Trekking to Machu Picchu

Cusco (or Qosqo in the native Quechua) is the historic capital of the Inca Empire in South-Eastern Peru. It consists of windy cobbled streets, black whorled iron fences, spacious plazas, expansive and luxurious fountains, ceramic plant pots and is home to a constant whisper of “Inca Trail Senorita?” floating the gringo-way. Reaching the Plaza D’Armas (the central square) you are mobbed by Peruvian companies trying to get you to purchase their specific trail, “how much chica?” to the awe-inspiring Inca palace of legends, cloaked in mythology, sitting high above the clouds, the mystical and enigmatic ‘Machu Picchu.’

We booked an ‘Inca Jungle Trail’, an alternative route to the historic trek taken by many travellers, in which they beat through jungle to reach the ‘doorway to the sun’ spying in the sunrise, the first view of this UNESCO world heritage site, a smattering of stonework aligned in a vast array of doorways, windows, outer frameworks of temples and houses for Inca royalty. Our route took us over a disused railway track, past waterfalls, hot water springs, a hydroelectric power plant and several kilometres of bumpy ground before arriving at the base of our much anticipated end-point.

Our first day involved jumping on to racing bikes and freewheeling our way down 3000 feet of Andean mountain-side. At the very top the wind was harsh, whistling through our jackets as we bent round corners. The ‘peloton’ started pedalling together as a line, then bundled closer as a pack with finally a few adrenaline-seekers bursting free from the ranks to speed down the circular asphalt road, with a spectacular drop down to the lakes and hills below and before us. Several travellers suffered the consequences of this reluctance to use the brakes with one girl careering off her bicycle to graze her chin, and one Spanish man landing on his arm in a ditch. However, we were lucky enough to spin through the waterfalls, across the bumps, glide past the villages on the way and race up to the finish line a few hours later. Our efforts were rewarded with a meal of warm empanadas (local pastry) and slices of gateau as we rested upon a sacrificial Inca mount, rolling green hills in front of a sheer blue sky cradling us in a circular fashion.

"Machu Picchu, you were a real bitch to get to..."

The next day involved the unglamorous (walk seems the wrong word to use for this gruelling march) trek over rough terrain in the searing heat to reach our second lodge at the base of Machu Picchu. Sixty minutes hanging in a hammock, and three minutes being pulled over the tempestuous waters of a rough lake on a pulley-bridge provided a welcome respite to the cushions of blisters padding my feet as I arrived seven hours after we started, limping to the town where we would set off for one of the wonders of the world. The words ‘3am wakeup call’ were not music to my ears. Brutally, that hour of the morning arrived all too soon, and hauling ourselves out of bed, we trudged towards the bridge where at 5am the Peruvian doors would officially swing open for us to begin our ascent to Machu Picchu. Flashlights, trekking pants, energy bars, hiking poles and sun-cream galore, a scrum formed to charge up the thousands of slippery steps.

Puffing and panting through the flora and fauna as the mountains arose around us, the clouds quickly disappearing from far above us, to below us, and the oxygen levels thinning with every step, we finally made it, all 1480 ft, to the official entry to the ruins of Machu Picchu after fifty minutes of hill climbing. “Bloody steps” (or something less polite) was the general consensus. Rather than a momentous sprint to see the magnificence of the sights that we were to behold, it was more of a 6am stagger up to the entry of citadel, as llamas picked at the grass, and bus-loads of tourists appeared, clean and fresh to the world, as if to taunt our weary and sorry state.

However, as the first few travellers handed their tickets in, we were rewarded with a view of terraced fields, soaring luscious green peaks and a metropolis, a labyrinth of tiny stone houses, coming together to form a dramatic and astonishing view of Inca life, evoking the grandeur of a lost empire from centuries ago. As Becky made the horrific climb up a neighbouring mountain, ‘Waynapicchu’, the local Inca meeting point for the high priest and the chosen virgin sacrifices to the God of the Sun, I nursed my feet and sat at the topmost viewpoint on the peak itself, the ‘Guardian’s Hut’, watching as thousands of tiny people milled their way up and down the steps, awe-struck at the magic of this now defunct and absent city, imagining its sounds, scents and colours.

In summary, it was an honour, an enchanting, unbelievable, inspiring, stupendous sight. But, Machu Picchu, you were a real bitch to get to...