Discovering The Lost City Of The Incas

The Peruvians at the camp (well Freddie and Huevo the skinny mute chef) challenged us to a game of football at sunriseseeing as we were missing out on the World Cupand I still had no idea as to whether England had beaten Germany in the Last 16. The locals, already well adjusted to the altitude of 3,500 metres clinched a fortuitous 3-2 victory in the first game (both of us were guilty of missing open nets). They were confident of a further humiliation and asked us to play again - this time the winner would receive cerveza from the loser. We managed to restore some national pride and won 3-2 to tie the series as the soft adidas ball arrowed from dumpsite hole to thorny bush beyond the flip flops that were playing the part of goal posts. I, rather foolishly, went through a delicious trade mark slide tackle on Freddy that crunched both our shins as we wheeled away in simultaneously agony. It was perhaps not the best idea to take out the hiking guide prior to a mount up the Sacred Valley.

Everyone likes the taste of their own brand

To reward the game, similar to the exploits of Michael Caine and Sylvester Stallone in Escape To Victory in uniting opposition, Huevlo treated us to a marvellous cake for breakfast that he somehow managed to bake using only a clay pot and a few freshly laid eggs. The meals that we had on the trek had been nothing short of spectacular. We were not prepared to have a gourmet chef prepare Peruvian classics such as stuffed capiscum in a light batter; yam croquettes; marrow and goats cheese and Lima styled spinach and potato frittas.

A short public bus trip alongside a handful of schoolgirls with neatly platted hair, we arrived at Ollantayambo, situated in a fertile river valley and sheltered by the dark shoulder of mountains encasing an ancient Inca village and its remains. We coincided the day with a public bank holiday where locals dressed in luminous ponchos and were entertained by a custard yellow shirted midget in the main plaza. We bypassed the circus and lept up the terraced ruins which were interesting enough before making our way on a magnificently slow train with perhaps the most formal and longest tanoy announcement which guided us to the town of Aguas Calientes on the foot of the famous Lost City of the Incas. Our hostel personally greeted us at the station with an amusing sign painted with 'Michelle Hones' which was as close to Matthew Rees-Jones as they could get at that solitary hour before midnight.

My alarm rang at four thirty in the morning. Those who know me well will realise that this is an unfortunate time to converse or interact with me, let alone send me up on a guided tour for sunrise. Freddy arrived at La Rochas red cape hostel to pick us up and led us towards Machu Picchu. A heavy mist blanketed the site, we could barely make out the terraces for the first hour, but this gave a remarkable mystery to the site. Once in a while we'd listen to Freddy's stories on the legends, turn around and the fog would clear slightly revealing a new feature of the remarkable stone constructions perched high up in between islet green mountains, like a matador skillfully draping his cape to reveal a bruised and bloodied bull. Our spritely guide informed us of many curious Inca facts and superstitions including their propensity towards the sciences of astrology, cosmology and their bewildering knowledge of geology - a long vertical lane carving in the ruins represented the fault line underground.




For the rest of the tour we strolled around the site like affiliates of Hiram Bingham, the American explorer who unearthed the Lost City in 1911, it has also been heavily suggested that he lynched the treasures and artifacts of the site before returning, with much pomp and ceremony back to Yale University. It was an experience hard to put into words, and one that the few photographs I have could not do justice to the magnificent sacred city (though I'll upload them anyway). We had to be dragged away before the end of the day in order to catch our train back to Cusco. After the five hour train and bus ride, we barely had time for a knap and unpack before our 7:30am bus awaited us, leaving for the town of Puno by Lake Titicaca. Peru's landscape deteriorated once away from the main tourist areas of Cusco and Lima. Half built brick houses stood motionless and neglected in arid corn fields whilst locals pottered around waiting for something and achieving very little.

Puno itself was a ghastly stopover, not worthy of its situation by the grand Lake Titicaca. Barefoot children ran down dirty alleys whilst dodging the trash on the streets as stray hounds yawned on top of featureless box buildings made of mud and cement. We befriended two UCLA graduates and dissolved the shameless town with the potent mixture of egg whites and Pisco brandy until yet another 6am start awaited our beleaguered bodies.




The bus, rickety, rusty and with broken seats, stopped at Copacabana (she was a show girl), a heavily Catholic coastal resort, with all the gloss that Puno should have contained. The town is famous for its rather bizarre ceremony of blessing motor vehicles on mass and we saw decorated and proud trucks paraded through to the bay. We continued on cleaner and straighter roads with a stark and quiet backdrop on our way into the Bolivian capital of La Paz, for the next leg of our adventure and the paper dream of an end to the continuous travel and early rises.

Aguas Calientes Song of the Day: The Doors - Hello, I Love You
We were drawn to the Putucusi bar in Peru by a dreadlocked Peruvian with a lazy attitude that wascompelling as was his offer for happy hour drinks. Alongside games of Cluedo and Ludo on theglass tables was a tremendous soundtrack featuring The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan andthese LA rockers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzM71scYw0M