Newcastle - Lima

Mon 04/10/99

I am sat on a KLM Boeing 747 jet, it is 1 in the p.m. Five hours ago it was 1 in the afternoon. Air travel can be a serious mind-f**k.

The alarm scared the holy living sh*tsville out of me at 03.20 this morning. The spider I thought I had killed last night seemed happy enough back on it's ceiling domain and this somehow calmed and cheered me. Today is going to be a long day but it's going to be OK. Our taxi arrived promptly at 04.50 (first worry sorted) and the irritatingly chipper driver proceeded to bore us senseless with his far-reaching tales of adventure in tropical Manchester. Somehow though, a mixture of slight hangover, tiredness, and an extreme bout of nerves dampened our conversational appetite. The obscenely early morning gaggle around the check in desk came and went and we filed to the departure lounge. So much ahead of us and so much on our minds, but nothing much to say...

06.30 take off and predawn light over Newcastle was beautiful but brief - planes always fly too fast... and too slow. 08.00 and all my preconceived ideals about Amsterdam are shattered. The beautiful city of arts, canals, open narcotics and extreme pornography is little more than a wet splat in a quagmire in the bogs of North Western Europe. Probably. In the airport, I shat the entire liquid content of my body so much so that my blood clotted and my eyeballs imploded. Well possibly not quite that bad but words like 'hot' and 'ohmigodohmygodohmygodnononononononoononpleeeeeeeaaaaaaaase-Oi that's a liver isn't it - I need that oooooooooooooooooh!', spring to mind.

Following our transfer to a larger craft, our previous concerns about being split up (I was sat right behind Gil) were soothed while we listened to most of the other passengers complaining to the stewardesses about being separated from their travelling compardres. Still, it's only a flight, not especially quality time. When you think about it, 'plane' is a very apt word for air travel. That something so fundamentally astonishing is remarkably samey and uninteresting possibly says more about human nature than any amount of psychological papers. But plain is also a very fair omen of close future food encounters; 'oh look papier-mâché potatoes...'

The descent over Puerto Rico to the Venezuelan capital Aruba signaled the beginning of a whole new world for the next three weeks. We got off the plane only to stretch our legs, the mid-afternoon heat hit like a sledgehammer but not for long, we haven't finished our flight yet....

The garlic munchers on my left are really getting up my jumper. They've got these likewise smelly hurdighur speckie mates who keep leaning on Gils headrest and blocking my view of 'Wild Wild West' or whatever b*ll*cks is on the telly, the point is they are pissing me off... One of them just stood on my foot so I kicked his ankle, he has just made his excuses and left. F*rtknocker!

The descent into the Peruvian evening was less than impressive. The cloud was so low that our emergence from its cover was virtually synonymous with the landing of the plane, but it did herald the end of flight time and our final arrival. God was with us through luggage reclaim and customs and within 30 minutes we were hugging Clare and heading for the taxi rank. The drive to Clare's allowed some view of the Lima traffic pandemonium that is rush hour.

I will describe Peruvian driving later in these chronicles but in the meantime I will simply mention that an English driver would not last 2 minutes over here. The half hour drive to Miraflores embedded one thing in my mind, the view of a large single white Crucifix on top of one of the Pacific cliffs, this somehow felt like a similar good luck omen of the 20 hours and 15,000 miles since spider. I couldn't help but think how nice it must be to have that cross welcome you back home...

Our welcome to Clare's was entire and sweet. Neil (Clare's flat-mate) has very kindly forsaken his bed for our weary bones and has also cooked MY tea (Bolegnese) so that I can enjoy a real meal as I would otherwise have to put up with rabbit food from all these veggies and vegans. Ali and Martin were already in attendance (since yesterday) so it was very much a case of 'together again'. Once showered, I sat with Neil and chatted for a while and shared a beer while dinner was prepared. Lovely though the meal was, jet lag and tiredness took its toll on my appetite and I guiltily left a good half of my meal (Mind you Neil is a good build and a basic portion to him is king-size to me). Sitting at the table, my ailing spirits were not particularly helped by continuing flight motion sensations, so every few seconds my stationary body underwent seeming turbulence. WIERD! So with apologies accepted, Gil and I slunk off to bed. At the end of one of the longest days of my life (Well the day itself had in reality lasted 30 hours from one midnight to the next), on the other side of the world (longitude AND latitude) and exhausted, I slept as soon as the bed caught my fall...

(PS: One omission was the arrival soon after our own, of a bizarre character apparently a Peruvian llama farmer from Cusco who had befriended C and N and kept calling. Such was my tiredness however that paid little attention to him and was relived when he left - This point will acquire more relevance later in the piece)

Lima - Nasca

'Busman's Holiday'

The night was punctuated by two events: 1. an earthquake which rearrange the pictures at a nice jaunty angle, and 2. the sodding bin-men happily hollering to each other at 5.00 this morning. One of the things to become increasingly apparent in these chronicles is the Peruvian ambivalence towards noise - example: at night the taxi drivers don't stop at crossroads they just beep their horns to announce their intention not to stop. I was vaguely aware of Clare waking us up at 8 but we didn't appear until well after 9. Following a shower and a leisurely breakfast we ventured out into the watery warmth of midmorning to sample some of Lima.

First port of call was the bank to change some money. So armed with our special words 'Cambio pour favor' we approached the counter. Now the thing is that when abroad all Brits instinctively try their luck with 'DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?'! and oddly enough these people on the other side of the world have got their own language. So approaching the counter and grunting something probably completely unintelligible in both English and Spanish I was pleasantly surprised to see that she was getting some money ready. Then she spoke to me...

No one said anything about them speaking back. It's one thing to have a basic phrase not very well remembered and mumbled awkwardly and probably wholly unintelligently, but when they start gabbling at you in their gumagumaguma dego talk its terrifying. 'Soleordollars' she said. I mean what could that possibly mean? Palms sweaty and head spinning then, it was a relief when Gil translated 'Soles or dollars'... oh. 'Soles please, er merci, per pour favour, garkon.' Terrifying ordeal over we went to a different bank to get Gils done and then, fully liquid, we headed for the Lima Coach station, to see what kind of mess we could make of booking a coach trip.

As Ali has, a) some linguistic skills, b) the front, and c) a phrase book (Gil and I said ' oh don't bother with that, just speak normal, they all speak English everywhere you know...), we unceremoniously bundled her to the front and listened attentive with polite incomprehension to her attempts to book the trip. Information was hampered by the fact that neither side was exactly sure what the other was talking about, but eventually we handed over our money and hoped that we were getting what we wanted. Tickets in paws we made our way to the Central Square via an unscrupulous taxi driver who ripped us off silly. And then we/he had a blow out on the main motorway so we got out and jumped another cab.

The driving arrangements in Lima are... interesting to say the least. Cars here range from standard and even posh affairs to chassis-huts running on goodwill and hard fervent prayers. The Cab drivers (roughly 80% of the road bound population) all cruise up to you when you are on foot and beep their horns - contrary to our original re-actions - 'That bastard just beeped at me!!' - come 'ere you cheeky bugger - I'll give YOU honk!, it means 'get in my car and let me drive you to where you want to go and then give me your money, tourist mug'. The other aspect of driving here is the attitude of the average Peruvian driver, a beautifully easy going attitude to what is in fact a kamikaze, gung-ho, drive or die (the 'or' can be replaced with 'and' with alarming ease) frame of mind. Any gaps in traffic ahead are to be approached at break-neck speed safe in the knowledge that if the cars own brakes fail, the vehicle ahead will provide suitable cushioning from anything serious.

The air is thick with smog, filthy exhaust belches and car horn beeps. Crossing the roads can be an exercise more in missile dodging than route completion, although the drivers usually swerve good-naturedly at the last minute. Yet the town centre motorways are beautifully decorated on the verges with well-attended flower displays, even to the point of using the colour to spell out advertising slogans. Fantastic!

The Central Square in Lima is beautiful and therefore oddly, out of place in this monstrous city. The pomp and obvious pride in the square seems a far cry from the polluted, choking chaos that is the rest of the city. Photo-call over we made our way to the cathedral in the hope of checking out the Catacombs but the tour itinerary and our own tight schedule made the tour impossible. So after a few more photos we headed back to the coach station. Well, a coach station then. We had given the taxi driver some instructions and apparently they were, how should I put this? - Not, a hundred percent correct, on account of them being, in fact, utterly incorrect. With our deadline for catching the coach coming up fast, we were becoming not a little concerned. But I suppose such things make a holiday, and we made it to the coach station in time and duly boarded the bus. So that was nice.

The trip to Nasca covers about 450 km and 7 hours of your life. (Having spent 18.00 hours in transit yesterday, it gave today's journey a taste of spiteful irony). The first 2 hours involved leaving Lima, giving an idea of just what an immense sprawling monster it really. Vast dusty carbunclous tin-topped shanty districts dominate the scenery. Huddling and leapfrogging over each over on impossible sand cliff ledges. Permanently teetering the on the edge, but constantly supported by new equally hopeless dwellings. What we would refer to as an unusable shed is home to millions of people. Where the cliffs fall to desert plains, the huts spread far into the distance as far as the eye can see. And the whole sight is one of the most humbling experiences I have ever had. The realisation that this desolation is home to a higher population than the whole of Belgium, takes more than a little consideration. And more than anything it made me realise that all my own petty complaints are nonsense compared to the day to day hardship of peasant life in Lima.

Gradually the shanty Pandemonium fell away and we emerged into the great empty Pacific-side plains that sprawl between Lima and Nasca. The Pan-American Highway is remarkable for its unwavering straightness. Endless routes disappearing into the horizon with no fluctuation in direction that would have had the Romans spitting with envy. Occasionally eagles and buzzards soared over the coach using the Pacific thermals to climb for height, while lizards and an isolated armadillo scuttled out the path of the coach. The journey allowed time to chat to Abby who was on a paid holiday, filming it for a Lonely Planet type thing. Bitch! Flight and costs covered, plus £2000 spending money; I'm definitely doing the wrong job. We finally pulled into Nasca under cover of darkness and booked into our hotel/hostel with little or no hassle. Thankfully the owner spoke English so communication was much simplified. Once washed and rested, we organised the morning's activities and set out for a bite to eat.

We were hustled into a fairly grotty looking place and kindly refused their offer to poison us. Ambling along we found a nice cosy looking restaurant where the food was good and the beer better. The wallpaper was literally custom made, made up as it was from customer's graffiti, comments and mindless babble. Charming though the place was, weariness, weariness and weariness took its toll and we were all relieved to head back to our rooms and rest.

Early rise and then a light breakfast. Well when I say light, G, A and M all had this huge sickly looking juice thing. In light of the planned morning activities I declined the offer. The morning trip began unobtrusively enough with a tour of one of the Nasca Gold mining operations. Remarkable for the way the workers separate the gold from other elements: by using mercury, this amazed us all in it's constant danger to the workers; working bare-chested, with only one glove to protect them, they manually acquire the gold at the rate of 6 grams per week. The gold rich stones are crushed in a 5ft wide bowl, with the worker stood on a plank nailed to the top of a 4ft stone ball (or as it is technically termed 'A Rock') which the worker physically rocks for up to 4 hours at a time. While we were watching, one of the men almost slipped under the rock. This is an occasional hazard of the work. I think it is safe to say that threat of being crushed by a 2-ton rock would rate pretty highly on the Health and Safety issues board back home.

Following this, we visited a local potter and watched in amazement as he, with seeming effortless ease, created a Nasca pot in about 90 seconds. It was intriguing to learn the traditional method of pot glazing here as well. The potter takes a plain oilstone and rubs it against the side of his nose to tap the natural grease reserves. He then rubs the greasy stone against the pot to achieve a shiny finish. Bizarre as that may sound the pots were beautiful and more than a little trade was made. Of note also was the pet that kept screeching from the corner. While we were watching demonstration I was aware of a bird of prey calling from nearby and vowed to check it out ASAP. Then Gillian pointed out a bloody huge buzzard lying on a table in the corner of the room. Apparently in some of the desert areas buzzards are the equivalent of a budgie. Some budgie!

It is perhaps as worthy a time as any to mention the irritating Russian tourists (one tall thin be-spectacled, one short fat and bullish and the other one just looked like a t**t) who insisted on walking straight to the front of any attractions and talking to each other while people were talking to the entire group. And drinking vodka and beer at every given opportunity and they got right on our tits. Even the mild mannered janitor Ali was grumbling and eventually we were swearing at them every time we passed them. B******s.

Next we jumped aboard a bus and took the 40-min drive to the open cemetery in the desert.

Chauchilla cemetery is a 1500-year-old burial site, situated in the Nasca desert and covering up to 100 Km to the sea. It is vast and flat and contains the remains of 1000s of Nasca corpses. Looking out over the plains you can see the sand punctuated with the littered remains of the Nasca ancients. A mixture of time and grave-robbers has brought 1000s of bones to the desert surface. In places small white splinters can be seen. In other areas entire skulls or groups of bones lie next to the path.

The graves are pits up to 5 ft deep holding between 2 and 7 mummies. The corpses themselves are positioned hunched as though sat on the floor. This is because the Peruvian ancients used to cut all the limb tendons soon after death to allow the body to be placed in a foetal position (in preparation for rebirth in the afterlife). The bodies were placed in a sack and buried.

The reasons for the scattered littering of the bodies was due to the grave robbers, desperate for money, who have raided their own ancestors graves to gather fabrics and pottery to sell to the visitors from Europe and USA. Because the bodies had dried/petrified in the foetal balls, the robbers had to hold the corpse bundles close to their chests and physically break the corpses in a bear hug. This has lead to the multiple splintering of the bones and liberal littering of fragments throughout the desert. The persistent sun has bleached all the bones dry so the overall scene looks almost made up. Early tourists also added to the random scattering of remains as they would take 'interesting' pieces of corpses home (by way of mantle-piece conversation piece), and our guide told us of people lying down next to exposed bodies to have their photos taken with the skeletons (How sick is that ladies and gentlemen?).

Some of the graves have been fully excavated and restored as they would have been found by the grave robbers. One of the most remarkable aspects of the mummies appearance (despite the fact that we were looking at people who had been alive 1000 years ago) was the preservation of the hair. In some cases the hair was over 5 ft long (after adolescence, the women were encourage not to cut their hair at all hence the stereotype plaits still prevalent in today's society). Perched atop the blinding white skeletal mummies in their pit, the whole scene looked more surreal than anything else I have ever seen. The graves contained the remains of babies and children as well as the adults and the whole scene was utterly bizarre.

Another aspect of the remains was the evidence of one of the most mind boggling methods of body modification ever seen... The ancient Nasca believed that central to aesthetic beauty was a high, slim head. To achieve this a constant tourniquet was applied to the skull in much the same way that a headband would be worn today. This tie was then periodically tightened and the shape of the head altered accordingly (i.e. it became thinner and higher). The evidence of this could be seen in imprints in the skulls where the tourniquet had permanently marked the head. For all the world, the impression (sorry!) was of a zip imprint entirely circumnavigating the head (and mum disapproves when I get a tattoo!). The result can be a forehead over a foot tall.

The overall effect of this place was remarkable, mainly, for it's lack of impact on me. As I mentioned earlier, so much of the morning's events seemed so surreal, it was difficult to take in. Imagine a small town hippy, suddenly standing in the scorching glimmering heat of the desert surrounded by (literally) millions of fragments of thousands of people whose remains had been unearthed by their own descendants for the money of rich foreign visitors. I had expected a great feeling of sadness and loss but instead I was lost in a bizarre sub lunar world that felt more like a film set than a mass cemetery. Gillian spoke of a sadness to the place however my own sensations were ruled more by awe filled wonder than emotional weight.

Our return to the town was thoughtful and quiet...

We had an hour or so to kill at the airfield before our plane was free for take off. The plane in question was a five seater rust bucket held together with in-expertise workmanship and mechanical goodwill. Any misgivings we might have had were compounded by the pilot's request that Martin ride in the front seat because the plane was incorrectly balanced. Planes have fared fairly prominently in my life recently but this is what I would call warts and all flying. And it’s ace! The land shrank away on take-off, but somehow seemed a little more REAL. Probably because we were so much nearer the ground during take-off (I felt like my arse was grazing the runway, truth be told).

The flight was, how shall I phrase this??? - More intimate than previous encounters. Every wobble of the plane was acute and instant. The slightest breeze affected the flight and the smallest thermal flux tipped and toyed with the wings. It was little or no comfort therefore to know that the sick bags that had been thoughtfully provided for our travelling pleasure were see-through... a case of one sick, all sick. Luckily no one did call for 'Ralph' although apparently Alison had seconds of breakfast...

The Nasca lines are still a complete mystery. We know what they are (they are a bunch of zonking huge great lines/shapes drawn on the desert floor), what we don't know is, well, what they are. Some of the designs are basic geometric shapes but others actually depict animals and even humanoid shapes (these include condor, spider, monkey, hummingbird and the 'Astroman'). Shapes in the desert may sound harmless enough - someone drew them there, but the fact that these amazingly well drawn 500 + year shapes range up to 200 square meters are a cause for scientific interest... The shapes can ONLY be seen from the sky, and come to think of it could also only be designed and drawn with a bird's eye view ... The mind boggles! and to be honest I feel that explanations could ruin the magic of this place. What is for certain is that the charm of these wondrous shapes is compounded by their impossibility. Some wonders defy logic and the Nasca Lines exemplify this. Mankind in all his super-advanced binary wisdom can not fathom these lines. And that brings a smile to my face.

Theories for the reasons for the lines range from Extraterrestrial signals to some kind of astrological calendar. Me? I like the sound of the Spacemen! Either that or the people of these plains had the power of flight. Failing that, one can only assume that some sick and twisted genius mind decided to flummox the entire world by drawing a load of shapes in the desert floor and allowing rumour to create legend...

All too soon, however, the flight was over and we were touching down, back once more on the sandy runway. Our return to the coach left little time for reflective wonder... The flight organisers had held up our coach so that we could finish the flight! We were quickly dumped from bus to coach and before we could draw breath we were heading back North to Lima. Here's to the next 7 hours of road travel!

The drive back was notable for two reasons. Seeing the Mars red mountains rising up around the coach made for a surreal sci-fi like setting. The view of the sun setting into the Pacific was strangely beautiful as well. While the sky above grew heavy with dusk, the sun gently sizzled into the fire-red sea.

Our return to Clare's saw a slightly perverse reunion. The Juan thingy gadgie from two nights previously was in fact Clare's and Neil's friend Steve. Who had done what I guess must have been a very passable impression of a Peruvian bloke (if you are a green as grass newcomer to the country that is). Various snippets of conversation and (deliberate) misunderstandings now in the light of understanding began to make sense. Of course being the victim of this joke I find it utterly childish and contemptible... but then again one doesn't instant rush to proclaim ones gullibility does one?

The evening adhered to Rock n' rolls demand for wine, women and song. So that was me happy...

Thursday 7th Oct

Lima - well um Lima

Today was supposed to see us depart to Cusco to allow us to get used to altitude before C + N joined us at the weekend. We found the queue easily enough and stayed there until we heard about the planes delay. Then we waited a while longer until we heard about the planes further delay. Then for the only minute I was left alone in the day, some c**t of a guard came and took everyone's passports and tickets. So when the others came back, they had to try and get our passports held together. All told, the staff were as thoroughly unpleasant as possible and the entire morning was a complete stressed up wash out. Eventually Ali and her (priceless) linguistic skills managed to ascertain that the flight was in fact cancelled. (This is after 5hrs waiting at the airport). We then had to run the gauntlet of a lottery to see who would be allowed on the next flight (tomorrow). Though we all got through, Martins name must have been one of the last names called and all four of us were just about at the end of our collective tethers. Finally we were shipped back to the flat (via C's school to pick up the keys) taking in some of the more um 'ethnic' areas of the city. An hour and a half (and a tour de shanty districts) after leaving the airport and over 7 hours after leaving, we arrived back at Clare's flat.

A quick s**t and shower later, we were all in agreement that an afternoon of food, beer and slobbing was called for. Neil came home and recommended a restaurant just 5 minutes from the flat. Which true to his word, did just the trick. The owners gestures to Martin that the Veggie dish would provide a healthy flush out for tomorrows journey indeed proved to be a trustworthy forecast too. Fed and beered we went back to the flat and called of Neil for a walk down to the beach. While Neil surfed (i.e. fell into the water a lot) Gil and I poddled around in the water and finally gave up and sat down to complete a double brace of albino brits on a beach of beautifully tanned beach dudes. We stuck out like a dildo at a Convent jumble sale. Again following Neil's suggestion we, ventured along the peer for a drink of the Peruvian national tipple 'Pisco Sour' (Rum, egg white, and lemon). This stuff instantly sucks all the moisture from your mouth and is apparently ample to drop a Rhino in sufficient quantities.

Once back to Clare's we popped down to see Ruby, a teaching chum of Clare's. Ruby's bloke is a real bona-fide film star.... He has appeared in such blockbusters as Robocop 4 as 'the pedestrian', Pizzahut as 'guy eating pizza' and a lottery commercial..... I believe the Oscar may be a while yet! We then went out for a meal to some posh place where the food was good and the service...very attentive. By that I mean if I had farted I would have blown the waiter guys wig off. I dunno, maybe he's a bogeyman in his spare time. Unfortunately I was really too tired to appreciate the meal fully and was pleased enough to go back to C's for a couple of hours kip. We have to up at 2.30 for the taxi to take us to the Airport....

Alison dropped the most evil smelling danger to intercontinental shipping ever when we got in. Parts of the toilet were melting when C + N came in later

Friday 8th Oct

Lima - Cusco

I'll cut a bastard of a story short. The taxi didn't come so we got our own. The plane wasn't ready and at one point seemed in danger of not arriving and having arrived at the airport for 3am we finally took off at 10.00am.

Once on the plane we were treated to flying in a very excited Inca style and I'm sad to say it highlighted the worst in my nature. The passengers were all acting like children (fair enough, half of them were a school trip!). When we took off everyone cheered and clapped and throughout the hour or so long flight with every movement of the plane the atmosphere was electric with excitement. Like I said this reflect more my own sour and grumpy outlook on the world as much as the innocent beauty of naivete. The plane landed to a chorus of cheers from the passengers and we disembarked to the Cusconian sunshine. (Ye Gods! – I sound like Victor Meldrew! It was ever so sweet really)

Cusco was the centre of the old Inca Empire and literally means navel of the world to the Incas it was 'Tawantinsuyu'. It was from here that the Inca Empire was launched until it reached its peak 100 years later rivalling the Roman Empire of some 1500 years earlier

We were met by our hotel couriers and were ferried back to the hotel with thankfully very little fuss. Soon we were ib dibbing shower turns and drinking Coca tea. Coca leaves were to play a prominent role later in the holiday but for the time being we can leave any descriptions as 'rank' and 'manky'. Martin seemed quite taken with it, mind. Logically in an exciting new town with a whole new environment to explore, I curled up under a towel and had forty winks while Gil and Martin went outside to investigate.

Later we met N + C in the 'Cross Keys' (They actually saw us leaving but they didn't need to get to the airport until 9 - which made our morning long wait sting even more...grrrrrr), an English pub abroad, if you will. The view over the central plaza and Cathedral was spectacular. The rest of the afternoon was set aside for nosing around the little back street stalls and shops. Cusco is a lot quieter and less frenzied than Lima, thank God! The people here are slightly less 'in your face' than in the City but are still happy to engage you in riveting conversation non the less... 'You buy, yes?'

The altitude is a constant factor here and to the weak and feeble westerners, any physical excursion (e.g. farting) needs to be followed by a period of rest, and certainly any ideas of rushing around need to be put firmly to the back of any sane mind (about which more later.)

Meeting again with N+C for tea we opted for a quick beer and an early night....

Saturday 9th Oct

Cuzco

The altitude is having some interesting effects on our poor feeble bodies. Alison is besotted with her black poos - we have been made aware of this by way of her frequent bum bombs which keep roaring out and damaging nearby masonry, turning the air around us a yellowy-brown. Martin also informed us that the end of his knob had turned blue.

Today's adventures were based around a whistle-stop tour of the city and surrounding areas. We took in the 'Cathedral', the 'Temple of the Sun' and 'Tamomachay'. The morning's tour opened my eyes to the effect the western world has had on Peru. First and foremost is the blanket changes forced on religion. Peru is at present a 95 % Catholic institution. This is thanks to the Conquistadors attitude to religious conversion. i.e. convert or (and occasionally 'and') die. When the Spanish army saw the beauty of Cusco, they wasted no time in destroying its temples to use the stone in their new Cathedrals and plundering the wealth to subsidize their religious enforcement. The use of Cusconian artists for some of the amazing and elaborate pieces of art has created an astonishing bent on religious art here as well. Enforcement of Christian religious pictures has led to the early pieces of arts having incredibly violent images. Whereas many Western church works are soothing and gentle, a lot of the South American picture left me feeling a little disturbed....

As the previous paragraph indicates our tours of the Sun Temple were sadly not a romantic delve into the Inca world as The Spanish had pretty much completely destroyed or built over most it. However the technical ability of the Inca people was still apparent in their building technology and even in the confines of a very touristy environment the feelings in the old Inca areas still raised a feeling of awe. Especially at the mind bending construction ability, which was so precise, mortar was not needed, added to this the Inca people had discovered the exact building angle which is the most earthquake proof. Quite how they managed this almost half a millennium before 'educated' man even figured out that you could design buildings to be stronger remains to this day a mystery.

Following this we climbed in the tin pot tour bus for the half-hour drive up to the old ruins that over look the city. 'Saqsaywaman' forms the head of the Imperial Puma (Cusco was designed in the shape of a Puma and from the air the old city shape does indeed bare this out) The fort itself is absolutely mind-blowing. The Ramparts stand over 20 meters high and cover the length of about 4 football fields. Massive mortar-less stonework has withstood time, wars, earth-quakes and seems impervious to everything. The largest stone on the site is over 300 tons. If Cusco was the navel of the Inca Empire, then Saqsaywaman is the empirical centre of everything Peruvian. The sheer scale of the ruins is completely awe-inspiring.

As we made our way back to the Coach the ruins gave us a new first... LLAMAS !!!!!!! The People in Peru are very cute when it comes to tourists and have tumbled that one sniff of 'quaint, and twee' pictures equals money. Predictably therefore I went up and gave them enough money to feed the 5000 so that I could video them. Still that's why God invented tourists isn't it?

Following the fort we stopped off at what I guess is the equivalent to an Edinburgh Woolen Mill. No one bought any wares but oddly enough it was here that the Peruvian ingenuity bowled me over entirely. While looking out at the 'Christa Blanca' (a huge statue of Christ over-looking the city - not dissimilar to the giant statue looking out over San Paulo in Brazil), the suns rays escaped from the clouds confines and shining down at an acute angle cut across the very top of the statue. The effect was like something out of a movie, I couldn't help but half expect a miracle there and then! And I suppose that's almost what I got... Earlier on in the tour a little local chap had run up to me and taken my picture, which at the time I put down to my raunchy good looks - he probably mistook me for a film or pop star or some-such similar. So imagine my surprise therefore 3 hours later when the same chap comes up to me trying to make me buy postcards (Nothing new there then), except I'm on the cover of this postcard wishing everyone a happy stay in Cusco. Amused and impressed I had no other choice but to cross his palm with silver.

The tour began to wind down but the last couple of stops (including a stop at the fountain of fertility) heralded the onset of my first bout of altitude sickness. A/S is a tricky thing to describe, but try to imagine a mixture of the worst hangover, and a bout of really painful flu. What was amazing was the speed at which it came on. What began as a mild headache, 5 minutes later had me almost in tears, dearly wishing I could unscrew my head and remove my knotting stomach. Later on I was to feel similar sickness but the overall effect for a first time was pretty crushing. As has happened to me before when I feel really sick, time has no reason or rhyme. So the next 12 hours are a flash of being sick, room-spin and nightmares.

Sunday 10th Oct

Cusco and Pisac

The night was punctuated by Alison thrashing and flaying around in the throws of some nightmare. I had to shout across the room to wake her up. However she seemed non the worse for the dream and when I asked if she was OK she grunted and went straight back to sleep!

Alison stool watch: - still black, firmer than yesterday.

Got up and gingerly ventured out. While I still had a slight headache, I can't help but feel that my paranoia may cause me to think I'm sick when I'm maybe not too bad. Everyone was very considerate however so I didn't feel such a bozo.

Today's target was a market town called Pisac. About 40Km from Cusco, the hour or so long trip takes in the beginnings of the Urubamba valley which is one of the most beautiful stretches of land that I have ever seen in my entire life. The lush valley floor scored by the River of the same name is protected on both sides by the magnificent peaks rising through ancient Inca terraces to lightly snow sprinkled tips. However today's itinerary is not about sightseeing, this is about blatant tourism, buying useless trinkets...

The market itself is enormous spreading from the central massive (possibly Fig?) tree in the square centre as far as the town’s borders will allow. Everything is for sale here. Shop fronts include home front rooms and back yards. Sun-kissed faces invite to give them money and indeed the primary instinct is to buy everything you see. Before 20 minutes had passed we were the proud owners of baby jumpers, jewellery, hats and God knows what else, and that was before we even reached the main square. When first you walk into this arena the initial feeling is one of overpowering amazement. The market itself could be a rip in time, back to the 15th century but it is the sheer scale of the market, which is most amazing. Bigger even than I recall Covent Garden but without all the pomp and nonsense. This really is a shopper's paradise.

So with much a gusto we got stuck in... Gil ended up buying a rug with the expert help of fair-trade Clare and Ruthless Ruby- to whom the words 'shirt' 'off' and 'back' apparently mean little or nothing. Having sold Ruby a rug, I think the stall-holder was pleasantly surprised to see that he still had some money left at all! The actually bartering procedure would run, roughly as follows:

You: 'How much'

Him: 'Five hundred'

You: 'Where's Your mask then Dick Turpin?'

Him: 'OK 450'

You: '250'

Him: 'I am just a poor peasant....'

You: ' OK 265'

Him: '400'

You: '275'

Him: '350 and I won't accept anything less, may lightning strike me dead'

You '300'

Him: 'Done!' - and you can't help wondering if, in-fact, you have been. Still for the prices you'd pay back home whatever they charge here is a result.

Aside from the rugs we were tempted by trousers, t-shirt, tops, shirts bags, jumpers, hats, scarves, coats, bum-bags, pots, pipes, plates, jewellery... half of the market was also given over to food and a more exotic array of fruit and veg I have never seen in my life. Middle-distance stare becomes vital in these places. If you are naïve enough to look anyone in the eye they will sell you the world before you can prise them off.

Between shopping and picture taking I managed to get lost, but figured that someone would find me eventually, and they did. As the weather threatened to get nasty we headed back to Cusco after a couple of hours. The taxi for the 4 of us cost about £7 - (for 40 km !!!!).

On return to Cusco we switched hotels (under Clare's advice) to the 'Inca Wasi Inn' and instead took up a room with a leaky bog!! The afternoon was taken up with chilling, shopping around the main plaza, getting some washing done and booking the rest of the holidays excursions (well when I say we, I really mean Alison and Gil as I had very little to do with the hard work side of arranging and booking things. For this I am extremely grateful). We met up with C and R again in the evening for dinner, and then headed back to the hotel to make preparations for the next 4 days. As of tomorrow we set off on the Inca trail and basically what we forget we have to do without for the next half week. Eeek !!!!

Monday 11/10/99

Cusco - Ollantaytambo

'Into forever'

Last minute scrabbles aside we were just about ready for our 6.00am breakfast and half an hour later we were watching our baggage being slung onto the top of the bus which is to take us to our starting point 'KM 82'. The drive to our drop off point was beautiful and breathtaking. Acutely aware as I was of the effect of altitude, I could actually feel pain fluctuations as the road wound it's way up and down. After a couple of hours we dropped down into the Urubamba valley to select/pick up our porters. This basically consists of the bus pulling up in the main square and our guide 'Alex' choosing from a gaggle of thirty or so hopeful looking men. The eagerness in their faces made for an odd effect on me. The fact of the matter is that we needed the porters to carry our equipment. They need the work - portering is the main source of tourism related income here and looking back with the benefit of hindsight the next four days are a piece of piss for this lot (about which more later). My heart went out to those who were left behind, however there will have been more groups following behind us.

I was touched and amused to see the driver's attitude to pedestrians. Anyone waiting at ANY bus stop was picked up (providing there was room in the bus, but the driver would not wait of anyone running for the bus. It seemed almost to give with one hand and take away with the other (bearing in mind I couldn't foresee much traffic in the high foothills of the Andes at 7.00am). With only one piss-stop and one final stop for last minute water and walking sticks and with me starting feel quite comfy in the coach we were all too soon tipped off and left to fend for ourselves at KM 82, the starting point of our Inca Trail.

First things first and it was a mass exodus to the rear of a shack for a pre Inca trail wee. After some last minute checks just before 9.30, we set off down the valley towards the next 3 days of our lives. The initial walk was pleasant and pretty easy going following the same railway track that would house us on our return journey. Just the little things like crossing the Rio Urubamba on the hand made rope-bridge did everything to hone the senses to the fact that my life there and then was a million miles from the office and drizzle of home. The sun smiled down on us in a paradise valley, marvelling at hummingbirds, cacti, the orchids and, on a personal note, the peak of a sacred mountain called 'Veronica', life seemed pretty sweet.

As the walk began to climb and confident smiles of gentle pleasure made way for occasional huffs and puffs, the way of things to come began to loom. However for the time being, the sun still shone and the magnificent mountains towered over us perhaps not quite paternally but certainly not yet hostile. Mid morning we crested a hill to look down on our first real view of the past. Sitting listening to Alex's short but potent lessons we looked down on the ruins of Llactapata curling round the foot the hills. The realisation of where we were and what we were doing, hit home hard and I thrilled at the reality of our situation - to be gazing out over the Andean forts of history across the valley floor.

The position of tourist never ceases to amaze me. Especially as I am aware of my own pride of independence and my own self appointed levels of strength. I was amused therefore a.) At the COOKED picnic lunch the porters had prepared for us at our appointed first rest point, and b.) How grateful I was for this! I guess for the next few days pride is hindrance none of us can afford to pander to! Still, tucking into my chicken leg I couldn't help but feel a little foolish. The very idea of people running round after me is daft enough... but in the foothill valleys of the Andes!?!? - (of course the subsequent mild food poisoning that accompanied me on the trek dimmed my wonder somewhat...)

As we walked on, the afternoon became thundery and the mountaintops echoed with the grumbles of thunder from the Inca gods, possibly angered by this tourist invasion? Maybe our trip wasn't so blessed after all. Light summer thunder rain persisted into constant drizzle and gradually cloth, skin and enthusiasm dampened and became weary. Sitting under a farmyard pig shelter, the day seemed almost too surreal to take in. The gentle walk of the morning had mutated into a no retreat blunder into the wild and as we sat, catching breath and trying raise spirits, while hummingbirds patrolled the surrounding shrubbery, I began to wonder how much of a good idea this was going to be... Setting off again, feeling eagerness ebbing to disappointment and finally threatening to reach despair, the view fell into a shroud of rain and the path wound higher and harder, ever onwards. Heads (like spirits) down we pushed on following a porter's directions to what a dejectedly thought was another soggy tea stop, we stumbled into the camp site for the first night's stop.

Wet, weary and dejected we fell into our tent cuddling for warmth and solace. Clare called in and found us moping and desolate. The sandwich hug that followed was a surreally beautiful time. Lying still and silent with Gill in the middle we warmed a little. It almost felt that the warmth that broke through the damp, cold was as spiritual as it was physical, all of us pressing, giving our own heat to each other made the moment in its apparent desperation, beautiful.

An hour or so later we emerged into the early evening drizzle to eat as many biscuits and fistfulls of popcorn as possible. To fill our poor starving bellies while the porters cracked on with our tea! Any remotely dry areas were used to try to air out soggy clothing. As evening fell to dusk the skies cleared and as the Milky-way made an appearance to light the sky, spirits began to rise a little. Out here, so far removed from any city lights you can see the sky clearly. Back home even on clear nights the stars are never half as bright as they are here. The Southern Cross pointed due south and stories and tales were swapped, slowly spirits began to rise.

In an act of unadulterated good will we were given a whole 300ml punctuated flaming gas canister to huddle round! Our dinner seemed to be a hell of a long time coming but when it did... Bugger me but it was absolutely out of this world. I have heard tales of 'warming soup' - usually on some twee advert involving some sailor bloke coming in from the rain, and his wifey instead of bollocking him for not wiping his feet properly, gives him a nice big bowl of plastic soup into which he grimaces, pretending to enjoy... - Sorry, I digress. The point is that this soup PHYSICALLY warmed me. So thick you could almost chew it, so tasty your saliva glands drooled in overdrive in craving bliss, like an addiction and thankfully served in HUGE portions. Every night we were served this soup as a prelude to the evenings meal and every night it tasted utterly gorgeous.

After our meal and a wee nip of brandy to keep the cold out, people made their way to their tent shelters and pretty much, fully dressed (the temperatures were already dropping and every night went down below zero), with fleece and woolly hat, we cuddled down for the night. To an accompaniment of mountain desert wildlife and occasional snores from other tents the night passed in fitful bouts of sleep interrupted by fruitless shuffles for a comfy piece of ground and a hell bent desire not to need to get up in the night for a wee. Evening turned to night and tomorrow dawned.

Tuesday 12/10/99

Inca Trail - Dead Woman's Pass. 

'Tiny, tiny steps.'

Some mornings, God invented purely to mock the wounded. If ever there was a day when everything I did either went tits up or just hurt a lot, today eclipsed them all. The first nightmare to hit was the camcorder... It wouldn't work! Last nights rain had somehow got through to the camera and it couldn't operate. As far as frustrations go this a real blow. One of the main reasons for bringing the camera was to film the trail and the Ruins at Machupicchu. Although it would power up when I looked through the viewfinder, a waterdrop symbol would taunt me and the machine would do nothing else. All attempts at hastily cleaning and wiping what I could reach, was to no avail. The thing was buggered. I felt so gutted and angry that Gillian had to take me to one side and tell me in no uncertain terms to pull myself together. Although I set off on the trail I was still very upset and although it was a beautiful sunny morning, my frown could have summoned thunder.

The mornings walk was uphill ALL the way. Dead Woman's Pass, so called because in Inca times if the gods needed appeasing a selected holy virgin would make Pilgrimage from Machuppichu to Cusco (on foot) where she would be sacrificed, is the highest point of the entire trek at 4200 Meters (13,776 ft). And much of this climb was at what seemed like 45 degrees. The scenes were absolutely beautiful. Rising from the valley floor we passed through low jungle forest up onto shrub and flush fields eventually blending to higher moorland and finally desolate mountainous plateaux. The jungle offered some shade from the already fierce sun but still, the ground was uneven and unfriendly. The beautiful trees and flowers were largely bypassed as we concentrated on putting one foot in-front of the other and putting as distance as possible between us, and the starting point.

As the landscape became more open and desolate the climbing became harder and more wearying. As altitude rose, the effects began to take their toll. I suppose I should already have had some idea of what to expect from altitude sickness but as before, it comes on so stealthily yet suddenly that you spend the first few minutes thinking that you are just suffering from a normal headache. By the time you tumble that your discomfort is more than just a regular ailment, the altitude sickness has taken a proper hold. Such was the case with me. With the summit still an hour or so's hike. My head began to ache and my legs felt so weak and weary that at times I wanted so much to sit down but dared not in case I couldn’t bring myself to get up again. The flu/hangover sensations made the last hours walk of the ascent almost unbearable. My saving grace was Gillian who stayed with me, mixing sympathy with encouragement. But in my mind I knew that there was no alternative but to slog on. The Inca trail is such that after the first mornings walk, there IS no turning back.

The last stretch seemed a torturous mixture of short bursts of walking and long periods of catching breath and hating myself for not being at the top. When the summit finally did come within grasping distance Gill began to feel the effects of the altitude as well. Literally spitting distance from the top she kept having to stop to steady herself to make the final last push. Ironically everyone who had arrived before us was shouting encouragement and if anything, this was one of the most infuriating aspects of the whole climb. I felt so frustrated and angry at the effects the height that people's calls of encouragement felt demeaning. Whenever I am unwell, I just want to be left alone. I cannot deal with people fussing. And with the best of intentions, every ones concern was bugging the tits off me.

Then finally, we made the summit.

To relate the feelings and emotions standing atop the hardest part of the trek is difficult. First and foremost was a terrific fury, a surge of anger. If you will, a final climactic rush. I had done it. We had done it. The mountain had caused so much pain and in truth it nearly broke me, but we had beaten it. For all the anguish we had felt on the ascent we knew that it couldn't hurt any more than it already had. And I felt slightly loopey. My over-riding instinct was to rant and rage at the mountain, to shout that we had beaten it. To rage at the heavens that we had beaten the mountain, that it could never hurt us again.

Then rage subsided to wonder. To look back down the alien path leading from the valley floor to where we stood seemed like days worth of climbing and yet we had managed it in a morning. The mountain peaks that had towered over us for the last day and a half, no longer loomed down over us. We were now above most of them and standing just a few feet from the snow line I felt on top of the world, and indeed, we were. Finally wonder led to realisation that I was on top of the biggest challenge of my life and quite literally it was downhill all the way from now on.

Gil and I stayed a while as some of our group set off down the blind side of the mountain. Alone in heaven we held each other and tried not to cry...

The descent was obviously preferable to the ascent although the endless steps did pull a bit on the legs. To this day, Gil is damning them! We were the last to reach the lunch time camp and with the affects of altitude and what I presume was a touch of food poisoning (from that damn chicken yesterday!), I was not a happy bunny. Within 2 minutes of sitting down I was asleep. Food meant little to me and I think I left quite a bit of it. The afternoon involved a gentle (by the morning's standards) climb to a ruin fort called 'Sayacmarca'. From here the views across the jungle valley basin were amazing. One of the constants emerging from the Inca trail is that we can never see much more than half a days trek ahead (or behind). Yet the views seem so panoramic and extensive that it is difficult to believe that soon you will leave behind such vastness for new worlds only hours away. Having dropped from the desolate tops of the mountains the paths here were more lush and a few hundred feet below us, the jungle canopy obscured any views of the floor.

The afternoon's exertions were very gentle after this morning's hell so it was a pleasant surprise that only a further 40 minutes from the fort ruins was our second day's camp. I can honestly say that today has been one of the most exhausting days of my entire life and this was born out by the rest of my day. We found our tent (Alex offered us the bigger tent - about which, more later), I crawled inside, wriggled into my sleeping bag and stayed there, falling almost instantly into a fitful sleep. I am aware only of Gil coming in some 2 or so hours later with coca tea and biscuits, which she more or less had to force down my neck. A few hours later I got up to have some food (although this was more out of academic logic than physical want - I wanted nothing else but to be unconscious!). The rest of time until the morning was spent in fitful and feverish slumber.

Wednesday 13.10.99

Inca Trail

'I can feel it getting better'

The night's events did not bode especially well. Alex woke the entire camp up, screaming in his sleep. More urgently however it rained very heavily in the night and the nice big tent that Alex had granted us leaked. By 4am I could not sleep as my sleeping bag was soaking in places. Thankfully light was breaking and I could hear the porters moving around. Wrapping up, I emerged from the tent I crawled into so wearily 12 hours earlier and I was changed. Cold and still very heady from the sickness that had plagued me yesterday, I felt, I knew that something had changed for the better. I felt optimistic and up for anything that faced us. It's difficult to describe, especially as I was still very much weakened by the altitude sickness, but I felt strong and confident. As other faces popped out of their tents and sleepy eyes balefully peeped out I felt so amazingly alive. I dunno, perhaps not feeling so strong had fuelled my emotions...

As the world around us began to wake, it was almost as though God had suddenly switched on the world. Moisture from the valley floor began to rise as clouds and the stunning views in the predawn light slowly came into focus. Still very much alone (some noises were coming from a few tents but no one else was actually up). I walked a little way from the main camp and looked out over Xanadu in all its Tolkeinesque beauty. Strange and wonderful noises floated up from the valley floor while nearby, the first hummingbirds whirred to the mountain bushes. Lost for a while in such beauty and my own thoughts I was surprised to turn an see some people up and about. Returning back to the tent, I decided to see how badly damaged the camcorder was. Whatever had permeated my own gloom and granted me a lift had apparently spread as far as the camera because it was working fine this morning. Some morning's things just seem to go your way with neither rhyme nor reason - and it rocks!

As breakfast buns and teas were consumed (by this time the buns were approaching petrification) the camp prepared to move on and I had to laugh at myself. While my emotions flew up and down in despair and supplication, the porters (men half my size and weight) were zooming off from the camp with Rucksacks twice their own size and added camping equipment to set up our lunch camp miles away. And I remembered my own humility and weakness and it did me good. It seems that power never daunts me but humility crushes all my self-importance pomposity and gives me a sense of reality.

The day's walk was much easier than the previous days plod and although I still carried a constant headache, the easier ground and the psychological understanding that we were now over 2/3 to our destination and closing, made for more enjoyable exertions. Our track seemed to wind around the mountains rather than over them. The heat varied from humid and wet in the lower jungle areas to thinner and more acute near the crag tops, here at least the constant breezes kept some of the heat at bay.

Our lunch spot overlooked an impressive jungle valley, impossibly far down and lush with frequent deluges. We were given a grail to chase (the final evenings camp for the first time in three days allowed access to decent toilets and showers as well as a restaurant and bar. I'd almost forgotten what beer tastes like!). However nothing is free and the price for these riches was over 1000 downward steps and a couple of hours of knee jolting purgatory. The descent saw us sheltering in a natural crag while the heavens opened and bathed the jungle in its saturating rain. Following the rains, the refreshing air of newly satiated earth soon gave way to humidity once more, but while the vapour rose, the world took on a mystic beauty a suppose you only get at height, when the world and it's clouds are below you.

The descent to the Hostel took far too long for my liking, but eventually we were sat at a table drinking coke while the beer in front of me warmed to perfect guzzling temperature. Even beer had to take second place however as the promise of a good shower tempted more than anything. The shower was tepid at best and hardly the most powerful jet, but by God it felt good. My hair had given up feeling greasy and was preparing to write out its last will and testament. A little time in the tent re-arranging our gear and looking for clothes that weren't capable of walking by themselves, allowed some self-time. Following this we went back into the hostel to our table (Alex had sent porters on in advance to book and bagsy it) for food and beer. A whip round was organised for the porters and for Alex. Although the relief and good spirits was almost tangible in the room, the whole youth hostel environment began to become a little tiresome. Probably only to a narky old bastard like me but I was glad to make my excuses and return back to bed.

Lying there, tired and still a little sick but happy, I tried to stay awake a while to hear this world that I new we would leave tomorrow, just to know that I was lucky enough to be here, now, hearing the mountain jungle world making it's way through it's own remarkable life, here on the other side of the world to my normal life, and I suppose for a while, I did.

Thursday 14.10.99

Machupicchu

'I will dine on honeydew - and taste the milk of paradise'

Breakfast and final trekking instruction sorted, we set out on the final, ridiculously short (2-hr) push for the whole reason behind the trek, 'Machupicchu'. Oddly enough I felt very up tight as we neared our goal. This was probably not helped by the fact that there never seemed to be any indication that we were almost there, only more path and vexingly, more climbing.

One climb in particular proved a real bitch, steps so un-regular that it was dangerous, some almost four foot in height. The feelings of the rise to Dead Woman's Pass almost threatened to return. That sensation of no end in sight. A small ruin seemed to herald an about turn in the path, which threatened to go even higher. Gritting teeth and puffing for breath I walked through the ruins, an insignificant and neglected outpost and followed the path to the edge an enormous basin. Miles across and magnificent in it's secluded enormity, there, in the middle of the valley basin sat the holy mountain of Machupicchu.

It is difficult now, to remember my exact feelings. Mixtures of relief, joy, amazement but most strikingly, awe. I had no idea what to expect from the lost city so what I did see, stunned me. Sitting astride its mountain, the city looks out over the massive valley and gazes back to where we stood; 'Inti Punku' - the Sun Gate. The jungle valley floor rises up to gravity defying peaks, almost like pudgy fingers from a hand too fond of chocolate cake! Next to M, lies its taller but shyer brother 'Huyanopicchu' looking down on its famous sibling.

When the city was originally re-discovered in 1911 by Hiram Bingham it was at first un-noticed because the jungle had reclaimed it's land. Even now, that same feeling of 'lost city' is evident as the ruins seem to slide back to the cover of the trees. Now, nearly 90 years after its discovery, the sense of mystery is preserved by its very environment. This is a secret place, hidden from the world in the largest, thickest and most dense forest in the world. Or maybe our route, the trek, the hardship (or seemingly so) we had endured to get here, made it's effects more poignant. We weren't tourists walking a well-worn path... We were the first people ever to see this amazing secret, we were there with Hiram in 1911. We were, there and then, looking down on the holy city 500 years ago as it's own people. Or perhaps just quite simply we were there. And we were awe-struck.

After a brief rest for her brave explorers to photograph, video and take mental trophies we walked the final mile to the city. The approach was remarkable for one vital point. Rounding the crag side towards the ruins, the sun’s first light peeped through Inti Punku, a letterbox of light with impossibly slow speed, slid down first the mountain at the rear of the valley, then down the ruins themselves. Seeming almost to grant life to the stones, the old town came to life.

When finally we arrived at the ruins and passed through the entrance gates, we were granted sudden and unwanted respite. Over an hour to wait for our arranged guide to arrive. Ironically after 3 such bizarre, busy and manic days, we were here in the middle of climactic pandemonium with time to kill, a stones throw from one of the most holy cities on earth!

The mystery of Machupicchu is compounded by the complete lack of contemporary chronicling of the city. When the Spanish Conquistadors pillaged and routed the country in the 1530s, the Peruvian people, once beaten, succumbed and obeyed the Spanish rulers almost obliquely. Destruction of holy temples was tolerated and entire upheavals in religious and cultural norms were accepted. Spanish/Peruvian inter-racial families began to proliferate very quickly - but NO-one ever told the Spanish about the holy city at Machupicchu. Speculation actually suggests that the city was abandoned before it's completion but the fact remains that as the Mecca for the Inca people - to have left the city to nature without comment would be for Rome to deny the existence of Jerusalem. It is perhaps this sense of total and complete love for the holy city, - to keep it safe not by force but by leaving it to natures rule rather than allow the Spanish this desecrate it (which they would undoubtedly have done), that makes Machupicchu so special. Such unconditional love for a city is surely unsurpassed in history. What adds even more magic to this is the theory that the Andean jungle beyond Machuppichu, holds other even more sacred cities deep in its untapped vaults.

Eventually, our guide arrived and finally, we entered the ruins of Machupicchu. The beginning of our tour was note worthy for the men rushing along the walls with a stretcher, oh dear someone must have fainted! Ten minutes later we rounded a corner to see a figure sat under one of the walls, covered in blood with a plank of wood some 3ft high and 6" across strapped to her head (presumably to prevent any neck damage). Being Americans she and her husband were bossing the local guides around insisting on an airlift (which as our guide told us would be impossible from the ruins - she would need to be transported down to the foot of the mountain to allow any air access...). What seemed more surreal than anything else, however was the fact that the tour carried on as though nothing had happened. Our guide all but stepped over the prone figure of the woman (who had apparently managed to fall headfirst off the ruin walls) and carried on the talk within spitting distance of the woman. All in all we found this too weird and were all, grateful when we moved away from blood soaked disaster area.

Headfirst ballistic Americans aside, the rest of the tour was predictably, I suppose, amazing. We were shown not only the ruins but some of the breathtaking skills the Inca people had like for example splitting stone so precisely that no mortar was required, and also how they had managed to create a perfect compass. Following the guided tour we were granted the chance to wander the ruins at our leisure. This afforded me the chance to wander some of the less well-trodden paths. It was in this time that I managed to feel a little something more from the ruins.

With the chance to lose the main group I could wander from house to house in and out of rooms down alleys and streets into other buildings, some large, some small. Something of the spirit of the place came to me, while I wandered - allowing myself to get lost. This wasn't just some grandiose castle or palace. It was a real place for real people, and I felt this one time vibrancy. The doorways I walked through all felt like they had been traversed a thousand times before. One door into a room, through to the other side, out into a different alley, along pass the windows overlooking the spectacular view back to the sun gate, into a new building, a new home, perhaps, a bedroom, a communal area... With the hour still relatively early, the ruins or rather the streets were quiet. Like Newcastle early on a Sunday morning, anyone could walk past but this area of town was still unpolluted with others like myself. For a few precious minutes I had parts of the ruins to myself and for that it was a very special time. Down here in the 'uninteresting' - everyday parts of the ruins (most tourist are interested in the Sun Temples and so on) where the real people of the town lived, breathed and died, the sense of realism was somehow more palpable than the impressive higher temples above.

Throughout the ruins tiny and some not so tiny lizards dart in and out of rocks. (With so many tourists here I suppose there are a lot of scraps to be had, and the rocks provide ideal shelter). Either as ruthless marketing ploy or freak of nature, a small herd of Llamas lay, basking in the morning sun - and being pestered by tourists eager for a nice fluffy picture. Hawks and small vultures can be heard overhead - we may be at one of Peru's most popular visitor attractions but we are also still very much in the high Andean jungle.

In the midst of the wonder of the ruins lay some very sad truths however. Our guide explained to us that the cities descendants still live in the Andean jungle dispersed and spread out now, but they still live very much in the same way of life as the inhabitants of Machupicchu did 500 years ago. He also explained that the city itself is sinking, the mountain rock can only withstand the weight of so many visitors, but the Peruvian government refuses to limit the amount of visitors to the sight. With access to the mountain made easier by the train line direct from Cusco, the amount of visitors to the sight will eventually damage and destroy it.

Constant in the ambience of the site however, was the effect of the conquistadors. Invaders in the name of Church and greed took so much from the Peruvian people that they hid this city away and to hide such a treasure rings of deep sadness. The entire Inca history is ultimately a tragedy of European plundering and domination. And the result is the willing loss of beauty for it own preservation. The act itself, I find very touching. It is the need for such sacrifice that troubles me...

The ruins (cause and consequence aside) however are not a place of sadness. They inspire awe filled wonder and more than a little humility. The spiritual sense is not dissimilar from that of an old beautiful church and as such, holds a certain serenity.

Eventually, we dropped down from the ruins to the town at the foot of the mountain where Alex had arranged a lunch for us. Although the lunch was good, Gil, Clare and I were keen NOT to spend the entire afternoon there drinking (with the effect of altitude, alcohol is not really a viable option). Instead we wandered down a couple of the back alleys checking out the jewellery shops. Gil and Clare managed to force a shop owner to open his store especially for them, and relieve him of some of his wares. The option of a bathe in the natural springs was tempting but ultimately unrealistic, so soon we returned to the Railway line side and waited for our train.

Peru has proved a benevolent host and has accommodated as many stereotypes as possible. The train station and indeed the entire train experience was no exception. The atmosphere around the station was lazily laconic and unconcerned with life (dogs sleeping on the tracks and people idly rambling down the lines) while waiting for the train to arrive. When the sound of engines did cut through the gentle afternoon heat, however, the entire town, on cue went absolutely bananas! Half imagined memories of early evening travel shows came, horribly, to life along with the entire platform. Little people ran, dodged, barged, squeezed and occasionally ducked through the pandemonium and chaos of the madness that is train boarding. Getting near the train, let alone boarding the bloody thing was proving a worrying challenge. A crush of bodies blocked any view of the carriages (we had to find the correct carriage as they were not inter-linked and we had seats booked), At one stage we boarded one carriage, barged down it and got off the other end! Eventually with the correct carriage in sight and Gillian physically holding on to me, I resorted to moving people out of my way and we managed to make it to our carriage.

Having found our seats (the tickets were first class - this means that we actually had seats) we sat down and watched the horror of Peruvian travel-life unfold before our eyes. Some mad old duffer kept standing with his crotch too near my face for comfort and people kept passing things up to him from the platform, every time he reached over to the window his 'bits' were pushed up and down my leg. I almost felt like I was being scented. Once the train had started, he was gradually replaced by a young girl who, without further a do, sat on the arm of my chair and inched her way further back into – well me I suppose!

At one point I was physically leaning towards Gil to accommodated this girl. To compound this she kept accidentally (probably) pulling my hair. Then just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she produced a baby on full volume from somewhere and pointed the bloody thing at me. This was my entertainment for the entire three-hour journey, and I was relieved when we disembarked. Not only because of this but also because our decision to get off the train was not one hundred percent done so confidently. We weren't entirely certain that this was in fact our station. It was therefore a weight off my mind when we saw Alex beckoning us towards the bus.

The 2-hour drive back to Cusco was wearying and doze punctuated. Alex was playing his toptastic 80's radio-rock faves and excited tittletattle gently gave way to quiet reflection. The last 3 days have to stand out as the most amazing 3 days of my life. So much wonder, awe, pain and beauty all vying for attention, in many ways it has almost been a sensation overload (hence my attempts to chronicle - if somewhat awkwardly, events and sensations of the trip). What I really want now is a day to chill and reflect on such an amazing half-week. However that is not an option...

Our arrival back at Cusco was a bittersweet return. The chance to shower and don clean clothes was heaven sent, but Alex was demanding beer and cheer and our bodies were demanding comfort and rest! We were graciously allowed an hour or so to peel off the more tenacious garment under-stains and try to find clothes that couldn't run away, before meeting up with a dreadfully pissed Alex.

Alex had reached the 'yourmybessmateyouare-go-on-avanuthadrink' stage of alcohol dimensia. He kept telling me about how I reminded him of a guy he met in a pub in London and did I know him? With us all falling over ourselves to be polite to the waiters in the restaurant it was, therefore intriguing, to watch him, whistle the waiter over and demand more beer (in the same way that people do back home). I suppose even foreign people are allowed to behave like drunken arses - the Brits have no monopoly over anything any more. As politely as haste would allow, we bade our farewells and cleared off to bed... not before packing for the next 3 days of course - we are on the move again tomorrow. Yet another early start to take us to yet another world.

Jungle

Friday 15.10.99

Following our 6.00am wake-up call, we got a taxi down to the airport and as if by magic a rep appeared and sorted out all our airport duties which left us with time to kill while we waited for the plane. Result!

The plane, when it arrived, was a little 20-seater affair (a little smaller than a Lear jet). It was 'comfy' - our situation allowed us a fine view out of the Pilots window and there was a bun and some Inca wee cola waiting at our seats. The flight east to Puerto Maldonado was intriguing for the altitude at which we flew. The plane never really got as high as the clouds, therefore the journey afforded us remarkable views of the mountain plateau below. Gradually however the earth flattened out and the hills gave way to jungle and marsh. Within an hour we were descending into the jungle world. Our Pilot informed us that it was 34 degrees below (and it was only 10.00am!)

The jungle heat hit us like a bomb. We made our way through the airport furtively clutching our Yellow fever certificates only for no one to show the slightest bit of interest. Hrrmphh! Thankfully we were met at the airport and whisked off through the dusty collection of shacks and tin-top hovels that constitute the town to the tour operators shack, to confirm the next two nights jungle trip before being driven to the river to board our motor-boat transport to the Explorers Inn.

After the relative (if standard) chaos of zooming and fretting over transport etc, it was a surreal if welcome change to lounge on the river barge while it chugged relentlessly up the river, deeper into the jungle and nearer to our destination. Our company has changed a little for this leg of the journey and I was amused to get a handle on the people we will be lumped with for the next two nights. There seems to be a couple of Europeans who seem very keen and eager, rubber-necking and clawing this way and that to see as much as possible. There are a couple of old Krautmunchers (about which, more later) and of course us. Seems like a fair old mish mash.

The river is a serene and calming place. It allows the chance to watch the world ooze by without exerting ones-self overmuch. While people twisted and turned to see as much as possible, we just sat back and took it all in (or in A + M case sat back and went to sleep). As the boat wound on, eagles occasionally swooped from their tree top lookouts and lazily circled on the rivers warm air. Here by the water, the heat is just about bearable, but snoozily hot regardless.

It is a three hour trawl up-river to the Explorers Inn complex so just as everyone was considering settling down for a nap, the engines cut and we moored by a wooden plank (jetty) and scrabbled back onto dry land. Underneath our ‘jetty’ the mineral rich mud played host to an orgy of butterflies, providing a remarkable rippling rug of flitting colours beneath our feet!

It's a couple of minutes walk up to the main hut where some old git about a million years old greeted us explaining that he owns the park and gave us much needed tropical fruit drink which was absolutely gorgeous. We had a few minutes to sort ourselves out in our little huts (in which I admit I had a good hunt around for any unsavoury little monsters - nothing to report at present). Our accommodation consists of what I guess are standard wooden huts with bedroom and shower/toilet. The bunks all have mosquito nets and as we have already heard and felt a couple of the little bastards, these will come in pretty useful.

We were summoned to lunch, where I was relieved to see that everyone else was sweating as much as I was. The heat made eating an psychological re-action rather than a culinary experience. It gave us a chance however to chat to a couple of the guides and other guests. We were allowed an hour or so after lunch to have a potter round and explore the main area and have cold showers to try and stay cool. We were then whisked off for a jungle walk at about 4pm.

Going into the jungle was like something out of a film. The heat was lessened somewhat under the shelter of the trees (indeed the sun could hardly reach the jungle floor through the thick canopy overhead). The mosies were still out in force though and there were loads of horrible webby type things hanging down from the branches overhead. More than once Martin had to brush off what he could only describe as a disgusting looking creepy-crawly from my back. As a result, I had a couple of those massive shivers brought on by the thought of what could be crawling up my trousers...

Gina - our guide showed us things we would doubtless have blundered past if not trampled on. Some of the most intriguing of these included 'walking trees', macaws, and Howatsins - (these are thought to be the closest living relative to the dinosaurs as there have retained rudimentary claws on their wings so that even from an early ages they can clamber about in the trees). The locals also call them stink bird because they smell fusty. We also saw and heard Tinamens these are medium size birds whose call is exactly like a wolf whistle. The locals also call them gentlemen birds.

The jungle differed from my expectations. When we in Nepal, the jungle was a) seen from Elephant back so you were a lot higher and b) was less dense so you could see more. The density of the jungle here is much concentrated, therefore it is more difficult to see things through the undergrowth, even if they are only a few feet away.

The walk ended at a spot called sunset point where two contributories to the Amazon flowed into one. As the name suggests, dusk is the best time to come here, and the sight of the sun dipping into the jungle was beautiful. We made our way back to the main compound where candles were being lit and a game of football was in progress. Time for a quick shower before dinner (again too hot to eat much) and the pre evening tour talk about Caiman.

One of the main attractions of the Explorers Inn are Caiman (South American Crocodiles - North America has the Alligator, South America has the Caiman). We made our way back down to the canoe to go back out onto the river and see what we could see.

Having been on the river only 5 minutes we saw our first Caiman. The guides shine a very powerful light across the riverbanks until the light strikes a Caiman. Their eyes reflect a red glow (which is pretty eerie from 100 feet away). The light also seems to hold them in a kind of trance which allows us to get nearer for a good look, however once we get too near they scamper off into the river. We had been told to stay as quiet as possible as the Caiman have very acute hearing and can detect the slightest noises and will bolt for the cover. We have the misfortune then to been travelling with an old gnarled pair of German t***s who seem to thinks that whispering very loudly will fool the animals into thinking that their noises are in-fact nothing to worry about. Therefore every time we got near the animals the old bag would yell something at her Entish husband and the Caiman would bugger off.

Irritating German gits aside the trip was one of the most amazing hours of my life. Even though crocodiles are nothing knew (I saw bigger and scarier ones in Nepal), they are still awe-inspiring creatures. We saw some up to about 5ft. Oddly enough, one of the nicest things was a Capybara. These are the worlds largest rodent, and look like a cross between a small hairy hippo and a rat. It was however very cute and apparently equally gormless as we were able to beach with spitting distance of it and just sit and what it for a bout 5 minutes. We left him in peace however and made our way back to the Lodge where the evenings adventures were excitedly re-lived with a couple of beers - now that we are no long at altitude, alcohol is allowed again and as the beers here kept beautifully cold - it goes down a treat!

I returned to the hut a little earlier than Gil and while sitting on the toilet doing what it is people do when sitting on the toilet, I noticed one of the knots in the wooden shower wall move 90 degrees. In disbelief I held the candle near it (Candles are the only form of light, the huts have no electrical input) I saw the biggest cockroach in the world scuttle into a crack in the wall. I was them overtaken by a massive internal thrill of disgust only a close encounter with a 4 inch cockroach can summon. The guides gave us a nearly empty can of cockroach repellent, but we are not that naïve. You go into the jungle and you enter that environment as an alien and must accept natures little fiends, but even so...

That night as the compound settled down to sleep, I lay awake a while listening to all the amazing noises from the nocturnal alien world outside, but from under the bug net the noises that kept sleep away a while most effectively were the pitter-patter scramble of tiny feet within the walls and the roofing and that memory fed thoughts of sharing the bed with another little friend... !

Jungle

Saturday 16.10.99

An obscenely early wake-up call is now officially par for the course. I haven't stayed in bed later than 7am for over a week now. Our dawn breakfast fed us up for the morning's walk through the jungle. Thankfully the heat was bearable at this time, although it increased steadily as the morning wore on. Following Gina, it was fascinating watching her paying heed to the jungle and passing on its messages to us. Gina is a born and bred jungle girl and this evident in the way he moves through the forest, listening here and there, stopping suddenly the show us this and that.

After a couple of hours, we broke through the forest cover and came to an oxboe lake where, as if by magic, a double canoe was waiting for us. Pausing briefly to show us the shell of an enormous beetle (fully 3") which she told us had been eaten by either a bird or a spider (some spider!), she bade us get into the boat.

With Martin handling rowing duties with Gina, we basically sat back and enjoyed the ride. The mid-morning heat was pleasantly hot, the lake had a light breeze skimming across and the world is a peaceful place from the helm of a silent canoe. As we floated along macaws and Howatsins flew and scrambled overhead. Enormous kingfishers darted across the water near the lakeshore.

Crossing the lake we found ourselves heading towards some very rude hosts... A family of Giant Otters were playing on the lakes edge but as we drew closer they grew agitated and swam round the boat making a coarse raspberry type noise and dipping up and down in the water showing off their white chests. This apparently means 'bugger off' in otter speak. Of course being oblivious to the animal's discomfort (Gina explained their re-actions later on), we were utterly enchanted by their antics and not a little awed... these are big animals - about 6ft. I have seen otters before but never so close and never as a community (there must have been about half a dozen or so here). They were definitely one of the high points of the trip.

As we floated on we saw Great Blue Heron, a little turtle, which plopped into the water when we approached, and a variety of bats roosting on the underside of water bound tree trunks - these did the old mass flapping off thing that I thought only happened in old horror moves and Scooby Doo cartoons when we got too near.

Soon enough we beached back at the jetty and began the trek back to the main lodge. By the time we returned we were all bloody knackered! The afternoon was given over to resting and doing whatever we wanted. Around the main compound we befriended a not so wild boar, which stank to high heaven, and a not so friendly macaw, which gave a spirited attempt at nipping Gils hand off. I never realised just how big macaws are. From tail to beak, this one must have been about 3 - 4 ft.

A nice surprise was the visit to the compound of a pack of Red Howler monkeys who spent the afternoon lazing in the high tree tops around the back of the main hut. Their colours caught the sun perfectly and they showed up very brightly in the dark green canopy. In the trees next to them, the Black vultures seemed a little ill at ease, possibly because the monkeys make real opposition for the food scraps, which the birds will try to scavenge later on.

As the afternoon heat threatened to dissipate a little, we had a quick walk back to sunset point to watch the sunset - which was if anything, even more stunning than the previous evenings treat. As we made our way back we bumped into a couple of the guides going for a swim. Following their invitation we boarded the boat over to the other side of the river and had a swim/paddle. It was very odd. At about 5.30 back home in Oct we would be making our way back home from work possibly contemplating the day passed, or tea or wishing the rain would stop. Yet here we were waste deep in an unbelievably warm Rio Tambopata, swimming with Piranhas, with fresh Caiman tracks on the otherwise undisturbed beach. Oh, and getting dive bombed by mosquitoes! It is times like these when I like to think of home and revel in the amazing reality I am lost in at the moment. I know it won't last forever but just for now - life is so very precious and full of a vitality I only really understand now and then.

Back to the lodge wet and exhilarated, dinner was followed by a chat with Gina and a couple of the other guides. This was yet another eye opener for me. Helen, one of the American guides was telling me that she has cancer, her tone seemed to indicate that things were still very much up in the air - and yet here she was, not mopping around at home but living an astonishing life in the Peruvian jungle. It is people like that who make you realise what living your life REALLY means.

One of the things that I had hoped to see here was a big scary spider, but as it was now dark and we are leaving at a very silly time in the morning, I knew that we would not now be seeing one. Imagine my delighted surprise then, when one of the guides came into the lodge and asked if anyone wanted to see a tarantula! Rushing out we were shown the spider's lair actually within spitting distance of the main lodge. The animal was in fact a Pink-toed tarantula. This is one of the bird eating spiders and can grow up to about 5 - 6". It was mainly black with a few whitish hairs here and there and fulfilled all the criteria needed to be a proper big scary bastard, even to the pointed of scuttling back into it's burrow at shiver-some speed. Fantastic!

For the first time since Lima we had muchos beers to see the evening off and the good-times rolled...

It appears that this holiday seems to hold more and more precious treasures for us with each new day. Before sleep crept up that night I tried to take in everything that we had seen today - But I don't know whether or not I really did!

Sunday 17.10.99

Puerto Maldonado - Cusco

3 am alarm call. THREE A.M !!! After a sleepy breakfast we trudged in the pitch gloom back down to the river and wobbled onto the boat - which Alison nearly toppled when a cockroach scuttled underneath her seat - well that woke us up a little.

The trip back down the river still makes me smile a wistful smile of simple contentment. Almost everyone fell asleep very quickly. But I felt awake, so very alive! Drifting down the river, the cool rush of tropical river breeze pushed any thoughts of sleep away. The whole world was mine just for an hour or two. With the river splashing gently all around I felt happy and content - but perhaps more importantly - I KNEW I was happy. There and then, floating through twilight jungle paradise the realisation of my feelings raised them even higher. I felt elated, stimulated, so unbelievably alive. Happiness is an obvious wish to pray for but more precious still, is the chance to appreciate that happiness, if only once, it makes life somehow make sense.

So sitting in the river, canoe scooting through the predawn dusty light, wraiths of mist curling from the water, Gillian’s head rested on my shoulder, I took in the sights and sounds of the Jungle waking up. Occasional calls and birds song were gradually drowned out by louder and more constant cries. Movement from the tree's cover showed the world coming back to life.

Then for about an hour, the sun tried to set fire to the sky. Starting with the tops of the trees, faint hints of impending dawn - pastel blue, infected the pitch sky, spreading silently and unstoppably and all the while changing colour. Blue smeared to green and green to weak yellow - while the world was still, silent and respectful. As the light grew and increasing strengths of orange pushed from the horizon, the world of sound from the jungle canopy woke to join the still clearing light. Bright, strong orange swishes of light eventually gave way to the fierce burning red of the dawn sun, with touch paper lit, sun fire erupted over the treetops and the sky soundlessly roared into a liquid inferno. I watched, awed by the beauty of nature's light show and not for the first time, marvelled that I was fortunate enough to witness such a gorgeous spectacle. Slowly the quiet violence of initial dawn attack relented and the jungle world came into daylight focus... and we floated on down the river.

On arrival back to PM we were driven back to the airport (for some reason, I'm acutely aware that Spandau Ballet were being played on the radio - Peru's idea of pop music is definitely about 15/20 years removed our own). At the airport Gina took care of all our airport worries and we had a couple of hours to kill in the waiting room.

Another plane journey, another airport to negotiate, by midday we were back in Cusco with a precious afternoon for - get this - doing whatever we pleased with no planned trips or obligations!!!!

Well when I say that I do of course mean no obligation except arranging and confirming the next part of the holiday. On arrival back at Inca Wassi washing was put in to be washed and showers were had and flights and train tickets were procured. As per usual M and I did merry nothing, and most of the arrangements were left to Gil and God bless her, Alison - who is becoming pretty deft with all this Spanish lingo. With laundry and tickets (pretty much in hand) we divided and had an easy afternoon of shopping for important memoirs - of course panpipes are an essential as are silly hats and gloves. Resisting the urge to buy some of the more exotic possibilities (A huge mouldy spider - some squished snake!) we were tickled by one little scamp who approached (like about 9 billion before) selling postcards - 'Cusco?' - picture of the town, 'Machupicchu?' - picture of Machuppichu - picture of little girl - 'My sister?' - sharp little bugger!

Tomorrow is yet another day of travel so we bought necessities - crisps and Aspirins - we will be travelling at altitude again - regrouped, went for a tasteless Mexican (meal that is!) - where we were gifted a bottle of wine so dreadful even Martin couldn't drink it, and headed back to hotel. One of the main surprises about Peru is the food and just how bland it is. To make things worse, for the sake of unity I have generally eaten with everyone else i.e. - at vegetarian places - and the main dish is a thing called Somo-Taldada. This basically consists of sloppy chips, and saturated rice with a smat of tomato sauce and fake meat plopped on the top. If my description lacks enthusiasm, it's because I had to eat this shite for about half my meals, and while initially it is certainly palatable, after a small forever, meal times become a pain in the dairy air, more to be tolerated than enjoyed.

But it's not just the veggie stuff (although I have definitely eaten more veggie muck than is good for me - this has resulted in a steady string of twice daily loose stools), the courses I have looked forward to have been a little lack lustre also. Gil and I were both looking forward to stacks of spicy Mex/Tex type stuff so the tepid food here has taken us back a wee bit.

Back to hotel, repacked, bed, sleep - probably in that order...

Monday 18.10.99

Cusco - Puno

By our standards we got up fairly late. We were still at the train station by 8am mind you! We navigated the station and found our seats with little fuss. Sat back and enjoyed Ali and Martins, Laurel and Hardy routine as they tried to put their rucksacks into the overhead luggage rail while a) trying to stay on their feet and b) without it falling onto their heads. Well they're good entertainment if nothing else!

The Cusco-Puno journey via the 'Puno Express' is rated as one of the best train journeys in the world (Ever!). Well, Michael Palin reckons so anyway. The journey is about 250 miles, yet is scheduled to take 11 hrs. This is mainly because the route takes us to height equal to and more than those we walked on the Inca trail. The other reason is that The Peruvians tend to do whatever they damn well please and the timetable apparently took this into account. Another reason for the train's 'slow and steady' progress might be down to the rail tracks themselves. Seemingly the charm of the Express (apart from the side splitting irony of it's title) is in the fact that the rails never, in all the 250 miles sit at the exactly the same level. First one side then the other rises or falls resulting in a constant side to side to swaying sensation throughout the whole bloody journey!

This was made especially prominent when Martin fell asleep (as he seems want to do at the drop of a hat when I on the other hand seem incapable of sitting still, let alone getting comfortable enough to sleep). His head swayed easily with every rock of the train and on occasion he almost threatened to side ways head-butt Alison, such was the motion of the train.

We were sat on the knobby Inca class section where waiters would ponce up and down carrying impossible trays seemingly stuck to their arms while the train tilted from 45 degrees one way to 45 degrees the other. We sat and ate our crisp sandwiches - or dog diarrhoea in A and d M's case, gazed out at the beautifully stark plateaux that marks the route to Puno and, in Gillian's case, damn near blew the train off it's tracks with a particularly violent display of high velocity flatulence.

Gillian's windy manslaughter attempts aside, the journey was beautiful and to our amazement ended early. By about 6pm we pulled into Puno station, and with bums relatively un-numbed, descended to the platform and ambled towards the exit. We had no rush. After all, it's not as if we had any idea of where we were going...

With sketchy directions in hand we wobbled down the main street, a little wary as Ali's magic book warned that Puno boasted a few nasty men who might relieve us of our luggage without our explicit approval. The journey to our hotel was however remarkable-less, and soon we were stood behind Alison while she negotiated our Hotel rooms. Such is her blooming linguistic penchant that we were soon headed for our rooms. And it was here that we got a shock...

The room is spacious, has a lovely firm bed AAAANNDD... has a telly. I haven't even thought of television since Lima and I certainly haven't watched one in over 2 weeks. Suddenly I realised that anything might have happened to the world in the last fortnight and I wouldn't know anything about it. So before luggage had even touched the floor the telly was on and Gil and I sat down to not understand a word of the news. The rest of the world seemed to still be there so eventually I wandered out into the town with A + M. Gil did not seem up to much and pined only for her bed. The evening town was full of life and even a little intimidating - this was probably more do to the warnings in the Rough Guide than the place itself. Packs of kids hung around corners and reminded me a little of the brats back home. We booked a trip on the lake for tomorrow, then I decided to leave Ali and Martin to their own devices in favour of getting back to Gil and the telly. So with crisps and coke in hand and rest in mind, I headed back to the hotel.

Gil was settled in bed and trying to sleep when I returned. As luck would have it, some movie channel was showing 'The Lost World' in English so I snuggled into bed and munched on my crisps and enjoyed the luxury of the most 'normal' evening I've had since leaving England...

Tuesday 19.10.99

'Floating on the lake of Eden'

We were picked up at 7.30am for the day's planned trip on the lake.

'Lake Titicaca' is just under 4000 metres high. It is also the largest navigable lake in the world. 250m deep and a frankly astonishing 8167 square km in size this piece of water can never be adequately described. The first and foremost problem is coming to terms with the sheer size of the place. It is bigger than an awful lot of SEAS! It makes Windermere and Conniston mere puddles in comparison added to this the majesty of the surrounding hills and mountains make just being here a privilege.

But we aren't 'just here' we are just here on this here boat called, cheesely enough 'Happiness', cutting through the water on route to some of this amazing lakes Islands. After about an hour while the shore line of Puno slunk further into the distance we closed in on one of the Lakes most interesting phenomenon. The floating Islands of Titicaca - 'The Uros' are renown the world over. We were allowed half an hour to get an idea of what the phrase walking on water really means. The lake houses a few of these island made purely of 'Totora' reeds on which is housed a small community of Uros Indians. These people have lived on these Islands for 100s of years. The reeds which separate them from the water also form their houses, a good deal of their tools, boats, trinkets, some clothes and even some of their food. The main living here is made fishing and hunting.

History lesson aside the instant focus of attention on leaving the boat is the sensation of this (not quite) land. It is somewhere between walking on thick spongy moss and floating. As you walk, your feet squidge into the 'floor' not by much but just enough to surprise your own sense of normality. New-comers to the Island are notable for their down bent heads, studiously considering the feelings underfoot and doubtless checking to that they don't suddenly fall through the floor.

It is fairly evident now that Tourism is as much of a reason as the people here need to stay on the Islands. With this in mind we all bought a little something - if only so we could claim that we bought this or that while walking on water!

Soon enough however we were back on 'Happiness' and heading out into the middle of the sea - er sorry lake. It was a further two and a half-hours out to our destination Island (a real one this time) of Taquile. The sun was out and the lake- side temperature was pleasantly warm. Here at altitude though the sun burns much faster than we are used to. With this in mind we put on lots and lots of sun block - that is to say 4 applications in 2 hours but I was still burnt at the end of the day. As we moved on into what I thought was the centre of the lake and neared an Island about a couple of miles wide the waves became stronger and higher and kept us pleasantly cool...

After a total of three and half-hours on the lake we docked at Taquile jetty and returned to dry land. The settlement is at the top of the Island, which is a couple of hundred steps. In theory this should be no obstacle but bearing in mind the altitude we are currently at - it was a good half hour or so before we got the summit. Admittedly the frequent stops to regain breath - were also a convenient excuse to relax and take in the astonishing beauty of the lake. With the sun now high, the lake took on a gorgeous azure blue. Almost like a Kingfisher with different shades and textures of green and blue rippling into each other. Looking down from the cliff-side path, the view looked almost synthetic. I always thought that pictures with water so lush had to be tampered with, but today's views put an abrupt stop to such cynicism.

We were gathered into a food hut where we had a lunch of the Island's speciality... Fish and Chips... oh and rice. We then had an hour or so to wander round the land and basically please ourselves. So it was cameras ahoy and off we went. When we went round to the other side of the Island (i.e. not facing Puno- which was by now too far away to be seen) the enormity of the lake became clear. Taquile is situated basically at the far side of a bay. The other side of the lake stretches out to the horizon with no sign of land (when you do find land however you will be over the border in Bolivia). Looking out over the lakes tranquil waters I may as well have looked to the rim of the old world.

Old ruins scatter around the Island and the whole place is inured in a surreal time lock, untouchable by the big bad world apart from through visitors like ourselves. Lizards scampered in and out of rocks and the people greet you with open friendliness. The children are a different kettle of fish. When they speak to you, they do so in a hushed whisper, so much so that one suspects that they have been forbidden to pester tourists by their families so they do so quietly and furtively. I was also amused to find that they asked not for money but for sweets! Somehow this innocence endeared them to me.

Soon enough we descended back down to the boat - Taking in the wonderful sight of some fat old bag, squatting behind the bogs fertilising the ground as we did so. Nice!!!

The journey back was a weary affair. The motion of the boat left me feeling sick. As the sun set, the temperature dropped very quickly and by the time we arrived back on REAL dry land, we were all cold and a little miserable. It was with some relief therefore that we returned to the hotel, rested and showered. It is A + M last night with us tonight as they are moving on to Arequipa, while we are going to have an extra day in Puno then return back to Clare's. We therefore stepped out into the cool Puno air in quest of a nice place to eat... Needless to say then, we ended up in a grotty allegedly veggie restaurant where we had to wait for about an hour for the chef to cook up 4 loads of that Somo taldado shite. This was (if this is at all possible) one of the most bland uninteresting meals I've had to endure all holiday, - but as it was A + Ms last day with us, we tried to keep spirits high. A couple of beers were had and there was even talk of having a good drinky back at the hotel, however once we got there, we all flagged very quickly and basically just settled for an early night. I guess all that sitting around on the boat must have worn us all out more than we thought...

20.10.99

All alone...

Wandered around the markets in the morning with A + M. The markets here in Puno are pretty extensive. They are divided into food and clothes so basically the locals buy food and the tourists look for twee 'chompas'-(jumpers)! - That'll be us then! Decided to leave further exploration of the markets until tomorrow and had a final, early lunch with A + M of Lomo Sal-f*cking-tada then they split for Arequipa.

Byeeee!

Gil and I had booked (oh alright then, Alison booked for us) a trip to Sillustani to visit the burial Chullpas. This is a burial site about 15 miles from Puno. The Chullpas are, I suppose the equivalent to our Mausoleums. These are basically, a cylindrical tower roughly 40ft in diameter and up to 50ft high. The dead of various families would be added as they - er 'qualified'. Now in ruins, the area boasted a quiet claming atmosphere. Similar to graveyards around the world but I felt something here in spite of all us tourists. A feeling that we weren't alone - but that we weren't in any danger... or maybe I'm just talking b*ll*cks! - Well it wouldn't be unheard of now would it?

Some of our group grated on my nerves a bit for their rudeness to the guide but I guess he's used to it. The ruins towered over us benignly and the sun sparkled down refracting off the lake and creating beautiful sun stars through the viewfinder of my camera. It was strangely comforting to be alone with Gil - doubtless A + M were feeling the same. Even the people you feel comfortable with mean that you change your habits to suit silent agreed social conventions (A + M might disagree and argue that I am always repulsive!). I hadn't realised that I had felt 'in company' until we parted company. But once we did I was aware that I felt capable of being my natural repugnant self again! We saw a wild guinea pig scuttle through a whole in the wall, which made me smile and think of Clare P! and a Harrier dashed past us at about head height scaring the living daylights out of me. Our guide showed us a rock with a holy snail and puma on it (or something!) and all told, the afternoon was an easy, picturesque affair.

Once back at the hotel we went out for a meal and for the first time in ages I had steak. STEAK!!! (Dribbley style - mmmmmm !) The restaurant had some live music banging on down the front and apart from the fact that Gillians pizza gave new meaning to the phrase 'rank' we had a very pleasant time. On the way home one of the old women who sit outside the hotel seemingly all the time, got up and ambled across my path, squatted down and had a piss right in front of me. Now call me old-fashioned if you like but I'm just not used to that intimate form of familiarity. Smiling Englishly, I stepped over the now steaming flood of Peruvopiss and headed for the door before one of them tried shitting at me!

21.10.99

Lima Reprise!

The hotel does a canny wee breakfast (buns and tea) that just sets you up for the day. We had set the morning aside for those essential take home gifts and conversation piece purchases. Therefore by lunch time a flute, pan pipes, croissants(!?), 'chompas' scarves and hats were added to the already overfull baggage. We had to haggle hard for the jumpers but I think we were probably a little out of our depth. Not least by the fact that the market place was situated on and criss-cross of in-use train tracks.

No dinner as such but we did have elevenses in a cute café on the main street. Before long we had to negotiate paying the hotel bill. This involved sidling up to the counter and grunting at the guy in a tone which indicated that we wanted to leave and that if they wanted any money from us for the last three nights, now was their best chance of getting it. Well Gillian used some Spanish, so having solemnly promised to speak for us, I promptly stood behind Gil and mugged along behind her.

The bus to the airport was sickly and boring except for the view on the road side rail-tracks (the very ones we had trailed up a couple of days earlier) of an overturned engine (just like the one that had brought us here) lying pathetically on it's side while people buzzed angrily round it. Oh well rather today than Monday!

The airport was a relatively simple affair (I think Gil- I know I did- had visions of some Lima-Cusco type nightmare of non-existent planes or some other such worry). Thankfully there was non of that and after an hour or so's wait (during which a gaggle of musician came along and drowned out any chance of hearing the airport announcements) we ambled onto the plane sat there for while, flew in it, landed, ambled off and ambled through the customs and baggage reclaim in Lima.

As we headed out of the airport we were besieged by prospective taxi drivers all eager to help relieve of some of the contents of our heavy wallets. The guy we went with proved to be a proper wide boy, but charming enough. He was keen to talk to Gil and although the conversation sometime drew a few tangential curves - with us not speaking much Spanish and him not speaking much English - this did not stop him chatting away to us and all told, we got on famously. The drive back to Clare's allowed views of the beautiful cliff-top crucifix once more, thus signalling that we were almost at Clare's.

It was fantastic to see Clare and Neil. There hardly seemed time to swap all the stories we all had to tell. Clare had got some of her Machupicchu photos developed so we had a chance to start reliving the trail all over again. Quick shower and a beer on the couch with Neil (I rather enjoyed mine and Neil's chats - one doesn't often get the chance to say this but he really is a top bloke - I know I don't really know him but I rather think I'll miss him when we leave), then we all went for dinner at Si Signors.

The atmosphere around the table was relaxed and pleasant. Seeing the likes of Neil and Steve was almost like seeing old friends again. I almost got the impression the Clare was proud that we had enjoyed the holiday. I suppose I would be to say the least anxious for my friends to enjoy themselves if they came to see me. But I don't think Clare wanted to prove anything to us. I just think she was glad that we have had such a fantastic time.

We were all forced to wear silly hats and have photos taken. The food was fine - apart from Clare almost eating meat! And the beer was wet and cool - What more could a man ask for? I think Neil reminds me of Andrew Green in someway - hence why I feel comfortable with him. This was quantified by the amount of food he managed to put away. I thought he might explode at one point. Steve regaled us with tales of women flashing their bangers at him when he was last here with his girlfriend - (My heart bleeds - I have to put up with that all the time in the grocery section of Safeways on pension day) and the whole table rang with the sound of easy laughter.

From the restaurant we went to a posh pub complete with dodgy rock band. Had a few drinks and caught up with the last few days. Eventually fell into a taxi and headed back to Clare's. Gil and I were both pretty bushwacked (it seems that every time we go near Neil and Clare we're knackered!) so we sorted some of our stuff out and turned in... But not before I attacked Clare. It is essential that come bedtime, Clare be jumped on and tickled until either a) one of us strains a muscle or b) Clare's squealing satisfies my sadist whim. Unfortunately the point b) only ever generally occurs when point a) has been reached. And anyway Clare gives as good as she gets... and then some. Luckily I managed to video this for the sake of posterity - (and blackmail also). And so with all guest type duties fulfilled we finally went to nod.

22.10.99

In the End.

Woke up in our own good time with something of a hangover. After a shower I decided that the only cure for a bad head was Neil's bacon. With tea and bacon sandwich consumed and BBC news on the telly we went through some of our packing finally agreeing that we might - by wearing ALL our clothes, be able to make enough room in the luggage for all the bloody presents we bought.

With our packing sorted we set out into the midday heat to find Clare's school as she has invited us into her class to see what she actually gets up to. We found the school with no real problems. My hangover now fully vanquished with the help of a Peruvian Whopper. I don't know if that's exactly what I asked for or what he took the money for, but on the general premise that anyone going into a Burger-king generally wants a hamburger. We both got what we wanted.

Clare's school is a very posh affair - in anyone's books but especially here in Lima with literally millions living in abject poverty the realisation of the difference between the haves and the have-nots becomes particularly poignant.

The kids all seem sharp and pretty cute - especially when it comes to figuring how much they can get away with. But they all seem clued up and genuinely seem to enjoy the work. Reading some of their work I was very impressed. The kids here seem to be able to use better English than most of the brats back home. Certainly their written work was probably almost A-level standard over here, all this bearing mind that English is the second language out here. Clare tells me however that they are instructed not to use Spanish when talking to the kids. They have to speak English all the time. Bloody hell - No-one in Newcastle can speak English - and they were all born there!

Returned to Clare's and had a quick tea, then it was off to the Airport. Sadly we can not stay in Peru indefinitely and our plane home was calling. As we queued at the check in desk, lips wobbled and eyes blurred - and then outright wails of heart-wrenching sobbing rang out! It was odd that we said goodbye to Clare dozens of times but this time because we've actually been there and even gotten used to the life she leads, goodbye was a lot harder than ever before. However leave we must, and even as eyes were dabbed dry we checked our luggage in and moved through to the departure lounge.

Having waxed lyrical about almost everything on this holiday it seem a little anti-climactic to say we got on the plane in Peru, got off and on again in Amsterdam and finally touched ground back in Newcastle. But that is exactly what happened. The only notes in my journal show that I sat next to a woman who had a nasty cough until Holland. In Amsterdam I treated myself to a monster size bottle of Southern Comfort... and that is about as much of interest as there is to tell.

In the same way that the trip over was a long day, the flight back made for a very quick day - not least because I managed to get some sleep! What felt like lunchtime was by the time we reached Europe teatime and before we knew where we were we were back in Newcastle. Claire and Martin kindly met us at the airport. We asked them what had happened while we were away, sure that we must have missed out on so much - but nothing earth shattering had changed life in this Northern town. Before we could marvel at the passage of time we were back at home, the kettle was on, the phone was warm with calls to family and friends, and Peru was a world away.

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