Celebrating Peruvian Pageantry and Ancestral Culture at Inti Raymi in Cusco
Dancers at Qorikancha celebrating Inti Raymi in Cusco, Peru | All photos: Heather Jasper

Celebrating Peruvian Pageantry and Ancestral Culture at Inti Raymi in Cusco

Every June 24th, the centre of Cusco, Peru fills with hundreds of musicians and dancers for Inti Raymi, the city’s most popular event. Spectators arrive at the Qorikancha Sun Temple before 6am to stake out their spots for the beginning of the show, and more go early to the Plaza de Armas and Sacsayhuamán Inca temple for the second and third acts. They wait for hundreds of dancers and musicians representing the many ethnic groups conquered by the Inca and to see the Inca himself, a coveted role usually played by a Cusqueñian.

Actors recite their lines in Quechua, the language of Cusco for centuries, still spoken by about five million Peruvians. Vendors sell printed programs with Spanish and English translations of the script. This masterpiece of musical theatre was written by Peruvian intellectuals and historians in the 1940s, based on descriptions of a winter solstice celebration called Inti Raymi, practised when the Inca controlled much of South America.

The Quechua name translates to ‘Sun Festival’ or ‘Sun Celebration’ – held near the shortest day of the year, winter solstice, it celebrates the imminent return of warmer, wetter weather. June is winter in Peru, and summer is when the rains come.

Though the actors and dancers may change from year to year, the script is the same. In the first act, representatives from dozens of ethnic and cultural groups arrive to show their allegiance to the Inca ruler, called the Sapa Inca. In the second act, an oracle reads coca leaves and predicts possible problems for the Inca. In the third act, a fake llama is sacrificed, and another oracle reassures the Inca that all is well in his realm.

Inti Raymi in Cusco

Many Cusqueñians go every year, as much to see the spectacle as to enjoy each other’s company. It’s a holiday in Cusco, with streets throughout the centre of the city blocked off and hundreds of people lining the sites of each act.

The first act is held at the Qorikancha (pronounced kori-con-cha), once the largest Inca temple in Cusco, built by the Inca Pachacutec in the early 1440s. During colonisation, the Spanish built a church on top, but today you can still see Inca temples to the sun, moon, thunder, lightning and rainbows inside the walls of the Convento de Santo Domingo. Around 9am dancers file out of the church’s cloisters, filling the gardens below and dancing to the Andean flutes and drums they play. The Inca and the Qoya, his wife, eventually emerge, along with the Inca’s main generals and advisors.

The dancers go from the gardens up to the streets above, leading the Inca uphill to the Plaza de Armas. Called Huacaypata during Inca times (pronounced how-kai-pa-ta), the modern Plaza de Armas has a statue of an Inca in the centre, perched on top of a colonial fountain. Every June, the fountain is covered with fake Inca stonework, creating a dais for photo ops every day until the 24th, when the Inca ascends the stairs and recites his lines from the top.

The third act is at Sacsayhuamán (pronounced sack-sigh-wah-mon), an ancient Inca temple that looms over the city from the hillside above. Erroneously called a fortress by the Spanish, this temple complex was the largest in Cusco, where archaeologists have found sacrificial offerings brought from throughout South America.

I’ve lived in Cusco since 2019 and I go to Inti Raymi every year, with the obvious exception of 2020, when all events were cancelled due to the pandemic. Every year, I pick one of the three acts and go early to stake out my spot. Many elderly Cusqueñians go at daybreak with little folding stools, both to get a good spot and to avoid the crush of people arriving late.

I love sitting among the elders, whose Quechua language skills are almost always better than the younger generation, because they’re so friendly and they translate for me if I ask. Often their grandchildren will arrive late, squeeze through the crowd and sit on their grandparents’ laps, asking for translation if I don’t.

Among the crowd I always spot a few international tourists, with their cameras and reusable water bottles covered with stickers and hiking outfits, often freshly back from Machu Picchu. Each of the three locations has bleachers where you can pay for a seat guaranteed to have a good view, and most of those spots go to tourists who opt for a guided tour of Inti Raymi. Having an assigned seat means a person can see all three acts, without having to get there hours early. 

Guided tours usually include transportation and a guide to translate Quechua. Without a tour and seats in the bleachers, it’s very difficult to see the whole event. It’s a long, uphill walk through crowded streets to get from the Qorikancha to Haucaypata to Sacsayhuamán. Though the actors do it singing and dancing, with some playing flutes, it’s not easy for somebody who is new to high altitude and tourists routinely feel out of breath. Cusco sits at about 3,400 meters above sea level, 11,155 feet. 

One year, when I was sitting on a grassy hill above Sacsayhuamán, waiting for the actors to make their way up from Haucaypata, I chatted with three Peruvian sisters. They had come on the overnight bus from Puerto Maldonado, a large town in the Peruvian rainforest, and were even more excited than I was for the show. It was their first time at Inti Raymi and their first time in Cusco. They were surprised by the crowd but also thrilled to be part of such an important cultural celebration. 

Thousands of Peruvians flock to Cusco every year to see Inti Raymi, some for the celebration of their ancestral culture and history, some for the pageantry of hundreds of costumes and dances, some to spend the holiday with family members who live in Cusco and some to see their friends and relatives who have a part as an actor, dancer or musician.

For international visitors, the event may be sensory overload, but it’s always worth it. Inti Raymi has something for everybody.

Heather Jasper

Storyteller

Heather Jasper is a freelance travel writer based in Cusco, Peru since 2019. Her articles about South America are published in BBC Travel, Horizon Guides, Frommer’s, Fodor’s Travel, Lonely Planet, Insider and more. She’s the author of Peru’s first travel guide app, Peru’s Best. Find links to her articles and blogs from over 30 countries on her website; follow her on Instagram to see where in the world she is now.

Time to Read:  5 Minutes
Storyteller: Heather Jasper
24 June 2025
Category:
Local Stories - Customs and Traditions

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Visiting the Hidden Urban Wetlands of Ottawa
A peaceful pathway, perfect for a dog walk and listening to birdsong | All photos: Vanessa Chiasson

Visiting the Hidden Urban Wetlands of Ottawa

They say cemeteries are cities of the dead, but Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa is very much alive – and I don’t just mean with memories of the dearly departed. 

Beechwood is Canada’s national cemetery, a tidy collection of Prime Ministers, poets, police officers, and more. However, there’s life here too, wild, untamed life in the thousands, all thanks to a memorial garden area and a small marsh. It’s this urban Ottawa wetland that makes Beechwood just as much a place for the living as it is for the dead.

I start my annual spring pilgrimage to the marsh by popping into Donna’s tiny neighbourhood café along the way. As always, I marvel at how many people can find a seat in such a small spot. It’s tempting to scrounge up a chair and join them.

I tear myself away from the seats and a delicious-looking shelf of gourmet pantry items, ignoring the preserves and locally produced pickles, in favour of ordering a very patriotic maple-infused iced latte. At the last minute, I grab one of their signature treats — a handmade vegan pop-tart pastry, filled with sweet raspberry jam — to fuel my trek. 

I’m certainly not the only one who enjoys exploring Beechwood. The property is beloved by joggers, dog walkers, and hikers. Ottawa has a bit of a reputation as a buttoned-up government town, the kind of place that invites policy meetings and sensible museums, not a ramble through a bone yard.

But when I’m at Beechwood, I feel like I’m among fellow locals who know otherwise, the kind of people who know that the city is just full of cosy corners like this, quirky Ottawa spots that are aching to be explored.

Today, I’m sharing the paths with a few serious-looking runners, a couple of leisurely strollers admiring the tulip beds, and plenty of sauntering dog walkers. I pause to sip my coffee and chat with a white ball of fluff named Clementine and her owner, both happily watching the soft apple blossoms that float down in the breeze. We could easily be in a botanical garden, if it weren’t for all the headstones. 

Ottawa
We could easily be in a botanical garden, if it weren’t for all the headstones | Vanessa Chiasson

I stumbled upon the marsh myself several years earlier while I was on a different kind of quest. I was hunting for Beechwood’s spy cemetery, reportedly the only one of its kind in the world.

This section of the graveyard, dedicated to those who have served in Canada’s intelligence services, is a relatively new addition to Beechwood. While it is disappointingly neither ominous nor melancholy, it does afford a good view of the surrounding paths branching away from it.

Of course, I had to find out what was just around the corner. The answer was the Macoun Marsh

Encountering a Canada goose and red-winged blackbird on a visit to the Macoun Marsh | Vanessa Chiasson

The Macoun Marsh honours naturalist John Macoun (yes, he’s buried at Beechwood). On some cemetery maps, the marsh is incorrectly labelled as a “sacred space” – but based on its bounteous nature, maybe that’s not really a mistake.

Nearly 1,400 species have been recorded here, a statistic courtesy of nearby schools whose students share in the stewardship of the marsh. On this early spring visit, red-winged blackbirds are abundant.

I spot a chipmunk and hear plenty of frogs among the rustles of the reeds. I thankfully spot a Canada goose before he spots me, and resolve to give this temperamental bird the wide berth he deserves. However, the marsh’s more flashy residents (like blue herons) elude me.

I pause inside the students’ pavilion for a few minutes, retying my shoes and gazing at the artwork decorating the rafters.  I’m a tiny bit disappointed that this particular visit didn’t turn out to be more exciting. And then I see it. 

A clump of mud and grass is tucked among the eaves, a clump with two fuzzy heads in it. A nest! Before long, the builder herself soon returns. A robin lands nearby, her beak full of wriggling worms. She watches me, and I watch her.

Forget the Canada goose. I know better than to get in the way of a mamma bird. I slowly take a few steps away, inching towards the path which will take me back to the tulips, the notable names carved in granite, the tidy rows.

Confident in my departure, the robin continues on her path, neatly swooping into an opening in the rafters and delivering dinner to the tiny living souls within. In this city for the dead, new life is chirping away.

Vanessa Chiasson

Storyteller

Vanessa Chiasson is a Canadian travel, food, and culture writer with bylines in the Globe and Mail, USA Today, Buzzfeed, Travel Awaits, and more. Her award-winning blog, Turnipseed Travel, focuses on cosy, affordable travel experiences. You can follow her travel adventures on Twitter.

Time to Read:  4 Minutes
Storyteller: Vanessa Chiasson
9 June 2025
Category:
Local Stories - Nature

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From the Pyrenees to the Ebro: Tracing the Path of the River Gállego
The Pyrenees by the Spanish-French border, where the Gállego first sees the light of day | Photo: Dmitry Blatov, Unsplash

From the Pyrenees to the Ebro: Tracing the Path of the River Gállego

Under the Aragon sun, I sit on the smooth pebbles of a deserted river beach. Monty the podenco’s pointy ears prick as he listens to the clatter of storks nesting in the trees. 

This river is where I come for peace and solitude. Its banks are my backdrop for mini-adventures with Monty on weekday mornings, and this gentle meander is where I swim on hot summer days. And the fact that it’s been on quite the journey before it reaches this point, “my” stretch, is a big part of what makes it restful, reassuring, cleansing, and inspiring.

Its name, Gállego, springs from the same root as “Gaul” or “Gallia”, as the lands on the other side of the natural barrier of the Pyrenees were once known. That’s down to the fact that these waters first see the light of day way up in the mountains, almost exactly on the Spanish-French border, just by the Portalet pass. 

A trickle of water emerges onto the mountainside in an area popular with locals on both sides of the border, us included, for skiing and snowshoeing in the winter, and hiking when the temperatures rise and the snow melts away into the streams.

River
Picture-perfect Lanuza, a village perched on a reservoir’s shore | Tim Oun, Unsplash

Rolling back down from the heights of 2200m in Lola, our trusty campervan, we follow the course of the “French” river for the first part of the journey, passing the first of many reservoirs, which has Lanuza, a picture-perfect stone village, perched on its shore.

Through the towns of Sallent and Biescas, communities that swell with hikers and holidaymakers, it cuts south before starting to drift west, leaving the peaks of the Pyrenees proper behind. But the possibilities for adventure — in the water and around it — and the dramatic landscapes don’t stop there.

We’ve wild camped in Lola by the Peña reservoir and watched rafters braving the rapids around Murillo de Gállego in the spring. We’ve hiked to the tops of the startlingly beautiful Mallos de Riglos, conglomerate rock formations which rise vertically from the river banks to tower over the quaint village below.

The majestic Mallos de Riglos rock formations rising behind the Gállego in the foreground | JG, Unsplash

From there, the water flows on, striking out for the south again, now through flatter lands as it forges its way towards the mighty Ebro. Eventually, the droplets of water that emerged on a mountaintop and carry the freshness and energy of the Pyrenees peaks with them, reach the stretch of river I’ve come to know so well. 

Living in a small town just a kilometre or two from its banks, from which you can see the snowy mountaintops on a clear day, Monty and I are drawn to the same river we’ve gravitated to further upstream. There’s something almost magnetic about it.  

Adjusting to a new environment can be tricky, but when we moved from a Zaragoza city-centre flat on the banks of the Ebro out to this quieter roost, the river helped me feel right at home. There are no popular, well-known river beaches here, so finding the best spots to access the water was down to us. And find them we did.

On runs and walks that often topped 10km, as we tried out new path after new path, we were rewarded with hidden gems. The land that lies between our town and the Gállego is all cultivated, but by the river there are pockets of untouched wilderness, havens for storks and kites, where you feel intrepid as you vault fallen logs and duck under branches hanging low across the path.

Of the three river beaches I discovered on those winding walks, one in particular has a touch of magic to it.

There’s a bend in the river where the water slows its onward march and deepens, cutting into tall cliffs on the far bank, inviting me in for a dip while Monty cools off, hunting water boatmen and imaginary frogs in the shallows.

Nearly always deserted, it’s the perfect spot to appreciate the changing of the seasons. I come to see the leaves fade to gold in the autumn, then drift down into the river, all the better to see the storks perching in the trees on winter days, when the river swells with snow melt. I come to see the fresh green leaves unfurl in the spring, and the water drift by at a lazier pace in summer.

The storks roosting in the bare winter trees, all the better to see them | Sebastien Bloesch, Unsplash

From here, I know it’ll plough on south, cascading over impressive weirs, lined by paths popular with walkers, runners and cyclists, and finally blending with the Ebro, that great river making its stately way to the Mediterranean. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to fresh water, particularly mountain streams and waterfalls. I grew up listening to the babble of the English stream that ran behind our house. 

So when the Gállego became part of my life, it was no surprise to find that a river can be so much more than it seems on the surface. It can be a companion, a comfort, a goal, a welcome rest and reward. It can make you feel like part of the landscape, like you belong.

And it can remind you we’re all on a journey, with adventure and possibility at our fingertips, even if we’re just on a midweek dog walk. Life flows on, and the freedom and soaring heights of the mountains, or the depths of the Mediterranean, are just around the river bend. 

Zaragoza, where the Gállego meets the Ebro | Pedro Sanz, Unsplash

Katie Uniacke

Storyteller

Katie is a writer, translator and voiceover artist born and raised in the UK, and based near Zaragoza, Spain. Freelancing since 2016, she specialises in ecotourism, slow travel and sustainable lifestyle, and has worked with a long list of Spanish brands and travel agencies. She can often be found hiking in the Pyrenees, wild swimming wherever she possibly can, taking a train or ferry to a new corner of Europe, or discovering a new corner of Spain in her trusty campervan. Check out her website.

Time to Read:  4 Minutes
Storyteller: Katie Uniacke
2 June 2025
Category:
Local Stories - Nature

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