Machu Picchu

The next morning we managed to share a taxi to the Hydroelectric Dam (where the railway to Machu Picchu starts) with some Australian honeymooners and there guide.  The station was basically just a collection of huts clustered on one side of the trucks.  Amongst these was hidden a ticket office, where only locals could buy tickets.  The train was something else, far cry from the creaky wooden seats we had travelled on the last time.  However, the luxury of the carriage was reflected in the price an there was now a clear and deliberate segregation between locals and tourists.  for tourist there was no opting to travel coach, there were just degrees of expense.  

This was the herald of things to come in Agua Calientes, which has seemingly been renamed “Macchu Pichu Peublo”.  As the train pulled in the market stools that had lined the dirt road next to the tracks were gone.  Instead iot was now more like entering an exclusive ski resort.  Roads and pavements expensively paved, lined with exclusive shop, restaurants and hotels.  It is by no means unpleasant, but it has become, much like Cusco, an international tourist outpost, that now has little in common with the way the most of the country is.

From the station the town extends up hill, the further up hill you go, the cheaper the accommodation becomes - consequently ours was a long way uphill.  Having dumped our stuff at the hostal, we sat on a terrace at on the main street and watched the passersby.  The tourists reflected the new upmarket ambiance of the place - the grungy 19 year-old backpackers intent on finding themselves were still there, but their numbers has been diluted by a huge increase in prosperous looking “silver-travellers”.  Newly retired baby boomers, seeing the sights whilst from the comfort of luxury hotels and up market hostels.  They were also joined by vast swathes of Peruvian tourists and school parties, which was new.  The last time I was here, it was 19 old gringo central, the only older people were hippies and the Pervuvians around were those that worked there.

The next morning we got up obscenely earlier and got the bus up the hill rather than walking - ten years earlier, we would definitely have walked - this must be how middle age creeps ups on you.)  In-spite of the unreasonable hour, the entrance was thronged with people and we bumped into our Australian honeymooners again, who kindly invited to join there guide for a tour of Macchu Pichu.  This was just as well, because we entered the site the hillside was completely swathed in mist, so we dutifully trailed the guide around the sight, lectured on the history as the mist started to lift.  That too seems to have changed since the last time I visited - although this version must be good, as the guides now have to passed a exam before they get certified to lead tourists around the site.  

As the tour ended the cloud lifted and we were treated to a full view of the site which still takes your breath away as it perches silently on the mountain side, terraces dropping away either side into vertiginous slopes.  There may be more people, and a slicker operation, but the site is no less impressive.  In a strange way it is a combination of the situation and the way it is build that makes it seem more ancient than it is - as you get lost in the romanticism of Hiram Bingham lost city, you have to remind yourself that although this feels of an age with the pyramids and the acropolis, it is incredibly recent in comparison.  Macchu Picchu was being built in the mountains at the same time the Tudors reigned in Britain, thousands of years after the pyramids and hundreds of years after the construction of Westminster Abby and the great Gothic European Cathedrals of the middle ages.  However despite its relatively recent origins, it somehow feels more ancient that the Gothic cathedrals - and on a par with the pyramids.

As it cleared, we climbed Hyauna Picchu, which now requires a specialist permit and is clogged with overweight and out of breath tourists crawling to the top.  The last time, I was there, the only people who climbed it were me and Billy.  The climb is still worth when you get to the top, even if you have to share the summit with other people.

We got the train out of Agua Calientes the next morning and jumped off at Ollantaytambo to catch a taxi back to Cusco.  This proved entertaining, as our driver seemed determined to complete the trip in the shortest time possible with not stopping, even at police check points! This only lasted so long and we were eventually chased and pulled over by the police who insisted that he accompany them to the Station.  This was the end of our ride, however our taxi driver was not going to abandon us and waved down another taxi overcrowded with people and crops which took us the rest of the way at a slightly more sober pace.

Arriving back in Cusco, I broke a cardinal rule and succumbed to the convenience of the new McDonald's on the Plaza de Armes (there is only so much Lomo Saltado you can eat).  I was duly punished and spent the next 3 days in riding the porcelain chariot and generally feeling awful.

Salkantay: An Alternative Inca Trail

The SAE Cusco Clubhouse was larger and better equipped than its Lima counterpart, with two floors and garden.  As in Lima - recent trip reports were thin on the ground, but we were able to have a chat with a local guide who advised us that there had been an incident with the Sendero Luminoso  (Maoist Guerrillas who call themselves the Light of Shining Path) .  We didn’t fancy being robed, so changed our plans, losing the Choquequirau leg of our planned route and sticking more closely to the original Salkantay route.

Having done the much more famous “Inca Trail” before, and having checked out the astounding price increase, we had decided to take and alternative trail to Macchu Pichu .  This had the advantage of being less crowded, requiring no permit and enabling us to camp along the way.

Having acquired the best of the crappy maps on offer at the clubhouse, we packed us and took a bus to Mollepata which marks the start of the trek.  After a quick breakfast by the Plaza de Armes, we headed off following the description Kirsty had copied from one of the guidebooks.  It wasn’t long before the guidebook and map started to disagree, so we asked a friendly local, who could confirm where we were on the map, but was convinced that the map was sending us the wrong way and directed us down another seemingly unmarked path toward Soraypampa.  As much we appreciated his directions, we where now in the situation of being pointed in the direction of a new path, that wasn’t on our map or described in our guidebook.  Lacking the Spanish (not even sure this guy was speaking Spanish) to question the chap, we didn´t want to offend him by blithely ignoring his advice and walking off in the opposite direction.  So we went round the corner and waited 10 minutes before sneaking back, only to find the bugger was still there.  Given that our retreat was blocked, we decided to follow his directions and soon came upon another local - well he came upon us - having spotted us from the top of an adjoining hill, he changed direction and came pacing over towards us.  Gringoes with large rucksacks are obviously to rare a treat to pass up in these hills.  After more stilted Spanish chat he seemed to support the original advice and we thanked him and left.

The path climbed and wove through the hillsides eventually bringing us back to a more robust looking track just in time for the rain.  Here we came across a team of pack horses whose horsemen seemed surprised and amused to see Gringos carrying all of their equipment.  They passed by and we began what seemed like an endless trudge towards the campsite in the rain.

Given the guidebook had claimed the first leg was only 16 km, we had clearly come a different route, because be now we had walked well over 20 km.  We eventually arrived at Soraypampa in the moonlight and just pitched up next to the path - had dinner and went straight to bed, only to be woken when a dog ran into the side of the tent in the middle of the night.  I think he was more scared than us and ran of yelping back into the night.

Next morning we surveyed Soraypampa for the first time in the daylight - it was lovely spot spoiled by a host of crappy square shelter made from plastic tarps, surrounded by rubbish.  This was apparently where the guided and pony trek tours stay during the trip.  Saddened we left the pampas and climbed away from these eyesores up into the pass (4600m).  The path climbed up into towards the clouds and we soon found climbing at altitude with big packs was significantly slower than the trekking we had done in the Huayhush.  We eventually topped out surrounded by large swathes of snow to find an Australian couple and their guide resting by the cairns.  We had a brief conversation during which they marvelled at the fact we were doing it without donkeys.  They left, leaving us unsure whether we were hardcore or foolhardy.  I plumped for hardcore, but Kirsty hankered after some donkey support.

The top of the pass was the point at which the path comes closest to its namesake the Salkantay Mountain (Salkantay means “savage” in quecha - the language of the Incas).  Unfortunately all we could see was a snow slope rising up into the clouds.  The cloud thickened and we descended into a cloud forest full of rain.

This was another 20 km day and we arrived at small terraced campsite as the sky grew dark.  Here we met the second tour group, with their tents all neatly pitched for them on the top terrace, dinner already prepared by their guides, all their gear carried by pack horse - soft.

They may have been soft, but they were bloody loud and even from the furthest side of the bottom terrace, we could hear the buggers.  The next morning we had a shorter day, so we slept in had a lazy breakfast whilst the tent dried in the sunshine.  Whilst we were sat there, a small gnarled women came down and sat by us, having exhausted our Spanish pleasantries she started jabbering away - eventually she got fed up with our ignorance and stalked off up the terraces.  Five minutes later she was replaced by a small gnarled man with a hoe who commence jabbering, this time accompanied by some choice gesticulation  and a smattering of English, from which I managed to gather that he had built the terraces and that we really ought to give him some dosh for camping there.

Campsite paid for we were on our way again, this time under blue skies and draped in sunshine.  The path wound its way downhill hugging the left-hand-side of the valley of a wooded valley.  As the path dropped around the corner, we caught sight of Nevado Tacahuay in the distance behind us.

The path took us down and into a small town Collpapampa which had recently been connected to the outside-world with a new dirt road.  We passed through, declining offers of goods and accommodation and joined the river, where we were able to cross a dubious homemade bridge to an older path through the trees.  This took us past a huge waterfall after which we began to meet horsemen leading teams of empty pack horses up the trail back towards the start.

The path wound down and dropped out of the cloud forest on the valley floor to join a the start of a semi paved road.  This in turn led us into a shambling one-horse town, strung out either side of a singular street, with the usual one storey dwellings interspersed with rubbish, chickens and small children.  Here we had planned to camp on the local football pitch, however as we got ever closer, it looked less and less invited.  Having spent two nights at remote campsites high in the mountains the prospect of camping amongst the detritus of La Playa was getting less appealing the more of the more of village we discovered.

Luck was with us and we soon met a “collectivo”, that was heading to Santa Theresa, a slightly larger village reported to have hot springs.  We didn’t take much convincing and we were soon hanging on for dear life as the driver rallied the van all the way to town.

In Santa Theresa we camped at a pleasantly leafy site in the centre of town surrounded by the guided tour groups.

Located on the river bank, the hot springs were divided into three main pools, floodlight with lifeguards come receptions - there to collect the entrance fee and unsure there was no no “heavy-petting”.

Back to Cusco

From the beach we overnight bused it back to Quito and then onto to Guayaquil, Ecuador's largest city.  Arriving early in the morning - the bloody bus didn’t go to the central bus station, but to some small station exclusive to the company we had travelled with.  Of course this wasn’t on the map in our trusty lonely planet, so we were once again reliant upon my language skills.  Safe to say we got dropped off God knows where, but it certainly wasn’t the central bus.  The spoken worked have failed me, I resorted to the tried and tested -wonder about hoping you might recognised something method.  Yet again this proved more successful than the talking Spanish badly method, and I managed to stumble on the most enormous bus station come shopping mall we’d seen yet.

I strolled back to collect the baggage, and with Kirsty in tow, headed back to the bus station, during which, Kirsty who hadn’t been further than the pavement where we’d been dropped, tried to tell me we were going the wrong way...

The Mall/bus terminal was super westernised, replete with familiar fast food outlets and chain stores.  It’s saving grace was that it had good coffee and we were able to buy a chess set.

We travelled back to Peru on another overnight bus, which was smooth driving save for the 2 hour wait at the brand new, gargantuan concrete border post - big enough to process hundreds, but only staffed with on inept official.

Brief stop in Lima, for a stay in the Fly Dog and steak sandwich, before heading out on another monster over-nighter to Cusco.  This time Kirsty had finally persuaded me to splash out and go first class.  This meant we rode in voluminous leather sofa seats on the bottom of bus (Plebs and ordinary travellers must travel “semi cama” on the first floor).  As first class travellers, we were served first and even given our own headphones.

We rode into Cusco as the sun rose and I was once again amazed by how much it had grown since the last time I visited.  We rode a taxi to centre and tried to get a room at a hostel up the hill from the main square.  They were full, so our taxi driver offered to take us to another place that he knew called “Casa Grande”.  It was more expensive, but he got us some kind of bad boy taxi driver discount.  As we entered, it seemed familiar, I went though into the courtyard and recognised it as the place I had stayed 10 years ago with the boys.  I told the owner, who seemed delighted, but not enough to give us  a further discount unfortunately.

In the afternoon, we wandered out into Cusco and were struck by just how much of an international tourist island the place is.  Gringoes everywhere, including loads more OAGs (Old Age Gringoes) the last time I’d visited.  You can’t walk around the central square without being hassled to eat in the restaurants and cafe, it was ever thus, but now there are dozens of young women offering “massages” - who knows what type -we declined politely.

Outside the orbit of the Plaza de Armes the meticulously presented tourist town extends for a few streets before the falling away into the less manicured sprawl of the generic Peruvian city - all noise and traffic.

Hanging out at the Beach

Following the excitement of the jungle we decided to head to beach to recover. Kirsty had found a nature reserve on the coast run by a Canadian woman. So we packed up our camping gear and bought tickets for another night bus. The journey was fairly typical in that somewhere on a roadside in the middle of nowhere we were stopped at an army checkpoint. Usually they come on-board and make all the Ecuadorian men get off to have their documents searched. Gringos and children it seems do not pose the same level of threat and therefore warrant no more that a cursory glance at our passports.  This time was different, we escorted off the bus and separated - I was instructed to place my hands on the side of the bus and frisked, after which we were both sent to the checkpoint office to present our passports. After some closer examination of our passports and questioning about whether Kirsty was my sister? - the obvious conclusion to draw given our passports bear the same name.

Back on the bus, the sky grew lighter with the advent of dawn and we began to make out the resorts which dotted the coast road into Atacambes. The bus slowed as people disembarked and closer glimpses of the "resorts" made us grateful that we were camping in a nature reserve.

Ever the intrepid travelers we decides that instead of getting a taxi for the final leg from the bus station, we would use the local buses.  This led to a couple of hours stood at the bus stop failing to spot the bus promised by the timetable. After the bus failed to show we started asking all the buses whether they were going in our direction.  Eventually after much gesticulation we were dropped at the end of the road by a bus driver who them gave the woman at the juice shack instructions to put us on the next bus to our destination.  People in Ecuador are very kind in this respect and always endeavor to be helpful.  We've been herded onto countless buses and accompanied by members of the public with instructions to tell us when to get off or where to make our connection.  Usually this seems to work out - when it doesn’t, you get the trip we had to the Equator.

We were eventually dropped off down at the waterfront beside a large thatched two storey hut.  The hut was open on all sides and we could see through it to the beach and the water beyond.  Apart from some local staff, the place was deserted and we were able to camp right in the trees next to the beach.  The land was lightly forested and divided between camping pitches and a handful of large thatched huts situated on the hills either side of the beach.

The main hut contained a small restaurant which we ate in most nights.  In the evenings we were joined by the Canadian owner (Judy) and an American couple who had been living and working there for the last 3 months. Judy had bought about 100 hectares of coastal forest about 20 years ago and beyond the handful of buildings, done very little to development it beyond clearing the campsites.  The beach itself was sandy to the shoreline, but as the tide went it was clear that beyond a small finger of sand, the rest of the sea bed beyond was rocky.

We spent the first day swinging in the beach side hammocks reading our books.  The sky cloudy but the the weather was hot.  We soon settled into a lazy routine, getting up late and cooking breakfast and lunch over an open fire sat in broken plastic chairs like hillbillies, dozing and reading in the hammocks in between, before rousing our selves to body surf the waves of the afternoon incoming tide.  Followed by dinner, a cold beer and game of chess in restaurant hut.  Wild party animals that we were,  we were in bed most nights by 8pm.

This routine was only punctuated by a walk down to Same during low tide and brief stroll through the rocky shoreline the other side of our beach.  During our stay we were joined for a day or two by a couple of other travellers, who seemed not to know that the beach side hammocks were ours!  On the second to last day of our stay a Chilean and Dutch couple set up a slack-line, which is essentially a tensioned tightrope, set at about a metre off the ground.  Seeing as they had cool tool instead of glowering at them as we had when other guests had approached the hammocks, we made the effort to be friendly as a pretext for having a go on the slack-line.  They were friendly and we were soon chatting and balancing on the line, which was great until Kirsty hefferlumped off the slackline and crushed one of our high end plastic hillbilly chairs.  The chair cost $10 and that was the end of slack-lining.

 

We left the campsite the next day and hitched a lift back towards the main town with a couple of the local in a huge cattle truck.  Less in it, more on it - the truck bed had wooden sides about 12 feet high and single plank strapped across the gap in between - which is where we sat,  ducking overhanging and clinging on for dear life, as the driver took the racing line.

Into the Jungle

On our return to Quito we set about booking a trip to the jungle.  Like most of the tourist trips on offer in Ecuador, there are plethora of operators all claiming to offer the "definative unique" experience.  We decided to go with the most honest: "The tours are all the same you just stay in different hut complex".

So armed with our tickets we left Quito on another bus trip. This time though I had the misfortune to be seated in the aisle under the sky light - this was fine until to started raining and the window started leaking. I spent the next couple of hours sat inside the bus in my waterproofs getting drenched.  However this wasn't the worst of it - further down the road the rain had caused a landslide that had swept several tonnes of mud onto the road. Our coach trip ground to a halt.  This was evidently no big deal for the locals though, and within a couple of hours a JCB had cleared the road and we were on our way again.


Our destination was Lago Agrio and we met the first of our group at a local hotel before getting into an even more decrepit bus to head to the river  and start of the trip proper. The group consisted of a German couple about our age -she did drama therapy for prisoners and he organised some big music festival. They were both very nice and to our shame spoke excellent English. Next was a German high school philosophy teacher taking a sabbatical; a Canadian girl travelling alone; and Aussie/Danish couple, and finally an older Aussie /Japanese couple.  All in all, a pretty decent bunch.


At the river-port after the usual South American permit bureaucracy (I've got no idea why so may people need to know your age and occupation?) We boarded our canoe, donned some vintage life jackets,and with Juan (our guide) standing in the bows like some-kind of ancient figurehead, we sped off down the river.

Safely out of sight of the Ranger station, the life jackets came off as our driver opened up the outboard and took the racing line through the muddy brown river bends. Submerged logs and overhanging foliage were expertly dodged at high-speed as we wove our way through the greenery. Given the screaming outboard I wasn't quite sure how we were going to see any wildlife. However this was where Juan came into his own. Balanced on the nose of the canoe he began to make a high pitched whistling noise Like somekind of crazy human echo location. Within minutes he was pointing out birds and monkeys hidden within the dense green foliage.

Our base for the tour was a collection of stilted huts arranged around a raised circular walkway connected with a large covered eating area and a ramp leading down to the jetty. In the centre of was a large thatched roundhouse equipped with a pictorial guide to Stockholm and half a dozen hammocks.

 

This was a fully loaded tour.  We were up early paddling around the lagoon looking for monkeys  and sunrise, then back out after dinner chasing cayman and sunsets. In  between we donned wellies and ponchos to go stomping around in the mud looking for anacondas, which considering they can grow to upwards of 9 metres might not have been the most sensible idea. Safe to say that aside from an obscenely large anaconda skin, the only thing that we managed to find in the mud was Marrisa, who managed to execute a spectacular medal winning slow motion, arse first dive into the mud.

On the way back we saw a troop of tiny monkeys moving through the high canopy who were drawn toward the waters edge by Juan's piercing whistle. We stopped here for a swim. Well, Kirsty, Berne and I swam - everybody else stayed on the canoe - which didn't seem like such a bad idea when we went back to the same spot that evening for piranha fishing!

 

This was frighteningly easy: attach bloody chunk of meat to hook; splash water with end of rod and wait. Within a minute you have one of these vicious little buggers impaled on the hook. The problem with catching the first one was that I was the first to unhook the thing without losing a finger. That was it - proven ability, I then had to repeatedly risk my digits to take everybody elses off.


Having seen the requisite quota of monkeys and birds, we taken up river for the cultural segment of the tour. This involved visiting a local village where we were accosted by "nacho" the monkey who proceed to climb over everybody in a very endearing monkey like way, performing all kinds of tricks for food and treats which culminated with him sitting on Marisa's lap during lunch masturbating ferociously.

The most incredible aspect of the visit was watching one of the villagers preparing a local dish. She dug some kind of potato/tuber out of the ground and then cut a branch off of it and pushed it back into the ground. The soil is so amazingly fecund that this will apparently just grow into a new plant!

An evening in the jungle wasn't complete without a spot of Cayman hunting.  Essentially you go out in a very small fragile canoe and then try and get as close as possible to a 9 metre crocodile and hope it will let you take pictures of it rather than drag you underwater for the death roll. Despite their enormous size, Caymans are quite shy creatures who lie just beneath the surface of the water with only their eyes protruding above the waterline.  That said it was still quite alarming when we got too close to one which bolted with a ferocious flick of it tail nearly up ending the canoe!

On our last full day we took a walk through the jungle which is essentially a vast steaming green maze. The canopy towers overhead, branches and leaves interlocking to form a giant green ceiling, that blocks out the sky and retains the dense humid air, like a giant greenhouse.  Underfoot are a thousand years of leaf litter and foliage in a perpetual state of decay that forms a treacherous carpet around the roots and trunks. All around you it drips and hums, pulsing with an abundance of insect and animal life: living, breathing, eating and being eaten.

We left the jungle as we had entered it: at speed as our canoe navigated the twisting brown ribbon of water.

Journey to the Centre of the Earth

 During our trip to the volcanoes in Ecuador, Elias (Our Swiss friend) had mentioned that it was possible to take a trip from Quito to the Equator line.  He told us that although there were lots of agencies offering this as an excursion you could do it yourself for a fraction of the price. It was simple - all you has to do was catch the bus from the terminal at the end of the metro-bus line.

So on our return to Quito we took the metro bus to the terminal at the end of the line. We then spent the next ten minutes wandering around the concourse looking for a bus to Mitad del Mundo before it dawned on me that there might be more than one bus terminal and we had gone to the wrong one!  Since it had taken about an hour and a half to get there we decided to cut our losses and head back to Quito.

The next day we awoke bright and early and headed off in the direction of the right bus terminal to try again.  Unfortunately we had missed the direct bus.  However one of the officials explained that we could get another bus and get off at the gates to the Mitad del Mundo. We agreed and she went off to talk to the bus driver to explain, we assumed, where we needed to get off. Things were looking good up - the bus driver came over and yabbered away to us and we got on the bus.

After about twenty minutes we approached a big car park that looked suspiciously like the sort that you would have at a major tourist attraction, so we got up headed to the front of the bus, only to be turned back by a gesticulating driver. OK we thought, the woman at the bus station has told him where we are going there must be another entrance, so we sat down and the bus carried on. Ten minutes later we had left all the buildings behind and were heading out into the countryside. The next stop was at a toll booth, here we decided to cut our losses and despite the protestations of the driver we forced our way off of the bus.

We were now by the side of the road in god knows where - there was no sign of another bus or any taxis so we stuck our thumbs out in the hope of a ride.  Luckily after about ten minutes a guy in a pick up truck pulled over and signalled for us to get in the back. He then proceeded to drive as fast as possible, overtaking at least ten cars in a row with is hanging on for dear life in the truck bed!

Having survived the journey we found ourselves back at the place we had first tried to get off of the bus. The Mitad del Mundo turned out to be a huge area laid out like a miniature theme park with a large statue in the centre build by the French designed to mark the centre of the earth.

The statue may look great but it has since transpired the French erected their monument in the wrong place! The actual centre is about 300 metres further north. Here they have built a museum where you can do a number of "experiments" on either side of the equator line. These are actually more interesting that they might seem. One involves moving a basin of water across the line and watching it spin clockwise and anti-clockwise as it drains on either side of the Equator.  The only other experiment of note involves balancing an egg on the head of a nail for which I now have a certificate.  If that wasn’t enough they also threw in a couple of skrunken heads!