Peru, Part Three: The Red String Flute and an Inipi Sweat Lodge: field journal: Pixley Creates

I spent months preparing for Peru long before I ever boarded the airplane.

One thing I knew I wanted to bring home wasn’t a souvenir. It was music.

I had been meditating with flute music before the trip and became fascinated with traditional Andean instruments. During my research I found Omar, a respected flute maker in Peru whose father was a music healer and a descendant of Quechua Indians of the Peruvian Andes. For many years, his father has been recovering, preserving, studying, and intuiting the ancestral music of Peru. Three months before leaving, I sent Omar a message telling him I’d be traveling through the Sacred Valley and hoped to visit if our schedules happened to align.

Three Hundred Feet

At the time I had no idea where I would actually be staying. My Airbnbs had already been booked, but Sacred Valley was still just a collection of names on a map.

After visiting Pisac, we returned to our Airbnb in Calca for the evening. I sent Omar another message.

“I’m here now. If you’re around tomorrow, I’d love to stop by.”

He replied with his address.

I opened the map on my phone and just stared.

He wasn’t across town.

He wasn’t twenty minutes away.

He was literally across the road.

Three hundred feet.

In an entire country, after months of planning, I had unknowingly booked an Airbnb beside the very craftsman I had hoped to meet.

I don’t believe every coincidence has to mean something.

But some moments refuse to feel accidental.

That was one of them.

He simply replied, “Come tonight.”

So I walked over.

Omar’s Workshop

A cluttered workbench in Omar’s flute workshop, strewn with bamboo flutes, hand tools, and a work lamp — Omar’s workshop — half-finished ideas beside finished ones, every tool in its place.

The moment I stepped into Omar’s workshop I felt completely at home. I’ve always loved people who build things with their hands.

Woodworkers. Artists. Blacksmiths. Instrument makers.

Artists whose fingerprints become part of what they create.

Their workshops always tell a story. Dust collects in forgotten corners. Half-finished ideas sit beside completed masterpieces. Every tool has earned its place. It feels less like entering a room and more like stepping inside someone’s mind.

Omar’s workshop was exactly that.

Bamboo flutes lined the walls, each one unique.

A workshop shelf stacked with wooden flute blanks and hand tools, power tools resting on the shelf above — Bamboo and wood in every stage, waiting to become a flute.

Two small hand-carved striped animal figures standing on a wooden workshop shelf beside flute parts — Little carved characters kept watch between the flutes.

There was something unmistakably different about Omar from the moment we met. He moved through the world with an unusual stillness, as though he was paying attention to things most people never notice.

He would quietly lift his head and breathe in the air, not as someone catching a scent, but as if he were listening to something invisible. His gaze drifted beyond the immediate moment, lingering on the mountains or the horizon with a quiet curiosity that made it seem as though he was seeing far more than what was in front of him.

Omar in a maroon sweatshirt playing a set of bamboo panpipes in his workshop, flutes hanging on the wall behind him — Omar, listening to something the rest of us couldn’t quite hear.

He spoke gently, without hurry, and carried himself with the kind of calm that can’t be manufactured. Whether you call it intuition, presence, or simply deep awareness, it felt as though he experienced the world through a different lens. Being around him made me slow down and pay closer attention to my own surroundings.

A rack of files and chisels above a workbench, with a painted box of folk birds and rows of flute parts laid out below — Files, chisels, and a painted box — the quiet order of a maker’s bench.

I eventually chose a flute with a small carved bird near the top. Before handing it to me, Omar wrapped it with a beautiful red waxed cord. I assume it was for protection. He also reminded me that flutes should always be wrapped in a blanket when not being played.

Close-up of Omar’s hands wrapping a wooden flute with a red waxed cord — Before handing it over, he wound a red waxed cord around it — for protection, I assumed.

It wasn’t just a purchase.

It felt like receiving something that carried a history.

The finished bamboo flute wrapped with a red waxed cord and marked with a small carved bird, home against a pale beadboard wall — Home with me now — the small carved bird near the top, Omar’s signature just below the red cord.

Before we left, Omar gave Jacob a small piece of ocote wood.

He explained that it should be burned while speaking prayers, blessings, or good intentions.

If harsh words had been spoken, if relationships had become strained, or if negative energy had settled into a home, the smoke was meant to symbolize letting those things go and making room for peace instead.

The timing wasn’t lost on me.

Relationships are delicate.

Sometimes the people closest to us misunderstand us the most. Sometimes people project their own fears onto others. Sometimes kindness isn’t returned in the same spirit it was offered.

The older I get, the more I realize that we don’t control how others interpret us.

We only control how we choose to show up.

That little piece of wood became much more than firewood.

It became a reminder to speak carefully.

To assume good intentions whenever possible.

And to leave people better than you found them.

The Kitten at the Gate

We said our goodbyes. I left in awe at the magic of Omar. And just as we left the gate, a small kitten walked up to my feet and lingered. I wasn’t shocked because, ironically, cats, dogs, animals are always drawn to me, usually stray animals. I picked it up, of course, and kissed it a few times.

A small orange, black, and white calico kitten standing on a dirt lane at night, looking up at the camera — The little one waiting at Omar’s gate — orange, black, and white, and completely unbothered.

Ironically, the night before leaving for Peru, I discovered a tiny tuxedo kitten crying alone from a bush while riding my bike in Georgia. Somehow I was the one who heard it. After maybe an hour of trying to retrieve the kitten I finally succeeded. The kitten bit my thumb as I picked it up, leaving my hand swollen for days, but it also ended up changing my pet sitter’s life. After caring for both my cat, Phoenix, and the rescued kitten while I was away, she decided she wanted to become a full-time pet sitter.

A small black-and-white tuxedo kitten lying on a bed, looking directly at the camera — The tuxedo kitten from Georgia, found crying in a bush the night before I flew out.

Animals have always appeared when I least expect them. This year I’ve had to rehome three stray animals, two dogs and a cat.

Later, at Lake Titicaca, another cat would do the same. I would give that cat some yummy sardines that I brought from the USA.

I’ve stopped asking why cats find me and I just accept it.

I went home that evening and just soaked in all of the goodness that I felt while visiting Omar and his flute shop.

Ollantaytambo

The following morning we drove to Ollantaytambo. It would be almost a two-hour drive.

The narrow streets were packed with traffic, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass one another. Once inside the archaeological site, I quickly realized why people speak so highly of it.

A stone pathway climbing between the ruined walls of Ollantaytambo toward a doorway, sun blazing over the mountains beyond — Ollantaytambo — steep, sun-blasted, and impossible not to admire.

The climb was steep, especially at altitude.

When I lived in Colorado, I hiked a few 14ers with ease. My muscle memory came back surprisingly fast, even if my lungs and body reminded me I wasn’t quite in that shape anymore.

Sarah smiling in a white top on the stone steps of Ollantaytambo, ruins and a railed path climbing behind her — Somewhere on the climb, catching my breath in that strong mountain sun.

What surprised me most, though, was the weather.

Everyone talks about winter in Peru, but I was warm the entire trip. The high mountain sun was incredibly strong, and despite the elevation, I never once felt cold. If anything, I wished I had packed fewer layers.

We wandered through small artisan shops, looked at handmade drums and crystals. I also ordered a strawberry juice, which was just water and strawberries, I think it would’ve been better just eating strawberries plain.

A man in a red cap playing a large hand-painted ceremonial drum inside an artisan shop lined with crystals and crafts — Handmade drums and crystals in the artisan shops at the entrance.

A cobblestone Inca street strung with rainbow bunting, a vendor’s stall of knitted alpaca hats to one side and someone resting against the ancient wall — Narrow Inca streets, rainbow bunting, and stalls of knitted alpaca hats.

There was a blind man playing a harp, and numerous elderly women walking around trying to sell their trinkets with their leathery skin from the Peru sun beaming down on their faces daily for 60 years. It was fantastic. The crowds of people bothered me a little bit but the lines everywhere in Peru do move quite quickly.

A blind Andean man in a bright woven poncho and knitted cap playing a carved wooden harp against a stone wall — A blind man playing the harp against the old stone wall.

An elderly Peruvian woman in a hat holding out strips of coca candy and a bag of goods to sell in the busy market — Sixty years of the Peru sun on her face, still walking the market with her trinkets.

We headed back another two hours to our Airbnb, the roads down the hill were so narrow that we had to wait almost 5 minutes sometimes just to pass. And the roads were so dusty along the way that you had to keep your window shut. Not to mention the erratic behaviour of every single driver in that country that passes every single car in front of it, since there is no speed limit only speed bumps, the drivers just learned to honk and drive fast.

An Invitation to the Inipi

When I arrived back, that evening Omar sent me a message.

He invited me to a Lakota-style Inipi sweat lodge at his home.

The moment I read it, something inside me quietly said yes.

But I couldn’t say yes just yet, because we had plans, but after we rearranged our schedules we made it work.

I had no idea what to expect. I worried about what to wear. I wondered if I’d feel out of place.

A small adobe house in the Sacred Valley set against jagged Andean peaks, a rustic reed-and-stone fence in the foreground — Omar’s corner of the Sacred Valley, where the lodge was waiting.

I walked up to where the sweat lodge was, and found about five other people sitting and standing around. My first thought was, are they going to look at me strange? Then I realised that they weren’t.

A terraced garden of San Pedro cacti and stones beside a wooden cabin, a person resting in the doorway with a dog — The garden beside the lodge, San Pedro cacti and all.

Sometimes by default, when I am around a group of people I pause for a moment to inspect the temperature, and when I say temperature, I mean what are their preconceived notions about me. Sometimes I’m right, sometimes I’m wrong, sometimes it can be a crutch of mine.

I started to examine every individual that was near me, and what I experienced and felt were some of the most enlightened, hospitable and authentic people I’ve ever met in my life.

People gathered around a wooden cabin and garden before the ceremony, one woman reclining against a rock with a laptop — The circle before the ceremony — strangers who somehow already felt like old friends.

I found myself watching them talk to each other in Spanish, especially Adrian and Omar as they would converse. I found myself watching their facial movements, watching their hand gestures, and their eye contact, their dark hair and olive complexion, completely blowing away every paradigm in my head as they were speaking.

I’ve traveled enough to know that places are beautiful.

But people are what stay with you.

From the moment I arrived, everyone welcomed me as though I’d been part of the circle all along.

The two women, Carol and Fran, made me feel accepted. Adrián carried himself with a calm confidence that can only come from experience. He had spent years learning Lakota traditions in the United States before eventually making Peru home. Throughout the ceremony he led traditional Sundance songs, which he had learned from his grandfather who adopted him at a young age, that seemed to come from somewhere much older than himself.

There was EZ.

He had a huge, beautiful afro, large soft eyes, impossibly long eyelashes, and one of the gentlest presences I’ve ever encountered.

Watching him meditate was like watching someone who had completely made peace with himself and the world.

It was impossible not to feel calmer simply standing nearby.

Within minutes I felt like I belonged.

The Sweat Lodge

The sweat lodge itself was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

A man crouching to lash together the bent-branch dome frame of a sweat lodge in a wooded clearing — The lodge frame — bent branches lashed into a dome, built by hand.

The lodge was covered with heavy natural blankets to hold the heat inside. Stones were heated in a fire until they glowed before being carried into the center of the lodge.

The finished sweat lodge covered in heavy grey blankets, a person’s head emerging from the low doorway, a hat resting on a stone outside — Blankets layered over the frame to hold the heat, the doorway like the mouth of a cave.

Two men splitting and stacking firewood beside an open fire where the ceremony stones are heated — Splitting wood for the fire that would heat the stones until they glowed.

They offered us tobacco resin and cacao leaves to put in our gums before the ceremony. I’ve never done drugs or any mind altering meds, so I was a little wary but I knew that natural tobacco and natural cacao leaves were beneficial.

A hand holding up a small jar of dark tobacco resin, the fire and lodge preparations blurred in the background — Tobacco resin and cacao leaves, offered before we entered.

I noticed my gum getting a little numb from the cacao leaves.

We entered quietly. The women first.

The door closed behind us. Darkness. Like a womb.

Songs. Prayers.

Steam rising from water poured onto the glowing stones. In the darkness as the water splashed on the stones, the water also splashed on our bodies and it felt like we were swishing around in a womb.

Each wave of heat felt as though there were flames going at my nostrils it was so hot.

The ceremony moved in rounds. The door would open. Fresh air.

Then close again.

More songs. More silence. More reflection.

Time seemed to disappear.

When we finally crawled outside, the cool air felt entirely new.

We rinsed off with a garden hose, before sitting down to fresh watermelon, mango, and other fruit that had been lovingly prepared for us.

Fresh watermelon, papaya, mango, and oranges laid out on a cutting board on the grass, hands slicing the fruit — Watermelon, mango, and oranges waiting for us when we crawled back into the cool air.

Simple. Sometimes those become the memories that last forever.

I walked over to Adrian to say goodbye. I looked in his eyes and I noticed how honey colored his eyes were, almost like a desert sun. The eyes are what I connect to. I gave him a hug as if I didn’t want to ever let go.

Then EZ walked up with his gigantic angel eyes, beautiful fro and calm presence and says thank you for coming. The amount of wisdom in each of their eyes was breathtaking. It’s like they were talking to my soul… it makes me emotional when I think about it.

We walk away and I can honestly say it was the best part of my trip.

What I Think About When I Think About Peru

When I think about Peru now, people assume I immediately think about Machu Picchu.

I don’t.

I think about walking across the road. I think about a bamboo flute wrapped in red cord.

A wandering kitten.

A small piece of sacred wood.

Honey-colored eyes.

Traditional Lakota Sundance songs echoing inside a dark lodge.

And a group of strangers who somehow felt like old friends.

Those few days reminded me that the most meaningful parts of travel are almost never the famous landmarks.

They’re the people who quietly change something inside you before you even realize it has happened.

Looking back, I don’t think I found Omar.

I think the journey found me.