13/2/2012 - Rest day

I woke up to discover that I'd suffered pretty substantial sunburn to my face. Turns out snow reflects UV – another thing 5 years of physics hadn't taught me. Red-faced I headed to a nearby bakery to breakfast on delicious bread stuffed with “dulce de leche” (something between caramel and condensed milk); thanks to Christina for pointing me in the right direction. The Aussies only had a couple of days left before they were off to Ecuador so we decided to try and squeeze in a trip to nearby Colca Canyon (the second deepest canyon in the world – only nearby Cotahuasi Canyon is 335m deeper). Bypassing the tour agencies and opting to head to the canyon ourselves, we lunched on ceviche (fresh raw fish marinated in citrus juices with sweet potato) and headed to the bus terminal to buy our tickets to Cabanaconde – the village closest to the canyon. Our bus would leave at 3am tomorrow (a salesman from one of the bus companies said that if we left any later “the rivers would be too high” which was ominous to say the least) so after a quick wander around Arequipa, which made a pleasant first impression, I headed for an early night.

12/2/2012 - El Misti day 2: To hell and back

Blessed with another restless night I felt like I'd barely closed my eyes when my alarm went off and my watch showed 3am fast approaching. Riding the bolt of that hyperactive energy that comes from lack of sleep I squelched into my wet clothes and burst out of the tent. The clay-coloured rocky landscape punctuated with tufts of greenery we had gone to sleep in was now homogeneously white and the drizzle was replaced by a snowfall guilty of the transformation. Only our tents, barely visible in the feeble light of my head torch, confirmed that this was indeed the same campsite we had stopped at yesterday.

After an uninspiring breakfast we set off to the sound of “Big in Japan” by Alphaville blasting from the radio carried by one of the guides; another surreal memory that is likely to stay with me. Despite the addition of snow on the trail, the first hour's walk was pretty enjoyable and our spirits were buoyed by such gems as James Brown's “I feel good” and Whitney Houston's “I will always love you” (the significance of which would become apparent on our return) echoing across the snowy landscape. Our loads were also significantly lighter since we'd left the tents, the majority of our belongings and one of the English guys (the one who'd lagged behind on the first day) at the camp. After the first hour, things got harder.

One of the guides lead the way and forged a twisting path up the steep mountain-side which seemed to only get steeper, the higher we climbed. Hours passed and on we trudged, the air in our lungs getting thinner and the snow underfoot getting thicker. Fairly quickly the snow became so thick that resting your full weight on either foot became a luxury; the unreliable snowy path would regularly give way and send your leg sliding back down the slope with valuable energy being wasted in scrambling back up. Still, these couple of hours were tolerable and I convinced myself that the effort was definitely good for me. The last couple of hours, on the other hand, were utter hell.

I think I was about to pass out at this point

The lack of sleep finally began to catch up with me and, coupled with the ever increasing altitude, pretty soon every step began to feel like an ordeal. Even Shostakovich's 7^th Symphony, which had helped me up some pretty monstrous hills during our cycling tour of the west coast of the US, did little to ease the strain. On several occasions stars would begin to dance in front of my eyes and I would have to stop completely to catch my breath and take on water. I think I was probably not far from passing out on a few occasions; I'd never experienced anything like it.

For the last hour or so, I was definitely running on empty and, on this last stretch, the volcanic nature of the mountain became apparent. Misti is an active volcano and although she hadn't given off much ash recently, the surrounding brock formations filled our nostrils with the oppressive stench of sulphur (coughing and wheezing was all I needed at this altitude). We stopped 100m short of the summit and the guides informed us that if we wanted to carry on it would be a further 2 hours to the top since the snow from here onwards would be waist deep and progress would be very slow (I didn't think it could get much slower). Without much hesitation I informed everyone else that I was more than happy to go no further and wait for the others at the bottom. It seems I wasn't the only one on the verge of collapse though, as everyone else opted to forego the final 100m and head back, which was still quite a hike in itself. We had failed, but at least we had failed pretty well.

Descending the mountain would, in normal circumstances, have been pretty easy and probably quite fun (it basically involved bounding down the slopes until you inevitably fell into the soft blanket of snow, getting back up and carrying on) but I was so exhausted that every time I paused and sat down in the snow, the temptation to have a snooze was overwhelming and it was only with many shouts of “Vamos! Vamos!” that the guide would get me moving again. Eventually we arrived at the camp where it took the rest of my mental and physical strength to pack up our tent and set off again for the final stretch back to our starting point. I walked this final section in a dream-like state; the hostel bed was the carrot and I was the donkey.

Arriving back into Arequipa in the early afternoon (after more heroic off-roading from our driver) we got to our hostel only to discover that, due to heavy rainfall, there was no water in the whole of the city. Although in dire need of a shower I cared little and promptly passed out in my bed. After a few hours of blissful sleep I felt something resembling a human being again and we celebrated our failure to reach the summit by going to Zig Zag – a fancy restaurant serving up mouth watering mini-steaks cooked on volcanic rock. Never had failure tasted so good. And never had a hostel bed been so comfy.

11/2/2012 - El Misti day 1: Hike to base camp

Sitting right at the front on the top floor, the snoring of the fat lady next to me and the driver's determination to overtake everything in our path (while going around a blind bend wherever possible) all contributed to another sleepless bus journey. Nevertheless, I was pretty excited when I met up with Alex and Dan to get kitted up for our expedition and was even more thrilled when I saw the dungaree-style ski pants and turquoise 80s puffer jacket that I would be wearing. As well as two guides, we were joined by two English guys on their pre-university gap years who commented that I looked like an eastern European drug dealer in my gear, not an unfair comparison. As well as the hilarious clothes, we were given crampons and an ice axe which would potentially be necessary for the very last part of the ascent, if we ever made it that far...

Having stocked up on snacks and sports drinks in a corner shop where the old woman behind the counter served us so slowly I thought she was going to keel over at any moment, we drove out of Arequipa and quickly hit terrain that really tested the sturdiness of our 4x4 and the skills of our driver. We held our breaths as he navigated the gulleys and mini ravines which made up the “road” to the base of El Misti volcano and we disembarked at the starting point of the trek slightly shaken but infused with a hit of adrenaline from the ride.

Me and Dan oblivious to the hardships ahead...

In spite of my tiredness and the constant uphill nature of the route, our first day's hike to the campsite at 4800m was fairly straightforward. That said, one of the English guys was consistently lagging behind and, without much ceremony, the guides took his ice axe and crampons off him and left them on the path to be collected on the way back – looks like he definitely wasn't going to be heading all the way to the top. At the time I didn't think much of this but it should really have set alarm bell's ringing: this wasn't going to be for the faint-hearted.

Arriving at camp in a persistent drizzle we set up our tents, all of which had seen better days. My soaked puffer jacket, although stylish, wasn't the most waterproof item of clothing I'd ever worn and, along with my damp ski pants, was going to be a real treat to put on tomorrow morning. I say morning but I really mean night – we would be getting up at 2am to give ourselves a chance to reach the top and head back in the same day. I managed to grab a few precious hours of much needed sleep before dinner, which consisted of soup and spaghetti with tuna. Huddled in our tiny tent (probably around the same size as the tent I'd had to myself on the Inca Trail), Alex and I ate the latter with our bare hands since our spoons had already disappeared, and reminisced of the luxuries on the Inca Trail. We'd definitely been spoilt.

As we settled down for the night I was aware that there was little chance of me getting a full nights sleep, let alone trying to catch up on any. This fact was compounded by the guides, in the tent next to us, being in a chatty mood and the presence of a persistent rustling around the front of our tent. I gave up trying to ignore both of these, told the guides to pipe-down and opened the tent door to find several mice crawling all over our bags which were in the tent porch. For a few moments the mice refused to budge but with a mixture of loud expletives and wild gesticulations I managed to get them to scamper and did my best to put everything edible in the tent, even if this did mean that me and Alex were left with even less space and were now essentially spooning. Is this what I get for complaining about being overly comfortable on the Inca Trail?

4-10/2/2012 - Last days in Cuzco

A painting in the pre-colonial art museum

The next couple of days in Cuzco were spent recovering from the Inca Trail and the associated celebrations of its completion. On saturday I met up with Dan, Jill (one of the Aussie couples from the Inca Trail) as well as Alex and Claire (2 guys from the UK) and we had a typically Peruvian night in an Indian all-you-can-eat buffet. The fairly low quality of food (the currys didn't actually have names but were just called “hot” or “mild”) made me really miss Manchester for the first time; a home-coming curry is definitely a must. It was also National Pisco Sour Day but rather incredibly we managed not to over-indulge.

Guniea pig - its as disgusting as it looks...

The next day I was joined by an angry American guy in my hostel room. Aside from his anger (mostly directed towards the financial system, the Californian government and the police in Oakland, near San Francisco, where he was from) he was also noteworthy for his mode of transport through South America – on bicycle! He told me that he actually felt safer cycling here than in the US and had had no problems so far on his route from Argentina (aside from a bout of food poisoning in Bolivia but that was hardly cycle related). He also spoke at length about how California was essentially going down the ..ahem...toilet. The cuts to welfare and state education he talked about sounded crazy and something I simply didn't associate with America. He'd worked as a teacher in a disadvantaged area and said that he was having to buy a lot of supplies out of his own pocket; he clearly cared about the community he lived in. On the other hand he seemed to care only about his community and was fairly dismissive of the rest of California (and in some ways the rest of the world). Quite a character. I wish I had something to get angry about.

For lunch I sampled guinea pig which had a pretty horrid flavour (a tinge of liver?), but luckily came with enough sides to salvage the meal. In the afternoon our little Inca trek crew met up and watched the Superbowl in Loki and had a night out on the town since we would soon be parting ways. The Loki hostel, and other “party hostels” I've heard about, are pretty strange bubbles of almost perpetually drunk gringos, a lot of who seem to be trying to relive first year of university again. As far as I can tell quite a few people get sucked into just partying every night, waking up hung-over, starting all over again and seeing very little of the city they're in. Different strokes for different folks I guess.

On Monday I had a stroll around the Santa Catalina Convent where I bought some marzipan-based sweets from the nuns (the nuns were obscured from sight with the help of a revolving door where you placed your money and received sweets in return) and in the evening said goodbye to Dan and Jill who were heading to Lake Titikaka. We made plans to try and meet up again in Arequipa, another city in Peru, but I felt doubtful we'd ever see each other again and was sorry to see those two cheerful Aussies go.

Like clockwork my craving for culture kicked in again and the next day I rode a bus a couple of miles out of Cuzco and did a hike back into the city via a bunch of Inca sites. It was really good fun and there's something satisfying about arriving at Inca sites by foot, especially when everyone else is jumping on and off coaches and being hurried through by their tour guides. In the evening I went to a performance of some traditional Peruvian dances (it was included in the price of the ticket I had to buy to visit the Inca sites) which was fairly hit and miss. The themes of the dances ranged from “Hunting of the Stag” to “Fight between tribes and enslavement of the women by the victors” but at the end of every dance, regardless of situation, everyone seemed to be ok and have a jolly good jig with each other – how nice.

After my hard day's hike I treated myself to another Peruvian standard – pepper stuffed with meat and vegetables. It was delicious, although why they had to batter it is beyond me (took me back to my time in Edinburgh).

The gimp mask wasn't really explained but I liked it anyway

I spent a few more days in Cuzco taking in more museums and trying, unsuccessfully, to catch up on the blog. On my last day in Cuzco I was wandering across the main square and bumped into Juan, our guide from the Inca Trail. He told me that the other Australian couple in our group had complained about the level of services we had received (they'd actually asked for their money back!) and as a result Juan and the chef had now been fired! He'd had to cancel his holiday and was currently on the way to the bank to ask for a loan. I was absolutely flabbergasted and promised him that I'd email his boss and give a fair account of our trek. I don't know if those guys realised it but their complaints about slightly uncomfortable tents and, apparently, a lack of food (I don't know if they were eating the same meals as me) were going to potentially ruin lives. I hope my email does something.

After Cuzco I decided to head to Arequipa to meet up with Alex and Dan (from the Inca trail) who'd booked us on a trek up Misti volcano. It isn't billed as an easy hike, at a pretty formidable 5821m above sea level, but brutish confidence coupled with a slight level of ignorance meant I didn't think twice about agreeing to the trip. At the hostel I packed my bags and hit the bus terminal, but not before a lovely Chilean couple staying there made me dinner, gave me rum and even offered me pot. My night bus from Cuzco was due to arrive into Arequipa around 7am and our trek was supposed to head off at 8am so it was going to be tight. I boarded the bus and hoped for the best.

Statue of Pachacutec

3/2/2012 - Huayna Pichu and the end of the adventure

As the 5am bus I was on snaked its way up to Machu Pichu, the mist surrounding Huayna Pichu seemed to disperse and reform every couple of minutes – looks like there would be no guarantee of a decent view once I got up there. Arriving at the deserted Machu Pichu with only a handful of others was much more enjoyable than yesterday's experience when the town was already rammed with big groups of camera laden tourists slowly snaking their way through the ruins. 

View from Huayna Pichu

Wandering through mazes of eerily quiet avenues, climbing devilishly steep stairs into cramped corridors and traipsing along the dew-covered terraces with hardly another soul around was a hell of a lot of fun. Having gotten my fill of playing explorer it was time to go and tackle Huayna Pichu, a mere trifle at 2720m above sea level (and actually only a climb of 360m from Machu Pichu). Nevertheless, I worked up a good sweat blasting up the steps and squeezing through the odd cave en route to the top - God knows how the camera crew and numerous fat people I passed on the way made it up.

Camera crew on the top of Huayna Pichu

 Cloud hung thick around the summit (which was little more than a collection of massive boulders and progressively filled up with tourists as time went on) but I had brought plenty of biscuits and my ipod so I settled on the the top boulder to wait. As I listened to a podcast about the impending development of a strain of person-to-person transmittable bird-flu (for some reason that stuck in my mind) the mist lifted and my wait was rewarded with a delicious view of the ruins below; box ticked. I spent another couple of hours trekking the deserted paths around Huayna Pichu, taking in an Inca site embedded in the mouth of a cave, a few more hours around Machu Pichu (its unlikely I'm going to come back here any time soon so I thought I'd make the most of it) and then it was time to head back to Aguas Calientes and from there catch the train back to Cuzco. 

Cave Inca site

On the train I had an interesting chat with a geologist-cum-environmentalist from Chile who told me a bit about the currently turbulent situation surrounding the indigenous Mapuche people in Chile. My rusty Spanish language neurons creaked back into life but the sheer breadth of vocabulary he was using reminded me that I really have to keep studying.

Arriving back into Cuzco in the late evening, a few of us wandered along to Loki, a “party-hostel”, where some of the others from the trek were staying. The first person I bumped into was the Russian guy I'd met in a club weeks ago in Quito, Ecuador. Nothing surprises me any more. 

The money shot

 

30/1/2012 - 2/2/2012 - The Inca Trail

A 5am start ensured that there wasn't much chatter on the bus which took us to the start of the Inca Trail. We were dropped off to have breakfast in a town en route and I got to know 2 Australian couples in the group who were independently travelling various parts of the world. The others in the group were two American girls and 8 French students who were on exchange in various South American countries. Oh boy.

Outside the cafe where we had breakfast, me and the Aussies bought coca leaves and walking sticks from the old women badgering us. The coca leaves (which are used to make cocaine, but you need quite a serious amount of them to do so) are supposed to be chewed or brewed in a tea and give you a galvanizing boost to get through the trek. I never quite got the hang of the chewing stuff – the leaves just disintegrated in my mouth and I ended up accidentally swallowing them. Later our guide, Juan, told us about the constipation inducing effects of swallowing the coca leaves (fleshed out with a story about a guy who ate so many he had to be airlifted by helicopter off the Inca Trail) so I gave up on them altogether and stuck to my fruit and nut mix.

After a fair bit of waiting around at the entrance to the trail and the obligatory group photo we eventually we set off on the hike. The scenery was spectacular and the hiking easy which suited me just fine since I'd gotten very little sleep the night before (a group of locals had decided to start up a game of football at around 11pm in the echoey courtyard outside our hostel). On the way we stopped at a couple of Inca sites and our guide gave us slightly meandering and confusing (yet very sincere) explanations of what the sites were used for. As far as I could make out (his English wasn't all that) many sites along the trail were used to store food and provide shelter for travellers and “chaskis” - messengers carrying information between Inca settlements.

Aussie tom-foolery

I had barely gotten into my stride when the guide informed us that we were stopping for the night in the next valley. Arriving at our campsite really hit home just how cushy this trek was going to be. The porters, who were carrying pretty much everything except our personal belongings (and some people even paid extra to have their stuff carried by the porters), had already set up our tents, the mess tent inside which we would be eating and greeted us with cups of coca tea. And they even CLAPPED when we arrived. It was a little bit embarrassing to be honest. I also gave up making comparisons with the Roraima trek I'd done – this was going to be a completely different kettle of fish. A 5 star kettle.

Our first Inca site!

Before dinner I went for a wander around the area and bumped into a couple of guys from the other group who were trekking with the same company. Made up of young English, Australians and a couple of Germans they seemed like a lively lot and I was a little tempted when they suggested I should try and join their group. I decided against it but I had a feeling we'd be bumping into each other all along the Inca trail.

Our 3 course dinner (!) was delicious and to me it felt like the tour company was doing everything in its power to make us forget that we were actually out in the countryside doing a 4 day hike. Still, I wasn't complaining. For once, there were no other Russians in the immediate vicinity so I got a tent to all myself and slept like a king. Tomorrow was supposed to be a “hard” day which would take us up and over “Dead woman's” pass at a cool 4215m. Bring it on.

The guides woke us with hot cups of coca tea delivered directly to our tents. Although I appreciated the service, when half-asleep, it took a lot of effort not to spill boiling tea all over myself and the stuff inside my tent (apparently the American girls weren't so lucky).

A scenic resting point on day 3

A hearty breakfast later and we were off. The morning walk saw us eat up a couple of mostly uphill miles before stopping for a brunch; next up – Dead woman's pass. Although it had been built up quite a bit by the guides I couldn't help but be cynical, especially when I saw people in their 60's in other groups around us. At our brunch spot was our last chance to buy snacks and water as there were no more settlements along the trail after this. Naturally, me and the Aussies chipped in for a bottle of rum. 

 

We were encouraged to go at our own speed so me and the two Aussie blokes (Dan and Brendan) decided to try and keep pace with one of the porters carrying supplies who was setting a fairly lively pace. After a while the trail turned into steps. Big steps. Around this time I started to feel the altitude – my heart started racing like I'd just finished a 100m sprint and my lungs battled to get enough oxygen from the increasingly thin air. Up and up we went and with the sound of lively drum and bass in my ears motivating me pretty soon we reached the top, puffing and sweaty but triumphant. The fog was thick and the view virtually non-existent but our spirits were high and there was a slight feeling of “was that it?”. Still, we had another couple of hours to go to the campsite so we regrouped and headed down the other side.

At the top of dead woman's pass

Arriving at the campsite we received a half-hearted clap from the porters (I think they were getting the message that we really weren't keen on it) and had a late lunch. After lunch we were introduced to all the porters who were working hard to make our expedition possible. There were 20 of them! There were only 15 tourists!!! I couldn't believe it. It was nice that we got to meet them though and great to know that this would be their last trek before a month long holiday (the Inca Trail being shut in February). Although Juan, our guide, made the meeting with the porters cheerful I couldn't help but be reminded of the disparity of wealth that existed as we stood in the circle all facing each other. Much as I wanted to convince myself that our presence here was good for these guys and was providing them with a living, I was left with a slightly uneasy feeling that tourism had changed life in this area and I wasn't sure that it was necessarily for the better. 

The Aussies getting in on my panorama

See if you can spot the tourists among the porters

  Since we wouldn't be doing any more walking today, after lunch I collapsed in my tent for a few hours and was eventually roused by the Aussies who were keen to have some rum (I possessed the cola they needed). After killing a few more hours we had an undeservedly large dinner during which Juan told us a story about an Israeli guy killing his German wife on their honeymoon on the Inca Trail. According to him, the Israeli guy shot his wife in the middle of the night, dragged the body to an Inca site nearby, then cried for help and blamed the murder on terrorists who operated in the area at the time. Already sounds pretty suspect but apparently he was only arrested after the family of the German woman hired a private investigator who found the gun in a nearby cave. (This story had just enough in it to make it plausible but we checked it out when we got back to Cuzco and could find no reference to it on the internet. Its obviously made up but it makes me laugh that the perpetrator was Israeli – why? I didn't think the Peruvians were known to be racist towards the Israelis). After dinner we gave the remnants of our rum to the porters and hit the sack. Tomorrow was supposed to be a “long day”. Whatever.

View after the uphill section on day 3.

The next day, our last day of serious trekking, started with a slight uphill section before plateauing into an easy hike during which we stopped at a bunch more Inca sites. I really didn't get much out of Juan's meandering explanations and most of us were keen just to get walking again, but it was still impressive to think of the Incas building settlements in these spectacular locations so far off the beaten track. Our lunch spot was scenic to say the least and we were treated to our first glimpse of Machu Pichu, a few terraces of the settlement being visible behind the mountain rising up in front of us. Another lengthy hike later, during which the trail became somewhat like what I'd imagined “The Inka Trail” to be like (a winding path hugging the mountain on one side with a hefty drop on the other), we arrived at our last campsite. There was a lively mood in the camp and we played several rounds of a game introduced by the French guys which resembled a quick-fire murder mystery (something to do with wolves versus villagers). Drama GCSE skills reared their ugly heads as I unscrupulously accused one friend after another only to be turned on by the group and have my identity revealed - all good fun. After dinner Juan called for our attention and assumed a serious tone: if we wanted to be the first group through the gate to Machu Pichu we'd have to be up at 3am. There was no discussion – we unanimously decided to go for it. 

We got cake on the last day!

The next thing I remember was being stirred awake and another cup of boiling hot coca tea being thrust through my tent door into my outstretched hands. I definitely hadn't had enough sleep but the prospect of our impending arrival at Machu Pichu filled me with a jittery excitement and as we left the campsite, walking past other groups still having their breakfast, it felt great to be “those guys” that got up half an hour earlier than everyone else. After barely 15 minutes walk we arrived at the official gate barring our way to the final part of the trail which would take us to Machu Pichu... but the gate didn't open until 5am. As we sat down to wait in the dark there was the odd thought of “why the hell did we wake up so early” but the time flew and before I knew it we were beckoned through the gate. Juan led the way setting a lively pace, just short of a run, but me and the Aussies, steeled ourselves and kept up, taking off the many layers that had kept us warm during the cold wait without stopping. As we blasted along the trail, the sun rose revealing the vast valley on our right. We clambered through mini-caves, climbed monstrously steep steps and finally arrived at the “Sun Gate”, only to be greeted by dense mist. Panting and wet with perspiration one of the Aussies echoed all of our thoughts when she said “Why the hell did we rush all that way for?”. Then, just as if the micro-climate surrounding the area had heard our complaints, the fog began to clear and down in the distance the angular shapes of Machu Pichu's ruins became visible through the gloom.

 

Within minutes our whole group had arrived and the cloud had cleared completely to reveal our final destination: Machu Pichu. Cheesy as it sounds, at that moment all that money and all that trekking felt worth it. Token photos were taken, congratulations were exchanged and, as the area around the Sun gate began to get filled up with other groups, we headed off on the very last section of our trek.

Actually arriving at Machu Pichu itself was undeniably an anti-climax, partly because of the tiredness that was beginning to kick in and partly because of the volume of tourists that were already there (the lazy ones who had gotten the train from Cuzco to the nearby village of Aguas Calientes and then gotten the bus up to Machu Pichu). In the background of most of the textbook photos of Machu Pichu stands the imposing mountain of Huayna Pichu. I'd already decided to come back and climb this mountain tomorrow (thus spending another day at Machu Pichu) so during our tour of the town I didn't work too hard at taking in Juan's explanations, which had more twists and turns than Swindon's magic roundabout. We had a couple of hours to explore Machu Pichu ourselves (it was undeniably spectacular but I'd already resolved to do it properly tomorrow) and then headed to the village/tourist trap of Aguas Calientes where we met up for an overpriced but hearty lunch.

Once upon a time, Aguas Calientes must have been a small village with a few households living off the local land. Then Machu Pichu was discovered. Then the tourism started. Nowadays it is a mishmash of overpriced restaurants, hostels and shops selling Inca-inspired tat (you can't even walk out of the train station without walking through a market selling Inka Cola t-shirts and holograms of Machu Pichu). There is very little to do in a place like this except leave as soon as possible or get merry with your fellow trekkers. Me and the Aussies joined forces with the other group (full of English, Germans and other Australians) and opted for the latter.

The evening saw us join in on a game of football with a bunch of Brazilians against some locals (we got destroyed) and then sample some “Chifa” (Peruvian-Chinese cross-over cuisine) before heading to our hostel where I opted for an early night - I would be heading back to Machu Pichu at 5am again tomorrow.  

Reflections? The trek had been great – the scenery, the company and the (ridiculous) level of service had made for a great experience. Machu Pichu? It was undeniably impressive but tourism had definitely taken some of the shine off and the cliché about journey-over-destination seemed to ring true for a lot of us. However I would reserve my judgement for tomorrow - for now I was happy with hot showers and a bed.

26-29/1/2012 - Cuzco, getting ready for the trail

View from the bus window

Despite my bus journey being “first class” it was the most restless I'd had on my travels so far. Nevertheless the scenery was spectacular, especially as the road rose above the clouds in the valleys and our bus wound its way through the mountains. Our stop for breakfast was a nice juxtaposition with the relative luxury of the bus, since the only food available was chunks of meat and potatoes being cooked up by a woman in a massive pot outside. It wasn't the breakfast of champions but was a lot more exciting than the aeroplane-esque food we'd got on the bus the night before.

Travelling around by bus in South America is subject to numerous uncontrollable factors so I'd given up asking about arrival times. As a result I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived in Cuzco after a mere 22 hours! I headed to a hostel that had been recommended by the owners of the hostel in Lima (the one where I'd slept in the cement room) so my expectations were fairly low. Again, pleasant surprise was the order of the day when I was shown to a 5 bedroom dorm which had double beds and no-one else in it. Result.

The altitude quickly hit me as I went on a sleep deprived exploration of Cuzco. Nothing makes you stand out more like a recently arrived tourist than puffing and wheezing up an incline while the locals saunter casually past you. The other thing which is instantly noticeable and inescapable is the quantity of tourists. Cuzco's main industry is tourism due to its proximity to Machu Pichu which is a blessing and curse. It undeniably brings money into the region but on the other hand walking around the main square is a bit of a chore. On every step you are pestered by people offering tours, massages, shoe shines, paintings, drugs or alpaca clothes and the presence of both McDonald's, KFC and Starbucks is a sad reminder of tourism's homogenising impact.

Policeman on a segway!

I paid a visit to the offices of the company with whom I would be trekking the Inca Trail and received a garish yellow “I survived the Inca Trail” t-shirt which seemed a bit presumptuous. I briefly flirted with the idea of hiring hiking boots and a heavy-duty rain jacket but then decided that if I survived Roraima with no extras, I would do so again.

The next day I started my usual wanderings to get to know Cuzco. Arriving at one of the cathedrals in the main square I was told tourists weren't allowed in since mass was about to start. Tentatively I asked if I could go to mass and, despite eyeing me with steely scepticism and restating that I would have to sit through the WHOLE service, the woman stepped aside and let me in. Inside, the cathedral was pretty spectacular and although I'm not a believer the setting undoubtedly adds gravity to the ceremony. I'd never actually been to a catholic mass before (nevermind one in Spanish) but I think I got the gist of the sermon, or at least convinced myself that I did. The frail looking priest was surprisingly animated as he asserted that the church wasn't about cathedrals or grandiose ideas but about everyday life and the relationships between ordinary people. I didn't feel like converting afterwards but it was definitely an experience.

They might look cheerful but they definitely want your money

For lunch I headed to San Pedro market a few minutes from the main square, which, although fairly small, sold everything from garish alpaca jumpers to hallucinogenic cacti. Settling down at one of the many stalls selling food I decided to try a “combination” plate which involved essentially a pile of rice, sausage, egg, tomato and plantain - probably the sort of meal I'd make if I lived in Peru (horrible to look at and really bad for you yet delicious and filling). Wandering a few streets away from the main plaza I entered an area where the tourist sheen vanished, the streets became dirtier, the food became cheaper and the place began to feel more real, despite the occasional offers of hats and jumpers.

Walking in the opposite direction away from the central plaza, tourism took hold once again. A mesh of narrow streets climb out of the valley along which hostels, laundries, art shops and eateries entice you in to take a break from your huffing and puffing. The restaurant I ended up in for dinner was one such place – I wanted to try alpaca and the internet said go here. So I did. As I awaited my alpaca I struck up a conversation with 2 English ex-pats who knew the owner, one an English teacher and the other currently looking for work in Cuzco. The English teacher complained about the laziness of his Peruvian students while the other guy, who'd been travelling, seemingly, all his life, told me a bunch of places that I had to visit before heading back to the UK. Somewhere along the way Osho (the Indian mystic) and Richard Dawkins got discussed and after my plate of alpaca (which was delicious) the owner of the restaurant briefly joined us and told me about an Asian restaurant I had to check out in La Paz (Bolivia) to which he only had vague directions and the name of which he couldn't remember (he made me promise I'd message him the name once I got there). Should be an adventure. I ended the night listening to a Doors cover band in a bar nearby and talking to a bunch of Cuzquenians (people who are actually from Cuzco as opposed to the hundreds travellers which saturate Cuzcos nightlife) who all seemed to be either studying or working in tourism but none of whom tried to sell me anything. How refreshing.

With only two days left before the start of the Inca Trail I decided to make some, in retrospect token, attempts to acclimatise and build a bit of fitness. A brisk hike to Saksaywaman, a large Incan site on a hill a couple of kilometres from the central plaza, was my first challenge. Although reaching the top of the hill probably didn't warrant a Rocky-eque air punch, I felt pretty good about myself and the view of Cuzco spreading out below made it all the more worthwhile.

Feeling galvanized I took in the Pre-Colombian Art Museum which unfortunately housed more or less the same stuff as the Larco museum in Lima minus the erotic pottery and the only thing that drew my attention was the wonderfully flowery language in the descriptions (see photo). Another startling thing I learned was that the Inca Empire only existed for just under 100 years (1438-1533). Previously I had been a little confused about why people got excited about the Inca empire but the knowledge that they achieved all they did in such a short time period got me pretty interested as well.

Chill out, its only a jug

Suitably cultured up I went to the horribly named “Korma Sutra” - an Indian restaurant recommended by the guys I'd met on the previous night. According to them this was one of the only places in Cuzco which did good alpaca (the other being the place I was at last night) so I promptly ordered the alpaca special which didn't disappoint. I also noticed that the menu had “Cuzco – Manchester – London” written on the back! I couldn't believe that I'd never heard of Korma Sutra in Manchester but when I asked the owner about this it became apparent why. Manchester and London were only written on the menu as speculative future ventures, about which the owner didn't at the present time seem very hopeful. I told him that he might face a bit more competition in Manchester than in Cuzco (where there is virtually none) but wished him best of luck.

In a tiny bar nearby I tried my first “Pisco Sour” the traditional drink of Peru made from the alcohol Pisco (a grape brandy), lemon juice and egg-white while a group of hippie-looking musicians played some folk music. The rustic set-up and use of sellotape to keep the microphones in position reminded me of some of our own band practices back in the day.

Mural along Av El Sol

 The last day before the trek I caved in and decided to buy some alpaca clothes. I absolutely love haggling and today was really good fun. I look at it almost as a form of improvised theatre albeit with a slightly narrow range of themes and potential outcomes. I don't think my drama GCSE went to waste – I'd incredulously quote other (fictitious) offers I'd been made, I'd narrow my eyes whilst pretending to carefully study the quality of the produce (which I had no idea about) and if the shopkeeper wouldn't come down to my price I'd pretended to walk away knowing they'd call me back and accept the price. There's nothing quite like the feeling of walking away knowing you've gotten a good deal whilst dozens of stupid tourists are getting ripped off around you. I just have to make sure I get it out of my system before I get back to the UK – sadly you can't haggle with a barcode.

Plaza de las Armas by night