I'M AT: Las Bromelias, a cheap and squeeky hostel in Aquas Calientes, which is a touristy place at the bottom of the hill leading up to Macchu Picchu. The receptionist told us we had 'chikkipikki' luggage so that became, hoho, the word of the day. How we all laughed.
I managed to miss by some six months any availability on the Inca Trail, which is tightly regulated to minimise ecological damage, so me and Mark decided to approximate one of the organised tours ourselves, trying to save some dough in a place where every little thing costs a fortune. We also wanted to do as much physical work as possible to get up there, in a bid to suffer at least some of the rigours of the trail, and without a doubt we did.
The first thing you pay through the nose for is the train from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes, which, until it hits the Rio Urubamba, is also a pretty boring ride. There's no other way of getting there, so they have you over a barrel, albeit a barrel of exquisite Inca design. We got off the train early, at KM114, which is the start of an alternative (shorter) Inca trail (but one which is also tightly regulated, so all we could do was to go over the large wooden bridge and back). The conductor shook his head as the train pulled away, and for the next 5 or 6 kilometres we bumped over the large gravel chips of the railway, deep in subtropical forest, by the green rush of the Urubamba. We passed a number of blackened and creased porters taking a short cut from the main Inca trail, ahead of their groups.
On arrival we stashed gear and ate probably the most expensive pizza I've ever had in a riverside restaurant, not a wise choice. A bloke on the shore broke rocks open, and bluebirds swooped. And from there we went further down the railway to a disappointing waterfall, which despite all the PachaMama shit they give you here is locked away behind a rusting gate, and you have to pay the landowner for the privelidge of visiting it. It wasn't worth it, but we were getting the hikes we needed. That night we ate a tiny meal and scrunched our toes into the gravel as some fit Brazilian birds bounced around in the thermal baths.
Now, you can take a bus up to Macchu Picchu, or you can walk. There's kudos in being up there early whichever option you take, and if you're lucky you get to see the sun rise over the city, and over Wayna Picchu, that steep, inverted V of rock in the background of the classic photo that comes to mind whenever you think of Macchu Picchu.
And we were lucky, and on time, and the sky was clear, and we witnessed all of this.
The walk up was hard, no doubt, up an Incan staircase. We left in the dark at five and arrived at about six, keeping up the record of beating the approximate time of any walk we do. At points the walk is block on block on block of stone, steeply rising. There's no way of resting your muscles between steps until you get near the top, so you get knackered pretty quickly.
Anyhoo. Wet with sweat, and the sun rose, and it was breathtaking. We spent a hot morning exploring the city - it's pretty big and much of it's well-preserved, and it's ruthlessly functional. We also heard, from Katha, that the guides tell people that it was designed by the Incas to resemble the shape of a condor. But what absolute bollocks. If this were true, there would be parts of the high plateau that weren't covered in agricultural terraces, or buildings, for aesthetic reasons, and believe me, some of the terraces are nearly vertical. They made use of all the space they had.
But well, blimey, Macchu Picchu eh? It's far more impressive than you think it will be, because it's so well designed, and so atmospheric, far more so than you would have imagined. Some of the walks round the city take you to sheer drops, so awe is partly, on my part at least, inspired also by fear.
Later that day we walked to the Sun Gate, which, coming from the other direction, is the first time the trekkers get a glimpse of the city; and I went to the Inca Bridge, cut into the rockface round the back - about where you'd put the bins out - and which previously a visitor had fallen off and died, while Mark went up Wayna Picchu. He later told me that some people were crying up there, the stairs were unforgiving and some over sheer, sheer drops, down to a bumping rock death.
But. Anyway. Macchu Picchu, eh? Done.
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