Tell somebody you’ve been to Peru, and they’ll probably expect you’ve done at least two things – climbed Machu Picchu and tried out guinea pig. Well, I can tick one of those off my list now as I have just returned from a five-day trek with three of my amigas to what is romantically referred to as the Lost City of the Incas. It’s situated at 2,430 metres above sea level, which sounds high if you consider the highest mountain in the UK is around 1,300 metres, but after spending a week in the much higher Cusco it was a mere molehill.
Although Machu Picchu receives all of the attention overseas, it is actually Cusco that is the ancient capital of the Incan empire. The building of Machu Picchu comenced towards the end of the Incas reign, and was abandoned within a hundred years due to the Spanish invasion around AD 1500. Fortunately, it lay unfound and undisturbed until it was discovered in 1911 and shown to the world by a man called Hiram Bingham; and thus unlike many other Incan ruins that were plundered and wrecked by the Spanish, its beauty remains preserved to this day. The only real threat to it in modern times is tourism, as millions flock there every year.
In order to prevent damage from overtourism in the 90s, the Peruvian government began to regulate entry to the site, and now the ’Classic Inca Trail’ is so oversubscribed that a place on it has to be booked months in advance, particularly in the dry season, and costs over three hundred US dollars. I was nowhere near that prepared, but at less than half the price we were able to organise an alternative trek, a more challenging five days compared to the four of the classic trail, with one of the many agencies around Plaza de Armas, the town square of Cusco.
In our briefing the night before, we were given a very precise time of 4:15 AM to be waiting outside of our accommodation. We grew concerned as we stood in the freezing morning cold the next morning as the minutes passed us by, I frantically ran to find a phonebooth so I could check that they had the right address as we’re not staying at a hostel; but it was just running on Peruvian time so after a worried thirty minutes we were on board and well on our way to Mollepata, a two hour bus journey away and the beginning of an adventure which would leave us at times exhausted, ecstatic and speechless.
After a breakfast of bread and coca tea and buying some last minute essentials, our group got together and our guides George (of the jungle as he announced himself on the bus) and Hermogenes led us to introduce ourselves with obligatory awkward clapping following our names. One of the girls said “just don’t clap after, please”, which was of course met with rapturous applause. None of it sticked, as we were too busy wondering what we would say when our turn came to listen to each other, but spend five days with a fairly small group of fourteen people hiking over 80 kilometres, and you’re going to get to know each other. I set off on the trek with my three friends from the orphanage; Bonny, Kelsey and Polina. Along with us were a a girl from Spain and one from Chile, a trio of Germans – actually one of them Austrian – two guys from Basque Country who looked properly kitted out in func
tion-over-fashion hiking gear, a giant from Holland with his Yorkshire girlfriend, and a guy called Giovanni from Italy. It doesn’t matter if you’re venturing to the North Pole or going for a wander in the Pennines, less than the scenery around you it’s always the people you travel with who shape your experience; and it is thanks to them that I had such a fantastic trip.
Carried by expectations rather than sleep after a four hour nap disturbed by a dog, barking like a broken record outside, 
I walked with the group through foresty paths, spotting condors flying above our heads and gazing in awe at the snowy peak in the distance. Around thirty kilometres away, the glacier Salkantay; namesake of our trek, loomed above us. Salkantay is a giant, at over 6,200 metres. As our guide explained later, in the ten years he has been doing treks in the area, he has seen the snow become less and less as global warming strikes yet again. It still looked spectacular, as it slowly grew more massive against the background of the forest as we slowly meandered towards it.
Whilst we had been warned in advance about the second day being the most difficult, we had plenty of challenges thrown our way on Day 1, as we clambered up hills in the baking sun, taking breaks to let the mules, donkeys and horses carrying our large backpacks pass.
As they passed us in large convoy, they kicked up clouds of dust into our eyes. Almost all of our walking was in the daytime, which in Peru at high altitude is scorching. Our guide George pointed various things out to us as we continued, such as a cactus called cochinilla, which was traditionally used as nail varnish as its flowers contain a deep red pigment. All along the trail we could see coca plants – the leaves of which are frequently used here in tea to alleviate the effects of altitude sickness – whilst in other circles are refined into hard cocaine.
Another plant we found was the muña, with a natural menthol flavour also utilised in tea. We got to sample it that night as after eight hours of walking we ascended to our first, and most gruelling camp, Soraypampa. At 3,900 metres and lying in the shadow of the giant Salkantay, this would be by far our highest camp; and thus our coldest. It was getting dark as we arrived, and despite the best efforts of Philip, one of the guys from Germany on our trek, we were unable to fix the torch I’d bought for about two quid the day before and I had to find and spread out my sleeping bag in a pitch black tent.
I certainly can’t complain about the conditions we were in though, as for a five-day trek we were actually quite well pampered. I’ve heard from friends who did the classic trail that they had delicious gourmet meals everyday, and whilst we weren’t quite so priviledged we had very little to worry about other than that our feet were still working. Everyday were woken up with hot tea in our tents followed by breakfast; a large lunch in the midday and a meal in the evening, and with a some choice exceptions like a beautifully decorated cake that tasted like raw dough on the inside, the food was actually pretty good. I’ve even grown to quite like soup having been subjected to it three times a day, and whilst I’m still no fan, I can stomach 
avocado a bit more now.
Furthermore, on all but one of the nights our tents were already set up for us and included a sleeping mat to makes things more comfortable, and we only had to carry a small day pack as our large backpacks were being hauled by the equine creatures accompanying us. At times I saw a couple of people from my group who couldn’t hack the walk actually riding past me on horses, and there were also segments of the trek where instead of walking we were taken by bus. These parts were just road so we weren’t missing much scenery, although we did get a bit of drama as one of the tires burst on a road barely wide enough for one vehicle on the third day.
It may have just been my imagination, but being an extra few hundred metres up at our first campsite, it was as if a giant magnifying glass was between ourselves on the ground and the moon in the sky, as it was bigger than I’ve ever seen it before. Whilst my tent might have been shrouded in darkness the ground outside was illuminated by twilight from the moon and the thousands of small specks of light surrounding it. After some much needed food and winding down with the rest of my group, I went outside to gaze at the stars with a new friend from a different group but the same trek, wondering if I was seeing these constellations for the first time in my life; as never before had I ventured into the southern hemisphere.
Following a restless night in which were it not for having dreamt, I wouldn’t have believed I managed to sleep a second, we were awoken at 5 AM sharp and after a quick breakfast and obligatory group photo, got back on Shanks’ pony. We soon passed the 4,000 metre point and as the sun was still in refuge behind the behemoths around us, it was so cold that even the girls in the group were freezing their proverbial bollocks off. We traversed rivers frozen in place, across frostbitten ground smitten with ice that cracked under our boots as we made our way upwards, always upwards.
I started off at the front of the pack with our guide Hermogenes and one of the Basque guys, Erlance. I was so lucky to have been in such a mixed group of people and have some unforgetable memories of conversations in basic Castellano. The guys from Basque – Erlance and Iñigo, taught me some colourful language including the Spanish equivalent of “Fucking awesome!” – “¡Ostia bien!“,which they characteristically used in excess. As Hermogenes taught me that burro is the Spanish word for donkey, we started to wonder if perhaps the Mexican burritos are actually made with meat from little donkeys.
I have to admit I hadn’t even heard of Basque Country until the beginning of the trek; but after meeting a whole host of people hailing from it over the five days who were so fun to talk with, interesting and immensely proud of their homeland that I will find it incredibly difficult to resist the offer of going to visit one day. I even learnt a few words of Basque in a short song Iñigo taught me that, considering how lacking it was in melody, bordered on irritatingly catchy.
Talking as we walked the hours slipped by surprisingly swiftly, and it was not long until we were face to face with Salkantay.
Huge crowds had gathered at the top to appreciate the view and many groups made small tributes by piling up the small stones on the ground into miniature towers, little mountains in themselves. George led us through the ritual after we had all made it to the top, and we made a circle around a boulder, our arms across each other’s shoulders. With a small stone in our right hand and a coca leaf in our left, we raised our arms in turn to Salkantay, chanting “Apu Salkantay“; placed our leaf on the rocks below and made a wish, then as we set our own stone down murmered “Suppai cuy appel“.
Next we all let out a sigh of relief as we looked ahead, and looked down. Standing at approximately 4,600 metres, we were easily at the highest point of our trek and from here it was quite literally all downhill. Climbing down dry dusty paths brought its own unique challenges such as slipping onto our backsides and feeling the pain in our tiring knees, and as we came closer and closer into the jungle below insect repellent became ever more necessary. Having said that, to be going into lower altitudes felt so refreshing, as if we had just remembered how to breathe again. After a quick lunch including a most bizarre dessert which was somewhere between drinking hot melted jelly and eating strawberry jam on its own; we continued as mountain turned to jungle around us until we finally arrived at camp.
The next day took us walking next to a raging river on one side and on the other natural hot springs bursting from the walls. Their waters were tainted red-orange with iron and whilst we were advised not to jump in I dipped in my hand and was astounded by the natural heat within. It was a teaser for what would come later. Although whilst on a long hike with limited to no showering facilities, the saying “we all smell, nobody smells” rings truer than ever, our third day on the trek culminated with a visit to a local hot spring nestled in the mountains. It was so relaxing and so hard to leave that I floated around in its waters for over three hours, coming out looking like a human prune.
This was followed by an amazing party at the campsite with all of the different groups on the Salkantay route. Some of the guys from our group had made a short trip into the town so we were well stocked up on beers, and we sat around a campfire that roared into the night. I subsequently slept like a baby and for maybe the second time since leaving England I had reason to learn an important word in Castellano – résaca. Maybe you can figure out what what it means.
By our fourth day we were all suitably knackered, but fortunately it was almost all flat ground from here. I don’t mean ‘Peruvian flat’ either – as we were trekking along the railway tracks that take the less frugal visitors to Machu Picchu by train. Just before coming to the railway, we turned round a corner to see a stunning peak in the distance. It wasn’t that high compared to what we’d become accustomed to at 2,400 metres, but it was majestic in its own right. And after looking up to it for several minutes, I was shellshook when told by our guide that what we were looking at was Machu Picchu itself. Indeed, on the top a flag was blowing in the wind and small settlements and terracing could be seen at the edges of the mountain. After wandering some sixty kilometres or more over four days, to finally be in reach of our destination felt special. It felt almost theatrical, and there was an unparallelled sense of achievement in the air.
Though not physically demanding, our three plus hours on the only slightly winding railroad tested us in a more mental way; as we tried to stay motivated to push ourselves on. We made little memory word games to help pass the time like ‘I looked in a Peruvian toilet and found…’ with everybody adding something new every time, and I taught Polina a fitting Japanese song called TRAIN-TRAIN which we had an encore of the other night in Cusco.
In due time we came to Aguas Calientes, a tourist town which has only popped up in the last few years and whose name literally means ‘hot spring’. Not wanting to spoil my memories of the awesome hot spring the night before, instead I went on a little wander of the town. I found a bridge seperated the tourist and non-tourist sections of the town shockingly precisely. By just crossing a small bridge suddenly there wasn’t a gringo in sight. Before leaving I risked a local kebab for the equivalent of less than fifty pence, then went back to the hostel (not a campsite for a change) where I shared a few beers with some of the other trekkers to help us catch a little sleep.
Not a lot of sleep, mind, as the trek ended as it began with a startling 4 AM wake-up in order to catch Machu Picchu in all it’s mysterious beauty against the rising sun. Skipping breakfast to save time, and again lamenting my lack of a flashlight, we pushed ourselves up through the trees and across roads, up old stone steps irregularly worn by who knows how many years of use. After about one and a half hours clambering up in the dark, we eventually reached the entrance to the ancient site, upon which we received our tickets and made our way up.
In my first seven days in Cusco, I struggled to see a single cloud. So high above the sea it is here, that the clouds rest below it – like a city in the sky. It was a nice change then, to have some shade provided to us by the floaty marshmallows in the sky. Machu Picchu is quite low down at just over two thousand metres and in the early morning is shrouded in a fog of intrigue and mystery. Whilst it cleared in the afternoon, we could do nothing but stop in our tracks and stare into the distance as far-away mountains shot through the clouds, impaling them on their midlines.
Once the rest of our troupe had made it to the top, we entered the site of Machu Picchu and began to wander through the ancient grounds, past walls built over five hundred years in the past. The city of Machu Picchu is shadowed over by a different mountain named Waynapicchu. To control people traffic, there are only two trips allowed per day, one at seven in the morning and the other at ten. As the 10 AM slot was already fully booked up, there was no choice but to start climbing straight away. Most of our group left to have a guided tour of the city with George and Hermogenes, but myself, Iñigo, Erlance and Giovanni stuck it out for yet another climb, this time to admire the city from the sky.
As some mysterious force continued to propel my legs I managed to make it through yet more forest and steep climbs to reach the top of Waynupicchu, where we had a much needed rest period. Having anticipated the arrival at Machu Picchu for days, something struck me. Never is it the things you expect that have the most impact on you. We met at the top of the mountain on the stones a group of girls who were actually newly qualified doctors from the Basque Country. As a result, both myself and the Basque guys had a lot to talk to them about as rather than just coming back the way we had came, we took the alternative, longer route which passed by the great cave.
I spent the whole day with the group, only speaking Spanish. As it was mainland Spanish, for the next few days I was carrying around their accent, lisping almost every ‘c’ and ‘z’ rather than pronouncing them sharply as is done in Latin America. We had another rest at the great cave, an old ruin with irregular polygonal stones for walls and a stone sofa that we relaxed on for a few minutes.
We carried on, on the long walk back to the ruins, passing a couple of guys walking in the opposite direction. “How much further?”, we asked optomistically expecting ten or twenty minutes, but we recieved a hard to swallow “forty-five, at least”, and we struggled on. We collapsed on the grass after getting back to the top, and had a chilled out picnic for an hour with some food me and Iñigo had bought from a cornershop the night previous. Lying down with the sun in our faces and ancient monuments around us, it felt like paradise.
We somehow found the motivation to get ourselves up and return to the entrance, where I said goodbye to my kebab from the night before and we arranged a guide to take us through the city. I was the only English speaker in the group, and as a result we had a guide whose grasp of the language only extended as far as saying “I speak very very little”. It was good Castellano practice though, and only being able to pick up a few words here and there, not understanding much of what the guide said only contributed to the intrigue of this ancient site.
It has taken many days to write up my experiences from these five days, and so little of it has been about the focus of the trek. I could talk about what I picked up from the guide – the sacred house with three windows, the temple of light which recieves so precisely a beam from the sun at seven in the morning on the day of the winter solstice – but as they say, the destination is unimportant, irrelevant. It’s all about the journey.
Oh, and the clouds weren’t the only thing being pierced. The day before my trek, as my quarter-life-crisis ascended to new peaks, I decided on a whim to get a piercing in my eyebrow. Apologies if you’re eating whilst reading this, but here’s a picture of a needle in my face.
I worried about what my parents and friends back home would say upon finding out, but I’m sure after it fell out whilst I neurotically applied disinfectant on the second day, the only words they would have would be “serves you right.” Not to worry however, as the day I returned to Cusco I returned and had it redone!
Now, back to life as usual here, if there is such a thing.
¡Nos vemos!
Tommy
