I was a bit hesitant about spending half of my two week vacation to visit Machu Picchu and walk the Inca Trail since it is one of the most visited, most photographed tourist destinations in the world, but I found out why after my 4-day trek to the ancient Inca ruins.
Since the government started limiting the number of people on the trail to 500, visitors are only allowed to visit with a guided group now. Let me say that I felt a little spoiled by the treatment we received during our 4-day trip. Porters to carry bags, tents, sleeping bags; the table was set and cleared for us, food was prepared by the trail chef Jose Luis (complete with chef cap and waiter’s jacket) that was more delicious than the food I was eating in the restaurants. Pancakes with caramel flowers swirled on top, layered potato fish cakes garnished with olives and spicy tomato relish to fresh veggies carefully shaved into roses, avocado salads and pork chops wrapped in crispy bacon and melted cheese.
I was blown away at 5:30am the first morning when Cecil, the assistant guide, and a porter woke us up in our tent, standing outside in the rain with cups, hot water, and a tray containing a selection of teas and coffees. And I thought this was supposed to be camping! The three days of no showers, sleeping in a ball at the bottom of my sleeping bag since my blood was one step from solidifying into ice the second night certainly was a little rough, but the food and service was not far from a 5-star resort, a portable resort, that was transported beside us on the backs of porters.
These men carried packs three times the size of ours, walked at a pace that doubled ours so that they arrived at the lunch and camping spots to set up tents for cooking, eating, and sleeping. Some walked the trail in sandals. One guy wore a beat up pair of converse all-stars. My group admired them and we made sure they knew their efforts were appreciated.
The trail:
At mile 82, the trail begins next to the muddy Urabamba River that resembles Willy Wonka’s chocolate river in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (minus the Oompa Loompas.)
Our guide stopped us at the first marker and went over the trail rules. He had a big smile on his face but his tone was almost patronizing, like he had seen hundreds of hikers break the rules everyday. “Don’t throw trash, even if it is a biodegradable banana peel. We don’t want the little bears to change their diet to banana peels.”
Chatting with my fellow hikers, I learned we were a varied group of English speakers. Chris and Graham from Manchester were at the beginning of a year-long world tour. I felt bad that I had to ask them to repeat almost everything they said since I wasn’t used to their accent. Heck, I could understand the Spanish better! Coleta, my tentmate was a cheerful cutie from London; she had been traveling for almost seven months and was reaching the time where she would return to life, a job, and her boyfriend at home. The two gals from Austrailia, Olivia and Beejal, were also at the beginning of an extended period of travel. Poor Beejal suffered 20 times more than the rest of us, but completed the trail, sick the whole time with an awful stomach bacteria that had her doubled over in pain and unable to eat. The three Canadian guys, Davin, Adam, and Conan had taken the time off work to visit Peru and complete the trail, Adam’s lifelong dream. Adam and Conan had been best friends since they were boys when they got into a one-sided brawl. Christian, from San Francisco, kept us organized by sorting the money for the porters and organized out trail website.
Since the trail begins relatively flat, it is easy to take in the full beauty of the surrounding foliage which was a vibrant green color, speckled in natural wildflowers. The plants were those that are generally found in a dryer climate. The century plant, creosote bush, and prickly pear thrive here. Interestingly, the Incas imported the prickly pear from Mexico to breed little bugs that feed on it. When crushed, the bugs secrete a rich red liquid that they used for dyes.
I was in my element at the first lunch stop, where I was reawakened to my childhood dream to become a farmer so I could live with as many animals as I wanted. Beside the tent where our lunch was served, there were two shacks surrounded by farm animals that looked like they had walked out of the pages of a children’s storybook. White ducks waddled next to a stream, while speckled chickens and plump turkeys pecked at the ground. Rosy piglets wallowed in the mud; a silky black and white cow that looked like she had been bathed in buttermilk looked up as we tramped by. An old wooly black sheep relaxed in the shade in front of the shack occupied by a family that has probably occupied the space for a long time, protected by the government so that their land can not be taken. I smiled at the shy but curious children, greeting them as I passed by.
After the first steep section of the trail, our efforts were rewarded with the first view. Teetering on the edge of the cliff with the ease of an expert was a donkey munching on grass. Behind him was a view of the mountains and valley below. The green giants were softened by a light mist so that they appeared unreal—as if they were painted by the brushstrokes of an artist. In the distance, the clouds had opened and the green mountains parted to reveal the brilliant snow covered ice queen, Mt. Veronica at 5860 meters.
We ambled past snowmelt streams, their origins high in the mountains, rushing past us in the opposite direction, in a hurry to meet their former melted flake friends in the choco Urabamba River below. Colobris (hummingbirds) dressed in metallic green suits vibrated with a purpose in the bushes, while hundreds of tiny yellow, pink, and purple flowers pop up—their blooms turned toward the path, watching and cheering on the trekkers from all over the world. The trekkers’ admiration pushing the vain flowers to look their best, while the bright colors of the flowers gives the trekkers energy, rooting them along.
The second day of the trail is known for being the most challenging, reaching peaks of 4,200m, where the air is so thin it is hard to catch a breath of it. I began the day feeling a bit tired since I found it hard to sleep in the high altitude. However, amazingly, my energy level began to rise with the altitude. The higher I climbed, the higher I felt.
The last section of the climb before the pass was on the edge of a steep drop-off overlooking a clearing where llamas and horses where grazing, the size of ants from my perspective. The vegetation was sparse, dry—faded to an end-of summer blonde in juxtapose to the rich color below.
I had broken away from the group to zone out and listen to some music. Fitting, the song that came on the last five minutes of my climb was Mana’s Viver Sin Aire, the lyrics
“Como pretendo poder viver sem ar? Como pretendo poder viver sem água”
“How could you live with out air…how could you live without water”
Both of which, I had run out of.
Once the group congregated at the pass, we headed down the other side where menacing clouds had gathered in the cloud forest below and were rolling toward us in a bitter wind. Forced to change from a tank top and shorts to fleece-lined coat, pants, and alpaca wool gloves and hat, I shuffled down for three hours toward the camp. Hungry and tired since we had not yet had lunch, we arrived, dragging our feet into the camp, where the clapping porters greeted us with lukewarm purple Kool-Aid.
Conversation of the usual topics—scary movies, computer game technology, travel stories, and politics (which we tried to stay away from)—ceased during dinner that night as we devoured our food.
Later, I sat with our guide, Washington, to try to learn about the people of the region beyond what we see as tourists. Washington had a knack for really drawing you in as he described the sights and the mysteries of the Incas. You could tell that he was very passionate about the history and the land. “What does Papitcha mean?” a name he called the porters when we were looking for something.
“It is a name of respect in Quechua, the native language.”
I was surprised to learn that Spanish is the second language that people only learn if they attend school. I was pleased know that even with the all the tourism, so much of their heritage has been retained; even though I’m sure an indescribable amount has been lost. I learned that the local people still have sacrificial ceremonies, usually with llamas. “When I drink a beer,” he explained, “I always pour the first taste on the ground for Pachamama (Mother Earth) to give back for providing.”
He also described that people still frequently visit shamans. “Sometimes I go out very far in the mountains with groups. I take stones and dirt from the campsites. I bring these to a shaman. The shaman gives back a blessing or something in return for these.”
He didn’t clarify what exactly the shaman gives back, but I’m guessing it varies with the situation. This act apparently ensures that the porters and trekkers stay safe and healthy during the trip. I could tell that he was very concerned about the well-being of everyone, and that he was extremely distressed when an unfortunate member of our group fell sick.
A part of the conversation that really struck me as intriguing were these pockets of bad energy he told me about that form in areas that have gone untouched for hundreds of years. Bad things can come to people unlucky enough to stumble upon one of these spots. I didn’t get a chance to ask since it was bednight snack time, but I wondered if there were also places with good energy and maybe my euphoria that day was brought on by one.
That night, the clouds rolled away, revealing billions of the brightest stars we had ever seen. Looking up at the sky in awe, I had a grin from ear to ear—all around me, people exclaiming, “Wow, did you see that one?!”
Unfortunately the temperature dropped without the cloud blanket. Coleta and I chatted about traveling, boyfriends, relationships When she drifted away I listened to our guides gossiping in Spanish in the tent next to us until I could only hear a chorus of soft snoring from the neighboring tents—wishing to join the band, but the cold and an altitude headache were deterring my slumber. I finally fell into a light sleep but woke up every hour, finding myself like Hiram Bingham found the Inca mummies, in fetal position, rolled in a ball at the bottom of my sleeping bag, using my breath to warm myself. I tucked my gloved hands under my arms and chattered the night away. ***Clarification to readers-Bingham found mummies in fetal position in the Inca ruins, NOT in the bottom of my sleeping bag. Although, I may have invited them in that night if they promised to keep me warmer.***
The third day was the longest and hardest for me. An eight hour day of ups and down, that ends with an unreasonable three hour descent known as the Gringo Killer. The trail took us down in the humid cloud forest where the thick sticky air sticks to the skin like an invisible coat. Thick tropical vegetation lined the trail which was wet and slippery from light but constant rainfall.
The terraces showed themselves upon the steep mountainsides, still intact from the Incas. Here they grew their potatoes, yucca, avocado, coca leaves and other crops to avoid having to work in the cloud rainforest where diseases such as malaria, dengue, and yellow fever are rampant. Each level of the terraces differs about five degrees in temperature providing a separate climate resulting in better growing conditions for each crop. Aqueducts transport water from the streams that lace themselves around the mountains.
The altitude affected me going down instead of up, and I decided that it may be symbolizing to only go up on life’s path. But as we know that is impossible, what goes up must come down. While doing so, I began experiencing a strange tingling sensation around my lips and mouth. Soon my arms where tingling from my fingertips to my elbows. I felt a bit dizzy and when I stopped to take a break, my eyes became glazed, at one point everything went white and I began hyperventilating slightly. After calming down, I pushed myself to relax and continue. During the three hour descent, I became very silly, humming, singing, twirling my bamboo walking stick like a majorette in a walking band, (until I bonked myself in the head and decided that this was not the proper use of equipment on a slippery stone path at the edge of a cliff.)
At one point, I looked up in time to see a wide rainbow that was angled so that it appeared to be laying on the side of a mountain, pouring itself into the town of Aguas Calientes, the town closest to Machu Picchu. Forty minutes later, a full rainbow connected the tops of two peaks. Oh how I wished I could be a Care Bear that could walk over the rainbow and slide down the opposite side to find myself on Machu Picchu.
The campsite on the third night of the trail actually has a restaurant/bar and hot showers, so after three days of sweating without washing, just when I thought I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore, I was able to get clean. Although, it didn’t last very long since immediately afterward, I went dancing in the smoky bar. That night, I discovered that one beer at a high altitude is equal to two, therefore two equal to four. So after two beers, I probably didn’t need another, nor a shot of tequila, but Adam, Washington, Cecil, and Jose Luis had a fun time at the bar where Washington showed me up on the dance floor, when he called me out on my fake salsa.
Fascinatingly, that was the first night I slept well. Apparently, I only needed to drink tequila the first couple of nights. At 3:30am, we were up and packing to be the first in line for when the gates would open at 5:30am. We were the second group in line and I grew uneasy waiting there, nervous about the last two hours of the trail. Washington had warned that it was a rat race—people shoving you off the cliff to be first to the Sun Gate for the first view of Machu Picchu. I was determined to walk at a steady pace and not get pushed off the cliff. I think that he may have been exaggerating because I was only passed by two people, who were actually quite cordial.
At the steep stone staircase just before the Sun Gateway, I thought I reached the point where I would not be able to take another step, but pushed myself, crawling up on my hands. Near the top, I looked back down to see Coleta and Conan just starting. “This sucks,” I yelled back down unsupportively.
At the top, I realized I had been fooled! This was the Sun Gate, where we were supposed to see the sunrise over the great Machu Picchu, but all I could see was a great big mass of clouds. Talk about false advertising.
Since it was starting to rain, our group stomped down to the snack bar where we used proper toilets and had breakfast. Then we waited…. and waited ….. I earnestly watched the clouds beside the snack bar, waiting, wishing to be the first to spot a stone wall to those familiar ruins. Two hours later, the clouds had lifted slightly, but I still couldn’t see anything. I was surprised when Washington announced that it was time to see Machu Picchu, since I was sure they were still obscured. It turned out the walls were not even located in the spot I was looking, but back up the trail about five minutes. We had walked right through them without even knowing. It is a good thing I am not a famous explorer like Hiram Bingham, who rediscovered Machu Picchu in 1911.
I was glad that Washington walked us through Machu Picchu explaining all of the different areas, which really brought it back to life. Instead of walking through and seeing a bunch a hefty strategically-placed rocks on top of a mountain, in the middle of beautiful scenery, I saw the area where bodies where found, the mummies in the fetal position, which is how the dead Incas were laid to rest. I felt the energy radiating from the sun dial, Intihuatang, “hitching post of the sun” that is aligned with the four surrounding mountains on each side and is believed to have been used as an astro-agricultural clock. I saw the indent of the rocks inside the King’s room, where Pachacuti probably watched while a servant grinded the rock to make chichi beer for the King. He would have poured some onto the Earth to thank Pachamama for the beer. I marveled at the ingenious curvature of the rocks around corners that the Incas carved, so the walls were able to withstand earthquakes, which they have done for over 500 years. I saw the sections of the ruins that embody the three symbols of the Incas, the puma that represents strength, the condor who transports souls to the heavens, and the snake, (I forget).
It wasn’t until our group broke apart when Coleta and I were caught in a llama stampede. One minute we were walking toward the exit, the next, thrust against the wall by the herd. I shut my eyes and my mouth tightly and looked away, fearing that one cheeky llama might hawk a big-smelly llama loogy at me, buy luckily they left me in peace (besides trampling me) saving their spit for another llama during a tussle.
While traveling, especially in close quarters, camping like we did, you get to know people very quickly and create friendships. I felt sad when the group went their separate ways that day. After four days of encouragement, chatting, and laughter, I felt like we had formed a bond that was hard to let go of, returning to solo travel. However, we all met up the following night in Cusco for dinner, drinks, and dancing, and now I have made many new friends in different parts of the world that will easy to say hello to with Internet technology. Five hundred years ago the Incas did not have these benefits. The people that walked the Inca trail back then probably said more permanent goodbyes.
Before leaving that day, I took one last flight of stairs, promising my legs a rest afterwards. At the Temple of Heaven, I looked out at the view I have seen hundreds of times on postcards, poster and magazines. But today, it was not the happy blue sky, bright green peaks behind the bold Inca walls—wispy translucent clouds drifted around the ruins, like the spirits of old Inca kings watching over their ancient peak.
