set in. He was unimpressed, and used the opportunity to harangue me.
He said that llamas are man’s greatest friend. They keep the people of the Andes alive. Their coats are used for wool, for rugs and for ropes; their meat is eaten, their fat is used to make candles, and their dung is burned on stoves. Slipping me a sideways glance, the old llamateer added that some deranged people even dried their foetuses and made soup.
Eventually, I spied a lake stretching out to the north, its surface shining like watered steel. Known as
Lago Umayo
, it’s unconnected with Titicaca. On a high promontory in the western quarter were dotted a number of strange cylindrical towers, built from smooth-sided blocks of stone.
‘Bienvenido
, welcome to Sillustani,’ said Manuel.
The
chullpas
, round-sided towers, are thought to have been constructed by the Ayamara-speaking Colla tribe, between the 14th and 16th centuries. Shortly before the Conquistador invasion, the Collas were overthrown by the Incas. Their most celebrated families had been buried in communal tombs, in funereal towers. Some rise up as high as fifty feet, overlooking the pristine waters of Lake Umayo.
Leaving Manuel to tend the llamas, I made my way up to the tallest of the
chullpas
. The ground was rocky, the grass long and flaxen. The tower’s stone blocks were flush together like mosaics, its funerary contents ransacked by
huaqueros
, grave robbers, centuries before. It was here, from these great towers, that Hector said the Birdmen had flown. With the right wind, and a wide canopy of textile as a wing, I could see no reason why a man might not have glided from the greatest
chullpa
, safely down to the margin of the lake. He might have sacrificed some cloth, breathed its smoke to make him bold, thrust his arms sideways, and jumped. As a messenger he would have been in the air, aloft, if only for a few seconds, to deliver a message to the gods. Perhaps death would await him on landing; maybe that was the point - a suicide flight.
Despite Hector’s certainty, I have found no written sources to connect Sillustani to the Birdmen. To the experts, the
chullpas
were merely towers where an ancient people interred their dead. But then again, I pondered, rubbing a hand over the curious masonry, perhaps the Birdmen never existed at all.
History is abundant with tower-jumping episodes. Medieval Europe saw hundreds of respectable young men with home-made wings, or billowing robes, hurl themselves from towers, in their desperation to fly. No one is sure why, but tower-jumping was to medieval man as great a craze as bungee-jumping has been in recent years.
In his
History of Britain
, Milton records the fate of Oliver of Malmesbury who fixed wings to his hands and feet in about 1070 ad and leapt from a tower. He’s said to have flown for more than a furlong before crashing to the ground. He lived but was maimed. Another famous jumper was the Marquis of Bacqueville. He announced that he would fly from his riverside mansion in Paris’s rue des Saints Pères, and land in the Tuileries Gardens. A great crowd gathered. The Marquis jumped with wings attached to his arms and legs. He didn’t make it as far as the gardens. But, fortunately for him, he landed on a washerwoman’s barge and only broke a leg.
Giovanni Battista Danti, a contemporary of Leonardo da Vinci, jumped from a tower too. He’s said to have glided over Lake Trasimeno in 1490. A few years later, in 1501, another Italian adventurer called John Damian was taken in as a physician to the royal household of Scottish King James IV While at the castle he practised alchemy and made a celebrated flight. Bishop Lesley, in his
History of Scotland
(published in 1578), wrote: ‘He causet make ane pair of wings of fedderis … he flew of the castell wall of Striveling, but shortlie he fell to the ground and brak his thee bare.’
The early 16th century saw dozens of tower-jumping episodes. It was a time not long after
He said that llamas are man’s greatest friend. They keep the people of the Andes alive. Their coats are used for wool, for rugs and for ropes; their meat is eaten, their fat is used to make candles, and their dung is burned on stoves. Slipping me a sideways glance, the old llamateer added that some deranged people even dried their foetuses and made soup.
Eventually, I spied a lake stretching out to the north, its surface shining like watered steel. Known as
Lago Umayo
, it’s unconnected with Titicaca. On a high promontory in the western quarter were dotted a number of strange cylindrical towers, built from smooth-sided blocks of stone.
‘Bienvenido
, welcome to Sillustani,’ said Manuel.
The
chullpas
, round-sided towers, are thought to have been constructed by the Ayamara-speaking Colla tribe, between the 14th and 16th centuries. Shortly before the Conquistador invasion, the Collas were overthrown by the Incas. Their most celebrated families had been buried in communal tombs, in funereal towers. Some rise up as high as fifty feet, overlooking the pristine waters of Lake Umayo.
Leaving Manuel to tend the llamas, I made my way up to the tallest of the
chullpas
. The ground was rocky, the grass long and flaxen. The tower’s stone blocks were flush together like mosaics, its funerary contents ransacked by
huaqueros
, grave robbers, centuries before. It was here, from these great towers, that Hector said the Birdmen had flown. With the right wind, and a wide canopy of textile as a wing, I could see no reason why a man might not have glided from the greatest
chullpa
, safely down to the margin of the lake. He might have sacrificed some cloth, breathed its smoke to make him bold, thrust his arms sideways, and jumped. As a messenger he would have been in the air, aloft, if only for a few seconds, to deliver a message to the gods. Perhaps death would await him on landing; maybe that was the point - a suicide flight.
Despite Hector’s certainty, I have found no written sources to connect Sillustani to the Birdmen. To the experts, the
chullpas
were merely towers where an ancient people interred their dead. But then again, I pondered, rubbing a hand over the curious masonry, perhaps the Birdmen never existed at all.
History is abundant with tower-jumping episodes. Medieval Europe saw hundreds of respectable young men with home-made wings, or billowing robes, hurl themselves from towers, in their desperation to fly. No one is sure why, but tower-jumping was to medieval man as great a craze as bungee-jumping has been in recent years.
In his
History of Britain
, Milton records the fate of Oliver of Malmesbury who fixed wings to his hands and feet in about 1070 ad and leapt from a tower. He’s said to have flown for more than a furlong before crashing to the ground. He lived but was maimed. Another famous jumper was the Marquis of Bacqueville. He announced that he would fly from his riverside mansion in Paris’s rue des Saints Pères, and land in the Tuileries Gardens. A great crowd gathered. The Marquis jumped with wings attached to his arms and legs. He didn’t make it as far as the gardens. But, fortunately for him, he landed on a washerwoman’s barge and only broke a leg.
Giovanni Battista Danti, a contemporary of Leonardo da Vinci, jumped from a tower too. He’s said to have glided over Lake Trasimeno in 1490. A few years later, in 1501, another Italian adventurer called John Damian was taken in as a physician to the royal household of Scottish King James IV While at the castle he practised alchemy and made a celebrated flight. Bishop Lesley, in his
History of Scotland
(published in 1578), wrote: ‘He causet make ane pair of wings of fedderis … he flew of the castell wall of Striveling, but shortlie he fell to the ground and brak his thee bare.’
The early 16th century saw dozens of tower-jumping episodes. It was a time not long after
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