I still had four days in Cusco after I finished the trail, but the first of these was spent housekeeping (laundry mainly, including my jeans which were soaking wet and muddy up to the knees), writing emails, reading, sleeping, and basically spending as much time as possible on my arse or lying down. This gave me two and a half days to explore Cusco. Clearly I wasn’t going to see much of anything in two days without a guided tour, so I enlisted for the City tour on Tuesday and the Sacred Valley tour on Wednesday.
Cusco has a really amazing cathedral, built after the Spanish invasion, and therefore built and decorated in an interesting mix of European and Inca styles. For instance, the horses in the paintings (all of biblical scenes, obviously) look very llama-like, and I found the very first depiction of the Last Supper I had ever seen where Jesus and the disciples are eating guinea-pig and drinking chicha (corn beer). In that particular painting, Jesus and 11 of the disciples are white, and one had dark skin. I don’t think I need to tell you which. It seemed odd to me that an Incan artist would choose to depict Judas this way, as if he was identifying with him somehow. I figure the reasons for this were economic, that the Spanish man (I bet it was a man) that commissioned the painting wanted it that way, presumably to convey to the recently vanquished Inca society what their place in the new social order was.
Next up, the Qorikancha, an old Inca temple that the Spanish, in their Catholic colonial frenzy, tore down and built a convent on top of. Anything that was deemed to be of spiritual significance to the Incas (pagans) was taken down, the walls and basic structure left and taken over by the Catholic Church for the convent, and for a palace for one of the men who had helped Pizarro conquer Peru. Years later there was an earthquake that shook all of Cusco, and the Spanish-built walls and roof came tumbling down, while the Inca walls remained intact. Since then the Qorikancha has been declared a protected site and the convent was never rebuilt, giving a “construction site” feel to the place, which is a little unfortunate.
The weather began to sour as we headed out to Saqsaywaman (or “Sexy Woman”, to all the pronunciatorally challenged English speakers), an incredible Inca structure built with enormously massive stones (excuse the tautology, the size of the stones merit the emphasis) one of which has more than 30 corners (or something like that, we didn’t spend much time there on account of the rain). Then we went to see a (fairly uninspiring, compared to the rest of the things we’d seen) water temple, before being dropped off in the main square. I had been fairly careful so far on my travels not to waste money on stupid and ridiculous souvenirs (fridge magnets, commemorative coins, woven bracelets and similar tourist trash) but was loath to leave Peru without something to remember it by. I had noticed a lot of Peruvians wearing woollen ponchos, which looked beautiful and very warm. I found a gorgeous one for USD$24, which I was quite prepared to pay if that was the going rate, but given I was shopping in a street just off the main square, I was inclined to believe they were ripping me off. As always, when in doubt about something, I went back to the hotel and asked Vicky. She advised me (wisely of course) to wait until the next day when I would be going to the market at Pisaq and would be able to haggle a better price. I had also decided to eat guinea-pig that night, but the restaurant Vicky recommended proved impossible to find, and, disinclined to wander about any more in the pouring rain, I ducked into the cleanest looking place I saw. Let it be said here that despite all the warnings I ate salads and food from stalls in Peru and didn’t get sick. I had alpaca (tough and fairly tasteless), a glass of wine and a coffee which all up cost me 30 soles, which, considering I had eaten an enormous bowl of delicious vegetable soup, lomo saltado and juice for lunch for 2 soles fifty, seemed completely outrageous. However, considering it was about seven euro I shut up and enjoyed my meal.
My second-last day in Cusco I spent doing the tour of the Sacred Valley of the Incas. Incidentally, there’s nothing sacred about the valley itself, but rather the river that runs through it (the Urubamba) was sacred and the reputation rubbed off on the valley. Although the hotel had booked me on the English tour, there was some confusion at the tour company with regards to which bus I should be on, and by virtue of the fact I was talking to them in Spanish I managed to worm my way onto the Spanish tour. Thank God, because another day of pre-recorded, broken English would have done my head in.
The first thing we went to see had nothing to do with Inca culture or Peruvian history, and everything to do with capitalism and fleecing tourists. The Pisaq market. Trying continuously to keep my father’s advice in mind (“Lucia, don’t buy stupid shit.”) I ignored the vast array of cheap but poorly made and incredibly useless souvenirs and embarked on my poncho-finding mission. I eventually found one very similar to the one from the previous day (though admittedly not quite as good quality) for 35 soles, less than half the price of the other one. I also finally bought some corn from a stand, although I wasn’t hungry, it was something I wanted to try before I left Peru. There are a few different types of corn available in Peru, and this kind is white rather than yellow, with enormous, mutant-size kernels. It was sweet and juicy, served in its original leaves, eaten without condiments. Yummy. I was soon to regret this purchase however, as I didn’t realise that our next stop would be an early lunch. The lunch was buffet style, and Christina (a girl I met) and I decided we would have a bit of everything. Everything meant starters, sushi (which I hadn’t eaten since I left Australia) main course and dessert. For all this we only had an hour. We stuffed our faces like mad, the food was delicious, but by the end of it I really needed a good lie down. A good lie down didn’t really factor into my near future however, and we were off to see Ollantaytambo.
“Tambo” in the Inca language means “rest stop” and that’s basically what it had been, a sort of Inca hostel on the way to Machupicchu. Again we learnt lots about Inca engineering, agriculture and logistics, and it turns out they were actually quite clever little ducks. They had grain silos up in the mountains where two or three air currents happen to meet, making that space a few degrees colder than the ambient temperature. The guide told us how they diverted the course of the nearby river to get the boulders from the mountains “over” the river to the Ollantaytambo site.
From Ollantaytambo to a smaller site with an adjoining church. The church was unremarkable save for the quite gory and depressing representations of Jesus dripping with blood. I guess they were trying to make an impactful statement about the nature of Jesus’s sacrifice, but maybe they let their imaginations run away with them? By this stage we were all getting a little sick and tired of the locals waiting to pounce at every tourist trap, thrusting ponchos, little carved animals, jewellery and coca leaves in your face. It was especially heartbreaking to see young children out there in the rain, hawking souvenirs, when they should, by rights, have been in school. Such is the extent of poverty in Peru.
That marked the end of the tour and to be honest, I was pretty wiped at that point. I slept in the bus all the way back to Cusco, and that night met up with Christina and we wandered the streets together, checking out the nightlife (which was pretty dead considering it was a Wednesday). Cusco is even prettier by night, the square is all lit up and if you look past the city into the mountains all the lights from the houses twinkle at you like stars. I only stayed out for a couple of hours before heading back to the hostel and crashing into bed.
Thursday was my last day in Cusco, and I had planned on going out to see a bit more of the city in the morning, but I ended up packing, eating breakfast, and generally doing housekeeping stuff and wasting time. I still hadn’t eaten guinea-pig, or gotten my jeans back from the laundry the hotel had sent them to two days before (my only pair of jeans!). I also hadn’t been able to confirm my flight with the “travel agent” I had booked it through, who wouldn’t answer my (numerous) emails. Finally in desperation I called Lan to discover that although she had booked me on a flight, it was four hours earlier than the one she told me she was going to book, and I had to be at the airport in less than an hour. I took a taxi to the restaurant Vicki had recommended where they served guinea-pig, and I was right to follow her recommendation, since it was almost half the price there as everywhere else in Cusco. I was surprised when it came out of the kitchen, I guess I was expecting some sort of “fillet of guinea-pig”, but what I got was a spread-eagled, fried-up, whole animal sitting on the plate. The waiter told me not to bother with cutlery, that it was traditional to eat it with your hands. It occurred to me that he may have been taking the piss, but I took my chances and went in fingers first. Guinea pigs have a high bone to meat ratio, so really hands is the only sensible way to eat them. The skin was crispy and the meat tender. It was delicious but I would have liked to have more time to really taste and enjoy the meal, and not have to wolf it down in order to get to the airport in time to catch my flight. I caught a taxi back to the hostel, got my bags together and was just about to catch a taxi to the airport when my jeans finally turned up from the laundry! Rejoicing at the fortunate timing, I jumped in the taxi and said my final goodbye to Cusco as I was riding along in the brilliant sunshine. Cusco is such a pretty and friendly city, and, although being there feels like stepping into a bygone era, it has a lot of charm and uniqueness to recommend it as a city, not just as a place to sleep in order to see lots of Inca ruins.
Of course, once I got to the airport I was playing the waiting game. I had plenty of books to read but insufficient energy to concentrate enough to read them. What I really needed was a trashy magazine, “Cosmopolitan” or similar, but I only had a couple of soles left and I wanted to keep those for dinner. Besides, a trashy mag would keep me occupied for a maximum of about two hours, and I had a marathon 27 hours of flying ahead of me. I wasn’t even going that far (to Denver in Colorado) but to get there I was flying Cusco – Arequipa – Lima – LA – Phoenix – Denver. I amused myself as best I could, particularly during the eight hour layover in Lima, and was finally on my way to the next continent – North America.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The Inca Trail - Day 4
Solay woke us punctually at 04:00, we were to set off at 05:30 to try to reach Intipunku, the Sun Gate, by sunrise. Given that the rain had been ceaseless all night, I was sceptical that we would be seeing any sun that morning, but we were all too sleepy to think much or do anything other than march wordlessly after Solay. She set a cracking pace, and after three days of walking we were all quite beat, even though we knew we only had two and a half hours of walking in front of us. We raced up the hills and tried not to tumble down the steps, and, sure enough, when we reached Intipunku our reaction, far from awed, was more along the lines of “Well, has the sun risen or not?”. We could barely see ten metres in front of our faces thanks to the fog.
More than a little perturbed that we had hauled ourselves out of our sleeping bags at dead o’clock in the morning to see an invisible sunrise, but spurred by the proximity of our final destination, we continued in a more relaxed fashion towards Machupicchu. The Apus had apparently gotten over their bad mood with us when, some hours later, the fog magically lifted and we could look down the mountain from the Trail and take our first (bird’s eye) look at our Holy Grail. From this vantage point we could see the ancient metropolis in its entirety, set as it is in and against the awesomely stunning mountain backdrop. In fact, were I to be completely honest, I would have to say that the mountains were even more breathtaking than Machupicchu itself, but I’d been looking at mountains for four days and had gone through this rigamarole specifically to see Machupicchu, so I tried to focus on the archaeology and not the geology. I can say this for the Incas; they certainly know how to pick a site for a temple. The other good thing about this particular view of Machupicchu was that it was still early, about 07:00, so it was still relatively tourist-free, and therefore gave the impression of being deserted and in the middle of nowhere, which is an appropriate impression for an archaeological site to give.
We made our way down in the brilliant sunshine, checked our bags at the door (what a relief to get that elephant off my back) and began our tour. While the tour guide was very informative (to the point where we would have welcomed a little more brevity) she was a native Spanish speaker delivering a tour in English. While I applaud her effort it was clear she had given the same tour hundreds of times, and she spoke in a monotone reminiscent of a recorded message. The monotonous droning, made slightly more unintelligible than usual due to the accent, coupled with the heat, strong bright sunshine and our aching and exhausted bodies, produced a torpor that was becoming difficult to fight off. We struggled valiantly with our drooping eyelids, took pictures, learned about Inca structural engineering like the good, obedient little tourists we were. The second the tour ended we all collapsed on the benches in the sunshine to rest our feet and brains.
Unbelievably by this point it was only about 10:00 or 11:00, but given we had woken some six or seven hours earlier and trudged through kilometres of soggy, rocky terrain, we felt as though it should have been late afternoon at the very earliest. Solay produced another “surprise” – this time a Chilean wine to toast having finally reached our destination. We enjoyed the wine, after of course sacrificing the first few drops to the Pachamama, and I could almost feel it rushing to my aching joints, muscles and blisters to anaesthetise them. From there we were free to roam Machupicchu at our leisure, and I took the opportunity to try and find a relatively isolated spot where I could reflect on the past four days and what I’d learned about the life of the Incas. This had become problematic as in the short hours we were listening to the droning of the tour guide, a river of humanity had flowed into the complex, pouring into every corner, rendering the search for a spot for quiet reflection futile. I found a place where at least I couldn’t see anyone else and tried to mentally block out the multi-lingual roar around me.
I sat there until it was time to head to Aguas Calientes for lunch. Glenn and Bridey had their hearts set on eating guinea-pig, a Peruvian delicacy, that day. Undeterred by the hefty 40 sole price tag, they asked for it, but the restaurant was out of guinea-pig that day. It was something I also wanted to try, but thanks to the VISA fiasco 40 soles was about all I had to my name at that point, so I went for Spanish omelette. We killed time until the train and bus back to Cusco. Here we said goodbye to Solay (sniff sniff) as she was on a later train home (simply as a result of economics, she explained, as our tickets had cost USD$35 and hers cost USD$6). We slept all the way back to Cusco, and swapped emails, promised to meet up later that night (yeah, right!) and I made my way back to the hotel, a hot shower, and bed.
More than a little perturbed that we had hauled ourselves out of our sleeping bags at dead o’clock in the morning to see an invisible sunrise, but spurred by the proximity of our final destination, we continued in a more relaxed fashion towards Machupicchu. The Apus had apparently gotten over their bad mood with us when, some hours later, the fog magically lifted and we could look down the mountain from the Trail and take our first (bird’s eye) look at our Holy Grail. From this vantage point we could see the ancient metropolis in its entirety, set as it is in and against the awesomely stunning mountain backdrop. In fact, were I to be completely honest, I would have to say that the mountains were even more breathtaking than Machupicchu itself, but I’d been looking at mountains for four days and had gone through this rigamarole specifically to see Machupicchu, so I tried to focus on the archaeology and not the geology. I can say this for the Incas; they certainly know how to pick a site for a temple. The other good thing about this particular view of Machupicchu was that it was still early, about 07:00, so it was still relatively tourist-free, and therefore gave the impression of being deserted and in the middle of nowhere, which is an appropriate impression for an archaeological site to give.
We made our way down in the brilliant sunshine, checked our bags at the door (what a relief to get that elephant off my back) and began our tour. While the tour guide was very informative (to the point where we would have welcomed a little more brevity) she was a native Spanish speaker delivering a tour in English. While I applaud her effort it was clear she had given the same tour hundreds of times, and she spoke in a monotone reminiscent of a recorded message. The monotonous droning, made slightly more unintelligible than usual due to the accent, coupled with the heat, strong bright sunshine and our aching and exhausted bodies, produced a torpor that was becoming difficult to fight off. We struggled valiantly with our drooping eyelids, took pictures, learned about Inca structural engineering like the good, obedient little tourists we were. The second the tour ended we all collapsed on the benches in the sunshine to rest our feet and brains.
Unbelievably by this point it was only about 10:00 or 11:00, but given we had woken some six or seven hours earlier and trudged through kilometres of soggy, rocky terrain, we felt as though it should have been late afternoon at the very earliest. Solay produced another “surprise” – this time a Chilean wine to toast having finally reached our destination. We enjoyed the wine, after of course sacrificing the first few drops to the Pachamama, and I could almost feel it rushing to my aching joints, muscles and blisters to anaesthetise them. From there we were free to roam Machupicchu at our leisure, and I took the opportunity to try and find a relatively isolated spot where I could reflect on the past four days and what I’d learned about the life of the Incas. This had become problematic as in the short hours we were listening to the droning of the tour guide, a river of humanity had flowed into the complex, pouring into every corner, rendering the search for a spot for quiet reflection futile. I found a place where at least I couldn’t see anyone else and tried to mentally block out the multi-lingual roar around me.
I sat there until it was time to head to Aguas Calientes for lunch. Glenn and Bridey had their hearts set on eating guinea-pig, a Peruvian delicacy, that day. Undeterred by the hefty 40 sole price tag, they asked for it, but the restaurant was out of guinea-pig that day. It was something I also wanted to try, but thanks to the VISA fiasco 40 soles was about all I had to my name at that point, so I went for Spanish omelette. We killed time until the train and bus back to Cusco. Here we said goodbye to Solay (sniff sniff) as she was on a later train home (simply as a result of economics, she explained, as our tickets had cost USD$35 and hers cost USD$6). We slept all the way back to Cusco, and swapped emails, promised to meet up later that night (yeah, right!) and I made my way back to the hotel, a hot shower, and bed.
The Inca Trail - Day 3
Day three and only a little more than half a day of walking. First up, more “Peruvian flats” for a couple of hours, then down, down, down. And believe me, the pain in my feet and legs made an analogy with Hades quite pertinent here. Although we finished up that day by two or three o’clock, it seemed a lot harder than the first two. Our legs were beginning to weary, our joints were stiff from cold, and the damn steps were wreaking havoc on our knees and upper legs. With the aid of the ever-present coca leaves, we made it to our final campsite, Wiñaywayna. There were two things special about this campsite. The first was Wiñaywayna itself, an archaeological site of incredible beauty, constructed in typical Inca styles (more about this later). Wiñaywayna was probably used as a temple from which to worship a bunch of gods (the Incas were polytheistic, and worshipped the sun, moon, water, mountains, rainbows, the Earth, stars, and anything else that took their fancy). As with all the important Inca sites there were the requisite terraces, important for growing food and preventing erosion of the soil. We admired Wiñaywayna for a while before wandering back to camp, and not a moment too soon for as we entered the campsite we found the Apus had tired of their good humour towards us and had seen fit to send the rain bucketing down.
The second special aspect of this particular campsite was less Inca related, but nonetheless exciting. Hot showers. You can only imagine what we smelled like after three days of constant walking. Despite the cold, you get hot and sweaty once you get going, particularly on the uphill stretches. The idea of showering, with hot water, was more appealing than I can put into words.
We ate a cheerful dinner, buoyed by the fact that most of the difficult walking was behind us, and also conscious that this would be our last dinner together and wishing to make the most of each other’s company. I would be particularly sad to leave Solay the next day. Due to my ability to speak Spanish she was more verbose and frank with me than the others, and we had formed a special bond. That night we said goodbye to the porters who would be leaving us the next morning after breakfast, and went to our cosy warm beds early in anticipation of a 04:00 rise the next morning.
The second special aspect of this particular campsite was less Inca related, but nonetheless exciting. Hot showers. You can only imagine what we smelled like after three days of constant walking. Despite the cold, you get hot and sweaty once you get going, particularly on the uphill stretches. The idea of showering, with hot water, was more appealing than I can put into words.
We ate a cheerful dinner, buoyed by the fact that most of the difficult walking was behind us, and also conscious that this would be our last dinner together and wishing to make the most of each other’s company. I would be particularly sad to leave Solay the next day. Due to my ability to speak Spanish she was more verbose and frank with me than the others, and we had formed a special bond. That night we said goodbye to the porters who would be leaving us the next morning after breakfast, and went to our cosy warm beds early in anticipation of a 04:00 rise the next morning.
The Inca Trail - Day 2
The next morning we were woken up with a cup of hot chocolate (no doubt because it was freezing outside) and got ourselves ready for breakfast, which was PANCAKES. In the middle of the flipping ANDES. And they were some of the best pancakes I've ever eaten - light, fluffy, tasty. Plus hash browns, omelette, porridge, and I don't even remember what else. Oh, and the perennial tea. Mate de coca. By this point, we were all starting to catch on that there was actually something to this coca business. Solay had shown us the previous day how to chew coca leaves. You take three leaves, and arrange them in a spread out, kind of fleur-de-lis type pattern. You kiss the leaves, and say "Thank you very much" to the Apus (the mountain gods) for the coca and for everything. Then you scrape some black ashy stuff into the base of the fleur-de-lis, and you fold up the leaves (carefully) and place them in the hollow of your cheek. Chew the leaves gently for a bit until they’re kind of glued together, then you can top it up by sticking more coca leaves in your mouth. Chew on that for fifteen minutes or so, and spit it out. According to the Andean people, coca gives you energy, helps fight altitude sickness (for us low-landers), works as an anaesthetic, staves off hunger, and provides essential nutrients the body needs. The ashy stuff is to help release the alkaloids in the coca that will nourish you. I don’t know about that, but I soon discovered if I stopped chewing coca leaves my energy dropped considerably. And energy we were going to need that day.
First up a gruelling 500 metre climb (to add to the 700 we had done the previous day), the pain of which was alleviated significantly by frequent rest stops and the absolutely breathtaking scenery. Luckily the weather was still clear at that point, and we could see down the valleys all the way to the Urubamba river at the bottom. The Andean mountains are like no others I’ve ever seen – impossibly tall, hulky, craggy, they look both serene and grumpy at the same time, like gentle giants. The shade of green is dark due to the low shrubbery that grows there (thanks to the altitude all the flora is very close to the ground). Finally after hours (who knows how many? One hundred?) of gruelling climb, we made it to the Warmiwañuscca – or “Dead Woman’s Pass”, our first pass, and at 4200 metres above sea level, the highest point on the Trail. Why “Dead Woman’s Pass”? Because looking down into the valley you can see the shape of a woman, seemingly lying down. Why this makes her dead, and not sleeping, was not satisfactorily explained. However, I suspect it’s because “Snoozing Woman’s Pass” doesn’t really impart the same sense of the dramatic. After we’d all caught our breath at the top, Solay announced with a sparkle in her eye that she had a surprise for us. “I hope it’s a bottle of vodka!” I joked, but Solay simply smiled and pulled a bottle of rum out of her rucksack. Cheering and yelling ensued. We drank a toast to making it there in one piece (after spilling the first drops on the ground in thanks to the “Pachamama” (mother Earth)), but didn’t dally too long as we still had a lot of walking to do.
Given that Dead Woman’s Pass was the highest point on the trail, and if we are to believe Mr. Newton that what goes up must come down, it stands to reason that this was the beginning of our descent. Or, to put it more colloquially, “It’s all downhill from here”. I knew in my head that the downhills were going to be just as tough if not tougher than the uphills. Cerebrally, I knew it, but emotionally I just hadn’t accepted it until we began descending that interminable Inca staircase, one jarring step at a time. Thankfully we had all bought brightly coloured “Inca” walking sticks at the beginning of the trail (like the Incas would ever have used or even needed walking sticks to walk the trail) to preserve our knees, but it wasn’t long before I had three medium size blisters on my feet and a considerable ache in my quadriceps. What made it even more frustrating was the porters constantly streaming past, bouncing lightly down the steps like they were made of rubber, with 20 kilos on their backs. Of course, their lungs are adapted to the altitude, and being farmers, their physiques were incredibly well-developed (amazing calf muscles!) but it was still amazing to see them skip past with enormous gas tanks, food for 14 people (eight porters, the five of us, and Solay) for four days, tents, cooking equipment and God knows what else on their backs.
We were all very relieved to make it to lunch, and we sat our butts down at the earliest possible opportunity while the porters got our lunch ready. Oh, the luxury. Another ridiculously large meal well on the way to digestion, and a few more hours of walking before we were finished for the day. These last hours were along what the Andeans refer to as “Peruvian flats” – i.e. up, down, up, down, up, down, you get the idea. We made our way over countless small ridges and valleys until we made it to our campsite, Sayacmarca, right in the middle of the cloud forest. Clouds, when you’re looking at them from a grassy field or aeroplane window, appear warm and fluffy, like cotton wool. Alternatively, walking through one is a wet and cold experience, and the atmosphere is tangible. The soup-like density of the air notwithstanding, I was excited to be in a cloud forest, and although I was wearing every single piece of clothing I had brought with me for warmth, I was content to be in the Andes, making the “pilgrimage” to Machupicchu the way the Incas would have done it so many moons ago. Okay, so they wouldn’t have had lomo saltado and kinoi salad for dinner, but close enough is good enough.
First up a gruelling 500 metre climb (to add to the 700 we had done the previous day), the pain of which was alleviated significantly by frequent rest stops and the absolutely breathtaking scenery. Luckily the weather was still clear at that point, and we could see down the valleys all the way to the Urubamba river at the bottom. The Andean mountains are like no others I’ve ever seen – impossibly tall, hulky, craggy, they look both serene and grumpy at the same time, like gentle giants. The shade of green is dark due to the low shrubbery that grows there (thanks to the altitude all the flora is very close to the ground). Finally after hours (who knows how many? One hundred?) of gruelling climb, we made it to the Warmiwañuscca – or “Dead Woman’s Pass”, our first pass, and at 4200 metres above sea level, the highest point on the Trail. Why “Dead Woman’s Pass”? Because looking down into the valley you can see the shape of a woman, seemingly lying down. Why this makes her dead, and not sleeping, was not satisfactorily explained. However, I suspect it’s because “Snoozing Woman’s Pass” doesn’t really impart the same sense of the dramatic. After we’d all caught our breath at the top, Solay announced with a sparkle in her eye that she had a surprise for us. “I hope it’s a bottle of vodka!” I joked, but Solay simply smiled and pulled a bottle of rum out of her rucksack. Cheering and yelling ensued. We drank a toast to making it there in one piece (after spilling the first drops on the ground in thanks to the “Pachamama” (mother Earth)), but didn’t dally too long as we still had a lot of walking to do.
Given that Dead Woman’s Pass was the highest point on the trail, and if we are to believe Mr. Newton that what goes up must come down, it stands to reason that this was the beginning of our descent. Or, to put it more colloquially, “It’s all downhill from here”. I knew in my head that the downhills were going to be just as tough if not tougher than the uphills. Cerebrally, I knew it, but emotionally I just hadn’t accepted it until we began descending that interminable Inca staircase, one jarring step at a time. Thankfully we had all bought brightly coloured “Inca” walking sticks at the beginning of the trail (like the Incas would ever have used or even needed walking sticks to walk the trail) to preserve our knees, but it wasn’t long before I had three medium size blisters on my feet and a considerable ache in my quadriceps. What made it even more frustrating was the porters constantly streaming past, bouncing lightly down the steps like they were made of rubber, with 20 kilos on their backs. Of course, their lungs are adapted to the altitude, and being farmers, their physiques were incredibly well-developed (amazing calf muscles!) but it was still amazing to see them skip past with enormous gas tanks, food for 14 people (eight porters, the five of us, and Solay) for four days, tents, cooking equipment and God knows what else on their backs.
We were all very relieved to make it to lunch, and we sat our butts down at the earliest possible opportunity while the porters got our lunch ready. Oh, the luxury. Another ridiculously large meal well on the way to digestion, and a few more hours of walking before we were finished for the day. These last hours were along what the Andeans refer to as “Peruvian flats” – i.e. up, down, up, down, up, down, you get the idea. We made our way over countless small ridges and valleys until we made it to our campsite, Sayacmarca, right in the middle of the cloud forest. Clouds, when you’re looking at them from a grassy field or aeroplane window, appear warm and fluffy, like cotton wool. Alternatively, walking through one is a wet and cold experience, and the atmosphere is tangible. The soup-like density of the air notwithstanding, I was excited to be in a cloud forest, and although I was wearing every single piece of clothing I had brought with me for warmth, I was content to be in the Andes, making the “pilgrimage” to Machupicchu the way the Incas would have done it so many moons ago. Okay, so they wouldn’t have had lomo saltado and kinoi salad for dinner, but close enough is good enough.
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