After one of the most bizarre ´getting-to-the-bus´ scenarios it has ever been my pleasure to be involved in (for our night bus from Arequipa to Cuzco involved a few questionable pre-journey desicions that may or may not have involved soft drugs and the downing of several cocktails - Eric, a deliberately unhelpful taxi driver, a completely confusing bus station system and a strange man who just would not stop staring at us for a good fifteen minutes before departure) we eventually reached gringo-central de Peru, Cuzco.
I was prepared for the place to be pretty touristy but friends report a nice plaza and some cool areas to explore away from the central hububb. We were accosted on arrival by a lady telling us about ´her´ hostel and before we knew it we had been bundled into a taxi and were shown around the place, El Arcano, up in the pretty little cobbled streets of San Blas, an area I found it impossible not to like with its cobbled back streets, tiny bars and chilled ambience. Thing is, there are so many tourists in Cuzco there is a large element of hassle, and, it has to be said, of inflated prices. That aside, it was nice to wander round the town acclimatising before my trek to Macchu Piccu, my new cheapo replacement Lumix in hand.
Salkantay Trek
I was up at 4am the day of the trek, waiting outside my hostel in the cold night air for my lift. I waited. 4.30 came and went, then 5am, then 6... It was clear they weren´t going to show, someone had forgotten lil old me. I resolved to march down to the offices first thing in the morning and complain and went back to sleep but was woken at 9am by a knock on the door and the guy who ran the tour agency, the improbably named Fidel Castro, was all apologies, offereing to pay my hostel and buy me lunch and sort out the trek for the following day. What could I do but accept.
It became clear later the next morning, standing in the cold with what would be my fellow trekkers, a group of Brits volunteering at Cuzco Orphanage, that I had been the victim of a not uncommon practice with such companies - lumping their clients in with other, less able agencies and not telling you. Cheers Fidel.
We had turned up and been transported by packed minibus to the small town of Mollepata where the trek was to commence and we met our guide. When I say guide, you might imagine some young hip peruvian, english speaking with shades and a North Face backpack. Well, that was pretty accurate for all the other groups´ guides. Our guy, who we unsuprisingly named "Señor", turned out to be some scatty middle-aged fellow in dirty clothes and battered old trainers, carrying all his "kit" in a small, solitary black plastic bag. Eyebrows were raised and voices too, as they began arguments about how much weight we were allowed on the mules (which were nowhere to be seen). After twenty minutes of remonstrating, they just chucked them all on the back of lorry and that was that. We were off, on our once in a lifetime experience, led boldy into the unknown by the incomparable guiding skills of Señor!
Day One was lots of walking up through winding valleys with gorgeous views either side. Climbing high, we started at about 3200m, ascending for the first few hours until we collapsed, knackered and hungry at our first lunch spot. Already we were beginning to have doubts about our guides abilities and his level of english but these were allayed early on by our elation at being there and our determination to enjoy our experience.
All this changed later in the day as his constant time estimates of how far it was to camp were becoming laugably way off and we got seperated into two groups. The first group made it to camp, just as we were about to freeze our limbs off. The sun had gone down and Señor had seemingly forgotten about the others. Anger flared as we realised they didn´t have any warm clothes and he was seemingly ambivalent about going back to find them and make sure they were alright! Voices were raised again and we started to wonder what we had got ourselves into and how safe we actually were with this guy who "clearly doesn´t have a fucking clue", to quote one of my fellow walkers. He finally went back for them after much harrasment, clad only in his skimpy t-shirt, as the rest of us reached camp and layered up. It would be between -10 and -15 degrees that night, we would need all the clothes we had. I wore EIGHT layers, hat and gloves and three pairs of socks and inside my sleeping bag I was still cold. Not dangerously so but you could pretty much forget about sleeping!
Day Two was the hardest by far. On little-to-no sleep, we rose at 6am (and after an excellent breakfast) had to walk from around 3800m to 4650m above sea level in around six hours. Most of it was straight uphill, with the altitude making it incredibly taxing physically but with constant reward from the spectacular views all around as we headed towards the Salkantay mountain that gives the trek its name. For some reason, I had also opted to carry my entire pack after more early-morning arguments about the weight on mules. It was incredible to be so close to this massive, snow capped peak though and well worth the pain it took to get there.
As if that wasn´t enough, we then had to walk for another six hours after lunch down into the neo-jungle where the next camp was situated and we enjoyed more drama as Señor, demonstrating great skill, stormed off ahead of everyone and pretty much abandoned the five of us in the trailing groupm leaving us to make out way down pretty dangerous paths along the edge of the ridge as darkness descended! Cue dramatics at camp. It wasn´t really really dangerous, but for the money you pay you at least expect your "guide" to live up to his job description!
Day Three was really enjoyable due to the fact that I sneakily placed my pack on the mule-bag pile and no-one noticed. Coupled with a night of something approaching normal sleep and our continuing descent I was hopping down the jungle path like a spritely gazelle.
We followed the river down between the tropical flora and fauna and I had a close encounter with a little inquisitive piglet:
We made pretty good progress and a short bus ride later we were having a very late lunch. Cue more arguments about whether the bus ride to the Santa Theresa hot springs and our next campsite was included or not. Basically it turtned out the company organising the trip (Not the one I booked with) hadn´t given the cook (who was a lovely chap named Mauro)enough cash to pay for certain things like this. Crap organisation when you thnk how much you pay for these things and then they try and rip you for little extras along the way. Not the fault of those on the ground, although that didn´t stop a more aggressive member of the group from having a go and getting us nowhere. We eventually made it to the thermal springs which are devoid of tourists and set into the mountainside, a lovely way to unwind those tight muscles.
Eventually we made it to the campsite complete with pet monkey, campfires, and a bar withn cold beers and pumping disco tunes all night! Finally a chance to relax and hang out with all the other groups. One of my most memorable moments came on this evening as having dinner, Señor was sat on another table alone. We asked him to join the rest of us and he thanked us with the words "the lonliness, it kills me". We all realised then that all the problems weren´t really his fault, although his common sense could have been better. He´d just been employed to do a job he wasn´t really capable of and we held the company fully responsible. Sat around the campfire, a little juiced up we bought him a beer and shared our urbs with him and he told me his favourite music was Jim Morrison. Even though he´d only ever heard two songs, and at his friends house. My heart went out to him.
Day Four was stifingly hot and we had to walk along the mountain road to Hidroelectrica for lunch. Luckily it was only a three hour hike and we made it in the best time of the trek and had the best lunch. One great thing about the organisation, the food was top notch and really kept us in good spirits along the way.
The last few hours of day we spent walking along the train tracks to Aguas Calientes, the nearest town to Macchu Piccu which was a tranquil walk through quiet valleys filled with chattering birds. The excitement was ramped up a little as we realised we were able to glimpse the tops of the ruins from along the tracks. Suddenly everything took on a certain special quality, the culmination of four days of trekking, trials and tribulations was at hand and there was a sense of magic in the air.
Obviously, that evaporated slightly once we arrived at our hostel in the town to find out that we had no actual entry tickets, or tickets for the train back, or even a definite dinner that evening. Many people had only brought a small amount of cash for extras and so this caused a slight panic and poor old Señor had to get on the phone to the manager, get funds transferred (somehow) and find the offices for both the site entry and the train tickets. At 9.30pm at night. They shut at 10pm. Cutting it rather fine there. I managed to escape the slightly chaotic atmosphere as earlier I´d literally walked into my friend Johannes (who I met up at The Way Inn in Huaraz) at the train station and we were able to get out of the hostel and relax. Although I didn´t get in until midnight and had to be up at 3am for our 4am walk down to the site and the tortuous climb up the infamous steps to the top. Oh well!
Day Five
True to form, we didn´t let the previous nights experiences dampen our spirits and set off from the hostel in the dark. The steps are quite something. I´d vaguely heard there were around 700 and was determined to count them all (or at least try). In the dark, going straight up, we passed the 700 mark and I wondered quite how far it was. By the time we reached the top, it had gotten light and my count was 1731. Fcuking knackering is the only way I can describe it! But the sense of achievement as the buses began to arrive (lazy lazy people) was grand. We joined the rapidly growing queue for entry at 6am to watch the sunrise over the site and we were almost there!
The following ten hours (yep, I spent ten hours at the site) were spent taking it all in. Marvelling at my achievement, the dramatic beauty of the location, the sweeping views, the incredible stonework and cosmic alignments of the site itself and just the feeling of magic that being at this place brings. For once, you can believe the hype. It´s simply a stunning place that no photo can ever do justice but I tried... of course I tried!
It was a fantastic end to a trek filled with ups and downs, both physical and mental but I wouldn´t hesitate to reccomend it to anybody. I think just getting the train there would still have been great, but the blood, sweat and tears put into actually arriving there made it all the more special.
Phew, post over. I´m off to Sucre!
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