Cusco and the Inca Trail

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Charlotte and I have quite a lot in common so we naturally join forces to discover this brave, gringo-infested land. We discover Los Toldos Chicken on San Amalgro which serves up the biggest, juiciest BBQ’d chicken I’ve had the privilege to devour. We call it Nandos, and it’s difficult to eat anywhere else, especially at $3 a meal. It takes exactly 24 hours before I know my way around, with all the action centered on the Plaza des Armes, the town square surrounded by classic 17th century cathedrals. This is the land of the Inca, once a powerful, advanced nation now relegated to selling alpaca jerseys to German tourists. The church did a great job wiping out the Inca, converting them to the worst kind of fire-and-brimstone Catholicism, as evidenced by the Cusco Art Gallery. Famous Inca artists paint with bright reds and blues, slowly turning black and dark as their culture dies. Our 70 year-old guide, machine-gunning the worst kind of Spanglish, constantly points out the contrast in beauty between art of the Spanish conquerors (”blaaaaaaack!!”) and the Inca artists (”goooooooold!!”). The bars, on the other hand, are fully decked out for the Lonely Planeters. Modern downtempo drifts in the air, bouncing off plush cushions, low lighting, and urban décor. At the laid back Blueberry Lounge, I could be in London, but I’m not, which is why Jim isn’t getting stitches. I meet three sweet girls, from North Vancouver of all places, who share some local horror stories involving corrupt doctors and the date-rape drug. I was warned in Lima about local girls fleecing gringo’s with the aid of Rohypnol, but with the effect of altitude they can save their pharmacy visits. Slammed, I head to Mama America’s across the Plaza to dance and drink into the early morning with my new friends.
“Tomorrow, my schedule is hectic,” I say, Manu Chao blaring. “I have to spend the day acclimatizing!” Which is why I wake up at 3pm, not sure whether I have a hangover, or altitude sickness. Probably both.

I have not hiked more than 3 hours in the last five years, and the Inca Trail leaps into my mind like a bungee jump, full of nerves and excitement. 45km, high altitude, four days. “The second day is like the Grouse Grind times ten,” says Kyla from Vancouver. But this is what it’s all about, especially in Cusco. I could take a train to visit the magnificent ruins of Macchu Picchu, but that just wouldn’t be gonzo now, would it? The bus picks me up in four hours, at 5:30am. My heart is a techno track.

Four Days Later

Back in Cusco, knee resting, deep breaths. Did I really spend the last four days trekking in the Andes? Did I really take those gorgeous pictures of the sun rising through the flint sharp mountains? Did I really take my corduroy jacket?
It seems a bit hazy, but that’s because I’m writing this in bed, relishing the soft mattress as my legs recover from the pounding I’ve put them through. If anyone says the Inca Trail isn’t hardcore, they’ve been chewing too many coca leaves.

Gonzo Gallery for Cusco and the Inca Trail

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