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

Lares: Headaches, Downpours And No Sign Of Them Incas

The city of Cusco in Peru, sits approximately 3300 metres above sea level. I had been previously warned by my travel doctor in Wellington that appropriate measures would have to be taken in order to counter the curse of altitude sickness. Our tour operator, Carlos, also advised us vehemently that we should stay in Cusco for at least 3-5 days in order to acclimatise to the thin air before embarking on our much anticipated Lares Inca Trek. We thought better of this elaborate patter and gave ourselves a modest afternoon at a higher gradient, we had little choice in the matter after the delay from the last flight from Lima, which was not ideal. We managed to cope ok, only our chests did tighten whenever walking uphill, but this did not cause alarm.

Our hostel, Sumac Wasi, was hidden in a busy cobbled street ('Gringo Alley' as the natives baptised it) and although the second floor was under the light dust of construction, we were treated to an alluring courtyard, upon which a lone shimmering green hummingbird flirted with the blossom of a Chinese Rose tree.

Immediately I was impressed with the historic capital of the Inca Empire (and another UNESCO World Heritage Site) thanks to its sepia setting, cathedral in the main square and colourful markets down the narrow alleyways. Surprisingly the hawkers were not adept at making the blood rush with their empty promises in woven baskets, and instead favoured a more passive sales technique, which suited us just fine. On checking in at Wayki Tours who were operating our four day adventure, we found out that we were the only two to be in the group (we had half expected an excitable group of Scandinavians but were left disappointed) along with our guide, chef, assistant to the chef, horseman and three mules.

I'll stick to the Coca Te, thanks

We got picked up by our guide, Freddy, at dawn after a night of half hearted packing for the camping trip. After a three hour bus ride through a bustling market town we arrived in the town of Lares where the start of the four day trek would begin. Amid a confusing tranquility we soaked by the locals at the medicinal hot pools with their steaming copper coloured waters reminiscent of the splendor of a Roman Bath. The three hour walk that followed was an awakening to the dramas of reaching higher planes. Both Matty's and my lungs appeared to heave unpredictably with each forward step and the temples of our foreheads throbbed uncontrollably with the first gentle ascent. On reaching our first campsite, in the village of Wacawasi the both of us headed straight to our ready made tents for a deserved rest.

I managed to consume some dinner and polite conversation with Freddy on the benefits of Indigenous management of a Peruvian tour operator, before reaching for the confines of my sleeping bag at 8pm. Matty was faring somewhat worse. After taking an emergency visit to enrich some vegetation with his own brand of fertile nutritious exponents whilst the mountain slopes sighed, he collapsed in the tent with not even a mouthful of dinner. At this point I knew something was wrong. We had both been struck by the silent plague of altitude sickness on our first full day of the trip to the Sacred Valley.

Matty feels ill. An ideal time to document his demise

In the morning, we felt a little better after taking some medication (Matty having to down a thick brown syrup that Freddy guaranteed would rid him of the devils within the colon), our tent on close inspection emitted the dour scent of disease from the convulsions from our weakened bodies. Passing angels would have feared to tread within the canvas of our sleep at that moment.

Lares Hot Springs

We gathered our three forlorn mules who had the thankless task of carrying our luggage, tents and equipment and began the next day's walk to our next destination of Espaycocha as the storm clouds began to lurk.

Where's Matty?

Freddy, our mid-twenties Peruvian tour guide, was full of positivity and a rich layer of gentle humour enough for us to trust him to the contours of the second day. He reminded me somewhat of Charlie Brown, with his eyes slightly close together and boyish quips. It appeared that the highlight of his day would be to tease Vicento, our horse man. On hearing the energetic courtship of two donkeys beyond some farmland Freddy nudged Vicento and ordered him to join in on the equine passion.

A nice feature of the hike was that every passing farmer or villager, dressed in rainbow ponchos and fake plastic flowers on their bowler hats, would greet us warmly with a formal 'Buenos Dias Chicos'. It was apparent that there was a community feel to the Peruvians high up in the mountains. This local charm was not enough to see us through our walk up to the summit of a 4600 metre mountain, which is higher than the plane I jumped off for my skydive in Taupo and half the height of Mount Everest. The make up of shingle and stone was deteriorating for the calf and thigh muscles and as the rain began to pour down I felt utterly miserable. Matty had the heavy eyes of a zombie and few words were shared for most of the morning.

Truck load of folk in Ollantaytambo

After lunch, we opted to ramble for a further three hours in order to reach a more dry base and as it was all downhill we agreed that this would be better than to camp by Lake Epsaycocha, 4500 metres up with a high risk of being caught in a storm that night.

Our silence broke with that of the emergence of the sun late in the afternoon, revealing lush valleys, lagoons and streams with cold foamy waters. On reaching our base for the night, after a full nine hours hiking, we collapsed on the hard ground with a well deserved beverage in our hand. I may only have fond memories of this episode as the drink we had was Coca Te, where the leaves contain cocaine and is illegal in the US and UK. I think a Class A warm cup of tea is the only way I can start my day from now on and was enough to lead us through the next few days towards the Lost City of the Incas.

Coca Te. Coca Loca Te.