the Sacred Valley, the plan was for us to part ways. I intended to stay in Pisac for three full days—to reconnect with myself, to be closer to nature and art—or at least, that’s what the internet promised Pisac would offer.

What made me smile, though, was finding out they also planned to come to Pisac for the art market! Which meant—even if it was another “goodbye,” it also meant we’d meet again.

And as it turned out?

Things unfolded in a way I never expected—of course, in the most cute and surprising way possible.

That day—just so happened to be the second day of my period.

I woke up that morning in the little village of Pisac, hoping for a hot shower to warm my body. Halfway through, the water suddenly turned ice cold.

No warning—just a sharp, freezing jolt.

I was soaked and shivering.

Shaking from the cold, I messaged the host, but she’d seemingly vanished into thin air—no reply.

Still cold, I smeared on some body lotion, wrapped my wet hair in a towel, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and stormed out the door.

To be honest, deep down I’d already decided: I wasn’t going to stay. I didn’t want to fight for a hot shower, or waste energy negotiating a refund.

I just wanted one thing—to see my friends, as soon as possible.

So there I was—a soggy, grumpy little mess, wandering around town, knocking on the doors of hostels and hotels, asking to borrow a hairdryer.

The air was thick with the smell of weed.

People passed by with vacant eyes, their spirits seemingly still floating somewhere above the ground.

The whole town had a... special vibe to it.

Nothing was going smoothly.

But finally, I found a Turkish vegetarian restaurant that kindly let me borrow their dryer.

I dried my hair.

I had a warm, comforting breakfast.

Two tiny kittens came up and curled themselves into my lap, purring softly, nuzzling in.

I played with them for a while, let myself exhale, and then—put my backpack back on, and left.

Man-Son shared his live location with me, and I hopped into a tuk-tuk, racing toward them. My heart was fluttering—like a little bird beating wildly in my chest.

When I saw them, when I heard their voices.

When I met Man-Son’s smiling eyes, while Tae-Son was busy bargaining for socks, and Alma was determinedly searching for the stone carved with a condor, a frog, and a turtle—that exact moment, when I finally hugged them, the heavy cloud that had been pressing down on my chest just... lifted.

And somehow, the connection with myself came back too.

Honestly, who could possibly feel connected to themselves, while on their period, shivering after a cold shower, first thing in the morning?

Now that I look back, I think—maybe that icy water was meant to happen.

A little push from the universe.

So...

Later, after wandering through the art market,I asked—almost without thinking

“Can I go back to Cusco with you guys?”

They laughed and said, “Of course—there’s one more seat in the Uber.”

And just like that, without really planning it, I found myself heading back to Cusco with them.

Another “goodbye”quietly turned into more time shared, together.

After we got back to Cusco, we were all a bit tired.

We went to this organic restaurant for lunch—it looked chill, cozy.

But our waiter?

Deeply anxious.

He kept coming over. Again. And again.

Asking if we needed anything.

Confirming our order not once, not twice—like three times.

And for some reason, he kept apologizing.

Nonstop.

At first, I was supportive.

“Take your time (tomate tu tiempo).”

“It’s all good (todo bien, tranki).”

You know, being understanding.

But then at some point, he came over to say—“I’m really sorry… we don’t have any napkins right now.”

We were like… oh. Okay. So… are you going to go get some?

Or…?

Anyway, later our food arrived.

And, of course, that’s exactly when we all needed napkins.

So we asked again:“Could you please bring us napkins (Podrías traernos servilletas, porfa)?”

And then it happened.

He apologized again—intensely—like, full-on Japanese levels of apology.

At that moment, Man-Son was telling me a story—something heartfelt.

I was sitting next to him, listening, nodding, really feeling it with him.

And then—

Swoosh.

Out of the corner of my eye—a blur.

A dark blur.

The waiter literally leapt away from our table like a ninja.

Not walked.

Not jogged.

Flew.

Like 007 mid-mission.

Gone in half a second.

Vanished.

Let me set the scene: The four of us were seated at a round table.

Man-Son had his back to everything. I was at a 90-degree angle. Alma and Tae-Son had the full front-row view.

In that moment, the three of us—except our poor Man-Son, who saw nothing; Tae-Son and I burst out laughing. Alma just shook her head and said,“I really don’t understand. How can a napkin request trigger this level of anxiety?”

And as if on cue—the decorative sauce on her plate landed right on her sleeve.

“Okay, now I actually need a napkin,” she said.

At that point I couldn’t focus on Man-Son’s story at all.

I was crying from laughter.

Tears.

Literal tears.

Even now, writing this, I can’t stop laughing.

I remember a few days ago, sitting on the train leaving Aguas Calientes. The scenery slipped past the window like a dream that had just ended. Gradually, the light faded, until everything outside turned to darkness.

All I wanted was to hold on to it all—to remember it with my body, to remember it through breath, and my mind.

My body was completely exhausted, I had barely slept those past few days.

My head felt heavy and clouded, and inside me was a tangled web of emotions—awe, irritation, gratitude, and a quiet sense of longing I couldn’t quite name.

On the train, I sat next to a Brazilian guy who didn’t speak English or Spanish.

We chatted using a translation app—he told me it was his first time on a plane, his first trip outside of Brazil.

I was so happy for him and proud of him!

At one point, while I was journaling, he quietly took a photo of me and Airdropped it to me with a shy smile.

Looking back now, it was kind of sweet and cute.

I really hope everything goes well for him—that he finds beautiful places and kind people, and experiences meaningful lessons and connections along the way.

What was I feeling in that moment?

Reading back at my journal, the first thing I noted was a deep sense of reverence—for the Inca Empire.

Machu Picchu means “Old Mountain.”

But it isn’t just a chapter in a textbook, or a distant artifact locked behind glass in a museum. It’s something you can feel—seeping through the cracks of stone, etched into the contours of the distant mountains.

The stone walls, the terraces, the altars, the temples—they’re all living traces of generations who once thrived here.

I found myself asking, again and again:“How did they do this?”

Awe.

And more awe.

Of course, I have to admit—I was also grumpy.

Before going to Machu Picchu, I considered booking everything on my own. But when I asked around for information, the travel agency told me it would be so difficult, and that having professionals with me would make things easier.

At the time, I just wanted to keep things simple.

I didn’t have the energy to handle many things—I was still emotionally recovering from saying goodbye to Argentina.

But in the end, it was their chaos—poor communication, disorganization, and constant deflection of responsibility—that truly drained me.

I even had my first-ever rage moment in Spanish.

I blurted out, full drama, messy grammar and all:

“Dejame de preguntas! Tus organizadores están muchísimo desorganizados! Estoy enojada! Solo cámbiame el ticket de tren, y déjame sola, usa tu tiempo y energía en tu trabajo por favor!”

(Stop asking me questions! Your team is completely disorganized! I’m angry! Just change my train ticket and leave me alone—please use your time and energy to do your job!)

Looking back now… it’s actually kind of hilarious.

The woman—probably the manager—just said with the most innocent voice:

“Señorita, no entiendo por qué estás enojada.”

(Young lady, I don’t understand why you’re angry.)

I’m really glad that during my days in Cusco—even though my emotions were still tangled up, trying to adjust to the goodbye I had just said to Buenos Aires—I still decided to go to Machu Picchu, after much hesitation.

(I kept thinking of what Adrian once told me:“It’s better to regret what you did than to regret what you didn’t.”)

I felt proud of myself for completing the hike, and lucky to have met kind, funny people along the way.

We queued together, waited together, climbed together—and shared quiet silences in the wind.

I chose Circuit 3, which turned out to be a beautifully immersive experience.

After walking silently through the ruins, there was an extended trail leading out into the mountains (Huayna Picchu). I followed it for nearly two hours, until I finally reached the summit of another peak—from there, I looked down at Machu Picchu from afar.

That moment, it’s something words or pictures simply can’t capture.

On the way back, I passed a fork in the path—the split between Circuit 2 and 3.

I walked quietly up to the guard and whispered,“Señor…podría dejarme pasar por aca y caminar un poco por el circuito 2, porfa?”

（“Sir… would it be okay if I sneak into Circuit 2 for a bit, please?”）

He looked around, then leaned in and whispered back, like he was letting me in on a little secret:“Sí, señorita. Nadie está mirando ahora… Vaya!”

（”Sure, go for it. Nobody’s paying attention right now.“）

And just like that—I got to experience both circuits.

The way I met Manson and Taeson… well, I guess I have a doggo to thank for that.

It was early in the morning—or more accurately, one of those endless, almost existential mornings. After waking up at 2AM, a long ride to Ollantaytambo and hours on the train, I finally arrived in Aguas Calientes…and went straight into the line.

There we were, standing in a mysterious, inexplicably long queue, unsure of what exactly we were waiting for, but knowing—somehow—it was essential.

While we were waiting, I noticed a fluffy dog trotting up the line.

He walked straight to Manson and gently leaned into him.

He started petting the dog, and he just… melted, eyes closed, flopping onto the ground in total bliss.

Obviously, I couldn’t resist. I walked over, knelt down next to the dog, and joined in the petting.

And just like that, we started talking.

The rhythm of the line was absurd—part mental test, part endurance test.

By the time we finally got to the front, what we received wasn’t an actual ticket, but a slip of paper with…our assigned time slot to come back and buy a ticket.

At that point I remember thinking, why does this have to be so complicated?!

Explain yourself POR FAVOR!

As we left, some of us—plus two other Spanish travelers—exchanged contact info and created a little temporary group chat.

The name: Machu Picchu Queue Gang.

Straight to the point.

And of course, when our assigned time slot arrived… we queued again—truly absurd.

But looking back now? Honestly, kind of hilarious, a part of the experiences.

So yes, you could say our friendship began with a ridiculous, drawn-out line…and a very sweet doggo.

"ManSon, TaeSon! Look! There are twin doggos—let me take a photo of the four of you!"

In the end, they chose a different route after the queue, so we didn’t really spend much time together afterward. And here’s a little secret—later that day, on the train leaving Aguas Calientes, while journaling, I quietly wrote:

“Feeling a little down. Didn’t get to talk more with the twin brothers, but I really liked them. Wish I had more time to share with them.”

So, what happened?

Well—I think Pachamama must’ve heard my little wish.

That day on the train, I casually sent Man-Son a message—just to say hi.

To my surprise, I ended up seeing them again in Ollantaytambo.

We shared a warm, delicious, soul-soothing dinner.

As we chatted, we realized our travel plans for the next few days were almost identical—we were all headed to explore the Sacred Valley: Moray, Maras, Chinchero, Pisac...

The dinner felt light and natural, like reuniting with old friends after some time apart.

After the meal, I took an Uber back to my hotel in Urubamba, and that night, for the first time in days, I slept deeply and peacefully.

My body finally could rest.

The next morning, I woke up to a message from them:“We’ll be driving through Urubamba to Moray and Maras—want a ride?”

"Yessss!"

And here’s the wildest part—the hotel I was staying in was exactly the one they were checking into that night.

Everything just… flowed.

Quietly, effortlessly.

As if someone had gently arranged it all behind the scenes.

In that moment, I truly felt—this had to be fate.

That day, we visited Maras and Moray.

The salt ponds of Maras stretched across the valley like little tiles, glistening under the sun—

so bright, so surreal, it almost didn’t feel real.

Moray, with its concentric terraces carved deep into the earth, looked like some ancient cosmic symbol—

layer upon layer, spiraling inward.

They say it was a sacred site the Incas used for agricultural experiments.

But I’m convinced: it had to be a landing base for aliens.

That day, we laughed a lot.

It was natural joy that bubbled up.

We were surrounded by mountains, with llamas and alpacas roaming freely nearby.

Man-Son and I sat in the backseat, chatting away like kids on a field trip.

Tae-Son was the big brother behind the wheel.

Alma felt like the “adult” of the group—calm guiding us along the way.

And somewhere between the views and the laughter,

there was that salty chili chocolate—

a perfect little surprise tucked into the day.

After the journey, we found a cozy little restaurant in Urubamba.

The place was full of handmade crafts—nothing you could easily label,

but it had a warmth to it that made us all feel at ease.

The food was delicious.

We shared stories,

and at some point, we started a little game:

tasting desserts with our eyes closed.

“You have to add a splash of lemon to the tiramisu—it makes a total difference!”

"Right..."

“I’ll just try it with my eyes open.”

“No!!!”

"Oh, it does make a total difference!"

“Who wants to go first?”

“I’m the oldest—I’ll go!”

...

There was so much laughter.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

How you can meet someone just days ago,

and still feel so comfortable—so yourself—around them.

And it was there, in that quiet warmth,

that I first heard the song I mentioned earlier:

“Negra Presentuosa” by Susana Baca.

The melody slipped into my heart like an emotion I didn’t ask for—

and stayed, gently and quietly.

Just like them.

These new friends,

these soft connections.

They arrived lightly.

But somehow,

they stayed.

That evening, Alma showed me some photos of her artwork.

They were so raw, so expressive—primitive emotion, pure beauty, tender yet powerful, sensitive and profound.

Through her paintings, I didn’t just see colors or images—I felt emotions, stories, a quiet tremble from the soul.

Truly, they were beautiful.

Moving.

Deeply touching.

Each of them had different eyes.

But behind every pair, I saw something similar—openness, kindness, beauty, curiosity, and depth.

The time I spent with them was warm, sincere, and joyful.

There was so much we wanted to share, so much active listening, so many little impulses to burst into laughter together.

We passed around a half-eaten banana without hesitation.

We wandered down a random path together, unsure of where it might lead.

We spoke of the parts of ourselves we rarely voice aloud.

That night after dinner, the four of us strolled through the quiet streets of Urubamba.

The air was light, the streetlights were soft.

As we wandered, Alma suddenly paused and looked down a small street.

I asked, "Is that street calling you?"

She smiled.

We all smiled.

And followed her gaze.

We walked, just like that, into the street.

And we stumbled into a town plaza—right in the middle of the annual Señor de Torrechayoc Festival.

It’s one of Urubamba’s most important religious festivals, honoring the miracle of Jesus protecting the people of the valley. The whole town gathers to dance and parade, dressed in traditional clothes, carrying sacred statues high above their heads. Drums and brass instruments echoed through the night air.

The timing was perfect.

Like everything else on this journey.

Man-Son and I climbed up onto a railing to watch the performance like two mischievous monkeys.

I imagined myself as one of those cool parkour kids, darting after my Gaster-Bro, AKA ManSon!

We jumped and ran like we were from the little town.

Honestly, it felt so cool.

I truly believe all of this was fate.

인연.

缘.

Like the Buddhist saying goes: "It takes five hundred turns of the head in a past life just to brush past someone once in this one."

Some meetings can’t be explained by logic.

What if I had hesitated and decided not to go to Machu Picchu?

What if I hadn’t gotten upset and changed my train ticket, and had stayed an extra night in Aguas Calientes?

What if the dog hadn’t walked up to Man-Son while we were queuing?

What if I had gone straight to Urubamba from Ollantaytambo instead of staying for dinner?

What if my Airbnb in Pisac had hot water?

...

So many little what-ifs, like an invisible net that silently drew us together.

I will never forget this journey.

Nor the connection I shared with each of them.

It was a kind of "friendship family trip"—full of laughter, deep conversations, and genuine exchanges of thoughts and feelings.

We truly heard and saw each other.

I also won’t forget the quiet pauses—those silent moments that felt just right, and it was enough.

I won’t forget how I giggled like a fifteen-year-old girl, that kind of unguarded joy, the kind of happiness I didn’t even realize I was feeling.

I won’t forget those fleeting glances, when our eyes met and a smile quietly bloomed, and then we looked away.

I won’t forget that rainy night of goodbye, how the tears came uninvited, rising from nowhere, and slipping down my cheeks without warning.

Mot every feeling, every flutter of the heart, or every tear needs to be explained.

Not every wave of emotion needs a name, or a response.

Some things simply arrive—

like wind, like rain, like breath.

And the fact that they came at all...

is already more than beautiful and enough.

I remember one day, Taeson asked me:

“What was the highlight of your trip?”

I paused and thought for a moment—

The first moment that comes to mind was the solo hike I took to the Moon Temple.

That day I walked alone, fully in tune with my own rhythm—as if I were stepping into the moon’s gentle embrace.

There was something deeply feminine in the air: soft, but unwavering.

At the top, I spread out my large shawl and sat down on the earth, facing the mountains in meditation.

I stayed still, quietly listening to my breath, gently scanning each part of my body with my mind—until the sun began to set, and the wind turned cool.

Only then did I gather my things and begin the walk back.

And something funny happened on the way:

I often talk to myself when I walk alone—that day was no different.

There I was, deep in conversation in the air with myself, completely immersed in whatever I was saying.

Then I turned my head—and saw a little boy on horseback, just a few meters away from me, staring at me with this utterly confused expression.

It was hilarious.

He must have been thinking:“Who is this mysterious woman from the East…and who on earth is she talking to?”

And of course—

there’s them.

Meeting that beautiful family was another highlight of the journey.

That’s all I want to write for now.

I just got a message from them—they’re about to head out for a walk and asked if I’d like to join.

My eyes are still a little swollen.

There were so many moments—as I typed, tears quietly rolled down my cheeks.

Tomorrow, they will leave for the Amazon.

And I… I guess it’s time I slowly start packing my stuffs, get ready for the Rainbow Mountain trek, and then head back to Lima.

Maybe later I’ll go to Chincha to feel the rhythms of Afro-Peruvian culture and teach kids how to make ceramics;

Or maybe to Arequipa,for a spoonful of the Queso Helado I’ve been addicted to, and one last look at the vast, breathtaking canyon;

Or perhaps I’ll visit Huacachina, to see the desert oasis I’ve only heard stories about...

But right now, I don’t want to think about any of that.

Right now, I just want to be here—truly here—

to share whatever time we still have together.

Because this goodbye…

it might be a long time before we see each other again.

Everything else…I’ll leave that to the me of later.

Ich werde diese Reise nie vergessen.

And I believe—

those we truly wish to meet again,

somehow, someday, we will.

The Sacred Valley,

so magical, so sacred.

Thank you—

Epilogue

May 29th

Two hours before leaving Cusco,

I came to my favorite café—Xapiri.

In the Indigenous language, it means “soul.”

(I’ve decided—if I ever have a child someday, I’ll name her/him Xapiri.)

Xapiri Ground is a space where exhibitions, coffee, and art come together. They support the Yanomami people of the Amazon, sharing distant but real voices through images and sound.

The first time I came here was one night, while wandering alone.

I stumbled in by chance—only to find they were hosting a late-night exhibition and talk

about Yanomami culture.

I tried a kind of fermented drink,

though the name has long slipped from my memory.

The second time, I came with Alma and Man-Son.

We ordered tea and hot chocolate,

flipping through a thick photography book of the Amazon Rain-forest.

There happened to be a sound installation that day—

the entire room was dark, the floor covered in soft mats.

We lay down, eyes closed,

listening to the voices of the jungle in complete darkness.

And the third time, is now.

On the verge of leaving, I sit here alone,

sipping a hot chocolate infused with rain-forest spices,

writing lazily in my journal,

reading The Falling Sky.

Just before heading out,

I stepped into the sound room one last time.

Eyes closed,

I slipped into another realm—

one that felt both surreal and deeply real,

distant yet strangely familiar.