Archaeological Mecca - Cusco, Peru
Cusco, Peru
Peru is home to the lost kingdom of the legendary Inca’s.Scattered through the valley are countless ruined fortresses containing thousands of interlocking stones, contours that creep up sheer cliff faces and stone steps that climb courageously to the past abodes of these ancient people. Not an archaeological guru myself, although I can’t help marvel at the
incredible feat involved in the man power to build their cities on such high mountains and maintain a lifestyle that is fueled by solely the mountain itself.
Dad and I decide there is no other way to see this incredible valley than by our very own style and pace of transport – motorbikes. Arriving at a hire shop in Cuzco, we manage to convince the operator, Alex, that we are not complete clowns and pass our ‘stay upright’ course. I manage to topple over in the shop after my boots become hooked together; Dad is stressing his absolute knowledge, whilst both insisting “Don’t tell Mum about this adventure”. Despite our obvious delinquencies Alex bids us farewell with a “Don’t kill yourself Jessica” and before we know it we are cruising through the twining roads that lead us into the picturesque Sacred
Valley. Snow capped mountains stand boldly in the background as we maneuver the 400’s around unruly traffic, tight corners and stray dogs. Free to stop and absorb the magnificent views at our discretion, we make our way through the entire valley, stopping to climb the great Inca ruins along the way.
Each quaint traditional village we arrive at on the valley floor has a fortress upon the mountain that shadows it. Firstly Pisac Ruins, which is a tough vertical climb. We manage to reach the top (me only just), and are greeted with panoramic views of the surrounds and the billowing wind that the contours of the slope are methodically protected against. Descending again
through the towns market, we climb back onto the motorbikes and continue to the next village to do similar again. There is only one red light in the Sacred Valley, and I managed to run it. Waiting on the following side I turn to see Dad shaking his head and am followed up by “did you even see that light” lecture.
On dusk, we enter the village of Ollantaytambo – one of the best preserved Inca cities. We park the bikes in the square just as the electric pink sky sets below the mountains and step off with legs of jelly after a long day of climbing and riding. We find a hotel where the owner
happily allows us to park to motorbikes safely in the restaurant area, and proudly takes photos of us and the bikes on departure the next day. We are first to climb the Ollantaytambo ruins at 7 before remounting the bikes and continuing on a 2000m ascent of hair pin turns and breathtaking scenery to reach the peak of Abra De Malaga – 4400m. We return the motorbikes in one piece back to Cuzco, with much relief. Alex is happy to see me back alive and we have smiles ear to ear with the phenomenal experience.
And so to continue to our journey through the Inca Empire, we begin our 4 day expedition to the Mother of Archaeology; Macchu Picchu. A group of 12 set off on the first day on mountain bikes from 4400m in the freezing rain. 2 Canadians, 1 Brazilian, 2 Englishmen, 2 Australians, 2 Dutchmen, and 4 crazy Argentinians carear down the wet road soaking wet. Dad, obviously the most passionate cyclist and best candidate of the group to qualify for the next Tour
De France, heads the front of the peloton. He ends up cycling 15km beyond the finishing point where we pick him up in the bus. A smile spread across his face he exclaims “I can’t wait to bring my push bike back here!” Sure dad, I’m sure the old Peruvian ladies would love a view of your **** in tight Lycra as they peel their potatoes on the road side.
We arrive in the basic village of Santa Maria for the night, where our group forms a Gringo Volleyball team to verse the competitive locals. The Argentinians holler “Ole Ole Ole Ole” from the sideline, as we play barefoot on the cold concrete slab, smacking the ball in the general direction of the messy Peruvians who stand impatiently on the other side of the raggedy
net. The following morning wakes us early to begin the 2 day trek into the base of Macchu Picchu. We begin along the river before embarking on a section of the famous Inca Trail, which entirely explores 300km of South American Andes. A 30km ascent is enough for us and we finally reach the peak before descending back down again to our next camp, Santa Theresa. Celebrating our accomplishment with a few drinks, one of the most flamboyant Argentinians
teaches me the Salsa. The crown of his head barely reaches my shoulder as my feet mimic the passionate back and forward motion of the dance, but nether-the-less I’m given a good taste of what to expect upon arriving in Argentina.
The following day we zip line from alternate sides of the valley before trekking into our last checkpoint. Zooming down a 2km line 500m above the valley floor is a beautiful sensation to cover such immense ground in seconds after a day’s walking. On the final line we are stopped half way on an unstable floating platform and repelled 30m down to the ground. Following our
flying is another 20km trek to bring us down to earth, as we skirt around the base of the MP Mountain into Agues Caliantes, our final stop before the peak.
Rising at 4am to climb 3000 steps is never an easy feat, even with the promise of one of the most majestic world wonders sitting waiting at the top. I sit in darkness on a cold slab, along with 50 other eager bodies, waiting for the trail to open. I’ve heard others stories of sheer delight, bitter disappointment, torrential rain with no glimpse of the mountain, and utter pain from the final descent up. But here I am, awaiting fervently for my own internal reaction to the long awaited mythical wonder. All I can say after the grueling walk up to the top where you witness 2000 more tourists, who woke up 2 hours later than you, arrive by bus at the same time as you and lines of eyes lighting up as they see the exact same view as you is… uniquely breathtaking. This oxymoron may seem ironically cliché, but it is as much about
the journey as the reward of the final destination. A sense of pride burst within me for completing another 2000 steps to the peak of Waynapicchu, and the rewards are endless as the beautiful historic site stretches out marvelously below me in the beams of sun that splash onto the stone Mecca. The magnitude of the site is unbelievable. An image of strong Incan men, with sun scorched faces, and strong dark arms bearing loads of stone within walls of the fortress, extending the empire, forms in my mind. I hope everybody too can appreciate
Machu Picchu in its divine glory someday, as I now have.
And so to end our time in the Peruvian Andes, Dad books us a tour to travel out of Cusco to the Bolivian border. Wrecked from the train journey back to Cusco, we wake late, stuff our backpacks in a record 5 minutes and jump in a taxi to the bus terminal. Dad’s short, bossy host mother hugs and kisses him like a mother farewelling her first born to the army. We arrive at the terminal with 10 minutes to spare, only to find out we are at the wrong terminal. We jump back into a taxi and in a fluster arrive at the right terminal. Unsure of what Dad has booked, I step onto a bus full of old biddies with swallowed gums, clutching their pacemakers. He has booked me onto a bloody retirement bus tour… I take my seat among the sea of grey, and for the next 10 hours listen to tour guide at the front of the bus explain the ‘very interesting’ shape of the hills while crackled voices around me exclaim “Oh, have a look at that cloud dear!”.
From now on I book the tours…