The Sacred Valley

The bus is 45 minutes late, meaning I probably could have (and should have) slept in.  I’m the last passenger in our makeshift “Inca Jungle Trek” (their name, not mine) group, with all six of the others pre-loaded onto the bus from the same tour company.  As much is it may look like there are scores of distinct agencies in Cusco, there are really only a few trips of each type leaving daily and all companies access the same ones, mixing and matching spots to make sure every van headed off to the Sacred Valley is filled to capacity.

Four other Americans are on this trip — an anomaly in South America.  One of them has been living here for several months working on establishing a non-profit teaching organization.  The others are his brother and two parents, in town for a thrill-seeking visit, an Englishman of Indian descent (named Deepak, his rap name (a second career in the works) is Deep imPakt) and a Swiss man on his second year-long trip around the world (”I wanted to visit all the friends I made on the first trip,” he explained).

Our plan is to get dropped off in the cold morning hours at about 14,000 feet above sea level, and spend the first day steadily bicycling around 8000 vertical feet down the relentlessly swerving roads over the course of the day.  There are some dangerous curves and dangerous passing drivers at times, but it’s hardly The World’s Most Dangerous Road (that ride, in Bolivia, is still a few weeks off for me…).  Days two and three would be spent hiking our way to Aguas Caliente (literally “hot waters”), a city at the base of Machu Picchu that seems to exist solely to support the thousands of tourists that swing by weekly (expect massive price gouging).  And finally, on the fourth day, we venture up the mountain at the crack of dawn to see the famed ruins.  Our guide’s English leaves much (if not all) to be desired and the meals are sparse and unexciting, but it’s not a bad deal for $140.

Day 1

More than an hour out of Cusco and we’re stopped at Ollantaytambo, an Incan site dating from the 15th century that houses some of the oldest continuously occupied dwellings in South America.  Fifteen minutes gives the hungry (me) just enough time for a quick breakfast, while others shop along the main street for tourist kitsch almost identical to the mass-produced crap sold in Cusco.  An advertisement for Coca beer on the wall reminds me that coca (the plant used in making cocaine) leaves are processed and sold as candies and cookies here, and are not only legal but recommended to relieve the all-too-common altitude sickness that tends to set in on this trip.

A poster on the wall of the restaurant in Ollantaytambo where I had breakfast.

I never suffered from high altitude complications while on this trip, so I can't vouch for how well these actually worked. My tongue was mildly numbed, though that was about the extent of their buzz-inducing properties...

The road snakes its way upwards as we ascend to the drop-off point.  Despite the relative warmth of Ollantaytambo (situated barely 8000 feet above sea level), this altitude adds a sharp chill to the air coming in through the windows, and the mountaintops are now all densely covered in a thick crown of icy whiteness.  Eventually, the road levels off at a large patch of flat land that currently serves as a parking lot for Machu Picchu cyclists.

Pato, our guide, works with the nameless (as far as I know) driver to lower the bikes, while we shuffle about prepping for the long journey down.  Two of the others have iPods on, which is enough to get me to drag mine out; it’s potentially less safe, but a ride like this deserves a good background soundtrack.  In this case, I opt for the Beatles.  We ride around the parking lot in shoddy circles, adapting to the feel of the gears and brakes and then, following Pato’s lead, make our way onto the road letting gravity do most of the work for us.

It’s a smooth ride and enjoyable, if not necessarily adrenaline-inducing.  Passing trucks provide the most awkward moments, but even those are rare and pass quickly.  Two hours in, we stop for lunch and stare out at the zig-zagging of the road ahead of us, knowing we’ll be staying with it until eventually hitting the bottom, some time in the late afternoon.  Paved road eventually gives way to dirt, and the last hour is less smooth than those that’ve come before it, as well as hotter due to the lower altitudes.  All of us, who started the day in sweatshirts, are now down to t-shirts, and sweaty ones at that.

As the road enters a small town, we’re told that the ride is through and explore a local Incan site while the bikes are reloaded onto our van.  No signs explain the age or meaning of the site.  We’ve passed several collapsed structures and walls evoking centuries of forgotten history, but the sheer number of such sites preclude all but the most significant from warranting tourist attention.  It’s ruin overload.

Ollantaytambo

Cloudy, snow-capped peaks towering over the bike dropoff point

Unloading the bikes. I probably could've helped, but at the time I felt it was more important to take this picture.

The view from our lunchtime rest stop. The snaking road ahead is most of the remainder of our trip.

The ruins at the base of our ride. A large, circular mound with no explanation as to its purpose

These monstrous turkeys (the first I'd seen in South America) roamed the streets of the town we stayed in for the first night

Day 2

Uphill we go, barely cognizant of the constant stream of epic vistas that surround us due to the sheer exhaustion of such continuous trekking upwards.  After thirty minutes of ascension, polite conversation has become too exhausting and we amble slowly up the trail in silence (or with mp3 assistance.  Phish, this time, circa ‘98).

Pato stops us at a cluster of evenly arranged bushes most of us immediately recognize as coca plants.  We swoop in and admire them as two short Indians warily watch us from the ground where they work.  Their fingers dart across the branches, ripping out handfulls of leaves at a time only to deposit them in a large, shared plastic bag.  Their peculiar gaze stays affixed to us as we march off, filled with an emotion I can’t easily put into words, though clearly related to “disdain.”

Sniffing Coca...

There are few signs of life or communities here, but the trail isn’t entirely devoid of locals.  At one point, a girl of about 10 dressed in colorful indigenous wear sits upon a rock in the shade with bottles of water and gatorade.  As no homes are visible from the trail for an hour in either direction, where she’s come from or how she’d gotten all the beverages here remains a minor mystery.  No books, toys, games, company, the girl remains on the rock staring forward distantly with little interest in our passing, and I can’t quite discern the difference between spending all waking hours as she does waiting for the trickle of gringo tourists to pass and a day spent by prisoners locked in solitary confinement.

An animal named “Picuro” (the sign says so) greets us at a large shack an hour or so later with a large (for him) bottle of gatorade.  It’s uncertain whether Picuro’s a proper name or simply what this species of animal is called, though none of us have ever witnessed anything like him before.  There’s a monkey here too, and I should be getting bored with the creatures by now, but they always seem to take a liking to me.  The shack serves as a makeshift Andean snackbar and is well stocked in drinks, local candy bars (and Snickers) and, of course, more coca candy.

We arrive at the hot springs at dusk, and spend an hour or so soaking off the days exertions in the expansive, relatively clear waters.  As in Banos, Ecuador, a thick stream of cold water pours down into a separate pool, though I’m the only one to take advantage of its chilly shock value.  We’re given the option of walking to town from the springs or riding in a collectivo (a van that serves as a small bus, despite taking on enough passengers to fit into a normal-sized one) for a few dollars more.  In the dark?  After relaxing in a hot springs for the past hour?  There’s no debate.

Our group, with facepaint (made by mixing berries from a local plant with saliva) freshly applied

Coca workers

Picuro

The camera loves this little guy. I, on the other hand, seem to be enjoying this way too much

Small man in a big valley

Day 3

The last day of hiking feels more like an afterthought than an epic journey through the Sacred Valley.  For one thing, the path is almost completely flat for the four hours of hiking that we do.  For another, it is flat because we are walking along a railroad track.  The great Incan railroad track?  Nope.  Just a generic, Peruvian one.  If it’s still in use, we wouldn’t know — the track remained completely devoid of cars for our long, slow mosey over its monotonous wooden beams.  But it’s a nice day, and the twin mountains of Machu Picchu and Wayna Picchu (the taller peak in the background of most Machu Picchu postcards) show themselves a few hours into the trip, providing both shade and a prominent foreground while covering our final steps into the town of Aguas Caliente.

The peaks of Machu and Wayna Picchu gradually looming closer as we near Aguas Caliente

A large bus parking lot is the first sign we’ve arrived, though the town isn’t far beyond.  Built alongside the river, Aguas Caliente is small and seems to exist solely to support Machu Picchu tourism.  Named for a hot, natural spring, we’ve been advised by guides and fellow tourists alike to avoid the town’s namesake as the water apparently looks, smells and feels foul.  All of us take the advice.

The town is larger than it initially appears to be, but not by much, and nearly half of the infrastructure is hotels.  Food options are better here than in most places in South America (pizza?  burritos??), but there’s a large increase in pricing across the board, from meals to massages to bottles of water.  There’s no shame in price gouging here.  A bridge crosses the river into the other half of town, and immediately there’s a marked shift in its character.  No hotels on this side, and the stores are standard mercados rather than the souvenir stands across the river.  It’s a sharp dividing point between the tourists and those that actually make Aguas Caliente their home.

Our last dinner is on us and we opt for the more expensive route mostly to escape from the monotony of “pasta and tomato sauce”-esque meals we’ve been stuck with for the past three days.  The urge to celebrate with drinks is there, but with a 3:30 wake-up call the next morning to stumble up over a thousand steps to the ruins, no one’s particularly feeling the need to slam anything down.  I’m in bed by ten and out within five minutes; walking along railroad tracks for half the day might not be the most exciting thing we’ve done this week, but it’ll still guarantee you a good night’s sleep when the day is done.

Our first view of Aguas Caliente

Our "Inca Jungle Trek" group at dinner, the night before our ascent to Machu Picchu

Cuzco's main square from above, snow-crested Andean mountains in the background

Of all the cities that put on their daily architectural make-up, batting their stucco’d window eyelashes and sticking out sexy, chisled stone legs at hapless tourists looking for that “real” antiquated atmosphere, Cuzco does it with the most panache and short-term believability. Talk to any of the gringos that’ve been there a while and you’ll hear it’s all just an act with a seedy underbelly that almost comes close to tourist-antagonistic, but to casual passers-by, it’s a happening scene.  In the late autumn month of May, the dry hills provide a rich backdrop of yellows, oranges and a touch of green from almost anywhere in the city of unanimously rust-colored roofs they seemlessly encapsulate. Buildings of wood and stucco complement their natural surroundings with soft earthtones, all wind-beaten and dust-covered after over five centuries of cool, high-altitude Andean weather.

Looking down at the city from Loki's uphill vantage point. Great view, but the uphill walk is killer at this altitude.

Three blocks uphill to the Loki Hostel leaves me far more winded than I’d been in Quito, but again I’m relatively untouched by any real altitude sickness. Loki hostels (there are four of them now) have a reputation throughout the continent, though no one really elaborates on what that reputation is.

“Oh, you’re staying at Loki” with a roll of the eyes. Or, “I stayed at the Loki in Lima for 5 days, but had to switch to another for another week just to recover.”

I didn’t find this entirely to be the case. It’s true that there’s a centrally located bar that charges all drinks directly to your room, making it easy to mindlessly imbibe over the course of how ever many weeks one opts to stick around for (more than one person in the common room had been there for well over a month) without any thought of the cost until moments before departure.  But the bar isn’t really what set Loki apart from its peers — in fact, shutting down abruptly at midnight, even on weekends, it made the hostel far less of a “party” atmosphere than nearly any other hostel with a bar.

The place simply has a good vibe, and visibly puts effort into maintaining it.  Movies are played daily in the common room at 4 pm. Elaborate dinners are cooked nightly for anyone on the ball enough to sign up for them by five in the afternoon.   And most importantly, a giant chalkboard advertises daily activities for all guests: Horseback riding on Mondays. High-altitude paintball Tuesdays. Mountain-biking. Bungee-jumping. Quiz night (a solid win at this on my part won not only a free t-shirt, but prepped me for a job as Quizmaster in the near future). Poker nights. Saturday parties. It’s enough to make almost unemployed backpackers with a taste for the bizarre stick around for at least a week.

And this is a good thing, as it turns out that short of flying, there’s no way I’m getting out of Cuzco.

From outside the window of my room at the Loki. The hostel's one of the largest I've stayed in, despite being a remodeled manor home over 400 years old.

The First Stragglers Arrive

A South African couple walks into the bar.  It’s not the lead-in to a joke, nor do they have anything to laugh about, their eyes glazed over and heavy, their clothes covered in a thin but noticeable layer of filth.  The Irish bartender — a transient, like most of the employees at Loki, he’d enjoyed his stay at the Loki so much that he stayed on for a month to live there — offers them a drink.

“Love to,” coughs the man, exhaustedly in that distinct South African accent.  ”Can’t.  We absolutely are sleeping as soon as our room is ready.  We’re coming from Arequipa…”

“Do people know what’s happening out there?” his female companion (who turns out to be his wife) asks us.

People do not, and are soon informed.

Cuzco town center. Upon seeing the rainbow flags, I asked if it was gay pride week down here or something, and was harshly told that the rainbow flag is actually an Incan sign. Weeks later in Bolivia, I would see the same flags and ask if there was an Incan festival coming up in the city. "Que?? No. Is for the gay!" they say.

It actually all started in northeast Peru when indiginous groups protested new legislation that would’ve allowed oil drilling and loggers onto their land.  The protests grew in size and ferocity until a major clash with police (with many of the indiginous apparently fighting back — successfully — with spears) left as many as 60 people dead.  Major protests took place in Lima when I’d been there just days before Cuzco, but by now, anger had spread throughout the country and protesters aimed to hit the country where it hurt: Tourism.  So long as the national protests continued, Cuzco would be effectively blocked off from the rest of the country by land.

(Apparently, opportunists also were quick to take advantage of this situation.  While some roads were blocked in protest, others were blocked with the option of the block quickly being removed for a small local toll.  Viva Peru!)

“We left Arequipa 21 hours ago,” the couple tell us.

The bus ride from Arequipa to Cuzco typically takes six hours.

Protesters piled rocks in the roadway, pelted tourist buses and filled the streets, making passage anything from slowed to impossible.  The transportation nightmare came to a head on a particularly remote mountain road where a bridge — typically deemed necessary for crossing rivers, chasms and other forms of landlessness — had been inconveniently removed, leaving only its frame.  This gesture turned out to be more than ominous enough for the driver, who stopped the bus and simply walked away without talking to any of the passengers (at least, not to any of the gringos).

Some locals informed the gringos that another bus area was just a few miles ahead on the other side of the bridge and, lacking options, passengers slowly crossed the skeletal remains of the bridge.  Weighted down with backpacks and travel gear, they walked sideways over the rusty metal bar that once maintained the bridge planks, holding on carefully to a thinner second bar above that ran parallel to the one they walked over.  For several hours, low on both water and food, they walked over a mostly barren mountain road in search of a bus station that seemed less and less believable as the time passed until it improbably appeared before them.

No one could accurately tell them when the next bus to Cuzco would be leaving, and so the bedraggled group sat in a state between sleep and vigilence for several more hours until the right bus was finally ready.  They’d be sleeping well tonight.

As days passed, more people came in with harrowing stories like this one and while initially it didn’t appear to affect me past being the recipient of good travel anecdotes, I began to realize that the ongoing strike did have one negative side effect: No buses were leaving the Cuzco region in any direction.  Sure, Machu Picchu and all the local attractions were still widely available, but the two weeks I’d reserved for hiking in Arequipa, flying over the Nazca lines in Nazca, boating around Lake Titicaca and sandsurfing in Ica.  Suddenly my options were limited to simply being stranded in Cuzco.

At least the Machu Picchu condition takes close to a week — maybe the protests will be over by then?  (foreshadowing: they won’t be)

Horsing Around Sexy Woman

The ruins of Sacsayhuaman, as seen from the horse pen

It’s my first day in and I don’t know a soul.  Hoards of Peruvians, grouped together in colorfully indigenous outfits like centuries-old marching bands take to the streets, blocking traffic and making a spectacle.  No, it’s not another protest that just happens to be gorgeously photogenic — Inti Raymi is only weeks away, I’m told, and every perfectly synchronized act of marching, dancing, singing, music playing or performing of any time must be picture perfect.  Troops of all ages pour in after one another, divided only by differently garish wardrobes.

A local group (in red) prepares for Inti Raymi

What is “Inti Raymi”?  Some kind of festival.  I’ll be gone long before it starts, so it doesn’t really matter. (foreshadowing: It’s the Incan Festival of the Sun, and I’ll definitely still be around for it)

Because right now, I aim to see something spectacular.  I’ve got no idea what, but after a fairly boring, insipid week in Lima, Cuzco and all its majesty better live up to expectations.  Bring on the cobweb-covered Incan temples of human sacrifice.  Bring on the adrenaline pumping adventure.  Failing that, bring on a cold beer.  Every street downtown is lined with tourist agencies, all hawking indentical services with drastically varying prices.  Salespeople line the streets reaching out to gringos as they pass (often physically) with offers of every possible service, from Machu Picchu excursions to shoe shining to massages.

I don’t get the shoe shine boys.  Shoe shining is actually huge through a lot of South America, though it does stand out as being a bit bigger in Peru.  The locals seem to love a nice pair of freshly shined shoes, and often give these boys plenty of business.  However, it’s not locals that these boys chase after for blocks down the streets.  No, it is the gringos with tennis shoes or sandals that they decide really need a good shining, despite relentless protestations otherwise.

Now the massages are a different story.  The going rate is 30 soles for an hour-long massage, but they can be talked down to 20 immediately.  That’s about six dollars for a fairly intense hour of full-body — no happy ending — work.  While in Cuzco, I get about six of these.

Machu Picchu is the main event, but the Incas literally covered this place in holy sites cum minor tourist attractions.  There’s Moray, a peculiarly circular terraced site outside of the town of Moras; Ollantaytambo, an Incan site built into the narrow, eastern end of the Sacred Valley (the region that houses nearly every major ruin around Cusco); Pisac: Umm.  More ruins.  Built into the mountains.  Valley backdrop.  Yada yada. Forty bucks gets you a pass to everything but Machu Picchu, though most of them are confusing bus trips, and quite honestly, despite the history and beauty of the other ruins, how many ruins are non-archeological types expected to explore in any given region?  If Machu Picchu doesn’t sate the innate need for Incan culture I never knew I had before, I can always double back and hit up some of its lesser known cousins next week.

One ruin that does bear exploring, however, is Sacsayhuaman (prounced “sexy woman”).  Sure the imposing walls are massive and precise, and sure they were built using no mortar or binding agents, with rocks held together solely by fitting so closely together to one another that they’ve stayed in one piece like a puzzle for centuries now.  All that’s great.  But despite the catchy name, if Sexy Woman were more than 30 minutes travel outside of town, it’s unlikely I’d make the trip.  Happily, the massive stone walls are erected on the large hill overlooking Cusco, providing both an easy trip to the site and a stunning (especially at sunset) view of town.

“You want trip Machu Picchu?” a street hawker asks, standing outside Sunshine Travel.  Or maybe it’s Sunrise Tourism.  Sun Adventure Fun Times?  Every other building is a tourist agency, and every other one of those has the word “sun” somewhere in the title.  It’s an Incan thing.

Horses watering themselves while we set off to explore the Temple of the Moon

“I want Sexy Woman.”

“You want horse?”

“Huh?  No.  Sexy Woman.  Sec-Say hWah-Man!”

“Siiii, si.  You want take horse Sexy woman.”

“How much horse sexy woman?”

“40 soles.”  About 13 bucks gets me a three hour horse ride up to (but not into — like most things around here, the ruins have an entry fee) Sacsayhuaman.

“Si.  40 soles.  Yo voy, yo voy…”

A truck takes me up out of the city; the father drives as the preschool daughter shares the back seat with me, eyes curiously affixed to my face for the entire ride.  Another gringo waits for us at the stable, and we chat (the standard travel talk: where are you from, where have you been, where are you going… permutations on locations and times) as the driver negotiates things with what looks to be our guide.

The stable area has a small (about three feet high) stone wall built around it with a single exit, and we’re instructed to lead our horses through it.  Grandstanding, our guide motions for his horse to walk over the wall, though the pile of stones (clearly not stacked by the precise Incans) collapse immediately upon bearing the horse’s weight, sending both horse and guide fumbling forward awkwardly, and upsetting both of the gringo-laden horses.

“Sweet start, brah.”

My horse, Pedro, is a dick.  Not perpetually so — it’s as though he forgets what a dick he is most of the time, only to remember during those rare times I complacently let my guard down, causing him to venture off in strange directions despite those directions being drastically at odds with what I believe my reins to be instructing.  Generally, enough kicking, pulling and yelling will get him back on track.  During the few uncomfortable times it does not, the guide is usually there to kick a bit harder.  So he gets a tip.

Our indigenous guide stands outside the entrance to the main chamber of the Temple

Trails go through woody areas and ravines, thin mountain passes with sheer drops that the horses don’t seem particularly bothered by (do horses ever commit suicide, and if so, how often do they bring along a gringo or two for the ride?) but leave me more than mildly disconcerted.  After an hour, we stop at large rock formation and jump down to let the horses water themselves at a nearby stream.  Unlike the many other rocky outcroppings we’ve passed, this one isn’t coincidental scenery so much as the Temple of the Moon — deep crevasses run over, across and through it, with intricately carved stone walls celebrating the trilogy of mythological Incan totems: the condor, the puma and the snake.

Respectively representing Uku Pacha (the underworld), Key Pacha (our plane of existence) and Hanan Pacha (the heavens), snake, puma and condor play tremendous roles throughout both Incan mythology and Cusco tourist gift shops.  A stone archway guarded by one of the many snakes carved into this chunk of rock leads us into the main chamber of the temple, and a local indigenous girl explains the rituals and symbology in broken English as we make our way in.  The innermost room is small and made up of a single large slab of rock with a surprisingly smooth horizontal surface.

“This is very spiritual room.  On full moon, look there…” she says, as she points at a large hole in the rocky ceiling directly over the long slab.  ”Moon is over stone and shaman come here for holy ceremony.  Every month he go here…”

“…and makes a ritual sacrifice!?” I interject.

The stone slab where all the hot, ritual action once took place with each full moon

“Um.  No.  Is not for sacrifice.  Every month he come here on full moon and with a woman they make love.  Is very sacred.  Celebrate fertility.”

“That’s good too!”

“Yes.”

She walks us around the outside, explaining further in detail the rituals and religious carvings throughout the temple, and upon leaving I make my ritual donation of five dollars.  The horses, now properly watered, await our return sullenly, and with a swift kick, Pedro is off once more.

Close to two hours later, my ass is raw and battered and I want no more of this.  These horseback riding tours only seem like a good idea for the first hour or so, and even most of that time is spent wondering what the point of such an activity is all about.  Hopping off, I thank the guide and, less enthusiastically, Pedro, before making my way down the long hill back into Cusco for a much needed six-dollar massage.

Sexy Woman

Despite being dropped off at Sacsayhuaman just a day prior, the ride had been thoroughly exhausting enough to limit any further exploration of the ruins I might’ve otherwise made.  I knew the walking route this time, and had little else to do other than lumber up the long walk back into Cusco’s hillsides.  The ruins are most well-known for being comprised of rocks held together solely by their perfect fit with one another, thus requiring no mortar or other adhesive to keep them together for these past several centuries.  They’re impressive, but by this point the major structures are no more, leaving just a series of well-designed walls and the occasional archway for tourists to gawk at.  While standing before one of the larger stones, a long-haired backpacking type with an American accent approaches me.

An apparently broken portal stone

“That’s one of the portal stones,” he informs me.  ”See how it’s, like, shaped like a door almost.  It’s a portal.  The Incas believed in portals like this.”

“Where’s it go?” I asked.

“Well…” But he doesn’t answer, instead walking away.  Maybe it was a stupid question.  I walk up and put my hands on the rock, but if it functions in any way like Platform 9 and 3/4, it does not do so for me.

Upon walking out, an old indigenous man approaches me.

“What did you think of our ruins?” he asks me.

“Good stuff.  I really dug the.. the portal.”

“Yes, yes.  This is a very important place to us.  Look, look…” he pulls out a looseleaf binder filled with laminated pictures.  I’m curious, but my teeth grit as I wait for the request for a donation with every word of knowledge he imparts upon me.  ”See these stones…” he says.  I look at a section of wall from one of Sexy Woman’s many segments with mild curiosity, as it looks no different from any other part of the complex.  He turns the page.  ”Now look…”

“Well, sonofabitch…”  It’s the same segment, but now an outline of yellow traces over twelve or so of the joined rocks to clearly show the outline of the Incan condor.  ”Now here,” he says, flipping another page, and then another.  Fourteen rocks meet to form a snake.  Seven make a man with a sword.  Others form a fist.  A puma.  The sun.

“Man, I wish I’dve talked to you before going in.  This is Great!”

“Yes, I am glad you appreciate it.  If you would like, I am having an ayahuasca ceremony later tonight…”

“Heh.  Yeah, great stuff, ayahuasca.  But I think I’m good for now, thanks!”

“Take care.”

Sacsayhuaman

Nice Tour Peru

I like a nice tour as much as the next guy, and the proximity of “Nice Tour Peru” to the Loki hostel makes them an easy choice.  I still shopped around, though their price was comparable or better to that of any other agency in the city that I spoke with.  There are four main tours from Cusco to Machu Picchu, each taking 4-6 days (note that it’s possible to do a one-day trip as well, but where’s the fun in that?)

1. The Inca Trail - Beautiful scenery, majestic springs and lakes, relentless Incan ruins.  It’s the most popular hike in South America.  It also books up more than six months in advance and still costs 2-3 times what the other tours cost.  Peru put limits on the trail of no more than 500 tourists a day, making it even more sought after.  I had the opportunity to reserve a spot back in November, but the free-form nature of my post-Antarctica travels didn’t go for the idea of forcing me into Cusco on any sort of schedule.  So no Inca Trail for me.
2. Salkantay - Six days, including one night on cold, high-altitude Salkantay Mountain.  Honestly, I just didn’t feel like hiking up to 17,000 feet above sea level at this point.
3. Inca Jungle Adventure - It’s a fairly lame name for the option I ended up going with.  A day is spent biking close to 7000 vertical feet downhill, followed by two days of hiking through the Sacred Valley and the final day spent in Machu Picchu.  Food included, it’s not a bad deal for $140 (though his original price was $160 — they’re all about bargaining here in Cusco…)

The bus would pick me up at six in the morning on Thursday, and, as an added perk, we would be at Machu Picchu on the 21st of June, the longest day of the year — Not a bad day to celebrate a culture whose entire religion revolved around the sun.

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