Day 55 - back to Cusco.

Awoken by a terrific thunderclap at midnight. A massive storm is raging outside; the sound of the rain on the roof is deafening. Then a flash of lightning, more thunder, more lightning. I enjoy thunderstorms, but this time I’m worried that the roof might leak, or that we get struck by lightning.


Nicolás wished there’d be some rain so that the river’s not so shallow, so that we wouldn’t have to push the boat when it hit shallow patches. Be careful what you wish for; by 4am, I’m woken up again, this time by a terrific crack. “The roof’s falling in”, I think, and am glad it’s not in my room. Turns out that Sarah was moving her bed over away from the spray; a fine mist of water is coming through the mosquito netting; the rain’s blowing sideways. There’s a candle burning in Tim’s room and monstrous shadows are playing on the ceiling.

We wait until 7am to see if the rain would die down. It doesn’t, so we go anyway. Nicolás is worried about the condition of the road. I wonder if Marianne would fly us out if there’s a landslide.

The river’s a raging brown torrent, carrying large tree branches, assorted debris, even whole trees. It’s a wet, bumpy ride. Even with the plastic sheeting covering us, my rain poncho on, and my hat pulled down low, I’m still wet and getting cold. Manage to nap a little. We constantly criss-cross the river to avoid the stronger current and the tree trunks; the boatman keeps switching the motor off to clean it because the water’s so dirty. Nicolás estimated that it’d take us three hours to get to Atalaya, where we first boarded the boat; it takes us four. I’m beginning to get irritated with his constantly underestimating the time it would take us to get somewhere; one of the tricks a tour leader taught me is that you should always overestimate; that way, people are pleasantly surprised when you arrive early. If you underestimate, you always have someone getting cranky (i.e. me) when the actual time is far longer.

We see no other boats on the river; that’s not a good sign. There’s supposed to be another group arriving, and we’re due to then board their bus back to Cusco, but there’s no sign of them.

There’s been a landslide, not too far from the San Pedro Lodge where we’d spent our first night an age ago. A minibus had set off from Atalaya to go and collect the other group and we can go when they’ve arrived. We’re hours behind schedule. Change into dry clothes and then, much to my joy, I find a lad who sells me a large hollow bamboo tube for me to store my bow and arrows. He’s also selling a lot of decorative pieces – ornate arrows decorated with macaw feathers, earrings made of seeds…

Go for a ‘tour’ of the village with Roger and Sarah; it takes ten minutes. They’re unsuccessful in their mission to find avocados. There’s a phone centre that Nicolás uses to call the office.

The car comes for us pretty quickly, at 1. We’re four hours behind schedule. Since it’s a car rather than the old rattlebanger bus, it’s a lot quicker and we’re making up for lost time. There are many people by the roadside, trying to hitch a lift towards Cusco.

The road’s no worse than before, bumpy, with streams crossing it. Then we come to a large pile of rocks blocking the road; the landslide will take a while to clear. Our ride’s waiting on the other side of the landslide. There’s a bus stuck there, worried heads poking out. They won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

We’re making good time. The sunset over the cloud forest is spectacular – chunks of the forest look like islands in a bright white stream. By dinnertime we’re in Paucartambo, where we had breakfast the first day. Nicolás finds a roast chicken place, family-run, with all the children pressed into waitressing while the fat father sits and eats.

There are riot police in the street in full combat gear – batons, shields. There’s a strike. “Are they expecting violence?” “Yes.”

Nicolás estimated that we’d be back in Cusco by ten. It’s eleven by the time we arrive; there are numerous cars streaming out of town for the festival on Ausangate mountain, which involves sacred rituals and a tough hike. Tim’s been talking about going to the young man we picked up after the landslide. He clearly doesn’t know that booze is not welcome there. He’s been drinking a lot lately. I can’t resist a little dig: “Nicolás, is it true that alcohol is not allowed on Ausangate?” “Yes.” “And is it true that they whip you if they find some?” “Yes.” “And why is that then?” “Because the festival is sacred and alcohol defiles it.” Take that, Tim.

We spend forty minutes in a dodgy-looking neighbourhood with graffiti-covered walls, looking for some place where Tim’s supposed to be staying with a family. Lucky them. I’m next, and it turns out that my reservation at Amaru Hostel’s non-existent. Luckily, Nicolás is there, and he gets the guy to find me a room in a sister hostel a block away.

Soft, lovely bed. Clean sheets. Hot water. I pass out.