In my younger, stronger years, I spent six months living in Nepal. I’ve been told that the mountain culture of Peru and Bolivia is in many ways similar to that of the Nepali Himalayas. Indeed, as we rolled into Cusco, I noticed startling similarities between these gems of natural beauty and ancient culture. To wit: the air was thin like watery soup choked with exhaust fumes and dust, and automobiles and motorcycles swarmed the streets, turning this way and that, swerving around one another and honking violently without provocation (in this way, it is true, Peru differs from Nepal, where the honking is constant, and makes a little sense. In Peru, it is intermittent, and makes no sense).
Aaron coolly piloted St. Phoenix through the crush, as only a veteran of Buenos Aires’ frantic streets could, and ere long we had ascended to the historical district; a place of beautiful monuments, squares, and churches, ringed by cobblestone streets, many of which run up hills at angles most roofers would prefer not to shingle.
After some searching, we settled on a hostel in a quiet(er) corner of this maelstrom of history and tourism as a base of operations for our endeavors of the next week.
Our second afternoon in Cusco, we spent on a tour (an actual tour. Featuring other tourists. We were a little disappointed in ourselves) of the city. Or rather, of the various Inca landmarks of the city. Moving quickly through landmarks, following a stubby man named Fabian who waggled a string ornament woven of the Cusco region’s colors and cried bilingually “GRUPO SOL! SUN’S GROUP!” to his sheeplike flock. We toured a ruined fortress, a burial ground, an observatory, and a souvenir market. The adventure highlight of the day came when we ran out of cash whilst purchasing our General Passes for tourism in the Cusco region, and had to borrow money from Fabian at a steep interest rate.
The next day, more flusher with mammon, we took a bus tour of the Sacred Valley. The Sacred Valley sites were much like those in the Cusco City Tour, but larger. We saw terraces and remnants of Incan walls virtually without limit, ate at a buffet for a discount rate, and chatted with other travelers. In short, it was a touristy day, but well worth the sheepishness. The small town of Ollanty Tambo, erected on foundations built by the Incas was a particular highlight. Both tours concluded in the dark, dropping us off along the historic squares of Cusco.
Another short night in the thin air, and we were off on a bargain-bin transportation option to Machu Piccu--jammed into a van with a motley assortment of other cash-strapped tourists, making origami out of our legs, and attempting not to vomit on each other. The drive was long, the day was hot, and the road twisted up and down mountains, from pavement to gravel to dirt. We were forced, several times to back up down the road because it was too narrow for us to pass oncoming traffic. On one such occasion, our rear tire was within inches of a pothole on the edge of a cliff, causing many in the van to declare it a Narrow Escape.
We hiked two hours from the end of the van ride along train tracks through the cloud forest into the tiny hamlet of Aguas Caliente, which serves the needs of the congregated gawkers at the greatness of the ancients. We secured a hostel, made ourselves tomato sandwiches, and went to bed.
We rose at 4:30, and grumblingly set off Once again eschewing the popular and expensive preferred mode of travel (trains and buses) we tromped up an endless stair sloshing through puddles and rain, arriving in the early morning gloom at the gates of the ancient city.
Though crowd density was low, cloud density was high, and whether by mist or moist travelers, much of the city was obscured. We spent most of the day amongst the ruins, taking photos and eavesdropping on tours. Around midday, we set our sodden, pre-flogged legs to stairs of Machu Piccu Mountain.
We climbed, and climbed, and climbed. One foot in front of the other, up and up, through the thin air, struggling up eternal flights of stone stairs. And then, just as we thought we couldn’t endure another step, the sun came out, and added heat to our misery. Over and over, we reminded one another that the view from the summit would be well worth the agony of the ascent. The words were still on our lips when we rounded a corner out onto the top and saw…white. A big ol’ blank sky of cloud.
Mumbling feebly about waiting for the sun, we walked to an overhanging ledge where other hikers had gathered. Despite signs repeatedly forbidding the consumption of food within the park, everyone at the top of the mountain was busily eating. And then the clouds rolled back, and Machu Piccu was revealed. The summit of the mountain became something of a party. Cameras, food, and exercise endorphins. A good time was had by all.
As we wobbled back down the mountain, we kept up the bonhomie by conversing with a Swedish chemist, who greatly impressed us by describing his day-to-day life. Chemists are crazy, yo.
We made a feeble attempt to re-explore Machu Picchu with sunlight, but our legs weren’t having it, so we made for the town. In town, we dragged our leaden legs back to the hostel, rubbed our sunburn, and considered the irony of being sunburnt, damp, and dehydrated, all at once.
In the evening, we committed our Splurge of the Trip by visiting a truly exquisite restaurant hidden in the back-streets of Aguas Caliente, named Indio Feliz, recommended to us by Reuben and Vicki Sairs, professors of Aaron and mine at Rosedale Bible College in the good old days. The list of matters in which I feel I can trust the opinion of Reuben and/or Vicki is vast, and following my quiche/salmon/fruit salad dinner at Indio Feliz, the list is one item vaster.
With expanded stomachs and high spirits, we returned to our hostel. The two-hour hike back to the bus stop seemed a jaunt, the van-ride itself a brevity, and the dull ache in our legs merely a reminder of Grandeur Achieved.
Naturally, the hike was long, the van ride characterized by even less space than the first edition, not to mention a number of interesting grinding, cracking, clicking noises erupting from the wheels and axles as we whipped around mountain curves, and our legs still hurt, when the grandeur was gone. But for one last night, in Aguas Caliente, such trifles could not stir more than a ripple from our satisfied souls.
Note: If you were hoping to read about our abortive attempt to take our fate in our hands and the Peruvian legal system’s successful attempt to prevent us from doing so, just hang around one update longer. It’ll be there.
