Machu Picchu: the finale

When we originally set out, I think Josie and Alasdair and I were slightly disappointed that we wouldn’t be hiking into Machu Picchu itself. We obviously couldn't take the Inca Trail right through the Sun Gate, but nor would we be walking uphill from Aguas Calientes, the last stop before Machu Picchu. Instead, we’d stay overnight in the village, then just take a bus in the morning like T. or any other (sensible) tourist. By day 4, however, we were all pretty glad not to be facing a fifth day of the trek.

The highest altitude of the Salkantay Trek is on day 2, at the pass, so that is supposed to be the hardest day. And it was undoubtedly easier to climb uphill on day 4 to Llaqtapata, which is only at 2,650 m. It was also cloud forest, a completely different environment from Salkantay Mountain.

Passionfruit

Coffee

Our goal was to get up to the lookout and, as I often reminded my fellow hikers, to get down. “The finish line is at the bottom,” some wise mountaineer said. The bottom, in this case, was the hydroelectric station, which does not sound like nearly as inspiring a goal as the top of a mountain. But we were promised lunch there—the last meal to be prepared by our outstanding chefs.

At these lower altitudes in the “jungle,” I was careful to apply bug repellant, even though we had a prescription for antimalarials. I had not thought about sunscreen on day 3 when, incredibly, I got enough sun to colour the backs of my hands. To be fair, I’d never have thought to put sunscreen there anyway. It was the position of my hands on my trekking poles.

It wasn’t raining this morning either, though there was enough mist I doubted we’d be able to see anything from the lookout. 

Our guide was around enough to point out a parrot to us, with bright yellow feathers. He and I also heard, and thanks to him I saw, a toucan. I didn’t get a good enough picture for you to make out its distinctive beak shape, unfortunately.

Four hours and 650 meters above La Playa campsite, we reached Llaqtapata.

Here, the guide waxed loquacious about Incas, showing us a series of strings that he said were a communication system, whose key we have lost. Something must have been lost in his communication, because there is no way that bunch of string was an original Inca artifact that he just happened to be carrying. I found my attention distracted by a butterfly that kept fluttering around, the likes of which I’d never seen before. Every time it flapped its wings, I saw it go from purple to gold.

In North America, we don't tend to associate cities with indigenous civilizations. But in South America, so-called “pre-Columbian” peoples really went to town, so to speak. Llaqtapata is an example of a way station all along the massive Inca system of roads. Every twenty miles, the guide told us, they built such an inn, because that was how far someone was expected to walk in a day. Oof.

When the Spaniards arrived, they of course thought the Incas were barbarians, because of the temples to sun and moon and all. The Spanish also brought the Inquisition with them, visiting persecution upon the New World as well as the Old. Not to be outdone in the human sacrifice department.

Anyway, enough of the mist cleared that we did get a view of Machu Picchu Mountain.

The greenery growing over the edges of the ruin made me imagine what Machu Picchu must have looked like when Hiram Bingham of the U.S.A. first saw it in 1911.

Bingham was guided in this enterprise by one Pablito, the 11-year-old son of the Alvarez family. Pablito Alvarez is the Tenzing Norgay to Bingham’s Edmund Hillary, but Bingham taking the credit is not the only aspect that still irks Peruvians. He told Peru’s government of the time that he was taking all the removable artifacts (read: loot) from Machu Picchu back to Yale University with him, as Peru didn’t have the technology to study them; but he promised to return them soon. Guess where they are? Not in Peru, which is why there is no museum at Machu Picchu, only the ruin itself which was too big for Hiram Bingham to carry off.

Having learned all this, I was still up at Llaqtapata. The descent to the hydro station (oh, joy) promised to take 2 hours.

It did not. In the wet season this is a muddy, endless descent. Every time I let my thoughts or gaze wander for an instant I would slip or trip, so it was extremely slow and tedious for me going down. I had to stop once in a while just to remind myself that I was in a remarkable part of the world.

Bananas

Lunch came, and with it the obligatory (although they say not) tips to the departing staff. Can I just say, if you are ever on a trek like this make sure you take more soles than you think you’ll need. If you have chefs like ours you’ll want to tip them extra, and even if you don’t, it’s nice to treat yourself to a flush toilet every once in a while.

The last hike of the afternoon was 10 km down the railroad track to the village, Aguas Calientes. We had seen signs for Machu Picchu so it seemed close.

We knew we’d be taking the train on our return journey the next day, so we shunned it and thought, how bad can three more hours be?

Let me tell you, this is a monotonous walk. While I was glad not to be going up and down hills anymore, the ground along the train tracks is gravelly and uneven, and frequently I found it easiest just to walk on the railroad ties. (These trains are slow and infrequent, so there was plenty of time to get off the track if one came along.) Often, the track would span the infamous river, which at this point looked like chocolate milk in a blender.

The guide had disappeared again. All of a sudden, having been alone almost the whole day, we were surrounded by other backpackers, every one of them slogging down the train tracks for access to Machu Picchu. The heavens opened again, and out came my poncho. Again. It was too warm to wear my rain jacket so I just soaked through, leaving the poncho to keep my backpack (sort of) dry. I knew that if I ever reached Aguas Calientes—“hot water” in Spanish—that is exactly what awaited me. An actual shower, a hotel, and a bed.

I arrived, sopping, to hear the guide yelling to me from a balcony. We went into the lobby of this rather nice hotel, Santuario, and proceeded to drip all over it. The staff must be used to this sort of thing.

At the time, I felt like what I’d done was harder than Kilimanjaro, though I’m sure Kili would have been harder had I actually reached the summit. I was shattered in foot and knee, heel to toe; I was tired of walking in the rain. But I wonder if the real exhaustion was because the trek had reached its climax on day 2. Our goal was Machu Picchu, but we would not be reaching that by foot. 

When we got up early the next morning and saw how long it took the bus to wind up a steep hill the whole way, we were grateful! Wouldn’t you know, this was the first day on which the rain came in the morning, instead of waiting till the afternoon. For the longest time we couldn’t see a blamed thing up there.

We did get some sunshine eventually. I still can’t get over that I’d gotten more sun on my face the day before, a day that, in my memory, was an endless, low-altitude slog through muck and rain. I don’t know if this is why Machu Picchu itself felt kind of like an anticlimax.

It’s huge, though its hugeness is more obvious when you can see the whole thing at once. We were treated to different bits as the cloud shifted. Kind of mysterious in its own way.

Here is something important that, to his credit, our guide did tell us, before his 3 1/2 hour tour around Machu Picchu. There are, understandably, no facilities inside the ruins. There is also no re-entry. So I don't know who these people are who spend all day inside there—remember, the young people I was with were British—but no way was I going to. The pinnacle of the day for me was finding my way out after we finally said goodbye, no easy task when the one-way system makes you walk all the way around. By this time of the morning, the crowds were such that I could understand. What must it be like in high season?

Starting to clear

Don’t get me wrong: Machu Picchu is impressive. I couldn’t possibly have missed going, but it did feel weirdly disconnected from our trek. Perhaps because coming back into the crowds the evening before had made for sensory overload. The fact that you can just train and bus it straight to the top meant that we were surrounded by people who’d had a completely different experience getting there from ours.

The pictures, though, speak for themselves.

Corner stone. Cool, huh?

When I emerged from Machu Picchu, I discovered that the bathroom there is so posh they charge 2 soles. And you get a receipt! Honest to goodness, a receipt for going to the bathroom. That just sums up how commercial we’re talking about.

What I loved most about Aguas Calientes was the Santuario Hotel. Not just because I didn’t have to put on squelching boots in the middle of the night! The folks there were friendly, served breakfast before 5:00 A.M., and let me spend the afternoon in the lobby when I was tired of being ripped off (oh, and the rain). I kept looking out at all these people trudging up the road, in the pouring rain, looking stunned with tiredness. I remembered how I'd felt after many bone-jarring hours of the same thing. And I was so glad we hadn’t done this last hike up to Machu Picchu.

“…we had slept in our clothes, where we could seldom or ever change them. We had halted among mud, waded through rivers, tumbled among snow, and for the last few days been sunned by heat. These are but the petty inconveniences of a traveler; which sink into insignificance, when compared with the pleasure of seeing new men and countries, strange manners and customs, and being able to temper the prejudices of one’s country, by observing those of other nations.” —Alexander Burns