Cusco and Machu Picchu

Kirsten and I flew from Lima to Cusco, one-time power center of the Inca empire and currently the hub of Machu Picchu tourism. With its clean air, imposing churches, whitewashed homes built on Inca stone foundations, and quaint squares, Cusco is a definite step up from the capital.




We toured a couple of good museums in Cusco (lots of Inca artifacts, as well as some from other native tribes), walked through the central market (vegetables, flowers, housewares, and a meat section that made me briefly consider becoming a vegetarian for the remainder of our trip), and wandered around the streets and alleys, all the while adjusting to the altitude of 11,000 feet.

Our second day in Cusco, we met our travel partners. In one of many trip-planning e-mails, Kirsten told me that her coworker's brother and his friend were thinking about traveling in Peru, and that she'd invited them to join us if the timing worked out. She added something like, "I hope you don't mind, and don't worry; if they turn out to be tools, we can just tell them we want to do our own thing." As we got to know Jeremy and Eric, we were happy to learn that they are not tools; they're both fun and easy-going and we were glad to have them along (and not merely for Eric's pharmaceutical knowledge and supply of medicine, which came in handy when Kirsten got sick on the way to Machu Picchu).

The day after they arrived, we were off on our four-day bike/hike to Machu Picchu. We started out in a minivan that picked us up an hour late, stopped by a couple of other hotels, and then waited, inexplicably, for about an hour on the side of a Cusco street. Eventually we were on our way out of town and into the beautiful countryside. We made a brief bathroom/shopping stop, and soon after that started going up (and up and up) some switchbacks that didn't agree with Jeremy's stomach.

We got out of the van at about noon and climbed on our mountain bikes to begin a descent of just over 10,000 feet. Soon after we started, Jeremy turned to Eric to tell him that his stomach troubles had subsided and that he was feeling the best he had all day. Immediately after that he veered into the cement ditch, tearing some skin off his elbow but otherwise unhurt. The ride was easy in that it was downhill, but not long after we started it began to rain - lightly at first, and then a downpour. Then heavy fog rolled in, making me more than a little nervous about the buses and trucks that were speeding up the same switchbacks that we were going down, often in the middle of the road, and sometimes with steep drop-offs on one side. I think later on Eric used the word "exhilarating" to describe the ride. If I had to describe it in one word, it would probably be "terrifying." Or maybe "freezing." We started out at over 14,000 feet, and it was chilly up there, even before the rain. I had a waterproof jacket, but still felt pretty much soaked to the bone from the downpour. Even after the rain lightened up, we ended up with sopping wet socks and boots when we crossed at points like the one below. (Water-proof boots are not so waterproof when the water comes in over the top!) For a while I was shivering and my teeth were chattering; there was a safety van always backing us up, but of course I was too stubborn and proud to give up and ride in it. Thankfully the steep descent meant that it gradually got warmer and warmer, and toward the end of the three-hour ride the rain stopped completely and the sun came out.



We spent that night in a village called Santa Maria. I slept well, but it was a miserable night for Kirsten; it seemed her stomach was not happy with something she had eaten or drunk the day before and she had to make several trips to the bathroom, to a toilet that had no seat and that didn't always flush. Here's where Eric's drug supply came in handy; in the morning she popped some pills, put on a brave face, and insisted that she would be fine - but before long it was clear that she was really in no shape to hike. The first part of our route that day was along a dirt road, and our guide was able to flag down a taxi/bus passing by to take Kirsten to Santa Teresa, where we'd spend our second night. Soon after she got in the car, the rest of us turned off the road and onto an Inca trail. Not THE Inca Trail, mind you (it's necessary to book that 9 months - 1 year in advance), but a section of the many, many miles of trail network that has survived since Inca times.


Day three was less eventful. Kirsten was still running at much less than 100%, and she didn't manage to keep her breakfast down, but she did soldier on and survived the day's hike. The walk that day was mostly level, making it much easier than the hills we'd covered on the previous day. The last two hours or so we were walking along railroad tracks, which was too bad because in looking down to be sure we didn't stumble on stones or railroad ties, it was hard to fully appreciate the spectacular scenery that was surrounding us.

By mid-afternoon we had checked into our hotel in Aguas Calientes (which, incidentally, featured a roaring river directly below our windows, one which later caused some of the damage I mentioned in my previous post). After hot showers (the first in three days!), we wandered around town a bit. In one of the town squares, we saw a Swiss guy named Frederic that had been on our van the first morning and whom we'd since seen several times along the path, always alone. We invited him to join us for a beer; he accepted, and the fact that he doesn't speak much English and none of us speaks French made for some entertaining conversation. Just one example: before Peru, Frederic had been traveling in Bolivia (which of course, I am now dying to visit.). He was trying to tell us something about a market in La Paz, but when we weren't getting it, he stood up and tried body language. Motions which we later realized were meant to be a witch riding a broomstick looked - well, sort of lewd. His Spanish was better than his English, so at some points Kirsten translated; when she repeated Jeremy's guess of "sex market?" in response to that obscure body language, the Swiss guy turned red and quickly waved his hands and shook his head in protest saying, "no, no, no - not me!" We never did figure out what the witch had to do with the La Paz market, but we did all got a good laugh out of it.

We woke up before dawn on day four to wait for the first bus from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu. The line was long, even at 5 am, and it was raining; once again I was wet and cold (and, to be honest, a little grumpy; it didn't help that this all took place without my usual morning coffee). We waited for about half an hour, rode the bus for twenty minutes, and then stood in a long line again at the ticket booth. Our first views of the ruins were shrouded in fog, but nonetheless incredible; all that waiting had paid off! Soon the sun came out, my caffeine kicked in (still no coffee, but Diet Coke will do in a pinch), and we commenced a day of wandering around the ruins, first with a guide and then continuing on our own. Jeremy ended up taking another spill that afternoon - slipping on a wet rock, breaking his camera, scraping his hand, and badly bruising his shoulder. I can't speak for him or for Kirsten, but I'm pretty sure they'd both agree that the chance to see Machu Picchu was well worth not only the morning wait in the rain, but also the cuts and bruises, the time spent in rather unpleasant bathrooms and some grueling moments along the trail.

I'll post a captioned photo album soon, but here's a preview: our first, foggy view of the ruins, and then the same view later in the sunshine.