Day Three: Optional Extras

Having taken another “options” vote over dinner the night before, it was not such an early rise on our third morning, with another bus set to speed us through our first leg for the day. I am not sure if this was the reason why we ended up at Santa Theresa’s only club, drinking surprisingly good, but strong, cocktails until the early hours, or if it was the two for one cuba libres (rum and coke) at the restaurant before that egged us on, but I had to admit that my gashed knee and ripped pants enjoyed the momentary rest.

Heading , we got out to follow the train tracks all the way to Aguas Calientes, at the foot of Machu Picchu. Again it was an easy flat stroll through the selpa, and we arrived well ahead of schedule. Not much more than a final destination/resting point for hikers and tourists alike, Aguas Calientes is a reasonably charming town, with its chalet-style restaurants and hotels and train running through the middle. Unfortunately though, it is also filled with expensive food and drink and an inordinate amount of framed dead insects (butterflies and tarantulas).

Again, I blame the “options” voting system here, when I say that either wisely or unwisely, I forwent a siesta and instead followed some of the boys up Putucusi mountain for an early side-view of Machu Picchu. Eder had already warned us that it might not be such a good idea – not only after last night’s festivities, but also after a patch of rain came through during lunch to wet the many wooden log ladders on the climb. But stupidly, none of us were deterred from the 1900 or so stairs (so the Israeli guy ahead of us counted), which came in the form of an extremely slippery, seriously rotting, 25m-at-its-longest stair – conveniently missing several rungs along the way.

It’s no wonder, with my relatively petite legs, that I almost didn’t make it up. But with Eder adamant that he would hold my foot as I heaved the extra bit over gaps, there was no turning back. Besides, I didn’t come all this way just to shop for preserved animals. Little by little, we eventually made it up the unrelenting stairs to have our first taste of what we would see tomorrow morning. The impressive, but not-so-ancient remains of the Incan city lay open in front of us, clouded over by the passing storm.

Day Two: On The Up and Up

Our next day came much to soon – not because of the 6am start, but because of the damn rooster who started calling out at 3am. (I thought they were supposed to come up with the sun?) At least there was a hearty breakfast of pancakes, omelettes, paw-paw juice, and the best bread in Bolivia (very croissant-like) to keep me focused on the task ahead. Just to be sure, I filled up on coca tea to keep hopefully induce further alertness.

Our trek started on a flat road that led out of town, taking us past the abandoned train station – covered over like its adjoining village by a landslide almost 10 years ago – towards the river. Following its pleasant route between the mountains, we continued past the bend, taking in the view of the nearby peak with its white iced fringe. But the climb up started soon though, as we near the path of the Incans, and I thanked God in between stifled breaths for our frequent stops - cursing my low blood pressure every other.

Remembering that this was meant to be the “easiest” part of our journey, I was a little fearful when we finally arrived at our first stop and my lungs and legs were stuffed. Sitting down to rehydrate and snack on empanadas and bananas, our cameras were kept busy by the sideshow combination in front of us. Tied to various stakes around the balcony area were a wild pig, a picuro (badger-looking animal) and a monkey, who were all obviously very used to putting on a show for passing traffic. I really wasn’t sure what to make of the whole scene, except that I was pretty sure this wasn’t part of the original Incan pilgrimage.

Neither was the homemade chocolate displayed on the table in front of us, handmade by our hostess, which tasted so bitter and strong without the usual milk and sugar. But with a dot of her organic honey, which she claimed was the secret to her younger looking skin – and, at the 55 years she tells me, I would have to agree she is miles ahead, er, behind, native comparisons – I am treated to a much more pleasant experience.

Buoyed by the sweetness, but still a little worried about the next “harder” part of our climb, I approached Eder for some advice. Thinking about it for a moment, he called for a bottle to be brought over and offered me some alcohol to sniff. Perplexed by this apparent solution, which I had only ever seen used on weightlifters and boxers, I was hardly relieved to be leaving again. But as we set off again, the slow up and down of the next part of the trail turned out to be completely manageable – even without all the breaks.

The walk was so easy in fact, that only an hour and a half later we arrived at our lunch destination, before the group ahead of us had even eaten. Such was our luck, we ended up waiting in hammocks for them to finish, before settling down to our own three courser of guacamole, bread, chilli dip, stracciatella soup, chicken spaghetti bolognese and pineapple jelly. And with only a few more hours of walking left in the day, it was back to the hammocks for an afternoon nap. (Nothing says Inca Trail like a full-bellied siesta).

On the final leg of the day – supposed to take two hours, but taking us just over one – we passed by another group on the chain bridge – the Danish girls I had stayed with on the Isla del Sol – before arriving at the hot springs. But before we got wet, Eder explained that we had a few options to choose. Given the setting sun, if we were to walk to our hostel in the Santa Theresa, we would have to leave in just under half an hour, but if we chose to take a taxi bus there, we could stay until dinnertime. And, with the steam from the 35 and 40 degree waters rising in front of us, our choice was a bit of a no-brainer.

The heat is a welcomed treat for our soon-to-be-sore muscles and is the perfect accompaniment to a few cold beers. (It’s now that I start to understand how easy it was for the English girl I met to have ‘missed’ Machu Picchu – too hungover to make it out of bed on the last day).

Day One: Downward Madness

Picked up early than I expected, I was a little flustered after being shoved immediately onto a waiting bike. Particularly when everything was around the wrong way for my comfort – brakes, gears etc – and the rest of the group, I later realised, had been collected by car or had strolled to our meeting point. It didn’t bode to well for the next four days, I thought, where I would be climbing my way through the selpa (high altitude jungle) with thirteen others.

Of course it was the usual false start, and almost an hour before our minivan finally starting moving out of the city, retracing most of yesterday’s steps back to Ollantaytambo. Here we stopped to go to the toilet and get some snacks, and I armed myself with some more essential supplies of moisturiser (the altitude robs your skin of everything). We then got back on the road to climb up into the mountains and and zig-zag our way to our biking spot.

Again, it was not long before the journey left me nauseous - particularly because the driver specialised in speeding up around the corners – and I felt like I was on a slip-shot propulsion ride at the Royal Show. I really couldn’t see the logic in it all, unless he was trying to send us over one of the precipitous edges and force an early retirement.

After much head-bowing and closed-eyed concentration, we got to our starting point for the bike ride and dismounted to be given our wheels (I say that in the most literal of senses because most of our frames were being held together by hose-pipe and gaffer tape). Unlike my previous efficient encounter with the Death Road, we were left to pick an upturned bike and hope that the gloves and helmets fit. I don’t think any of us really got a perfect match – least of all the other Australian girl in our pack, who lucked out on getting something to protect her hands.

Similarly, our descent was started with no real instructions and I was glad to have already conquered Bolivia. I feared though, for the other members of my group, knowing that many of Peru’s roads are rumoured to be worse. And the path we were on was certainly a forerunner with its u-turn bends and snaking blind corners. Add in some speeding cars, trucks and other cyclists, and faulty brakes, gears and handlebars, and you might imagine some of the peril.

Luckily the first part was a bitumen road, in moderate condition, and those of us who either didn’t have brakes or didn’t use them, cruised down easily from 4300m. A few stops later, each one calling for more and more mechanical assistance (I think the idea of maintenance hasn’t reached Peru yet, and so quick fixes are the norm) and we were seated with our packed lunch of cheese rolls, fruit and various sweet and savoury biscuits.

But as soon as we were back on our bikes, the menacing gravel appeared, threatening to send each of us skidding into the watery roadside trench. Again, there were no instructions, and no real guide either, after he (Eder) was forced to swap bikes with Dutch guy Eric, whose brakes and gears had both given up. Needless to say there were a few minor mishaps, some preliminary baths if you like, but we were definitely more fortunate than the other group who had a more serious broken-in-half mishap.

Our ride finished quite early in the afternoon, not taking the five hours we were originally told, and we piled into the minivan, unsure what would fill the rest of the day and night. But like much of the rest of our individual travels throughout South America, it is beer and conversation that warms us up after our freezing cold showers, sending us to bed in anticipation of our first day of hiking.