Pilgrimage to Machu Picchu: Part Six - Porters and Portents
Once again, we woke up at dark o'clock to leave for the Inca Trail. We breakfasted on the exact same foods that we'd eaten for the past three breakfasts (the restaurant didn't believe in variety), stowed our extraneous gear one more time in storage, and took our seats yet again in the lobby. Once again, no one else was waiting with us. The appointed hour came and went, and my feet were tapping and fingers drumming with nerves and anticipation. Was it going to be another fuck-up day? Were we being forgotten?
About ten minutes late, a smiling young man walked in with a clipboard. "Shantell?" He looked at the clipboard, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. "Keel?"
I jumped up, happy. "Yes!"
He grinned. "My name is David." He pronounced it "Duh-veed." "I'm your guide for the Inca Trail. Come with me. We're going to take a taxi to the bus."
And so we did. It was still early, before rush hour swamped Cusco with its cacophony of horns. We were taken to another hotel across town, and we got into a small bus. A couple other people were on the bus. They were pretty quiet, either due to shyness or because they just weren't awake yet.
A second tour guide joined us: Jesus. He seemed a bit more shy than David, but still friendly and happy. Within a few minutes, the bus had filled up with smiling, excited, groggy people. Most of them were from the UK, but there were a couple more Canadians. I was surprised there were no Australians, because Aussies are everywhere. When everyone was accounted for, we started driving back to the Sacred Valley. I think knightky fell asleep. He can sleep like a pro. I, however, was too excited to sleep. Inca Trail, here I come!
We stopped at Ollantaytambo for a few minutes so everyone could get water, drinks, or go to the bathroom. Yes, we stopped for a bathroom break! This tour was already soooo much better than the last one. I contemplated buying a scarf, then decided against it. I already had something for my neck/face, and didn't want to burden myself with any more weight. My pack was already awfully heavy.
Back to the bus we went, and as we drove closer to the Piscacucho park entrance, David talked to us about what we were seeing around us. He talked about the adobe architecture, the agricultural variety, etcetera.
We pulled into a parking lot and got out to get our rented gear. Porters with enormous packs were everywhere. The men were all small, and dwarfed by their enormous packs. Some were certainly under five feet tall, and the packs were bigger than they were. I felt relieved knowing that there was a legal cap on the weights (25 kg). Years ago, porters were expected to carry far more for much less pay. Human rights lobbying has finally made sure they're compensated properly and not carrying injurious weights. That being said, I was carrying half the weight they were, and I was worried. I know I'm strong, but I'm not accustomed to carrying so much weight for so long, and certainly not over rough terrain at extreme altitudes. David got Kyle and my packs out of the bus for me and looked concerned. "Why are your packs so heavy?"
"My camera gear, and two days' worth of water."
He looked surprised. "Two days's worth? Who told you that? You don't need that much. You only need enough water for today. There will be water on our breaks, and you can refill for tomorrow."
Hugely relieved, we divested ourselves of about six litres of water. My pack was still heavy, but at least I didn't feel like I was crushed by it before I'd even started hiking.
We got our walking sticks, and queued up to enter the park. We had to purchase a park pass and show our passports to be let in. The Inca Trail has been nominated to be a UNESCO-protected site, and only a certain number of people are allowed on the trail each day. This helps preserve the path from too much wear and tear. It was also nice because it meant we wouldn't be constantly surrounded by large groups of people.
While the others were getting their passports checked and so forth, I stepped out onto the little bridge going across the Urubamba River. I was busily working at getting a snapshot of the river when a park warden came along and asked me to clear the bridge. "Oh, certainly," I said, puzzled. Maybe we weren't allowed to stop on the bridge for some esoteric reason?
But then I looked up the trail and saw a pair of Quechuan men carrying a litter and being followed by a couple of horses and donkeys. A blanket was pulled over what appeared to be a corpse.
Oh. Oh no. That did not bode well. Was it a tourist who'd fallen off a cliff?
I stood off to the side and let them pass.
A knit hat poked out from beneath the blanket. The body jostled a little as the men stepped up onto the bridge. I averted my eyes, not wanting to stare. I would be extra damned careful to watch my footing on this trail, and Kyle had better, too.
When everyone had finished signing in, we set off up the trail. The weather was beautiful. The sun was shining, but there was enough of a breeze to keep it from being too hot. I felt just right in my tank top.
The first part of the trail followed the Urubamba River, and we got to see anachronistic mixes of ancient architecture and modern infrastructure.
I also finally got to see the enormous prickly pear cacti up close and personal.
The walk was pretty laid back. People chatted as we hiked along, and Jesus and David conversed with us about the history, flora, and fauna. They joked that we wouldn't be nearly so talkative on the morrow.
The ruins are both ubiquitous and spectacular. This is Patallacta, which was an agricultural site:
In 1536, Manco Inca Yupanqui razed this and numerous other settlements along the Inca trail in an attempt to discourage pursuit by the Spaniards. It worked. The Spaniards didn't discover the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, or any of the settlements along the way.
We hiked through a few ruins. I couldn't resist doing a little extra, and at every stop along the way, I took a fitness break.
Although this part of the trail felt more desert-like, with scrub plants, cactus, grass, and agave, we also saw towering eucalyptus trees and a variety of flowers by the riverside.
When we arrived at our lunch spot, it was our first time seeing the porters in action. As we walked through the camp entrance, they broke into applause. I couldn't help but grin, being cheered for making it to lunch. There was nothing disingenuous about their cheering. They looked proud of us for having made it. In the meanwhile, I was impressed at the lunch they'd put together for us.
We ate well every day we hiked the Inca Trail. Before I'd come to Peru, I was a bit worried about what we'd be eating. My digestive system is notoriously temperamental, and certain foods give me terrible cramping. The food I ate in England left me in bloated agony. The food I ate in Peru did not.
This was all good, freshly-made stuff. With the possible exception of the margarine and the powdered milk (which we referred to as guinea pig milk), everything was healthy, tasty, and made from fresh local ingredients. It was certainly a damned sight better than airplane food, and better than the stuff we ate back at the hotel. I don't know how the porters and chefs do it. They carry huge packs, run along the trail like their asses are on fire, and arrive well ahead of us. When we get to the camps, everything is set up, we are greeted with chicha morada or some other tasty beverage, and food is on the make. There's a dining tent, and the tables are dressed with beautiful woven tablecloths. Bowls of hot water are placed by the dining tent for us to wash up, and towels and soap handed out with a smile. At our sleeping camps, our tents are all set up, our gear is neatly stowed inside, and the bedrolls are ready to be collapsed upon.
Here's one lunch we ate:
After lunch, we began the hike to our camping site at Wayllabamba. This was where our guide David was born and raised. The final part of the climb was pretty steep. It was foreshadowing for the next day to come.
Wayllabamba is a small Quechuan settlement. We saw dogs, chickens, donkeys, and llamas wandering around. Wild tobacco, geraniums, and hallucinogenic trumpet flowers grew in abundance. A distant mountain peak was pointed out to us. That was Warmiwanusca, also known as Dead Woman's Pass. We would be going there the next day, and it would be the hardest day of the hike.
We went to bed early. As the sun leapt down below the mountaintops, the temperature dropped, and I was glad for my cold-weather sleeping bag. When we went to bed, the sky was clear, but at some point during the night, a great thunderstorm crashed against mountaintops all around us, and rain poured down onto us. I was one of the lucky few who didn't get wet. One poor Welsh woman (who we named Lovely because she kept saying everything was "lovely") was completely drenched, along with all of her gear. Kyle's feet got soaked, and so did our poor cameras.
Tomorrow's hike just got a whole helluva lot harder.
(To be continued....)
About ten minutes late, a smiling young man walked in with a clipboard. "Shantell?" He looked at the clipboard, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. "Keel?"
I jumped up, happy. "Yes!"
He grinned. "My name is David." He pronounced it "Duh-veed." "I'm your guide for the Inca Trail. Come with me. We're going to take a taxi to the bus."
And so we did. It was still early, before rush hour swamped Cusco with its cacophony of horns. We were taken to another hotel across town, and we got into a small bus. A couple other people were on the bus. They were pretty quiet, either due to shyness or because they just weren't awake yet.
A second tour guide joined us: Jesus. He seemed a bit more shy than David, but still friendly and happy. Within a few minutes, the bus had filled up with smiling, excited, groggy people. Most of them were from the UK, but there were a couple more Canadians. I was surprised there were no Australians, because Aussies are everywhere. When everyone was accounted for, we started driving back to the Sacred Valley. I think knightky fell asleep. He can sleep like a pro. I, however, was too excited to sleep. Inca Trail, here I come!
We stopped at Ollantaytambo for a few minutes so everyone could get water, drinks, or go to the bathroom. Yes, we stopped for a bathroom break! This tour was already soooo much better than the last one. I contemplated buying a scarf, then decided against it. I already had something for my neck/face, and didn't want to burden myself with any more weight. My pack was already awfully heavy.
Back to the bus we went, and as we drove closer to the Piscacucho park entrance, David talked to us about what we were seeing around us. He talked about the adobe architecture, the agricultural variety, etcetera.
We pulled into a parking lot and got out to get our rented gear. Porters with enormous packs were everywhere. The men were all small, and dwarfed by their enormous packs. Some were certainly under five feet tall, and the packs were bigger than they were. I felt relieved knowing that there was a legal cap on the weights (25 kg). Years ago, porters were expected to carry far more for much less pay. Human rights lobbying has finally made sure they're compensated properly and not carrying injurious weights. That being said, I was carrying half the weight they were, and I was worried. I know I'm strong, but I'm not accustomed to carrying so much weight for so long, and certainly not over rough terrain at extreme altitudes. David got Kyle and my packs out of the bus for me and looked concerned. "Why are your packs so heavy?"
"My camera gear, and two days' worth of water."
He looked surprised. "Two days's worth? Who told you that? You don't need that much. You only need enough water for today. There will be water on our breaks, and you can refill for tomorrow."
Hugely relieved, we divested ourselves of about six litres of water. My pack was still heavy, but at least I didn't feel like I was crushed by it before I'd even started hiking.
We got our walking sticks, and queued up to enter the park. We had to purchase a park pass and show our passports to be let in. The Inca Trail has been nominated to be a UNESCO-protected site, and only a certain number of people are allowed on the trail each day. This helps preserve the path from too much wear and tear. It was also nice because it meant we wouldn't be constantly surrounded by large groups of people.
While the others were getting their passports checked and so forth, I stepped out onto the little bridge going across the Urubamba River. I was busily working at getting a snapshot of the river when a park warden came along and asked me to clear the bridge. "Oh, certainly," I said, puzzled. Maybe we weren't allowed to stop on the bridge for some esoteric reason?
But then I looked up the trail and saw a pair of Quechuan men carrying a litter and being followed by a couple of horses and donkeys. A blanket was pulled over what appeared to be a corpse.
Oh. Oh no. That did not bode well. Was it a tourist who'd fallen off a cliff?
I stood off to the side and let them pass.
A knit hat poked out from beneath the blanket. The body jostled a little as the men stepped up onto the bridge. I averted my eyes, not wanting to stare. I would be extra damned careful to watch my footing on this trail, and Kyle had better, too.
When everyone had finished signing in, we set off up the trail. The weather was beautiful. The sun was shining, but there was enough of a breeze to keep it from being too hot. I felt just right in my tank top.
The first part of the trail followed the Urubamba River, and we got to see anachronistic mixes of ancient architecture and modern infrastructure.
I also finally got to see the enormous prickly pear cacti up close and personal.
The walk was pretty laid back. People chatted as we hiked along, and Jesus and David conversed with us about the history, flora, and fauna. They joked that we wouldn't be nearly so talkative on the morrow.
The ruins are both ubiquitous and spectacular. This is Patallacta, which was an agricultural site:
In 1536, Manco Inca Yupanqui razed this and numerous other settlements along the Inca trail in an attempt to discourage pursuit by the Spaniards. It worked. The Spaniards didn't discover the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, or any of the settlements along the way.
We hiked through a few ruins. I couldn't resist doing a little extra, and at every stop along the way, I took a fitness break.
Although this part of the trail felt more desert-like, with scrub plants, cactus, grass, and agave, we also saw towering eucalyptus trees and a variety of flowers by the riverside.
When we arrived at our lunch spot, it was our first time seeing the porters in action. As we walked through the camp entrance, they broke into applause. I couldn't help but grin, being cheered for making it to lunch. There was nothing disingenuous about their cheering. They looked proud of us for having made it. In the meanwhile, I was impressed at the lunch they'd put together for us.
We ate well every day we hiked the Inca Trail. Before I'd come to Peru, I was a bit worried about what we'd be eating. My digestive system is notoriously temperamental, and certain foods give me terrible cramping. The food I ate in England left me in bloated agony. The food I ate in Peru did not.
This was all good, freshly-made stuff. With the possible exception of the margarine and the powdered milk (which we referred to as guinea pig milk), everything was healthy, tasty, and made from fresh local ingredients. It was certainly a damned sight better than airplane food, and better than the stuff we ate back at the hotel. I don't know how the porters and chefs do it. They carry huge packs, run along the trail like their asses are on fire, and arrive well ahead of us. When we get to the camps, everything is set up, we are greeted with chicha morada or some other tasty beverage, and food is on the make. There's a dining tent, and the tables are dressed with beautiful woven tablecloths. Bowls of hot water are placed by the dining tent for us to wash up, and towels and soap handed out with a smile. At our sleeping camps, our tents are all set up, our gear is neatly stowed inside, and the bedrolls are ready to be collapsed upon.
Here's one lunch we ate:
After lunch, we began the hike to our camping site at Wayllabamba. This was where our guide David was born and raised. The final part of the climb was pretty steep. It was foreshadowing for the next day to come.
Wayllabamba is a small Quechuan settlement. We saw dogs, chickens, donkeys, and llamas wandering around. Wild tobacco, geraniums, and hallucinogenic trumpet flowers grew in abundance. A distant mountain peak was pointed out to us. That was Warmiwanusca, also known as Dead Woman's Pass. We would be going there the next day, and it would be the hardest day of the hike.
We went to bed early. As the sun leapt down below the mountaintops, the temperature dropped, and I was glad for my cold-weather sleeping bag. When we went to bed, the sky was clear, but at some point during the night, a great thunderstorm crashed against mountaintops all around us, and rain poured down onto us. I was one of the lucky few who didn't get wet. One poor Welsh woman (who we named Lovely because she kept saying everything was "lovely") was completely drenched, along with all of her gear. Kyle's feet got soaked, and so did our poor cameras.
Tomorrow's hike just got a whole helluva lot harder.
(To be continued....)