Peru 03/12/2009 to 16/12/2009

Lima

We arrived at 5.00am with our shrink-wrapped luggage looking like it had been trussed up by an enormous spider. The authorised taxi fee was taking the p*ss (around 35 euros). Where did he think he was; Nice?  So we grabbed an official taxi outside. Perhaps this guy had been taught to drive on the Cote d’Azur. Jesus wept. More on car antics in Peru later.

There was barely enough space for our bags as a number of taxis have LPG or LNG tanks in the boot, as petrol is very expensive. For this reason I was glad Jenson had an adequately dimensioned gas propelled rocket rather than the Daewoo Tico matchbox things that are ubiquitous in Peru.

We made it to our Posada at 6.00am. Our room was occupied until check out at 12.00 so we were offered the social room until then. V took the sofa, I skewed myself into an armchair. A lovely English couple saw our plight over their breakfast and checked out early so we could get some kip. I was face down in my own saliva until mid afternoon.

We dropped off our washing (perhaps this is where V’s summer dress went missing. Who knows?) and went for some lunch. A leathery faced gentleman served us some lovely fare, washed down with the local equivalent of Irn Bru. Inca Cola is nuclear yellow, melts your teeth although I am unsure of its hangover curing properties - something I have called upon many times of its orange Scottish relative.

For the Church of Santo Domingo we invested in a guide, had a stroll around the market and then went for some dinner. Looking lost on a streetcorner, V’s guidebook in hand a girl asked where we wanted to be. Dragging her partner with her she personally led us to the restaurant.

More fabulous scoff before watching the rehearsal of some dancers prior to their big night performing in the main square. Some Michael Jackson Thriller moves reminded me of the inhabitants of the 7^th floor of the Aigue Marine. Unlike the boys in Engineering, the dancers weren’t very good (No I’m not mellowing; I need a job when we get back).

After walking around all day we were feeling lazy so I flagged down a taxi and V negotiated our fare home.

Ronnie our driver (his name was on the rearview mirror) was a talented chap as he could drive, send text messages and twiddle the knobs on his Kenwood all at the same time.

I felt that I may never prosper, wedged as I was between the near horizontal seat of Ronnie ‘Roger’ Ramjet and the gas canister in his boot.

Next day we took a taxi to the Museo de la nacion and a guided tour within.

The young lass who was our guide, once completing the tour pointed us in the direction of the upstairs exhibition of the civil war that choked Peru for over 20 years

I was unaware of such trauma within the country, but this was truly eye-opening. During the late 70’s and early 80’s a group calling themself the ‘Shining Path’ emerged that fought against the government through guerrilla warfare. Terrorism, if you will. The judiciary were not their only victims, but civilians too that did not join or support their cause. In response, the government armed militias, introduced death squads and instigated other underhand methods to subvert the Shining Path.

Not black and white, but as many shades of grey as the photographs, the testimonies and the portraits of the ‘disappeared’.

Following the arrest of the remaining Shining Path leaders in 2000, in an attempt to heal the wounds caused by both sides a commission was established to record the stories of those involved – civilians and military alike. Amnesty was granted to those who told the truth and the exhibition is part of that.

It is both brave and humbling. Perhaps we should portray our feelings more over troubled times in our countries. Perhaps we lack the courage.

Although no longer active, the Shining Path had aligned themselves with Columbian drug cartels to finance their struggle and the remnants exist as gangsters and drug dealers. This is the reason the north of Peru close to the border with Columbia is not the safest area to be.

I would advise anyone to read about the civil war and the commission’s work afterwards.

Lunch was in a little restaurant next to the museum, serving local specialities. It was rammed so we ate at the bar/ counter. V made the right choice; Ceviche (marinated raw fish). I didn’t and had can can (fatty pig feet). So I shared V’s.

The next museum was the Museo anthropologie, where again we employed a guide.

Following this we visited the covenant and catacombs of San Francisco, where thousands of bones are stored. Our tiny guide was the ideal height for avoiding banging his pate on the ceilings. He could have had a job with Willy Wonka.

On our return to the Hotel (Posade del Parque) we were greeted with the fine news that they had offered us a bottle of wine for turning up (or something). I think we were the 20^th customer that month. So that was in the fridge waiting for us.

Stepping out for some dinner we ate at a sublime sushi restaurant. Again it was packed, but the food was worth it. Sensational and steroidal. I’ve never seen bigger sushi, and it was perfect. I ate a meal for two on my own and V ordered enough maki to choke a whale.

There was no way we could fit in the bottle of wine from the hotel after that, so to bed on our backs, belly up.

The following day we would be off to Nazca, but since we would be returning to Lima prior to our flight to Argentina, we asked the Posade del Parque to keep our wine for us.

On the subject of food I have a little problem with the number of chickens consumed every day in Mexico and Peru. There are 107 million residents in Mexico, 23 million of them in Mexico City. Peru has 27 million souls.

The staple food in both countries is the humble chicken. That is a lot of fowl consumed everyday. Where are these kept/ reared/ slaughtered/ plucked/frozen?

Quick figures: say that a family eats a chicken a day (in Peru and Mexico). 5 persons in a family then that would be 27 million chickens per day, give or take a few.

27 million feathered cluckers take a lot of space. That number could fill the void between Paris Hilton’s ears. Every day. How come I can’t see them? I can hear some of them in the morning it is true but the figures don’t add up.

If they ever become sentient and rebellious we’re in trouble. Beware of the chickens. Same for civil engineers.

Another peculiarity of the Peruvians was to speak into their phone as if they were Captain James T. Kirk with his communicator. I guessed that it was due to the swine flu or possibly harmful microwaves from the handset. German (pronounced Her-man) our agent in Cuzco (see later) explained that there are cheap phone deals where you use your phone like a walkie-talkie (talkie-walkie for the French). One person speaks, the other listens. Not sure how some of my female friends would cope (yes, Zoe Roulot I am referring to you).

A 6 hour bus was our chosen transport to Nazca, via an undulating, twisting road through desolate desert and rocks.

Nazca

On arrival there were touts waiting for tourists like fleas for a dog. Jumped in a taxi and the driver took us….round the corner, where our hotel was. Oh well. Should have checked the map.

We arranged with the hotel our flight over the cryptic Nazca lines the following day and had a wander around the town. There really is nothing in Nazca save for the etchings in the desert, decrypted (partially) by Maria Reiche over her lifetime spent on the sands. She passed away in 1998.

A friend and colleague of Maria Reiche still resides in Nazca and V’s guide book recommended seeking her out for a lecture.

Veronika is her name, and she has spent a lot of time in the sun. A little too much. She is madder than an attic full of balloons, but hugely endearing. She described in detail to just the two of us the discoveries Maria Reiche had made in her attempts to discern reason from the lines.

Unfortunately for Veronika, contemporary scientists have tapped both her and Maria’s knowledge so that they no longer require working with her. She is a lost soul trapped in Nazca.

She showed the damage inflicted on the lines by traffic (straight through the monkey’s tail) and from water erosion. One of the reasons the lines have lasted so long (from between 2900 and 1300 years – 900BC to 700AD) is due to the arid conditions in the region. That has changed recently with increased rainfall flooding the plains and tearing at the markings.

What has been done to prevent this, you may well ask?

The Nazca lines are an UNESCO world heritage site, but there seems to be little in the way of protecting these baffling motifs for the future or continuing the work of Maria Reiche.

It is all very short-sighted. For when the lines have washed away, so will Nazca be itself.

Educated and rather depressed we took the flight in a little fixed wing over the lines and glyphs the following day. The damage was clear to see, and in many ways clearer than the main attractions themselves.

Oh and I threw up, just before we were about to land. Fighter pilot I will never be.

That same day all the electricity in the town was out. We could not withdraw cash, so it was budget lunch with what I had left in my wallet.

Later that evening when power was restored we took in a more professional and polished lecture in the hotel where Maria lived whilst studying the lines. The chap explained, rather more eloquently than Veronika, the conclusions of Ms Reiche. The alignment with the stars, solstices, constellations, natural aquaducts for finding water. Veronika did trump him with her explanation of ‘The Hands’ figure, where she proposed that it is a local potato plant. Same configuration of leaves and the root. A very important crop for the ancients. Also that Maria loved ‘The Hands’ as it has 9 ‘fingers’ just as she had.

The final slides of the lecture showed the damage to the lines from both man and nature but our narrator was silent over these. It only added more weight to what Veronika had said the previous night.

There has to be a change in attitude towards the lines from those that are milking them for thousands of Peruvian Soles every day. Hotels, restaurants, charter flights, bus companies, taxis, tour operators, airlines, street sellers; all depend on them for their livelihood. When there is nothing left to see then not only will it be a loss to the world but a huge infliction on the town, region and country.

We overnight-ed on a bus to Arequipa.

Arequipa

We only had a short time in Arequipa between the bus that brought us and the next one that evening (early morning), so V managed to negotiate a reduced rate with the friendly owner of our hotel. After a shower we took a wander around town, taking in the two main convents. Thank God for religion and its edifices to keep us tourists busy between eating.

The life the nuns led was explained to us. Many were the youngest daughters of rich families. They lived in total isolation from their families (coming from Spain, entering at the age of twelve), chatting to them via a meshed hatchway (so that faces were hidden) once a month or so. Deliveries were via a turnstile so even the delivery man couldn’t catch sight of a nun, nor her him.

In the convents, each nun had a little yard where she could raise guinea pigs for consumption. There were even some of the little critters still running around.

Full of happiness that we were not nuns (I believe they are so called after the number of reasons to become one) we fed ourselves in the convent café, finishing with carrotcake all made by the sisters themselves. Food of God. 

After a browse of the cathedral we stopped for a drink in a coffeeshop, owned by a young Frenchman. We chatted about Nazca and he mentioned the very short term attitude prevalent in Peru when it comes to their National Heritage.

We had a power nap before going to eat (knowing that we would be leaving in the middle of the night) and V chose the guinea pig. Tasty beast but not a lot of meat on it, especially on the head, which had also came deep fried on the plate.

Back to bed then up at midnight to pack for the night bus. We managed somehow to get ourselves and all our stuff into the Daewoo that had been arranged to take us to the terminal.

Now both of our guidebooks had said not to take the night bus, as there had been robberies, rapes and other unmentionables on the road after dark.

When we started stopping on the road to pick up anyone along the way, I knew I would get less sleep than Tiger Woods’s mistress. Coupled with the lack of ventilation and the steady gain in altitude I would have rather spent the night with a real tiger.

Lake Titicaca

We arrived replete with headaches at 7.30am in Puno with the aim of boarding a boat to the islands of the lake.

Lake Titicaca is the highest (around 4000m above sea level) navigable lake in the world. It is also rather large (170km by 60km).

All the rushing with the bus logistics (two trips in the night and a whistle stop in Arequipa without the chance to see the canyons in the area) had been the result of long discussions between myself and V. I wanted to visit the lake and spend some time on one of the islands, while V had been dissuaded by the strong text in her guide advising against visiting during the months of November to January due to bad weather.

V relinquished and here we were, in the streaming sunshine. The added bonus being very few French, fair weather tourists that they are.

V brushed aside touts like a Jedi Master and we picked up some fruit for the family we hoped to be staying with on one of the islands.

The guide at the tourist office promised to have us back in the port by 3.00pm the next day, as we had a bus at 4.00pm.

We chuntered off in a shuttle boat at a speed slower than I can run a marathon. 4 hours for the 40km to our main destination, but we had a first stop closer to Puno at the reed islands of the Uros people.

To escape the other warring nations, including the Incas, the Uros nation began living afloat to avoid destruction. The reeds provide everything from their flotation, shelter, fuel to food.

After buying some tat, a ride in a reed canoe and V dressing up in local clothing it was back into the boat for the remainder of the chug to Amantani.

Amantani

The island of Amantani is beautiful; and deathly quiet. No cars, some electricity, some running water (cold). We were introduced to the young girl, Maria-Helena, part of the family with whom we would be staying. She made our lunch (on a little wood fire with some pots) and we ate potatoes, soup and cheese with the family – Antonio (father), Louisa (mother) and Carlos (son).

A round-robin system operates within the community with each family in turn hosting tourists in order to earn a little money. That money is invested back into the community.

While waiting for our guide to lead us around, we watched some Australian tourists play a makeshift football match against a team of locals. The socceroos were coping with the altitude better than V, who still had a headache. Perhaps it is genetic with Australians having more space for expansion in their heads. I was OK, too. For now.

There are two peaks on the island, Pachatata and Pachamama and we chose the former as it was just a little lower at 4150m. The locals lined the path with their stalls and we picked up some Alpaca booties for one of the kids. A recovery hot chocolate was in order and we sat just off the summit in a makeshift café, our hot chocolate warmed on a wood fire once more.

I was now starting to suffer from the altitude and we tried the local brew of coca leaves as a cure.

At dinner I could hardly eat, which my demanding waistline was not happy with. I was also having trouble seeing. A little scary as I was the same after my fall in 2005. I hadn’t had a headache like it since, even after the night on V’s Grandmother’s eau de vie (or ‘Oh dear, V’ if you saw the state of her after over sampling it with Jim and Rhona).

The equivalent hooch in Peru is called Pisco. We only saw one local meandering down the streets of Cuzco with the lead boot and the feather slipper on. He had been on the Pis(s)-co.

I scrambled to my scratcher and unfortunately we missed the local festivities and spectacle.

The room where we were staying was next to the family sheep pen, with the chickens (there were only a few of them, thankfully) just out front of that.

Antonio works the land to feed his family; subsistence farming, but they really have very little in terms of possessions. What they do have is a great community. When someone needs a house, the full village builds it. It is all reciprocal.

Antonio came to the room and rubbed alcohol on my head with his weathered hands and pulled a Peruvian hat over my head.

My blissful sleep was interrupted during the night when I had to make wee-wee, so I took the little torch and stepped outside. Pitch black. No lights on the island, no noise either. Pure peace.

Next day, fully recovered we ate a quick breakfast that Maria-Helena prepared and were back on the boat; this time to Taquile. The sun was shining again and the colours of the landscape Monet and Matisse would have difficulty recapturing.

Don’t believe everything you read in a guide book.

Taquile

Taquile is the more populated and visited island on Lake Titicaca.

The boat dropped us at one side and we strolled across the island, stopping in the main square, watching while the locals herded their sheep through the plaza. We also had to make way for cows and the occasional bull on the path.

The guide announced that we would be back in Puno by 4.30pm. Oh dear. Our bus was at 4.00pm, remember?

We pulled him aside for a quick word and he thankfully began rearranging the schedule to enable us to make our bus.

So we had an early lunch of trout – some complained that it was too soon to eat and walked off in a huff, some picnicked as they had no cash – but we filled our faces and chatted to a Tasmanian couple who were enamoured to hear that we planned to visit their island.

There was also a young Lithuanian couple who were taking a year to travel the world. We were not jealous, as we hoped that they would choke on a fish bone.

We made it to Puno with a little time to spare, grabbed a taxi – but I had no change and neither did the driver. V raced into the terminal to break a note of around 10 euros value.

Inside we quickly recovered our big bags from the locker-room (relieved that they were still there), paid our bus terminal fee and found that the bus was late…..

It meant we had the time to grab some supplies for the journey and V to bribe a girl at one of the ticket offices to use her internet connection. Now we could contact the agent whom V had contracted to take us on the next leg of our journey.

The bus was filthier than a Joe Kinnear press conference. Leaking water (from yesterday’s rain) came through the little ventilation hatches in the roof. If the driver braked on a right-hander, I got a dribble down my neck. It was like working with a structural engineer looking over your shoulder.

The little attendant lady was very apologetic as she served coffee and dabbed at the rivulets seeping through the worn seals.

Cuzco

On arrival in Cuzco we were met by the girlfriend of the agent and a driver in a swish Venga bus. All a change from the last couple of days of buses and cold washes on the island. It was a good break for V, who had been organising most of our time so far. It was now up to someone else (not me, thankfully).

The hotel in Cuzco was at the top of some steps, then some more steps and although a good bit lower than Lake Titicaca, the altitude still drained us as we humped our luggage to our room (via some more steps).

At least it was practice for the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu.

A warm shower (bliss) and then bed.

Early next morning German (pronounced Herman) met us in the hotel lobby.

He took us by the hand and led us to the ruins just above Cuzco, Saqsaywaman (pronounced sexy-woman).

Also relaxing for V was that German’s French put mine to shame. He had studied to be a guide at University and was well equipped to point out the nuances we would not have picked up with only our guides and without his expert knowledge.

Saqsaywaman

I have to admit that I was glad that German huffed and puffed his way to the site overlooking Cuzco. V and I therefore had a chance that we would complete the short stretch of the Inca Trail that he had arranged for us to trek.

The stonework of the Incas rivalled that of the Egyptians, with shaped stones and perfect joints. In Cuzco one such stone has 12 sides. One in Macchu Picchu has over 30. Even more staggering is the size of the shaped blocks, with weights up to 300 tonnes. Considering there was no wheel to transport and only soft metal such as bronze to shape them it was a feat of human endeavour. Of course having thousands of slaves helped.

German pointed out the fortifications, and those walls that were solely for aesthetics.

There is a region of polished rock which some schoolchildren and their teachers were using as a slide. V approached to take some pictures of the fun and frolics and was accosted by the kids to appear in their photographs. Tall blondes are rare in Peru, evidently.

Touring the city afterwards we could see the colonial stonework constructed atop the original Inca walls with their elaborate shapes. In many cases, after partly razing the Inca dwellings and temples, the Spanish built directly from these foundations. This is the case in the convent of Santo Domingo/ Inca site of Qorikancha.

The subtle symbolism contained in the mix of European and Inca art from the 16^th and 17^th centuries was also explained to us, with the Virgin Mary taking the form of a mountain, local produce against a background of a European city, Inca patterns in her clothing.

Advised by German we ate in a local Peruvian café, sharing a table with a local family; parents and 2 schoolkids eating together. Not a TV to be seen.

Oh and the cost of the 3 courses? Less than 2 euros.

Our afternoon was free so we withdrew some cash to pay German. Peruvian ATM’s are strange. Although they allow you to withdraw local currency (Soles) and US dollars (much to the chagrin of V) you can only take out a maximum of less than 200 euros per day.

Pain in the hoop if you have some big bills to pay.

Knowing that we had some trekking to do, we finally succumbed to the grim reality of purchasing shocking ‘outdoor adventure’ trousers. Attempting to find a pair that does not make you look homeless or as if you have soiled yourself was the objective. The type that is convertible to shorts from trousers by removing the lower leg portions trigger my gag reflex and are as ubiquitous as unwashed hair and body piercings on backpackers.

Deed duly done and with V still suffering from the altitude we snacked in a local restaurant (GdR) that evening before returning to the hotel in the rain.

Chinchero

German met us in the hotel this time accompanied by Williams the driver of the Venga bus. First stop the impressive terraces of Chinchero.

V was not well and had been up all night opening the pigeon loft (imagine the noise a flock of birds makes when leaving a cage) on the toilet. She bravely filled herself with Imodium and came with us.

Moray

I was looking forward to seeing Moray, as I had read a little about it in my guide but also because of the name; being a place and river in Scotland. It lived up to the expectation. Moray in Scotland is not a bad place, either.

Peruvian Moray is an enormous agricultural experiment by the Incas, with each level of terracing up to 0.5°C different from its neighbour. This is a phenomenon from the air currents induced by the shape, a large circle that reminds me of the U2 video for Vertigo. Only with a better sound (the acoustics are incredible). The scale is also awe inspiring (see the photos) and V did not feel up to clambering up and down. So German and I were alone in the middle of what was originally a meteorite crater, adapted by this ancient civilisation. Crops are still grown here today.

On the subject of agriculture, most Peruvians till the soil by hand or by animal. There are few tractors. Houses are still constructed the same way as in Inca times, using mud, straw and cactus juice (to make the bricks impermeable). Testament to the durability of this method of construction are the basic Inca dwellings still standing 700 years after they were constructed.

Las Salinas de Maras

V was eager to see the salt basins which have been harvested for 3,000 years, probably due to her native region of France being close to the salt pans of Noirmoutier.

A salt water spring is forced from the mountain by tectonic movement and over 4000 basins collect the salt through evaporation. The product is still harvested by hand, with owners of the pans carrying the sacks up by hand while balancing on the ridges between the pools.

Following lunch in a local restaurant (2 euros for 3 courses) we were back on the road.

Ollantaytambo

This fortified city is staggering in its scale. It was a stepping stone on the way to and from Cuzco (one day’s travel by foot – there were no horses before the Spanish and llama can only carry about 30kg. A Norwegian is allowed to lift less. Proof that Llamas are more useful. They also smell better.  

After losing against the Spanish at Saqsaywaman, Manco Inca retreated here, before the Spanish caught up with him once more. He did give them a bit of a shoeing before running off when the Spaniards returned with their big brother and his mates.

It is not just how vast the place is, it is the quality of the stonework that also dazzles. This was the peak of Inca construction. Granite (just like Aberdeen) blocks were hewn from the quarry 6km away and dragged up to the area. The site was never finished (Aberdeen should never have been started) and huge worked stone monoliths can be seen left half way to their destination.

Access to the site was great and you were able to clamber over everything, which the reams of schoolkids did.

Pisac

There are hundreds of dogs in Peru, some a lot wiser than others. On the way to Pisac a puppy ran across the road on a collision course with us. Williams braked and we heard the yelp of the beast.

I had seen the mutt make it past our front wheels but run headlong into a rock; hence the cry of pain. Hopefully that will teach him before he meets a quicker vehicle or one with poorer brakes.

Pisac was a huge agricultural preserve and its terraces stretch as far as the eye can see. We followed the cliff hugging path for around 4km, V keeping an eye on me to ensure I didn’t fall off (almost 5 years and she still doesn’t trust me to look after myself). Equally impressive are the rotten pipe players who ask you for cash.

The site was buzzing with tourists. One girl ducked under the barriers to access the temple of the sun for a unique photo opportunity. The guard blew his whistle but by the time he ran to the temple, she was gone.

German also had to stop one Asian lady climb on the fragile walls. I can’t really have a go at the Peruvians for not looking after their heritage when visiting muppets carelessly damage them.

Have a look at the pictures.

After some lunch and the famous market we had some coffee and cake as 3 courses are just not enough and we are not yet into 3 digits in kilos.

Asian tourists take photos of everything. Snap! Here’s me in the airport. Click! Here’s me in the plane. One tourist was taking pictures of the café toilet doors. I pity the family members who have to sit through the Powerpoint presentation.

An English couple were showing off their souvenir which they had bargained hard for (so they informed the camera happy Asian lady). It was two clay bulls with a cross in-between, around 50cm high.

In Peru, all houses have these on the roof. The bulls symbolise strength and contain wheat and alcohol, so that the house will always have a (symbolic) supply of both. The cross is self explanatory, Peru being predominately Roman Catholic. Am not sure how two half-metre high bulls and a cross will look on a mantelpiece in Ipswich, though. It almost ended in tears when the Asian tourist dropped the desired/ offending object. Fate did not look favourably on them that day and the pottery was unharmed.

It was time to take in some real wildlife of our own and we visited an alpaca and llama farm. The faces of these things just make me laugh. V invested in a baby alpaca handbag. The guilt came in waves days later when she realised that said alpaca had sacrificed more than his fur for V’s fashion statement.

So very very soft though……

Ollantaytambo

We stayed in ollantaytambo overnight so to catch the early train to a non conventional stop that German had arranged with the train company. This allowed us access to the Inca trail. We shopped for supplies for the next day before eating in the Hearts Café.

Note that the café is not named after the Rangers supporters with no bus fare.

This is a project that a retired Englishwoman set-up to aid the local community. The café employs and is run by locals and is non-profit making. Funds are diverted into medicines, schools and educational materials, a refuge for victims of domestic abuse and under nourished kids. Have a look at www.heartscafe.org to see the work that they foundation does.

Inca Trail

The mythical and mystical Inca Trail can only be walked with an approved guide. Of course, German falls into that category. There are normally 2 options for the Inca Trail; a 4 day hike with 3 nights camping or a 2 day hike with one night under canvas. V and I are not so intent on being in a tent with the unwashed and being short of time, German arranged a one day trudge for us.

We climbed 600m or so in the humidity and rain, glad that it was not bright sunshine.

The lower altitude compared to Lake Titicaca helped us and the walk was actually pleasant.

It is disconcerting to see the rubbish people leave behind on the trail. It is closed in February to allow a clean up, but this surely should not be necessary. My friend, Dan Winters once organised a clean up trip to the Mourne mountains in Northern Ireland. Equipped with trousers banned by the Vatican (no piercings that I know of, though) and bin-bags, himself and other walkers collected tonnes of jetsam from fellow ‘hikers’. A little bit of responsibility is all it takes.

Winay Wayna

We picnicked (zero impact, all traces removed) with our supplies purchased in Ollantaytambo, alone with the views. Winay Wayna was an agricultural hub, supplying much needed crops to Machu Picchu farther along the trail (so an apt spot for a munch). The numerous fountains served not only as irrigation channels but for purifying those on their way to the most sacred of sites.

Intipunko (Sun gate)

We rounded the mountain to the sun gate and the sight (and site) was electrifying. Although shrouded in mist, the view of Machu Picchu was still spellbinding. I took some photos with my phone, only realising later I had some dirt on the lens. Still, have a look at the (Machu) pictures.

We wandered down to the viewing points in the Machu Picchu past the tourists who had not been on the Inca Trail (amateurs) but we did not linger long as German had the main visit scheduled for the following day.

Aguas Calientes

There is a bus service to and from Machu Picchu from the nearest town, Aguas Calientes. This is run by the same company that operates the main site of Machu Picchu. Also the catering outside the site. All very cosy. The price of entry rises more often than a pubesvent teenager’s er, temperature? while watching a Shakira video.

Aguas Calientes is even more cynical. V likened it to a ski resort – ugly, functional, soulless and expensive. In my opinion more like Paris Hilton. Food is twice the price of any other place in Peru, including Lima. The Guide de Routard (being more like the guide de Michelin than a travel book on occasion) states ‘because all food is imported (due to its isolation) frozen, defrosted then refrozen at the best you will have a terrible meal. At the worst you will be ill.’ I refused to believe the French tome until we entered the 2^nd restaurant of the night – the first was too expensive – to be met by higher prices. Not to be outdone by V on the killing fluffy animals count I ordered Alpaca. It came in the form of a square. With chips. And a totem thing carved out of sweet potato, which was not to be eaten. The waiter was pleasant and efficient and acted with élan when a cockroach made a Usain Bolt like dash across the table just after he had placed our meals in front of us.

Fortunately, we fell into the former GdR category of the food in Aguas Calientes.

Sometimes you should trust the guide.

Machu Picchu

German met us early in the morning and we took the bus up to the site.

If you follow the rules, you are not allowed to take food into Machu Picchu. This includes water. Today was toasty and to bake under the sun then have to exit to eat and drink over-priced food and beverages before re-entering is frankly shameful. So we had our rucksacs loaded with goodies. German took us around the main part of the site and explained the intricacies that are not provided in any literature or panels as part of your massive entry fee. And there are no toilets. Again you have to go outside (well I had a wee wee inside, but only V and an alpaca saw me)

German left us to it after a number of hours as we planned to climb the 600m or so up to Wayna Picchu.

Wayna Picchu

Only a limited number of visitors are allowed access to Wayna Picchu, as decreed by UNESCO to preserve the integrity of this eagles’ nest.

Both our guidebooks said that it was quite a sedate climb. The signs saying that you must be fit at the entrance to the route suggested otherwise (unless it was a spelling mistake and it meant ‘fat’).

We climbed during the cooler morning. In the afternoon when we descended there were many struggling with the even greater heat, humidity and (steeper even than the entry fee) slope.  It was harder work on the narrow stone staircase than getting a smile from a French waiter. Some particularly treacherous parts had wires and chains to hold on to. At a steady pace, the climb takes between 40 and 45 minutes from Machu Picchu.

When we reached the summit, my legs were shaking like that Stevens singing character from the 80’s. I was more than a little apprehensive about the return descent.

We picnicked out of sight of the warden with his whistle. Without the food and drink fuelling us, it would have been rather dangerous for us to negotiate the path down.

It was all worth it. The view was simply spectacular with nothing like it on earth.

As we started our return, a girl collapsed on the terrace beside us, her head bumping the earth (not the stone, thankfully). Further down the steps, passing those in the afternoon shift climbing to the site were the rescue team bearing a stretcher. No helicopter here. I didn’t fancy their forthcoming task, nor the ride down in the gurney.

Waynu Picchu - don’t always trust the guides.

We toured Macchu Picchu for a few further hours and missed the insights of German. Thanks Nico Schopf for putting us in touch with him. He is a quality item.

Back in Aguas Calientes I had a haircut (which turned out to be the only decent service we received there). We were enticed into a restaurant after a bidding war over the price of an espresso with the neighbouring establishment. Once inside I noticed that all the prices on the menu were higher than those the guy on the door had shown to us. Wilier than Reynard the Fox. Or is sly the correct term here? After a pizza that would make Massimo Chiodi call for his mama and a coffee made from cold soil (the owner tried to charge us the original price) it was time to grab the train back to Ollayantambo.

More of my gear had failed. The soles of my walking shoes were flapping like George W Bush looking for a reason to invade Iraq and my attempts to superglue them back on had only resulted in sticking some of my clothing together when the tube burst in my bag. I was praying that they would last the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu, and thankfully they never failed mid-stride like my flip flops had. They now rest in Cuzco.

Lima

Taca was the airline we used for the internal flight and on it were a number of familiar faces from the ‘Gringo Trail’, the name given to the main attractions of Peru. We were booked to stay again at the Posada del Parque, where our bottle of wine was waiting for us. Our flight was delayed due to a young guy who had a couple of seizures prior to take off. Luckily an American woman, claiming to be a nurse examined him and determined that the cause of his malady (first attack) was altitude sickness. After the all-clear, he had another attack. The nurse returned to assist and was duly informed by another (American) passenger that she thought that the victim was ‘faking it’. Of course. He was just looking for attention. He had never received enough hugs from mommy when he was a nipper.

So back to the stand and the walk of shame for the young guy and his partner. We arrived in Lima an hour late with the taxi driver organised by our hosts awaiting us. Traffic in Lima is atrocious. Especially when they are retarmaccing the main thoroughfare through the city. An hour and a half to get to our accommodation, when normally it is 20 minutes.

I don’t know about the stress levels of the driver but my knuckles were white and some other important muscles were tight, too.

Articulated lorries reversing down choked residential areas with the overspill of traffic, thrusting and darting taxis, venga buses and private cars, most equipped with a canister of gas in the boot (just like ours). For all their politeness outside of their vehicles, drivers in Lima are the most aggressive and discourteous I have come across.

We shopped for Christmas presents for the family and took a taxi back to the Posada. Since V negotiated the price he was a wee bit miffed and proceeded to tell us that it was not good for tourists to do so. Some taxi drivers have taken their clients to narrow streets before robbing them. Instead of just robbing them with the fare? I would have asked if I could speak Spanish. Once he had dropped us off, he exited his cab and pissed on the street. Classy.

There are no meters in the taxis in Peru. This means you have to negotiate every fare with the driver. The taxi pulls up to a potential customer who then leans in through the passenger window to haggle. Meanwhile, the horns blare from the bottle-necked vehicles behind. Over and over again this occurs, as the taxi hops on to the next possible client if he has not agreed a price with the first.

Peru, fit meters in your taxis. Problem solved, traffic moves, no horns.

Except that a lot of the cars don’t have horns. They have bleeps that sound like R2D2 on crack. At least the General Lee (of Dukes of Hazard fame) had a bit of style to its horn but some rabid android (don’t get me wrong I like R2D2 but I wouldn’t like to sit next to him/ her/ it on a long haul flight) chirping away frankly gets on my t*ts.

Another piece of advice: don’t buy a house near a corner or junction in Lima. Every time a Peruvian driver comes close to a crossroads or slipway, the horn/ robot imitation device is used. How about slowing down and looking instead?

Not sure if it is wrong to do so, but we returned to the sushi restaurant we visited when we arrived in Lima the first time. Again, it was superb but we limited our intake to half of what we consumed on our premier visit.  Can’t afford the jeans with the elastic waistbands, so quantity is back to French levels. Our taxi driver on the return journey (10 minutes) used his horn 14 times…….

Peru has beautiful people. The kids are so cute you want to do a Madonna and just keep them for yourself.

We thought that maybe we would be swamped by other tourists and the commercialisation would dwarf the magnitude of the whole experience. Thankfully we were wrong. A little disconcerting is the lack of care of some of the treasures of Peru by both the government and the tourists who flock to visit them. Plastic bottles on the Inca trail are not comparable to having the Nazca lines washed away or obliterated by cars, but a little more diligence and attention is needed. Peruvian schoolchildren being educated at the sites should continue forever. Peru is wondrous and should be cherished, not neglected.