Peru – The Inca trail to Machu Picchu – Part 1

It started several months ago. I looked at a picture of Machu Picchu and decided to put it in my bucket list. My friend Tomi, an avid hiker, did me one better. “Let’s hike there!” The plan was set, volunteers were called for. Friends from all over pledged their allegiance and we were making plans in earnest before we knew it. Reality decided to upset the plans and timing for some of us, and by the time we started training for the hikes we had a roster of 6. Along the way, we learned about altitude sickness, heard scare stories of friends who had tried the trail and turned back. We gritted our teeth, hit the trails around Seattle harder and faster, rain or shine, and the gyms on the week days: hoping we’re doing enough for the challenge up ahead.

By the time we sat down with our guides in Cuzco city at 10000 ft for the briefing, we were bouncing between nervousness and anticipation. Landing in the city hadn’t been a fun experience: we all found it hard to breathe, so we had serious doubts about hiking up here. But over the next couple of days we settled in, and loved it. It reminded me of hill stations back home: Ooty was the closest, although that might just be because Ooty too had smoke spewing automobiles that threatened to ruin it. For more on our days in Cuzco, check out Divya’s post.

We woke up at 3 am the next day and headed to the bus. One of us had an upset stomach but for the most part we were fine, just sleepy. Our roster had already been whittled down to 5: one of our friends had visa issues and hadn't made it. We were lumped in with others to make a total group of 11. We cast each other a bleary eye and went right back to sleep on the bus ride.

After a short stop for breakfast, we finally hit kilometer 82: the start  of the trail proper. I opened my eyes to find us ringed by mountains, it already seemed like we were on top of the world: were we really going to go higher? Porters had set up bases all around us, a football match was already underway. My mind briefly wandered to South Africa: a world away the greatest sporting event on the planet was happening. I could have been curled up on a couch with a beer watching it right now. Was I crazy? Was I so short on time that I had to do this right now? Couldn’t it wait? I looked up and around once more. No.

We ran between train tracks and made our way to the starting checkpoint. To do the Inca Trail you must have a qualified guide, and we had 2. Raul was our main guide, Joshin his assistant, as well as the Andean doctor on the hike. He carried the oxygen tank that should help with any projectile vomiting we hit on the way. I had been popping Diamox the past couple of days. No signs of illness yet.

Day one was vistas, dung and flies. In that order. We got our passports stamped, crossed the bridge and began the trek. We were following the valley on one side, the Urubamba river ran down its center. On the other side were the train tracks and the feet of the mountains. Veronica was a little behind us: she was the second highest peak in the Cuzco region. She towered majestically, the sun reflecting off her snow clad sides, a plume of smoke rising from her top.

There are several villages on the way, a steady stream of donkeys were being shepherded between them. Hence the dung, and where there’s dung there’s bugs. We were hiking what our guide called Inca flats: more or less level ground with a gentle ascent. It was hot sweaty work, but every now and then a faint breeze would come by and our troubles would go away. We faced our first challenge, a constant heavy ascent for a few minutes: I was winded at the end but recovered quickly. It seemed like all the training was paying off.

Right after the ascent we were rewarded with our first major Inca site of the trip: Patallacta. We walked over flat meadows to a windy, rocky outcrop. We sat down and rested against our backpacks while Raul and Joshin took turns talking about the site. My head drowned  them out, as I took in the valley below. All I could listen to was the gusts of wind. I stared down at the site and wondered how much any of this had changed in 500 years. I heard them say something about how the Spanish destroyed their heritage, and I pondered again about the similarity between us Indians and these Andeans. Proud, old, creative people bearing the scars of a recent subjugation. A lot of resentment. A lot of talk of what might have been if the invaders had not destroyed us. Were we really so blameless? Perhaps we would have visited the same evils on our neighbors: perhaps we did just that at an earlier time. History is so complex, legend so uncomplicated by fact. Maybe the view was making me wax a little too philosophical.

We hit the camp for lunch: the porters had already set up a food tent, given us hot water and soap to wash our hands in. I felt guilty, accepting such treatment from people who had essentially gotten here in half the time. It was eased a little by the fact that we had chosen Llamapath: a company that prides itself in treating its porters well. They were the first to give their porters health insurance and good gear for the hike. The rest, belonging to big name brands like Gap Adventures were not so lucky: the porters were responsible for their own gear, so they made the trek in whatever they could afford. Had I been born anywhere else, this could easily have been my plight. The lunch bell put such heavy thoughts out of my mind.

It was a four course meal. Cooked by a man sitting in a tent drawing water from a stream. Amazing! After lunch, we had a short siesta, then set off for the rest of the hike. I found it hard to shake off the sluggishness that had set in during lunch. Add to that, the trail was getting harder. We reached a checkpoint where out guides stayed behind to fill out paperwork. We slowly trudged the remaining hour to our camp site. I felt like I was wading in a swimming pool.

Finally we reached the camp. The twilight made the mountains look still and somber. We washed up and had a little “Meet the Porters” ceremony. They were young and old, but they all looked like they had endured a lifetime of hard labor. I reminded myself to be thankful for the life I get to live, once more. Over dinner, our guide talked about Peru’s recent political history. I have to say, this was my favorite part of the whole trip. Sitting in that tent with a day of hiking behind me, I had soaked up enough of the local culture to feel I could appreciate this story. And Raul was a master story teller. He told us of the rise and fall of Fujimori, how he had lifted the country out of the backwaters they had been relegated to and built a tourism industry while fighting terrorists. By the time the story ended - with Fujimori running to Japan because he had been found to be smuggling cocaine, colluding with the very people he had spent a decade fighting – I was baffled: can power corrupt a person so absolutely?

With these heavy thoughts I hit the sack. Today was hard, but tomorrow was going to be do or die.