Treks, bugs and rock 'n roll

Update: 14

Something's been bugging me and only last week did I work it out: Taxis.

Cuzco has a taxi to person ratio of one to one. It's a buyer's market here. Being tall and fair of complexion in a town where there are more taxis than tourists means that every time one passes you, the driver slows down, hoots and shouts "Taxi?".  Over a short holiday, you might not notice, but eventually you (well, I) start grumbling and thinking: "If I wanted a £$%&*£ taxi, I would have hailed one. You're not exactly in short supply you £$%^£&"

Last week, Tam and I were trying to cross the road. In my 30 years, I've come to learn that the best way to do this is to approach the pavement, look left, right and left again (or right, left and right again depending on the relevant country) and then step into the road. In this place, approaching the road means you might need a taxi. Five stopped in front of us and all shouted "Taxi?". I felt like jumping on their bonnets. "I JUST WANT TO CROSS THE ROAD AND I CAN'T UNTIL YOU GET OUT OF THE WAY! NOW $%^& OFF!".

 ***

An interesting week and a half. It started with a missed night of sleep and maintained this theme throughout.  Peruvian farmers were out in force last Tuesday which meant that to avoid the road blocks and rock-throwing-at-cars protesting they seem to enjoy, we had to leave for Huanipaca - five hours away - at midnight on Monday. This would have been an acceptable solution, only they told us this at ten to seven on Monday night.

So, as you can imagine, arriving at the start of a five day trek in the high Andes on 30 minutes broken sleep in the back of a 16 seater doesn't bode well. Fortunately the first day was a pretty tame downhill stroll through spectacular scenery (seeing a flock of wild parrots is not something I'll forget easily) and when we finally came to rest, sleep was high on the agenda. That's what we thought.  Being from Africa, I always fancy my chances in an "Ours Are Bigger Than Yours" debate when it comes to mosquitoes. Luckily I didn't put any money down because these Andeans would have cleaned up. The worst mozzie attack I've ever had was probably in Colombia (you remember: cows on the beach) and they only left an itchy bump for a day or so. These Peruvian ones bit deep, drew blood and caused pain. Even as I type, over a week later,  Tam and I resemble lepers.

So sleep was not abundant on the Choquequirau trek. Nevertheless, we managed the fours hours from 1600m to 3000m the following day and were suitably rewarded when, coming around the last twist in the path, in front of us, partly covered by cloud forest, the enormous Choquequirau complex appeared before us. It is thought that Choquequirau is bigger than Machu Picchu but due to the vegetation, only part of it can be seen. That said, it's awesome, and the fact that it's only reached on foot means tourists are scarce. For a good hour, Tam and I had this place to ourselves. All around us were mountains (some snow-capped), condors in the distance and forest. I felt like Indiana Jones (with leprosy).

Later, our cook (Sylvestre) and porters arrived with Angel, our guide, and Nuala our Irish trekking buddy.

Angel, pronounced "An - gel" (the "G" like "ch" in loch) and not Angel as in Gabriel, was a Latino Ricky Gervais. He looked like him and acted like him. He told jokes like Ricky and laughed at them like Ricky. Fortunately I don't work for him. But Sylvestre did.

"Por que quiere ser Arnold Schwarzenegger rodilla?

Por que Sylvestre's talon (Stallone)"

Why does Arnold Schwarzenegger want to be a knee?

Because Sylvester's a heel.

Angel thought this was hilarious. I don't recall Sylvestre laughing.

That said, I did like Angel. He was funny.

Sylvestre deserves special mention.  This is how our day went:

• Wake up to tea (prepared by Sylvestre).
• Have breakfast (prepared by Sylvestre).
• Clean teeth. (Didn't need Sylvestre for this one).
• Start walking (leaving backpacks for porters).
• Arrive at camp.
• Eat lunch (prepared by Sylvestre).
• Rest.
• Eat supper (prepared by Sylvestre).
• Sleep/fight mosquitoes.

Sylvestre's day went like this:

• Wake up earlier.
• Prepare tea.
• Deliver tea.
• Prepare breakfast.
• Clean up after breakfast.
• When lazy gringos have left, take down tents.
• Pack tents.
• Carry kitchen and lazy gringos bags and run to beat lazy gringos to lunch site.
• Prepare lunch.
• Clean up after lunch.
• Erect tents for the next night.
• Prepare tea.
• Clear up.
• Prepare supper.
• Clear up.
• Possibly sleep for a few hours.
• All along pretend to laugh at Ricky Gervais.
• Repeat.

Robo-Chef, his food was delicious and he never seemed to rest. Even as we drove back to Cuzco, he was mentally preparing himself for doing the Real Inca Trail the next morning. Tam and I were preparing to spend a day with our eyes shut.

With all Sylvestre's cooking and scarce ablution facilities, it's not surprising that one can get three meals ahead and two toilets behind. Not being versed in the art of rural waste management, I snuck off to correct the situation as discreetly as I could only to discover, mid-squeeze, that in my efforts to distance myself from the path I'd inadvertently ended up closer to the other side of the loop. How was I to know that four American tourists were going to come around the corner just then?

Four days passed and exhausted and filthy, we arrived at our last campsite for another of Sylvestre's finest three course extravaganzas. I only mention this particular campsite to note an observation Tam made. From day two until now we'd been followed by a group with a French guide. So when we set up camp (OK, Sylvestre did it for us) on that last night, the Frenchman would have been as tired and dirty as us. How is it, then, that he still managed to look suave? Sporting a Panama hat, yellow jumper thrown over his shoulders, co-ordinated with beige trousers and stylish hiking boots he looked like he was modelling Summer 06's "Outdoor Range" by Givenchy or something. Only the French. It must be in their genes.

Our fun/pain ended in Cachora a town like you'd expect in South America: run down houses, people scraping by and a church so splendid it wouldn't look out of place in Rome. Am I alone in thinking it strange that in every poor town in the third world, the most glamorous building is always a church? Something's not right here.

The four hour trip back to Cuzco was almost as painful as the trek itself, but without the redemption of four-hundred and fifty year old Inca ruins at the end. Our driver pushed a cassette into the player and for the first two hours, we enjoyed (on repeat, let it be said) some Andean pipe music not unlike the sound my Second Grade recorder group made when Miss Tilden used to make us practice scales.

***

We arrived back in Cuzco on Saturday night, did a laundry run on Sunday and on Monday headed off for Aguas Calientes eight kilometres downhill from Machu Picchu.

There are two ways to get to Aguas Calientes. (Well actually there are three but, for the sake of brevity, I'm going to ignore the Israeli method of hiking for God-knows-how-long along the railway tracks.) Most people use the sensible approach of a train (at obscene cost discussed in the last update) from Cuzco. We tried the keep-your-daily-spend-down technique which is bad for comfort, but excellent fodder for travel writing.

It starts with a bus trip to Urubamba. As we were the last on, we had to stand and as our backpack was creating havoc in the aisle, it was taken - without our consent - and dumped somewhere outside. Not knowing the whereabouts of our luggage made it difficult for us to fully appreciate the magic show that a budding Houdini was performing to his riveted audience from the front. In most other countries they just show a video. Never fear, on arrival in Urubamba, our pack appeared from the hold under the bus but only after the three live goats had been thrown onto the pavement.

Then we squeeze into a sixteen seater to Ollantaytambo. I think the "sixteen" bit is just the manufacturer's suggestion because it was actually a twenty-seater with room for a cow carcass on the roof.

From Ollantaytambo (once we'd explored the impressive ruins) we caught the train, arriving in Aguas at ten-ish.

One can't help feel that Aguas Calientes is a purpose built town for one last attempt to separate tourists from their money before they see Peru's greatest showpiece and then head off to Bolivia or back home. For example: A beer in Cuzco costs 5 Soles. In Aguas, bar staff stand outside their establishments and call tourists for "Happy Hour" (Happy Days, more like. No matter what time you pass them, Happy Hour just happens to be in full swing.) Happy Hour means three-for-one. "How much is one?" I asked. "Fifteen Soles," the reply. I'm not great with numbers, but I have passed exams and I know that's bollocks.

The river running through Aguas does give it some charm, though, and the steep mountains surrounding it and limiting its expansion make it a unique town worth seeing for that alone. It feels like the place is built in a large bucket. The hot springs are best visited at night. That way you'll be oblivious to the dead skin and used Band-Aids you're sitting in.

Wanting to beat the crowds to Machu Picchu we rose (after an already bad night's sleep) at 4:45am and started walking in the dark. It didn't take long before a German hiking platoon in full outdoor regalia and marching in sync nearly ran us over. The efficiency is something to behold. Not wanting to break their rhythm, we slipped in behind them and followed procedure until we realised that a T-bird is faster than an old Merc. and left them eating our dust. (They probably even did that efficiently.)

Getting to the top is like walking up a mine shaft. Although we saved ourselves the $24 for a return bus trip (equivalent to three nights accommodation) we were too tired to fully explore the ruins. So we climbed up Waynapicchu, that hill in the background of nearly every picture of MP. That was another hour and I think the start of my problems. All this before 8 am.

We were worried that Machu Picchu wouldn't match up to remote, forest covered and relatively unvisited Choquequirau. It did, and some. Machu Picchu is like nothing I've ever seen before, and I find it hard to imagine ever seeing something so spectacular again. It really lives up to its hype and is deservedly top of the list of South American tourist attractions.

By midday we were ready for the descent and arrived back in town at about 1:30. Thoroughly shattered. A long, hot shower and a bit of a snooze took the edge off three hours' sleep and speed trekking. But not enough, as it turns out.

Dinner with our Austrian friend, Sandra, consisted of three long anticipated, well earned family size pizzas and a bottle of el cheapo red. I'm not sure if it was the speed at which the salts and sugars hit my blood stream - I'm hoping it's nothing more serious - but with all the elegance of Elvis after a big night at Caesar's Palace, I collapsed. I came round to Sandra putting a wet towel behind my head, a waitress holding clinical alcohol under my nose, a man with a ZZ Top beard offering to carry me home and my wife force-feeding me water. I tried to muster what little dignity I could, stood up and fell over again. I now have a graze on the side of my face and a bladder I don't trust. I'm a bit rattled to say the least because, even in the prime of my university years, I never lost consciousness. Some serious hammock time is due my way.

All this walking provides ample time for thinking and I've come to the conclusion that if I'd been an Inca, I'd have done things differently. Firstly, I would have worked with gravity, not against it and built those forts, temples and cities at sea level.

Secondly, I'd have got my daughter on the game as soon as possible. Inca cities were no place for well behaved girls: Drought? Sacrifice a virgin. Landslide? Sacrifice a virgin. Arrival of the Spanish? Sacrifice a virgin.

We're leaving for Puno on Lake Titicaca early next week, once our bodies have recovered. I'll update you then.