I heard a tourist ask in the sacred heights of Machu Picchu in Peru, ‘Can one get here a Coca-Cola?’ Yes, one can. Consumer markets have reached even where religious and scientific archaeology have reached, and the modern drink coexists with the ancient ruins. The tourist can even throw the empty can on the wrought cobblestones of pristine craftsmanship. I did see one on the sacred pavement, and collected it at once with blushing cheeks, so that it would not disturb with its commercial effrontery the permanent peace carved into the geometrical rocks along the centuries by the serene contemplation, the rich austerity, the closeness to earth and the cult of the sun that gave rise to astounding civilisations in the mountain ranges of the sovereign Andes in Latin America. May the presence of the Incas, heirs and seers of loft traditions, remain unsullied on the eternal summits of their noble land.

I have submerged my head in the icy waters of The Spring of the Princess, indented with the triple notch that represents the three worlds – inferior, middle, superior – through which all life must pass; I have climbed, with rarefied breath labouring at twelve thousand feet, the unending steps of the initiation pyramid at Ollantaytambo; I have felt in my limbs the living current of the Urubamba river and the motionless transparency of the Titicaca lake; I have witnessed the processional arrival of the Inca High Priest in the liturgical feast of the winter solstice in the majestic scenery of the mighty Saksayhuaman, ‘the navel of the world’, with the kindling of the new fire, the symbolic sacrifice of the white llama, the proclamation of the prophecies, the libation of the sacred drink, and the distribution from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth of the new maize as nature’s communion in the large earthly family: almost an anticipated Holy Saturday with Quechua accents and universal faith. Secular treasure of humankind’s traditions.

I have felt myself, in those privileged moments, heir of centuries and brother to civilisations; I have listened to living witnesses of ancient religions; I have embraced giant rocks carved in astronomical parallel to the course of the sun, and have prayed aloud in the five ‘prayer windows’ that in their mysterious position and craftsmanship amplify each vowel in ever-widening vibrations through the body and the wall and the mountain and the whole valley, till everything becomes prayer, and the prayer is felt in all the corners of the soul and in all the cells of the body in plenary communion with the whole of nature which forever prays by lovingly existing.

And it was there, in the blessed summit of Machu Picchu which zealously keeps its intimate secrets, that, while walking in reverential silence in its extended lawn – now mute amphitheatre of past feasts and rites and joys and life in palpitating history – I saw something shining in between the symmetrical slabs of the ancient flooring. I bowed close, observed it, took it carefully and cradled it in my hand with wonder. It was a small metal silhouette, old relic for the absentminded tourist who lost it there, and unexpected gift for me from the munificence of the majesty of Machu Picchu who had acknowledged my visit with royal delicacy. The relic was shaped like a dove with extended wings, and thus it became at once Spirit and Cross, the best symbols of my life in one of its most beautiful moments. I kissed it and put it round my neck. Thank you, Sacred Mountain.

The most popular drink in Peru, home of Cusco and Machu Picchu in it, has an exotic taste in its native components, and a sense of humour in its hybrid name: ‘Inca Cola’. It is drunk with a smile. The aboriginal Inca is still happily present in the Andes.