Cusco and the Inca Trail

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My group consisted of nine trekkers, two guides and thirteen porters. While some lunatics do this alone, government regulations insist you trek with reputable guides, and Cusco is lined with companies offering one, two and four days trips to the ultimate destination, Macchu Piccu. I found Peru Treks online through a great website called Andeantravelweb.com. I emailed three companies, and these guys were most on the ball. Their offices are more subdued, they channel profits into community development, are serious about porter treatment, and they turned out to be probably the best outfit going. Lucky me. Lucky us. The group of nine consisted of Dave and Nicola from Dublin, Michelle and Chris from Newcastle, Jo from Manchester, Hillary from just about everywhere, Shannon and Jamie from BC and one times gonzo idiot with corduroy. Picked up early, we met our guides Oscar and Juvenal and over the next four days we’d come to know each other pretty well, over pineapple chicken, summer rice and tin cups of mate, the indigenous coca tea that helps with the altitude. Lo, in the beginning, there was passport control, a gradual hike through the valleys, a certain apprehension about Day Two known as The Challenge. Six hours up rocky steps to 4200m elevation is not everybody’s hot chocolate, especially those of us who consider walking a shopping mall a good day’s hike. I had packed as light as I could, but it didn’t take long for my daypack to weigh heavy on my shoulders, as if the shoelaces holding the sleeping bag and mattress together were guilty of some heinous crime. But hope was immediate, in both the humour of the group and the first lunch, as delicious as any I’d had since arriving in Peru. Unlike the porters in Nepal who are not regulated and can carry as much as 50kg on the backs, Inca Trail porters have a union and strict guidelines as to how much they carry and how hard they go. Ranging from 17 to 39 years old in our group, the porters carry tents, food, gas, equipment, water, and are responsible for our three meals plus tea a day, and also allow us to arrive exhausted into camp with tents set up, tea ready to be served. God bless them. Especially Apu, the chef, who managed to cook outrageous dishes, lord knows how, well into the trek without refrigeration and with only a tent for a kitchen. Good food always translates into good morale, and it couldn’t get any better.

Day One is easy, supposedly to break you into the hike, which Day Two literally elevates into something far more challenging. Oscar, usually with a smile, would walk at the front, Juvenal at the back, and our pace was steady. Along the way, Oscar would whip out his blue folder and talk about the flora, fauna, and history of the Andes with genuine enthusiasm. There was always time to catch breath, always time to be inspired by the porters who would leave later and arrive earlier, passing on the right with unnerving pace and rock hard calves. An uneasy, sleepless night finally brought in Day Two, which is, regrettably, every bit as challenging as they say. The rock path ascends to the highest point, Dead Woman’s Pass, at 4200 meters, by which stage each step requires intense motivation and energy. We shared the trail with several other groups, some of whom were hiking in trainers and clearly not prepared for the endeavor. I learnt the importance of slow and steady, and finally we peaked, battered, legs on fire. High fives, a scream of exhilaration, some chocolate, back dripping with sweat, cooling fast. Now the descent, an uneven path designed specifically to tear knee joints to shreds. Thank you, bamboo stick, which Oscar rightly predicted would become my best friend. Reaching camp on Day Two was like winning a marathon, only to find you’d have to race again tomorrow. But we’re all in this together, and Hillary is older than my mother and outpacing porters, and the conversation helps, as does the sweet coca tea, and Jamie’s deck of Uno. Better sleep that night, knowing the worst is behind and my bum knee somehow survived the hardest day of hiking in my life.

Day Three I reach trekking zen, walking along the original Inca path, recovered from the high jungle and smoothed with stones. The Incas, it appears, knew better how to make paths than those that centuries later restored them. More level now, the authentic jungle giving me an authentic buzz, large hummingbirds zipping around, Oscar pointing out priceless orchids. We eat lunch atop a pass, exhausted, elevated, truly elated. This is wet season, but the rain has held back, and we all wonder how on earth anyone could do this when the trail is wet, as hard as it is when it’s dry. A few minutes later, we find out. Although there are only a few drops, Oscar is hurrying, telling us to reach for the waterproof ponchos. He knows the clouds are about to burst, and sure enough, it comes down hard, dampening the spirits, quickening the need to move. It’s downhill to the final camp, steep, uneven, but I find myself running, chasing Oscar down the mountain, turning two hours into one. The adrenaline is pumping, one fall and this could turn ugly, but I’m not thinking about my knees, hell I can barely feel them. Finally the rain subsides and I feel like a conquering hero. A few minutes later my knees catch up to remind me about my accident two years ago. Ouch.

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