Pinnacle
The first bus to the ruins departs at 7am, and despite our best efforts, we didn’t make it to that one. We got to the dining room of the hotel for breakfast, and found several of the Europeans we’d spotted in the shade at Ollantaytambo finishing theirs, their shoulders already laden with backpacks and camera bags, ready for the rush to get to the ruins before too many people got up there to spoil the view. The hotel let us pack our bags and leave them in the foyer under lock and key until our return, and we set off for what was, for me at least, the pinnacle of the trip.
We were on time to catch the 7:20am bus (second for the day), but found we had to pre-purchase our tickets at another office in the town before boarding. The buses were once again those small, knee crunching affairs, but this time it was only to be for a few minutes each way. We were to subsequently learn you actually could buy the entrance ticket at the entrance to the park, just that they tried to encourage pre-purchases to cut down on queues. By the time we got back to the bus terminus, we were in the queue for the 7:50 service, and the numbers were definitely beginning to swell, though not yet enough to take the bus beyond capacity.
Within a short time, the bus pulled away and took us to the eastern end of the town before crossing the Urubamba and starting the ascent. Most of the track to the summit is a single lane, gravel track that zigzags its way up the mountainside. There is also a footpath to the summit, which consists almost entirely of mossy stone steps, which a handful of walkers take. Had I the health and energy, and had I woken at 4am, I might’ve considered the two hour ascent, but I’m quite certain I’d have been doing that walk alone. The bus had us there in around 10 minutes. The services are timed with impressive co-ordination: at specific locations along the track, a turnout has been bulldozed to allow the ascending and descending buses to cross. Along the entire track, they rarely miss by more than thirty seconds or so.
As we ascended I again found myself craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the ruins, and at times was fortunate enough to spot them high overhead. Of more interest though, was the view in the other direction. On the shoulder of the track, the drop off was steep, leaving an uninterrupted view back down over the town, and the twisting course of the river. The remnants of the morning storm clouds still clung delicately to the valley walls, shrouding everything in mist. I can imagine that if Hiram Bingham had arrived here at this time of year, it would surely have added to the sense of wonder about the place. It felt like I was in the Biggles book, making the final climb up into the heavens to the lost city. He, of course, didn’t have the assistance of mechanised transport.
The bus driver crunched the gears noisily and we swirled into a carpark. Off to the left was the very exclusive, and at around AUD$500+/night, very expensive Machu Picchu Sanctuary Lodge. There were large numbers of American and European retirees beginning to emerge from there, but aside from them, a handful of the morning arrivals from the Inca Trail and the two preceding busloads for the morning, the place was empty.
There was a bit of back and forth as we had to leave the backpacks in storage at the entrance. Nothing bigger than a small camera bag is allowed in without permission, though we saw quite clearly that the application of this rule depends largely on the mood of the ticket inspector at the entrance. When we finally got through the gate, I was missing my anti-gastro medication (though admittedly now it was more of a security blanket than effective treatment), as well as backup battery and CF card for my camera. I had specifically cleared my cards the night before so I could pop off a good 200+ images, but now I was constricted to half that, and would have to be a lot more deliberate about what I shot. It was (almost) like shooting on film again.
As we headed into the citadel, the heaviness of the air, combined with the steepness of the tracks, and my own poor state, made the stone staircases tough going. We paused for a while near a small hut, allowing a film crew, who were lugging large digital betacams, tripods and sound equipment, to pass. I felt even more exhausted just watching them. We later saw them further up the mountainside, apparently shooting a documentary. They were definitely earning their money and the perk of being here, having to lug that stuff around.
We headed towards the Sun Gate first, the point where the Inca Trail descends from the high altitude pass into the park. Steep terraces dropped away along the top of the mountain, before plunging off into a sheer drop to the valley below. A number of Llamas roamed freely around the complex, I’m assuming they were the primary means for keeping the grass clipped, and for the most part, they did their best to ignore the people now beginning to swarm around their territory. The number of coloured dots appearing around the park was increasingly steadily, as bus after bus brought the barbarian hordes up from the valley below. No doubt, there were now queues of people waiting to get on the buses at the departure point.
For the next couple of hours we wandered through the ruins, examining some of the finely constructed huts, and occasionally tagging along with the official tours. For some reason, I found that when I stopped to recuperate a little, the tour guides would arrive with a group in tow, and start talking to me as though I was their most fervent student. A number of people were wearing shorts, and had paid the price, with large ugly insect bites looking red and bloody on their legs. I was glad I’d worn my jeans, despite the discomfort of the heat. We could see people up on the much higher peak of Huayna Picchu, and as much as I wanted to get up there, the prospect of a steep, two hour round trip was not one I relished at this point. I was prone to dizzy spells as it was, and having one set in on that particular path could lead to a permanent change in health.
I almost changed my mind when I watched a bunch of septuagenarians march off to make the ascent, but then I figured, they’ve lived (most of) their lives already, if bad luck should befall them here, it’s not like there’s a hell of a lot more for them to miss out on, and let’s face it, there are far worse places for them to finish in. For me however, I could feel another fire hose episode coming on, and was starting to feel the need to get off the mountain as soon as I could. I resigned myself to doing the Huayna Picchu trek some other day. I had already been pondering the necessity for me to return to Peru for another, much longer trip. For the month I was spending here I was seeing a lot, but still missing huge areas, including the north and the jungle. This missed opportunity simply clinched it for me…as much as I was now clenching.
We hobbled back to the parking area, collected our bags, tried to use the toilets there—already rather fouled within the first few hours of use by tourists—then boarded the bus. We got the last two seats, and ended up at opposite ends of the vehicle, but we were at least, on our way back down. As we descended, we were accompanied by a young boy, dressed in traditional robes, who ran down the steps of the walking track, to wave to us as we passed and yell out a farewell. He met us at every turn (and after the first two, I felt sure that at some point we’d be asked for a tip), and when we reached the bottom of the climb, the driver stopped the bus, and the boy boarded. He called a farewell in a variety of languages, before proceeding through the bus to collect his tips. Given how unfit I was feeling, I had to appreciate his effort, and tipped him 5 soles, which was apparently a large tip. Edgard (unimpressed) told me they also run up the track to welcome arrivals, however that hadn’t happened for us. Had the kid done that, I’d probably have given him my wallet.
As a final thrill (for those of us sitting in the back seat of the bus at least), the turnout for the buses was such that they reversed out to hang the rear of the bus out over the churning rapids of the Urubamba as it pushed through the town. The two British women beside me hadn’t been paying attention as we reversed, and very nearly climbed out the window when they realised they were sitting over a drop of several metres. Simple pleasures.
From the bus, we drifted into the central plaza in search of the government offices. A national census was fast approaching (tomorrow in fact, also the day we were due to fly to Arequipa) and there were restrictions on all movement by Peruvian nationals unless they had permission to travel. Edgard needed to complete the paperwork for this today in order to be able to travel tomorrow. You could tell we were in a provincial town, because the official had stepped out of the office for five minutes, but not returned in the thirty minutes we waited for him.
We went and had lunch, ensuring we got a place with a clear view of the office in case he came back. I ate nothing but some Jewish penicillin (chicken noodle soup), and I couldn’t finish that. Still, I was getting some appetite back, and wasn’t feeling as dehydrated as the night previous. I took up some time in the establishment’s restroom, leaving an odour that would deter any prospective customers, and when I returned to the table, we saw the office was open. Edgard left to attend to the paperwork at the office, but in the time it took for him to go downstairs and cross the plaza, the official had left again for another five minutes. We decided to deal with this when we got back to Cusco, as there was a better chance of finding the office open there.
We wandered back to the hotel, collected our baggage, and went back to the station to wait for the train. There, we had access to some decent toilets (they’d become a priority for me), and before long, they were calling for us to board. Again, we could only get tickets to Ollantaytambo, so when we got off there and pushed into the throngs of taxi and colectivo drivers, I was glad when Edgard located one who would take us to Cusco for a decent price. Somewhere along the way, the driver stopped to collect some cargo—several large trays of fresh eggs, and some bags of something else—from an acquaintance. I remember little else from the trip back, other than that it seemed to pass much faster than the trip into Ollantaytambo the day before.
When we got back into Cusco, we caught another taxi to the Casa Andina. It turned out we had an interior room, hence why it was so cheap. From the inside it had all the appearances of a regular room, but the view was of the corridor outside. At least it was only for one night, the hotel was comfortable enough, and we’d get a good sleep for sure. We went out to locate the offices for Edgard to get his travel authorisation.
The afternoon became consumed with finding said offices, as they’d moved from their official offices near the plaza, and the directions we got from a police officer for their temporary location were less than complete. Eventually we found them on the top floor of a colonial office building, in a drafty room with nowhere to sit and wait, and he proceeded to get the necessary permission while I stood in the background and tried not to look too obvious as a tourist (I failed).
With the authorisation in hand, we returned to the hotel to sleep for a while before meeting one of Edgard’s cousins for dinner. That plan lasted about an hour before we were woken by the sound of loud tinny music and lots of laughter. It sounded like someone was having themselves quite a party in their room. For half an hour or so, I tried my best to sleep through it, but they were clearly not going to settle down.
I dragged myself out of bed and got dressed; deciding to go looking for where the party was so I could quote the room number when I complained to the hotel. Turned out it wasn't in someone’s room but the lobby just down the hall from us, and to add to the torture, it was the tour group that had ridden the train with us from Ollantaytambo. One of the Australians was a bit of a Mac geek, and he’d slung together a slideshow on keynote or something similar, and added a cheesy soundtrack. They’d then all gathered around his teeny MacBook, turned up the volume to distort on his tinny MacBook speakers; then proceeded to ooh and aah and chortle as each image dissolved into the next, as though they were the only people in the hotel.
It was time to meet Edgard’s cousin in the plaza a few blocks away. My neurosis about being punctual ensured we were there early, and her being a mother of a young child ensured she was late. While we waited, a stray dog kept trying to nestle close to us. It was obviously unwell. Numerous ticks were visible around its muzzle and the poor thing was trying to get someone to scratch it to relieve the itching and dislodge the parasites. I decided that person was not going to be me, so we moved elsewhere.
We’d not long resettled before numerous art students tried to sell me their sketches, drawings and paintings. Most of the images were beautiful renderings of the icons of the region, and cheap to boot, but I was still being strict with myself about buying lots of souvenirs and handicrafts to take home. I had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should’ve bought a lot more at Chinchero, and it was to stay with me for the rest of the trip.