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?
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