Day 66 - Inca Trail, day 3.

Sleep intermittently. So does Jared, who now has an upset stomach. I offer him my charcoal tablets, my cure-all.


Get cross with whichever stupid girl’s managed to block the loo with toilet paper. In Peru, you never put bog roll down the toilet; the plumbing can’t cope with it. Use a stick to fish it out. Some people just leave the mess for others to fix, and it hacks me off.

6.50am start. Carry on with my stopping, wheezing, starting technique, and make it to the Runkurakay Inca ruin in half an hour, rather than forty minutes, as predicted by Miguel. I like his approach; maybe he deliberately overestimates the time it should take us, or maybe we’re fitter than average. Miguel explains the history of the Inca lookout post, and we carry on. After twenty minutes, I reach the false summit with a small bofedál, then the pass in another fifteen minutes. Mark’s already there, having scrambled up to higher ground for some meditative time. I scramble up another small peak, admire the view. Build a little stone cairn as an offering to the mountain gods. Mark and I are the first ones down the steep stone steps, which takes us down to the Sayaqmarka fortress. Awesome views of the valley below and the trail, which continues on the opposite side of the valley. Miguel points out examples of Inca stonework – both pirka (stone and mortar) and imperial (large blocks of stone slotted together with no gaps). It really does only take us ten minutes to walk down and then up to the Chaquicocha campsite, where some of the groups are stopping for an early lunch. We’re pressing on to Wiñayhuayna, the last campsite before Machu Picchu.

The walk from Chaquicocha to the final Phuyupatamarka pass is the loveliest bit of the hike so far. It runs through stretches of cloud forest, up gentle slopes, with stupendous views of the valley opening up on the left-hand side. Best of all, I’m alone; the three-day groups are way ahead, and the others are having lunch. Hummingbirds flit among the flowers.

We rest at the pass, but I’m keen to press on; the delicious smells emanating from the cooking tents are making me hungry. Plus, I’ve figured out how the guys can have their holiday, and I can do my research: Miguel will take me to the final checkpoint and tell them to let me through because I have an emergency and have to be in Aguas Calientes that night, while everyone else camps at Wiñayhuayna. Then I’ll meet up with the group at Machu Picchu in the morning. Am pondering this scenario as I pound my way down the super-steep stone steps, graciously put down by the Incas. The steps are murder on my knees, but after forty minutes, they give way to gentler ground, and it’s full tilt ahead for the campsite. When I see Inca terracing in the middle of a densely forested slope, followed by electricity pylons, I know that I’m close.

I come to a fork in the path, and remember Miguel’s advice: “Not the left one”. On and on, downwards. Got the same tune playing on a loop in my head, the popular Russian wartime song, “Katiusha”.

As I speed on downwards, I weigh up my personal preferences versus professional responsibilities. It’d be nice to stay in the campsite, read mountaineering stories and rest my feet (I can feel my big toes beginning to form blisters). At the same time, I know that in order to make up for the day I’m going to lose on the 17th due to the strike, I need to be in Aguas Calientes tonight, and I’d like to maximise my time in Machu Picchu, and climb Huayna Picchu – the mountain that looms behind the ruins. To do that, I have to be one of the first 400 people there, and these days, you can only do that if you’re coming from Aguas Calientes. They used to let people set off early from the Wiñaywayna campsite, but these days you can only pass the checkpoint at 5.30am at the earliest, because the trail is quite dangerous in the dark.

Finally, some tents come into view. I spot one of our porters and he leads me down to our ledge. I see only three tents and know that Miguel’s message got through. I’ll be going ahead to Aguas Calientes.

After a three-course lunch which includes vegetarian ceviche (mushroom), the cook and the porters line up to say goodbye to me. I shake everyone’s hand and thank them. The assistant cook, Jorge, is coming with me to carry my luggage. I’ve already talked about tips with the other guys and have left them enough for everyone. Basic rule of thumb is that the porters get around 50 soles, a bit more for the porter coordinator and the cook, and the guide is separate. They do work hard, and I bet they still get paid miserly wages. Plus, they work constantly: the staff are due to catch the 5am train back to Cusco the following morning, and they’ll most likely be starting another tour the following day.

Miguel walks me to the checkpoint. Technically, it’s forbidden for me to go on without a guide, since trekkers have been less than responsible in the past, and Miguel and I have decided that my ‘emergency’ story is not going to fly if I want to use the same entry ticket for Machu Picchu the next day rather than forking out an extra 120 soles. Miguel complains about the stupidity of the rangers; he’s had to argue with them already, because as far as the paperwork is concerned, we should be in Machu Picchu today; they’ve surely heard about the strike, but don’t seem to put two and two together. They like the groups that have half-killed themselves, walking to Wiñaywayna in two days, because they remain within the set brackets of the paperwork.

In the end, Miguel tells the truth; he tells the ranger that I have to go to Aguas Calientes for work and shows him the letter from Rough Guides. He and the ranger argue for a while, but that’s about whether all of us will be able to use Machu Picchu passes which are a day old. We’ll find out tomorrow morning.

Jorge and I set off. The trail skirts the mountain, rising and falling gently, and luckily, we’re in the shade all the time. There’s a bare patch on a mountain across the valley – the sign of a giant landslide. We chat a little when I’m not too out of breath. He’s been working as a porter and assistant cook for nine years. His Quechua face is ageless, but he tells me that he’s thirty four and has brothers in Cusco and Lima; no mention of a family, though. I gush about how much I love the landscape, how we have nothing like it at home, and it’s true – the mountains here are stupendous, the air is fresh, the weather is sunny and warm, and after acclimatising to the altitude, I’ve never felt better.

Jorge is carrying his backpack strapped to mine. When I see him pick up my long-suffering Kelty by the battered and fragile top bit, I grind my teeth, but it hasn’t fallen apart yet. I tell him that I’m used to carrying thirty kilos normally, but that at this altitude, that would be very difficult. Ask him if his work is hard, or whether he’s used to it. “It’s always hard,” he tells me. “I have to carry a lot”, and I feel guilty about that extra book in my rucksack that I could’ve done without.

Jorge has no water, so I offer him my camel pack several times and he accepts gratefully. I’ve been thinking a lot about our responsibilities towards our staff, who make the Inca Trail hike not just possible, but really comfortable, and vow that I will help to improve working conditions for them. That’ll be harder than getting penny pinchers to walk out of restaurants if they haven’t been presented with a legal bill, because the really cheap travellers are likely to accept the cheapest Inca Trail, meaning that the conditions for the staff are below par. I’ll give it due thought, though.

In “Dark Shadows Falling”, Joe Simpson talks about the appalling treatments of Sherpas by the rich customers climbing the Everest. True climbers a) often climb without assistance and b) feel responsibility for other climbers and those who assist them, whereas people who pay for a guided tour up the mountain do not. People who have paid $70,000 for the climb balked at paying $200 per head to have their staff evacuated when there have been terrible storms on the Everest, and left them to die. They don’t care sufficiently to make sure the Sherpas have adequate clothing and mountaineering equipment. I’m appalled by what I read.

Since normally the porters walk to catch the first train out of Aguas Calientes on the morning of the last day, it means that Jorge is going to be stuck in town overnight, thanks to me. I decide that I’ll pay for his food and accommodation on top of his tip because he is my responsibility.

We reach a spectacularly steep section of stone steps leading up, and Jorge assures me that they’re the last uphill before Intipunku – the Sun Gate - from where you get your first glimpse of Machu Picchu. Sure enough, a path paved by the Incas leads to a stone gate, and there it is – the distant set of ruins with tall Huayna Picchu looming right behind it – so familiar from the photos I’ve seen, and yet still spectacular. It’s sunset, and the ruins are lit with a golden light. I tell Jorge that it makes a real impression, but he shrugs. He sees Machu Picchu every week. There are other people sitting on the edge, some of whom are doing the ‘two-day’ (read: four hours’ hike) tour and some of whom are day trippers who have come up from the ruins for some pictures.

We press on and reach the ruins after twenty minutes. Jorge comments that I walk well; I wonder if sometimes I’ve been walking too fast for him, since he’s been carrying a heavy load all day and must be tired. We walk down to the bus stop, and I buy his ticket. They can see that he’s clearly a porter, but they still charge 15 soles for the forty-minute ride down along hairpin bends. He’s the only porter on the bus, the only dark-skinned non-gringo and I’m willing to bet that he’s never taken this air conditioned bus before. I squeeze in between two fat tourists who quickly make room for me. I haven’t showered in three days. Ha.

My first thought when we get to Aguas Calientes is: “How did Gibraltar get here?” Both are very touristy, and the former is squeezed in between tall mountains, whereas Gibraltar is hemmed in by The Rock and the sea. Every other place is a restaurant or a place to stay and they’re selling all kinds of overprices souvenirs everywhere. They’ve certainly got a ready market for them: 90% of visitors to Machu Picchu are day trippers from Cusco, and though the Inca Trail feels crowded, the hikers make up only 10% of all visitors.

We find my Hostal Los Caminantes, just off the train tracks, and though my reservation was for the following day, I still get a room. Jorge’s crashing with some friends; I bid him farewell. I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed a hot shower as much or for as long.

Errands to run. Map work to do. Find the train station and try to change my ticket, but since it’s been changed already due to the strike, I have to buy a new one. $43 for the hour-and-a-half to Ollata. Daylight robbery. It’s actually more pricey than British trains – ironic, really, since Peru Rail is owned by a British company.

Dinner at El Indio Feliz – very popular restaurant with upmarket food that actually stands out from the myriad places which offer pizza, pasta and guinea pig. Plus, they don’t have waiters loitering by the door, waiting to pounce on potential customers. Everything’s fresh and imaginatively prepared.

Very early bedtime in anticipation of the 4am wakeup.