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Inca Trail 4 day Trek to Machu Picchu -
Travel Articles
Travel Article by Ann Noon,
Freelance journalist.
The legendary Inca city of Machu
Picchu is one of the most magical sights in South America so it’s
only fitting that getting there should be nigh on an act of
pilgrimage. The classic four-day Inca Trail, which passes 30 sets
of ruins before you even get to Machu Picchu, is just that – a
sacred stone highway through the mountains that ends in a
near-religious experience upon arrival at the UNESCO World
Heritage site.
There are more than 130 travel
agencies in Cusco that are licensed to operate on the Inca Trail
and finding a reputable one is no mean feat. A friend recommended
Peru Treks as being good value for money and so it was that I came
to be up at the crack of dawn one fine morning, alongside 15
fellow trekkers, all with rucksack and walking boots at the ready.
You don’t have to be Superman to hike
the trail but it helps to have a decent level of fitness and,
above all, to be acclimatized to the altitude. A few gentle days
in Cusco and gallons of coca tea beforehand are the key. If
you’re worried that the going might get too tough, consider hiring
the services of a porter to take some of the strain, particularly
on day two where there is a 1200 metre ascent to tackle.
The journey begins with a bus ride
through the Sacred Valley, a place the Incas considered to be
paradise on earth, and little wonder when you see the fertile
fields, impressive steep gorges and rolling Urubamba river that
they thought was a holy reflection of the Milky Way. After a
quick breakfast stop and the chance to buy snacks, rain ponchos
and walking sticks, we arrive at the end of a bumpy track at
Piscacucho, also known as KM 82 because of the train line that
then cuts into the hills.
We’re at 2600 metres and the Inca
Trail begins in a subtropical ecosystem with agave plants and
Spanish moss hanging down all over the place. Our guide Adriel
points out a white parasite which we know as cochineal affecting
many of the cacti. He crushes it in his hand and we watch as it
turns bright crimson; local women use it for lipstick, he
explains.
It’s about 10am when we start walking
and the path meanders slowly upwards. Every now and then we are
overtaken by a porter who has the unenviable task of carrying the
tents, food and equipment that’s needed for the four days.
They’re loaded to the gills but their speed is amazing. We adopt
a far more leisurely pace, enjoying the sunshine and the views out
over the valley. Day one is relatively easy with a steady 12 km
to cover and it’s not long before we reach the first set of ruins,
Llactapata, which means city above terraces in Quechua.
Then it’s time for lunch. I’m
expecting a packed lunch of sandwiches and an apple. Imagine the
group’s amazement when we arrive at a shady spot near a stream in
the middle of nowhere and lo and behold there’s a dining tent all
ready for us. Outside the tent, the company’s porters usher us
towards bowls of clean water and bars of soap and pass us fluffy
towels to dry our hands. Lunch is delicious. Avocado salad with
a vinaigrette dressing followed by succulent smoked trout.
A brief siesta on the grass afterwards
is inevitable and one by one the group falls silent with only a
faint hum of activity audible in the background as the porters
wash up. Then, refreshed and reinvigorated, it’s on up to the
first campsite at Wayllabamba at 3100 metres with a stunning
panorama of the Huayruro valley. Once again, the dining tent is
already standing, as is a row of pristine two-man tents, our beds
for the night. Just time for a quick game of football before
dinner. Where the porters find the energy I have no idea but they
win hands down. Porters: 5. Rest of the World: 3!
It’s at dinner that the group starts
to get to know each other properly. There’s Neil and Anita from
Ireland, on an epic six-month tour of South America. A family of
young Australians who live all over the globe and are back
together for the first time in two years. An American couple on
their annual two-week vacation for whom the Inca Trail is the
culmination of a lifelong dream. The dining tent is punctuated by
occasional bursts of laughter as people recount assorted
travelling tales.
Early to bed, but then we have been up
since 5am. More than one of us is a little trepidatious about the
climb to Dead Woman’s Pass tomorrow. It must be called that for a
reason, no? Adriel reassures us that there’s no time limit, we’re
free to go at our own speed and take as long as we need. The big
day beckons and so does a good night’s sleep.
We’re up with the larks which means
the porters and Wilfredo the cook must have been up with the bats
as the porridge is already bubbling on the stove. Everyone knocks
back the coca tea in readiness for what’s to come. We’re only
covering 12 km in distance again today but it’s the major mountain
pass in the middle that make it the most strenuous day of the Inca
Trail.
The sun is shining though and, after a
hearty breakfast, we set off in good spirits. It’s not long
before the porters pass us, having dismantled the camp, and they
cheerily wish us luck before literally sprinting up the hill,
their heavy loads bobbing back and forth. Remembering what Adriel
had said about it not being a competition, I take my time,
stopping whenever I need to recoup my breath.
It’s a good four-hour slog to the top
of Warmi Wañusca or Dead Woman’s Pass which stands at 4200 metres
but we make it and the exhilaration shows on everybody’s faces.
We skip down the other side, arriving at the Paqaymayu campsite to
a round of applause from our porters and a well-earned late lunch.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in a state of indolence,
bathing in the sunshine. Knowing that the worst is over, the
group is in celebratory mood and dinner is a very animated
occasion.
In the morning, limbs a little weary
from yesterday’s exertion, we plough on over another pass and the
ruins of Sayaqmarka come into view. This well-preserved Inca town
was probably used as a resting spot, or tambo, by priests
travelling to Machu Picchu. From here, the breathtaking vista of
snow-covered peaks including Salkantay, the highest in the area,
is enough to soothe away any aches and pains.
Then it’s off into the cloud forest,
dotted with ferns, rare orchids and bromeliads. Hummingbirds,
parrots and the scarlet cock of the rock, Peru’s national bird,
also inhabit the forest. From the ceremonial site of
Phuyupatamarka, we catch our first glimpse of Machu Picchu, albeit
from the back, crowned by a flag.
We follow the Inca stairway of white
granite more than 1000 metres down to the spectacular terraces of
Wiñay Wayna carved deep into the hillside above the Urubamba
river. Meaning forever young in Quechua, Wiñay Wayna is also
where we spend the third night, at a picturesque campsite that
offers hot showers and cold beers. The group buys enough beer for
all the porters since tonight is the last chance we have to thank
them for their efforts as tomorrow they will scamper down the hill
towards home while we continue on to our final goal. At the
tipping ceremony that night, we make sure that none of the
porters, Adriel or Wilfredo go away empty-handed.
At 03-45, there’s a soft knock on the
tent and Miguel, the head porter, brings us a cup of steaming
coffee. It’s impossibly early but we want to get to Machu Picchu
before the day-tripping crowds arrive and just as the sun has
risen. After breakfast, we wave goodbye to the porters and, in
the half light, head for the Sun Gate from where there is a
dramatic 180-degree view of what was once believed by its American
discoverer to be the lost city of the Incas.
Hiram Bingham stumbled upon Machu
Picchu in 1911 and, to this day, it remains the only major Inca
site to escape 400 years of looting and destruction. As the mist
clears and we get our first proper look at one of the world’s
greatest examples of engineering in harmony with nature, I don’t
think I’m the only one with a lump in my throat. In the
background, the horn-shaped sister mountain, Huayna Picchu, frames
the island in the sky that is Machu Picchu.
On an in-depth guided tour of the
ruins, we learn from Adriel that archaeologists still don’t really
know why it was built. One of the likeliest explanations is that
it was a winter retreat built by the Inca ruler Pachacútec in the
mid 15th century. Machu Picchu’s most important shrine
is the Intihuatana or hitching post of the sun where astronomical
observations were made and the seasons calculated. Other
highlights include the royal tomb which contains some of the
monument’s finest stonework and the temple of the condor where you
can just make out the head and neck of the Andean bird of prey.
Machu Picchu itself is simply
staggering but taking the train to get there just wouldn’t be the
same. In times gone by, walking the Inca Trail was considered to
be an act of devotion and when, after four tiring but hugely
rewarding days, you first see the sun’s rays illuminate the golden
terraces surrounded by craggy peaks, you too might wonder if this
isn’t as close to heaven as it gets.
Copyright Ann Noon 2005, Used with
kind permission
Article by Conal Hanna TNT Magazine
February 2006
Incan descent
The 43km that forms the Inca Trail is as tough as it is rewarding.
CONAL HANNA charts the ups and downs of the trek to the ancient
ruins of Machu Picchu.
To walk the Inca Trail is to follow in a lot of footsteps. First,
of course, came the Incas themselves, who ruled large swathes of
South America until the arrival of the Spanish. Next were the
early 20th century archaeologists led by American Hiram Bingham,
who uncovered the abandoned city of Machu Picchu, the trail’s
destination, 400 years after it disappeared into the wilderness.
Then there are the most recent invaders, the estimated 50,000
travellers who flock to Peru each year to embark on the four-day
trek.
The Inca Trail’s rampant popularity has led to a form of reverse
snobbery among backpackers in South America, who point to the
hugely inflated prices (it now costs at least US$250) and the fact
you often have to book a berth months in advance as reasons to
seek their thrills elsewhere. But speak to anyone who’s endured
the four consecutive early mornings and 43km of trudging up and
downhill only to emerge around dawn at the Sun Gate to catch their
first glimpse of the beguiling ancient city perched in the valley
below, and they’ll tell you it was worth every penny.
Certainly times have changed since the Peruvian government
legislated in 2001 to prevent overcrowding and the degradation of
the trail by limiting numbers to 500 per day and forcing trekkers
to go with registered tour companies. Nowadays, the Inca Trail
begins, at the point called km82, with a passport check far more
rigorous than anything I’ve encountered at Heathrow. (You must
provide your passport details when you book a trek, and then take
your passport along with you.) Bureaucracy headaches soon fade,
however, as we cross the romantic wooden swing bridge to begin the
trail.
Day one is filled with excited chatter as our group of 15 (16 is
the maximum group size allowed) travellers from all over the world
(we even had a pair of Romanians) get to know each other during an
easygoing 11km hike. The only noise to disturb the tranquillity is
the occasional clamour of footsteps as our porters come rushing to
overtake us. Setting out, I’d been filled with self-satisfaction
gleaned from embarking on a four-day hike carrying all my own
gear.
It didn’t take long for the pride to fade, however, when I
realised that our group of 15 was being accompanied by some 20
porters who were lugging up the food and tents. Indeed, it’s hard
feeling at all intrepid when you wake each morning to a cooked
breakfast, then head off hiking while the porters clean up after
you and pack away the tents before running past you on the trail,
in order to have lunch ready by the time you arrive, and then
repeat the process to have the tents pitched and dinner ready in
the evening.
The improved life of the porters is one of the undisputed
positives of the new legislation, which limited the weight they
can carry and introduced minimum rates of pay and working
conditions. A further law taking effect in March will force
companies to provide their porters with life insurance. It’s no
less than they deserve for their Herculean efforts.
Going gets tough
Unfortunately, the good cheer and self-congratulations which
characterise our first day don’t linger long. In fact, day two is
more about self-flagellation than congratulations. The banter is
replaced by heavy breathing as the trail climbs some 1200m to Dead
Woman’s Pass, the highest point of the trail at 4200m. At this
height you really notice the effects of the altitude making every
step a struggle. Thankfully, the occasional pitstop to take in
grand mountain vistas, gentle waterfalls or local wildlife
(including hummingbirds and orchids) helps distract from the pain.
Just as the panting pauses long enough for us to realise we’ve
conquered the toughest part of the trail, a new set of pain is
inflicted upon us, the knee-jarring sensation of going down.
Perhaps the most infuriating aspect of the trail — while you’re on
it, anyway — is that, over the course of the entire 43km, you
actually descend some 200m, from an altitude of 2600m to 2400m.
However, en route you fluctuate like a yo-yo, climbing to 4200m
before going down-up, down-up over two more gruelling passes.
Location, location, location
Despite being, at 16km, the longest hike, day three encompasses
all that’s good about the Inca Trail. The scenery shifts
dramatically from dry, rocky mountains to cloudforests and
snow-capped peaks. The ruins, too, are at their most impressive.
I’ll say this for the Incas: they sure knew the secret of a good
property — location. The only time we see ruins that aren’t atop
gorgeous mountains is when they’re nestled in equally impressive
valleys. Aside from the common feature of location, the ruins vary
almost as much as the scenery, from multi-tiered agricultural
terraces to nigh on impregnable fortresses to bathhouses to
pitstops for Incas making the long journey between towns. Day
three is also the first time we get to walk on original Incan
pathway, built to last some 500-plus years ago.
Camp that night is spent in relative luxury, with hot water
showers and cold beer on sale from a neighbouring hostel. After
three days of physical exhaustion, it takes just two beers before
I’m giggling like a schoolgirl. I quickly sober up, however, when
told that day four won’t involve the now familiar 5am start — it
will start at 4am instead. The reason for the early wake up call,
we’re told, is to help us beat rival groups down to the National
Park checkpoint where we have to queue to enter. Unfortunately,
they all have the same idea.
These fellow groups had been with us at various times over the
past three days, offering words of encouragement or a consoling
grimace as we passed each other en route. All sense of camaraderie
quickly evaporates, though, when the check point opens, with
everyone seemingly hell bent on reaching the Sun Gate first.
Having been too stuffed to rush, I’m one of the few people at the
Sun Gate to find some amusement in the fact that low-lying clouds
have blown in. Not only can we not see the sunrise, we can’t even
see Machu Picchu, some 20 minutes below.
Ethereal
Thankfully, the tale has a happy ending. Having given up on the
sun, we begin making our approach only to have the clouds slowly
lift, lending the city a mystical, ethereal touch. As spectacular
as the ruins are, it’s definitely the atmosphere and serene
location that sets Machu Picchu apart. And there’s no doubting the
fact we’ve ‘earned’ this moment of relative solitude, before
trainloads of daytrippers begin arriving, helps add to the appeal.
This gives us the chance to tour the grounds at leisure, wandering
among tame llamas whose job it is to keep down the grass. Our
guide astounds us by pointing out the advanced understanding of
astronomy and engineering that went into the Incan buildings. That
they ruled the areas outside their native Cuzco for only 100
years, before the jungle devoured Machu Picchu for almost 400,
goes to show the temporal nature of civilisations.
Formalities completed, we take a seat on the grass and enjoy the
twofold pleasure of a rest amid such splendour. My thoughts
meander aimlessly through time to when the site around us was a
bustling city of 1000 people, before fast-forwarding to 80 years
ago when archaeologists reclaimed the city from the jungle, piece
by piece. Last of all, I think of the friends and colleagues who
in the past few years have walked the same paths only to arrive at
this beguiling city. It’s true, you won’t be the first person to
trek the Inca Trail, but rest assured you won’t be the last.
• Conal Hanna travelled to Peru courtesy of Flight Centre (0870-499
0042; www.flightcentre.co.uk),. He completed the Inca Trail with Peru Treks (www.perutreks.com)
Issue number: TNT1172
Date: 13/02/2006
Article written by Robin Esrock for
his website
www.moderngonzo.com extracts of which were published in
the Vancouver Sun, Cape Town Argus and South China Morning Post.
Modern Gonzo follows Robin's adventures as he travels around the
world visiting 24 countries in 12 months.
Cusco and the Inca Trail
Back in Cusco, knee resting, deep breaths. Did I really spend the
last four days trekking in the Andes? Did I really take those
gorgeous pictures of the sun rising through the flint sharp
mountains? Did I really take my corduroy jacket?
It seems a bit hazy, but that's because I'm writing this in bed,
relishing the soft mattress as my legs recover from the pounding
I've put them through. If anyone says the Inca Trail isn't
hardcore, they've been chewing too many coca leaves.
My group consisted of nine trekkers, two guides and thirteen
porters. While some lunatics do this alone, government regulations
insist you trek with reputable guides, and Cusco is lined with
companies offering one, two and four days trips to the ultimate
destination, Machu Picchu. I found Peru Treks online through a
great website called Andeantravelweb.com. I emailed three
companies, and these guys were most on the ball. Their offices are
more subdued, they channel profits into community development, are
serious about porter treatment, and they turned out to be probably
the best outfit going. Lucky me. Lucky us. The group of nine
consisted of Dave and Nicola from Dublin, Michelle and Chris from
Newcastle, Jo from Manchester, Hillary from just about everywhere,
Shannon and Jamie from BC and one times gonzo idiot with corduroy.
Picked up early, we met our guides Oscar and Juvenal and over the
next four days we'd come to know each other pretty well, over
pineapple chicken, summer rice and tin cups of mate, the
indigenous coca tea that helps with the altitude. Lo, in the
beginning, there was passport control, a gradual hike through the
valleys, a certain apprehension about Day Two known as The
Challenge. Six hours up rocky steps to 4200m elevation is not
everybody's hot chocolate, especially those of us who consider
walking a shopping mall a good day's hike. I had packed as light
as I could, but it didn't take long for my daypack to weigh heavy
on my shoulders, as if the shoelaces holding the sleeping bag and
mattress together were guilty of some heinous crime. But hope was
immediate, in both the humour of the group and the first lunch, as
delicious as any I'd had since arriving in Peru. Unlike the
porters in Nepal who are not regulated and can carry as much as
50kg on the backs, Inca Trail porters have a union and strict
guidelines as to how much they carry and how hard they go. Ranging
from 17 to 39 years old in our group, the porters carry tents,
food, gas, equipment, water, and are responsible for our three
meals plus tea a day, and also allow us to arrive exhausted into
camp with tents set up, tea ready to be served. God bless them.
Especially Apu, the chef, who managed to cook outrageous dishes,
lord knows how, well into the trek without refrigeration and with
only a tent for a kitchen. Good food always translates into good
morale, and it couldn't get any better.
Day One is easy, supposedly to break you into the hike, which Day
Two literally elevates into something far more challenging. Oscar,
usually with a smile, would walk at the front, Juvenal at the
back, and our pace was steady. Along the way, Oscar would whip out
his blue folder and talk about the flora, fauna, and history of
the Andes with genuine enthusiasm. There was always time to catch
breath, always time to be inspired by the porters who would leave
later and arrive earlier, passing on the right with unnerving pace
and rock hard calves. An uneasy, sleepless night finally brought
in Day Two, which is, regrettably, every bit as challenging as
they say. The rock path ascends to the highest point, Dead Woman's
Pass, at 4200 meters, by which stage each step requires intense
motivation and energy. We shared the trail with several other
groups, some of whom were hiking in trainers and clearly not
prepared for the endeavour. I learnt the importance of slow and
steady, and finally we peaked, battered, legs on fire. High fives,
a scream of exhilaration, some chocolate, back dripping with
sweat, cooling fast. Now the descent, an uneven path designed
specifically to tear knee joints to shreds. Thank you, bamboo
stick, which Oscar rightly predicted would become my best friend.
Reaching camp on Day Two was like winning a marathon, only to find
you'd have to race again tomorrow. But we're all in this together,
and Hillary is older than my mother and outpacing porters, and the
conversation helps, as does the sweet coca tea, and Jamie's deck
of Uno. Better sleep that night, knowing the worst is behind and
my bum knee somehow survived the hardest day of hiking in my life.
Day Three I reach trekking Zen, walking along the original Inca
path, recovered from the high jungle and smoothed with stones. The
Incas, it appears, knew better how to make paths than those that
centuries later restored them. More level now, the authentic
jungle giving me an authentic buzz, large hummingbirds zipping
around, Oscar pointing out priceless orchids. We eat lunch atop a
pass, exhausted, elevated, truly elated. This is wet season, but
the rain has held back, and we all wonder how on earth anyone
could do this when the trail is wet, as hard as it is when it's
dry. A few minutes later, we find out. Although there are only a
few drops, Oscar is hurrying, telling us to reach for the
waterproof ponchos. He knows the clouds are about to burst, and
sure enough, it comes down hard, dampening the spirits, quickening
the need to move. It's downhill to the final camp, steep, uneven,
but I find myself running, chasing Oscar down the mountain,
turning two hours into one. The adrenaline is pumping, one fall
and this could turn ugly, but I'm not thinking about my knees,
hell I can barely feel them. Finally the rain subsides and I feel
like a conquering hero. A few minutes later my knees catch up to
remind me about my accident two years ago. Ouch.
I walk with Hillary, surely a mountain goat in her former life,
and we soon reach final camp and the joys of our first warm
shower, beer, and painkillers. It occurs to me I can barely move,
and there is still one more day. Our final night together, and we
party with the porters. We thank and tip them individually, Oscar
buzzing and initiating ribald songs, creating hysterics. We
struggle to sing, Dave making a gallant effort, the porters
wanting something African. Silently praying to the knee god, I
toyi-toyi, the South African chant and dance that just might have
brought down Apartheid. Lizards take up arms against their parrot
oppressors, the words Amandla! echo through the Andes, and I've
terrified just about everybody, including myself. The porters
dance with Jo and Hillary, the beers, gratefully now available at
the campsite, flow free. For the first night of the trek, I manage
to sleep, but not much, because we are awoken at 4am to pack up
one last time for the two-hour walk to Machu Picchu.
Arriving at Sun Gate, just after sunrise, we can see the lost city
in the distance. Discovered by American explorer Hiram Bingham in
1911, nobody is quite sure who lived here, why they lived here, or
why they disappeared without telling anybody. Theories abound; it
was home to high priests and witches; it was home to royals who
abandoned it hoping to return after the Spanish invasion. It was
not until Bingham, a creepy looking fella, hacked his way through
the jungle that the city was rediscovered, faithfully restored
into one of the world's most beautiful and mysterious ancient
cities. Tourists can catch buses and trains from Cusco and make it
a day trip, but as the destination after three hard days trekking,
Machu Picchu delivers its famous spectacle. You truly feel you
have arrived some place extraordinary.
It is only 9am, and the tour continues. The Sun Temple, the
amazing craftsmanship, terraces, surroundings. We are fully
exhausted, somewhat put off by the droves of camera-snappy
tourists, clean and smelling good. Filthy, tired, wrecked and
stretched, we amble through ruins, play with the alpacas (who
tasted delicious just a few nights ago thanks to Apu), eat a
horrifically overpriced sandwich. Dave, Chris and Jamie climb
Wayna Picchu, the mountain that overlooks Machu Picchu and is seen
in all the postcards. I pop another ibuprofen and pass - my knees
breathing a sigh of relief. Finally, we catch the bus down the
snake-coiling road to the town of Aguas Calientes, a final meal
with the group before a long, four-hour, Uno-intensive train ride
back to Cusco. Hard to imagine the sunrise at 6am that morning,
the feeling of walking into Machu Picchu having somehow earned the
right to. By the time I arrive back at the Hostal Amaru, every
inch of my body does the salsa for a hot shower and a warm bed. By
morning, the entire experience has drifted into memory like the
dissolving clouds beneath the peaks of the Andes.
Los Perros
Cusco, March 8th 2005
Copyright Robin Esrock 2005. Used with
kind permission
You can check out more reports of
Robin's tip around the world including many more reports about
Peru on his website
http://www.moderngonzo.com/mgonzo1/index.html
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