Day 64 - Inca Trail, day 1.

Picked up at 1am. Driving through the night for what seems like eternity. Bumpy dirt roads. At one point we ford a rather large stream. We stop in Ollanta, in the sacred Valley. “No porters”, Miguel says, deflated. We drive off again. Half-asleep, I crossly think: “That’s it. It’s a complete fiasco. We’re going back to Cusco. Again. I’m just gonna have to give up on the idea of hiking the Inca Trail and take the train to Machu Picchu.” Finally, we stop at a campsite. We seem to be in Ollanta again. Miguel and the cook pile out and tell us that we can stay in the car while they prepare breakfast. It’s 4am. Looks like we’re hiking after all.

We’re the first to reach the Piskacucho checkpoint by the bridge across the Urubamba river – the start of the traditional Inca Trail. Since today is designated ‘training day’ by Miguel, we take it very easy, walking at a very relaxed pace up the gentle incline. Meet numerous locals, many riding bikes. Kids walking to school on the other side of the river. Miguel points out that during the rainy season, the Urubamba was so engorged that it almost reached the railway tracks. There’s still no rail service between Ollanta and Cusco due to the damage done by the landslides. “When the landslides happened, I got stuck in Aguas Calientes with the tourists,” Miguel tells us. The town by Machu Picchu began to run out of food and essential supplies. The tourists were airlifted first, followed by women and children, and the young men like him were left for last. “Machu Picchu was closed for two months. There was no work.”

On one hand, Miguel is dependent on Machu Picchu for his livelihood; on the other hand, he wants to preserve the incredible monument and complains that even though UNESCO have decreed that the site should only be visited by only 1,500 people per day, the Lima authorities have placed no restrictions on the number of daily visitors, meaning you get over 2,000 people trampling over the ruins on any given day.

We stop at a couple of villages along the way. Not impressed with my predecessor’s efforts; they wrote a single paragraph about day one – nothing about trail conditions and half of it about how ‘you’ll be offered chicha (fermented maize beer) everywhere.’ No one’s offered me chicha yet.

The trail climbs steeply up a hill, where there’s a sun shelter. A woman is selling drinks and so is her little daughter. “So, not everyone goes to school,” I comment to Miguel. He asks the little girl why she isn’t at school and she looks askance at her mother. Miguel tells me that, unfortunately, not all parents see the value of even a primary school education; they didn’t go to school and they prefer their kids to help earn money. Even if kids go to school, the classes are taught in Spanish, and not in Quechua, you often get three grades in the same classroom, and to go to high school, kids have to go to big cities – an expense which farmer parents can’t really afford.

I walk in front with Miguel and we chat about his work. His favourite clients are Brits, Americans, Canadians, Australians. The French complain a lot. So do the rich Peruvians. The Israelis want to pay as little as possible. I don’t like Israeli-bashing, but I want to hear exactly what their reputation is. “They want rooms for ten soles – in Cusco. Then they might stay there a week and then run away without paying. Or they might say that they’ve had something stolen, and argue about the price.” Okay, so they’re penny pinchers, but they’re certainly not the only ones. And maybe if they’re staying in really cheap digs, maybe they do get stuff stolen, and most people would complain about that.

An idea is forming in my head. Guidebooks can wield enormous power, right? So what if I were to somehow harness the power of the penny pinchers and use it to bring about social change…I’ve written earlier about tax dodging in Peru – how many businesses don’t present customers with a proper receipt. If word were to get out to the penny pinchers that they don’t have to pay for anything that’s not presented as a proper ‘boleto de venta’ or a ‘factura’, they’d love that. They’ll just walk out without paying and soon enough, businesses catering too gringos will be forced to do everything above board. Taxes will get paid, and maybe social conditions for the most deprived will improve.

We’re looking down from the viewpoint. At the bottom of the mountain are the spectacular terraced Inca ruins of Patallaqta – a fortress. Miguel explains the history. He talks for too long. When he lets us loose, I speed off downhill, enjoying the silence, the sun, the spectacular colours of the mountains. We’ve been passed by several groups which are doing the Inca Trail in three days due to the strike; they have no time to linger and enjoy the scenery.

The last part of the hike runs along a gentle incline along the Cusichaca stream. The bushed around us provide little shade and walking briskly in the midday sun at an increasing altitude is taking its toll. I’m gasping for breath and have to give up my place in the front; it’s clear that Amy, Jared and Mark are way fitter than me.

Still, when we get to Wallyabamba, our lunch spot, I’m keen to carry on afterwards for another couple of hours so that we have less far to go tomorrow. Miguel’s unable to get permission from the rangers to camp higher up, so we’re staying put for the rest of the day.

The porters have erected the kitchen tent. Our lunch is a three-course meal which includes guacamole and meat in a fancy fruity sauce. This is gourmet compared to other camp food I’ve eaten. I certainly didn’t expect two three-course meals per day.

The whole area is divided into several campsites, with a family looking after each one. Roosters wander among our tents. There are no showers (though I see a porter bathe in the stream) and the toilet is the worst I’ve seen so far – a squatter loo which is a hole in the ground. The floor is covered with mostly mud, we hope, and it looks like it was last visited by someone with severe diarrhoea and really poor aim. The bugger failed to figure out that you have to manually flush the loo using the buckets of water outside the door. Grim.

There’s nothing to do before dinner but read, snooze, stretch sore muscles, and have a wander up to the little Inca ruin a short uphill walk away. I get out of breath even doing that, and wonder how I’ll survive the toughest part of the hike tomorrow – the climb to Dead Woman’s Pass. Mark’s asleep on the grass at the fortress. The porters are playing a lively game of football. I’m impressed; they all seemed to be carrying way too much, though Miguel’s assured me that maybe the bags just look big.

Early night because we have a 5.30am start the next day. Sleep very well – almost too warm in my triple cocoon of sleeping bag, fleece liner and silk liner inside the fleece one.