A Jungle Ruin

Incallajta was our final destination – a remote set of Incan ruins that Randy had visited with his family almost by accident a year before; a place he promised would blow our minds. I never found the ruins on the map, but instinct would guide me back there today. My enchantment with Incallajta (een-ka-YAHK-tah) quickly changed from simply curious to sheer obsession as we navigated the maze of hills and valleys in which it is hidden. We arrived weary from the bumpy ride, and as the dust cleared and the numbing silence settled around us, we soon realized that the immense ruin was ours alone to explore, and that we had come to a most magical place.

If the astounding ruins of Machu Picchu have long ago lost their peace to sightseers, Incallajta has thus far been spared the hordes. The friendly people that live in the valley told us that visitors were few, and they welcomed us with warm smiles, curiosity, and some of the most engaging conversation I have yet found.

The site is the largest Incan ruin in Bolivia and home to a curious hexagonal structure protected by a zigzag wall that likely had astronomical or religious significance. Various partitions and stairways led to the colossal remnants of the Kallanka – a porticoed auditorium with thick walls that once fortified the edge of the terrace. At 25 by 78 meters, it is recognized as the largest single-roofed structure in the Western Hemisphere when it was built in the late 15th century. Narrow paths led to obscure enclosures on steep slopes or beneath rock overhangs. All round us centuries-old terraces in russet and green produced potatoes and yucca.

Rather than crowding a hilltop, the ruins of Incallajta sit unobtrusively among fields on a low alluvial terrace at the confluence of four river valleys. At the base of the terrace, a brass plaque commemorates a recent attempt to make the ruins more accessible, but a narrow rock-lined footpath up to and around the ruins appeared to be the only improvement. Had renovations been more complete our brief time there would have felt contrived like a museum visit. Instead, it tasted like discovery – as if our footsteps had broken a sacred 400-year silence.

I imagined the pace of commerce and the drama of daily life that once existed there. I sat by the waterfall – as essential as it was intimate and beautiful – and imagined Incan women on wash day. At the edge of the auditorium, voices and cheers from centuries-old games and gatherings echoed off the walls. I followed a deer through the brush and lost it down a narrow arroyo, wondering if a well-placed arrow had taken down many in this same place. I stood on a prominent hill with its own set of ruins and spied other hilltops, thinking of signals sent by fire in the night. As the sun set in the broad saddle at the top of the valley, a wordless hush consumed us. We camped by the cool river and talked late by the campfire – perhaps the millionth to be lit in that place – watching it sends sparks into the sparkling dome of stars overhead.