The name
In Quechua, pacha is the world — earth, time, and space, woven into one thing — and kuti is the turning. A pachakuti is the overturning of an era: one world ends, and the next begins. The Inca used it for the great turns of history. One ruler took it as his name after turning a near-defeat into an empire — then built the roads, the cities, and Machu Picchu on top of it.
The rebuild
These days I build the ground other people build on — platforms, developer tooling, the quiet infrastructure that has to hold while everyone else ships. I read the whole field, keep the structure square, and make the play work. Consistent. I show up. It gets done.
Twelve years got me here. I started on high-traffic telecom and marketing sites, spent a long run in healthcare — HIPAA-compliant platforms, a provider directory at the scale of millions, database migrations carrying a decade of records — and moved into platform and developer-experience work from there. The stack turned over with the jobs: PHP and MySQL gave way to Golang, TypeScript, and Rust; single servers to ECS, Kubernetes, and GKE; hand-run deploys to Terraform, Helm, and ArgoCD across AWS and Google Cloud. What held steady was the posture — own the platform, keep it boring, make everyone else faster.
And the ground is turning again. My work now is the infrastructure autonomous AI agents run on — a control plane that lets coding agents work side by side, safely and at scale. I'm not waiting to see where AI settles. I'm building the roads it drives on.
The mark
Four stepped arms, turning around an empty center. The steps borrow their shape from the andenes — the Inca terraces cut into the mountainsides — and from the chakana, the Andean stepped cross; abstracted on purpose, as geometry rather than a sacred thing copied. The four-fold turn is kuti itself — the world coming around. The center is left open: the still ground everything else turns on.
I drew it to be a mason's mark — the same shape at sixteen pixels in a browser tab or standing large on a wall. And it builds itself, one arm swinging into place at a time, because that's the whole idea. Nothing here arrives finished. It gets fitted, a quarter-turn at a time.
The turning
I came to the word honestly. Life took a turn I hadn't planned, and the work that followed was rebuilding — steadier this time, and my own. My family is Peruvian; I grew up in Costa Rica. Quechua isn't decoration here: it's where I'm from, and the stance I took when things had to start over.
How to read this page
This site is put together the way I put everything together. The home page is a wall — fitted stone, every block its own small world, all of them resting on the same ground. Nothing floats; each piece carries weight.
The work is kept in a khipu — the Inca's knotted-cord record. Pull a cord and a run of years unspools: structure kept by hand, made to outlast the telling.
The sky keeps time
Pacha isn't only the world — it's time too, bound into the same word. So the site won't pretend time doesn't exist. The light behind the stone follows your clock: a moon at night, gold low at dawn, a bright sun overhead at midday, clay on the horizon at dusk. Someone opening this page at 6am and someone opening it at midnight are looking at the same wall under a different sky.
It's a small thing, but it's the honest one — the ground doesn't change, the hour does. There's a sun in the footer if you'd rather set it yourself.
Pachakuti. The turning, and the rebuild.
— Jordan Chavez