Cusco and the Inca Trail

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I walk with Hillary, surely a mountain goat in her former life, and we soon reach final camp and the joys of our first warm shower, beer, and painkillers. It occurs to me I can barely move, and there is still one more day. Our final night together, and we party with the porters. We thank and tip them individually, Oscar buzzing and initiating ribald songs, creating hysterics. We struggle to sing, Dave making a gallant effort, the porters wanting something African. Silently praying to the knee god, I toyi-toyi, the South African chant and dance that just might have brought down Apartheid. Lizards take up arms against their parrot oppressors, the words Amandla! echo through the Andes, and I’ve terrified just about everybody, including myself. The porters dance with Jo and Hillary, the beers, gratefully now available at the campsite, flow free. For the first night of the trek, I manage to sleep, but not much, because we are awoken at 4am to pack up one last time for the two-hour walk to Macchu Picchu.

Arriving at Sun Gate, just after sunrise, we can see the lost city in the distance. Discovered by American explorer Hiram Bingham in 1911, nobody is quite sure who lived here, why they lived here, or why they disappeared without telling anybody. Theories abound; it was home to high priests and witches; it was home to royals who abandoned it hoping to return after the Spanish invasion. It was not until Bingham, a creepy looking fella, hacked his way through the jungle that the city was rediscovered, faithfully restored into one of the world’s most beautiful and mysterious ancient cities. Tourists can catch buses and trains from Cusco and make it a day trip, but as the destination after three hard days trekking, Macchu Picchu delivers its famous spectacle. You truly feel you have arrived some place extraordinary.

It is only 9am, and the tour continues. The Sun Temple, the amazing craftsmanship, terraces, surroundings. We are fully exhausted, somewhat put off by the droves of camera-snappy tourists, clean and smelling good. Filthy, tired, wrecked and stretched, we amble through ruins, play with the alpacas (who tasted delicious just a few nights ago thanks to Apu), eat a horrifically overpriced sandwich. Dave, Chris and Jamie climb Wayna Picchu, the mountain that overlooks Macchu Picchu and is seen in all the postcards. I pop another ibuprofen and pass - my knees breathing a sigh of relief. Finally, we catch the bus down the snake-coiling road to the town of Aguas Calientes, a final meal with the group before a long, four-hour, Uno-intensive train ride back to Cusco. Hard to imagine the sunrise at 6am that morning, the feeling of walking into Macchu Picchu having somehow earned the right to. By the time I arrive back at the Hostal Amaru, every inch of my body does the salsa for a hot shower and a warm bed. By morning, the entire experience has drifted into memory like the dissolving clouds beneath the peaks of the Andes.

Los Perros
Cusco

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