Good, Old Fashioned Hate

This article was first published February 21, 2026, at fieldethos.com.

I’m from Oklahoma, born and raised, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. Do you know why the wind blows the way it does in the Sooner State? Because Texas sucks. As good Okies do, I hate all things Texas, and especially the Texas Longhorns football team, with a crimson passion.

My older brother was born and raised in Oklahoma, too. On a mission from God, he left the Sooner State for the congested confines of Lima, Peru, to plant a church. The last time I flew over to see him, we booked a trip to Machu Picchu. Rediscovered in 1911 by Hiram Bingham and local indigenous farmers, Machu Picchu is believed to have been a retreat for Incan royalty. It’s now a tourist destination that draws adventurers from all over the world.

Except for the inevitable altitude sickness that hits you the second you step off the plane, the flight from Lima to Cusco, the launch point for all Machu Picchu pursuits, is an easy one. And that altitude sickness is immediately addressed with a cup or two of complimentary coca tea, waiting at the bottom of the stairs as you disembark the airplane. A train from Cusco transports you to within walking distance of the ruins.

Knowing that it could well be my first and last trip to Machu Picchu, I wanted the full experience, so I asked my brother if we should splurge on one of the dozen or so guide services offered. He scoffed. Why hire a guide when it was just as easy to follow a group and eavesdrop? Besides, he said, they were all just making stuff up anyway.

Fearing that the English speaking guides might be wise to our game, we bounced from one Spanish speaking guide group to another. Under his breath, my brother translated for me their Peruvian tales of woe. I lost count of the number of times those guides claimed that Machu Picchu was once covered in pure gold. And the number of times the theft of said gold was blamed on, and I quote, ‘those damn Spaniards.’

“Look at this archway! It was once covered in pure gold. Until those damn Spaniards came and stole it! Look at that wall, at those steps, at that alpaca! All covered in gold! Damn those Spaniards!”

When we had our fill of Peruvian misfortune and those damn Spaniards, we set about exploring the ancient ruins. Machu Picchu is weird in that it’s a priceless, historical landmark, but tourists crawl on it like they’re kids on a jungle gym. After an afternoon of climbing in the sun and the thin Andes Mountains air, I was not only ready for a shower and something cold to drink, I was ready for home.

The sun was setting and our time on the mountain was drawing short, but there was one more section of the ruins I wanted to explore before we boarded the train and returned to civilization. I had just climbed across what seemed to be a stone ceiling joist when I met a college aged, American girl at the peak. She was wearing a burnt orange Texas Longhorn shirt and her eyes positively lit up when I greeted her in English. The poor girl must have been even more homesick than I was because she looked like she might cry when I raised my index and my pinky fingers and gave her the Hook ‘em Horns. She did cry when I rolled my wrist on over and threw those horns down.

Because Texas sucks. Even in Peru. Even in ancient, Incan civilizations.