Cusco and the Inca Trail
Jim the dentist from Oregon had just split his head in two, but the bigger concern was just how much blood, if any, had spilled into our sixth Cuba Libre - a far more fetching name for a loaded rum and Coke. Although I had been advised against heavy drinking in altitude (and at 3300m above sea level Cusco is very definitely up there) the drinks flowed effortlessly into my thinning blood. Jim’s blood, meanwhile, dripped down the stairs after he jumped up a little too enthusiastically in the upper balcony of the Blueberry Lounge, but he took it like sport, or rather, a dentist with a passion for travel. “If this wasn’t Cusco, Peru, I’d probably look into stitches,” he said, promptly ordering another round.
Bring out the panpipes and blankets, the city of Cusco is very definitely the image you have of Peru. As the historic and tourist capital of Peru, the streets are paved with hundreds of tour operators, hostals, restaurants and the subtle fragrance of fresh urine. Here be tourists in their droves, soaking up the Peru of lore, readying for the rite of passage, namely the 45km Inca Trail. Forgoing the legendary ass-cramping, shitty bus ride from Lima, I caught a cheap flight from Lima and felt much like Bruce Lee did in Game of Death. A foreigner, arriving in a foreign land, surrounded by other foreigners, ready to challenge myself to the extreme. Only, instead of butterfly-kicking a butt ugly Chuck Norris, I’ll be getting high on coca leaves traipsing through the Andes. In theory. Of course, Peru and theory go hand in hand like nunchakas and spit-roasted bananas.
I share a cab into town with an Australian couple from New York and Charlotte, a solo traveler from London buzzing off three months in Brazil. The scenery is radically different to Lima; green hills, cobble-stone roads, drizzle spitting like kids from a balcony. Landing the plane requires some skill, as the pilot navigates through the hills to the airstrip, a thrill for those with window seats. But now we are in town, bustling with Indians, bursting with souvenir and alpaca stores. Charlotte and I check out a few spots before deciding on one Hostal Keros, which seems nice and cheap enough. Walking through the streets is a real culture shock, a far cry from Lima, with panhandlers and kids yelling out, traffic whistles blowing, horns honking. It’s sensory overload, made all the more vivid (too vivid, as Tom Robbins describes South America) by the constant, altitude-induced head rush. My heart, demanding more blood, races like an infant Schumacher to the candy store.
When I booked to do the Inca Trail, most likely under the influence, I was told to arrive in Cusco a few days early to acclimatize. Born and raised in Johannesburg, some 2000m above sea level, I was counting on my body remembering life at altitude, kicking into old patterns on some kind of molecular level. Biology was never my strong suit. Three days later, I am still chasing breath, my hands lightly trembling, and the good news is I get to enjoy a strenuous four-day hike that rises another 1000m into the surrounding mountains. It’s not that bad this altitude business, not unlike being constantly excited. Some girls I met deeply regretted taking altitude-sickness pills in Cusco and claimed it made them far more ill. After a few days, in theory, your body learns how to breath air with limited oxygen, although I feel like I’ve been chain smoking cigars, forgetting not to inhale. None of this is helped in any way whatsoever by the smog-pumping, monoxide-churning taxis that are everywhere. The noise and air pollution is outrageous, as is the Peruvian Flake, but I digress.
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