'Poncho! Poncho!' An old lady shouted.
We stood under an archway in Cusco, waiting for our van and watching the rain. Jen tugged on my sleeve.
'Will, let's get one!'
A shivering girl beside us picked a yellow poncho and handed over two pounds worth of Peruvian sol.
'Rip off.' I wrinkled my nose. 'Trust me, we'll be fine.'
Though the voyage to Machu Picchu is always difficult, there are different ways to get there depending on your budget. The simplest and most comfortable route is by taking the train to Aguas Caliente, the closest town, and then a bus up to the entrance at the top of the mountain. But this convenience comes at a cost. Too steep a cost for those like Jen and I, who were on a longer trip and still had over a month to go. Instead, I hunted down the cheapest option. It wasn't pretty...
Jen and I piled into a van with fifteen other travelers. They were all scratchy and dreadlocked; the sort of backpackers I try to avoid. I sat between Jen and a local guy with his earphones strapped in, fast asleep. He was the only one on board with a tidy haircut.
We were not far past the town of Ollantaytambo when, at a checkpoint, police waved the van to pull over. The driver scrambled around for his clipboard with paperwork. The lead officer scanned over the documents with a frown. He pulled open the van door and read aloud names from the list to the panic-stricken passengers.
'Frederique?' Silence.
'Juan?' Silence.
'Rosita?' More silence. The officer smirked and spoke to our group in Spanish while the driver hung to the side and stared at his boots. Once the officer closed the door, I turned to Sleepy next to me. In the last couple of months my Spanish had unfortunately progressed little further than two words.
‘Hola amigo,’ And that was it.
He cocked a sleepy eye, his face frozen as if waiting for more. I persisted, pointing to the cop. ‘Amigo?’
Sleepy pulled out his ear phones, his mouth still hanging open.
I changed track. 'What was that about?'
'Ohh.' He scratched his head. 'The paper. It's not right. Problem.'
Our driver had an old passenger manifesto, and therefore no idea who was meant to be in this van. Feeling merciful, the officers allowed our journey to continue. I thanked Sleepy and he smiled, stuck his ear phones back in and closed his eyes.
We ascended into the mountains, breaching the clouds. Waterfalls cascaded down the side of the jungle and splashed over the road. Deeper in, the road was no longer tarmacked and instead little more than a narrow dirt track. We teetered along the side of the mountain with the deep valley dropping to the river far below. The driver tooted his horn as he angled around the corner to warn oncoming traffic.
Other than for the convenience of motor vehicles, King Pachacutec would likely have taken a route similar to ours when he journeyed to Machu Picchu. The mountain citadel was built for him in the 15th century and he used to visit from the capital Cusco, to retreat from the summer heat. The temperature certainly dropped the closer we got.
Hours into the drive, we came to a stop with tourists lining the road. What was going on?
‘Want to go for walk?’ Sleepy suggested, having suddenly woken up. A long queue of stranded vehicles was backed up. Across the gorge a landslide was the culprit, marooning hundreds of people on both sides. The situation didn’t look good. After asking around, Sleepy reported that a digger was some time off. We had no choice but to wait it out.
Along a narrow path up the hill, Jen found a mango tree, so the three of us spent the time climbing and collecting fruit.
‘My first trip on my own.’ Sleepy told us through a mouthful of mango. ‘Sometimes I feel scare. It’s nice make friends.’
‘Don’t worry amigo. You’ve got us now.’ It sure is great to make friends. Especially when they speak Spanish!
Though landslides are common, they weren't the reason Machu Picchu was abandoned - just 100 years after it was built. When the Spanish conquistadors arrived in Peru they sacked and looted every city. Their thirst for gold was insatiable. They searched for Machu Picchu, knowing the royal estate would be full of treasure, but the Incas destroyed the jungle pathway to the site as they fled. The strategy was a success; the Spanish never found it. The site remained deserted and over the centuries was reclaimed by nature.
After a two hour wait, the digger found us before we too were reclaimed by nature. We ran down to the cliff edge to cheer and wave with the crowd.
'Ohh, I left the mangoes back at the tree!' I didn't fancy going back up the hill for them. 'And my legs are so sore...'
'Ok I get them.' Sleepy volunteered. He really was great to have around.
Everyone took photos and video, for some reason enthralled by the digger lifting rubble. I noticed he was working quickly, and so I led Jen back to our van, which was tricky to find as they were all identical. We buckled up in our seats just before the van started moving. Frantic tourists scampered along the procession to find their vehicle. As we passed the landslide and waved at the digger driver, I noticed that Sleepy’s seat was empty! I grabbed Jen, horrified.
‘Whose gonna translate for us now?’ Something had to be done.
I tapped the driver’s shoulder. 'Umm hola. Me amigo. No amigo.' And pointed to the seat. The driver stared back with his mouth hanging open, as if expecting there to be more. But my Spanish was tapped out. The driver shrugged and continued on.
So just like that, we left our friend in the middle of the mountains! Sorry Sleepy, I tried. Without a correct passenger manifesto the only evidence he had ever been here was his bag, left under the seat. Inside I found a banana and a packet of crisps, which I ate. And his wallet, which I emptied. It’s what Sleepy would have wanted.
The van kicked us out at Hidroelectrica, an energy plant and the entrance to the wider Machu Picchu park. At this point we were promised lunch. The queue for the buffet was long and our patience was rewarded with spoonfuls of prison slop. On my plate was a rainbow of red slop, orange slop and blue slop.
Jen prodded at hers with a spoon. ‘Do you think it’s vegetarian?’
I nibbled at it. There was not enough flavour to determine whether it was even food.
After that nutritious meal we were set to cross the bridge and begin the three-hour jungle walk to the town of Aguas Caliente. Then, as if on cue, it began to rain. All the other hikers wrapped colorful ponchos over themselves.
Jen glared at me. 'Everyone else bought a poncho!'
'Yeah and at two quid they all got mugged off.'
We had just the one we'd brought with us from England. As I was carrying both backpacks, one on my back and one over my front, I got to wear the poncho to keep our kit dry. Jen just had to hope she didn't get too wet.
Since it was voted one of the New Seven Wonders of the World, interest in Machu Picchu grows every year, with the site now one of the most popular tourist destinations on the planet. Even this challenging riff-raff-route was teeming with other travelers.
There was no map or tour guide and little signage along the way. Instead we just followed the parade of ponchos as we traipsed through muddy grass. Mindlessly following the person in front, we missed the few signs that did exist and were all led astray. The mistake should have been obvious as we watched hikers struggling to climb a steep bank, pulling themselves up by the roots, and being lifted by those waiting below. The rain softened the soil into the same slop we had for lunch, and several backpackers slipped, tumbling into a muddy pile. There was no way that could be the right path.
The trick was to stick to the train tracks. We only once had to dive out the way as the train came trundling along. Once we emerged from the bush and could stick to the track, the parade thinned out till we were by ourselves. A raging river, churned up from the downpour, snaked through the valley. The mountains of the Peruvian jungle rose into the sky, with the peaks disappearing into the cloud.
Crunching over the pebbles was taxing on my feet, but worse were my shoulders which began to falter from the strain of the two bags. The one over my front kept slipping forward and pulling on my shoulders. With the poncho over me it was difficult to adjust. The rain pelted against our faces and dripped in streams off the brim of my hood. At least I was dry underneath. Jen was soaked through and furious.
The landslide cost precious time. Halfway in, the sun was setting and I hadn’t brought a flashlight. I was wary of stumbling over the little bridges I’d seen, built with haphazard wooden planks. Anxious not to be left struggling along in the dark, we kept a brisk pace, and battled through the pain, overtaking many other hikers. As darkness set in, we rationed the use of our phones. One of us would use the torch feature to light the path for us both, while the other kept theirs off. Through the glimmer of light all I could see were pellets of rain and just a few feet of track and pebbles.
From the gloom, an orange light glowed, and we hunted it down. A hiker, with the foresight to bring a head torch, had backpackers gathered around him like moths. I tried to sidle in, but competition to be near the light was fierce and I was shoved aside, too overburdened with my bags to put up a fight.
As we marched through the dark and rain, a local called out to us as we were heading down another wrong turn, this time into a tunnel. He redirected us down a hidden path and, in the distance, were the lights of Aguas Caliente. A desperate cheer rung out.
The plan was to meet the tour guides at the Plaza de Armas. In the square, travelers hugged the side of the buildings to escape the howling rain while guides, sheltered under umbrellas, called out people's names into the abyss. It reminded me of the scene after a natural disaster, reading through the names of the missing. Where there was no response, it meant the person was still suffering along the trail. Or in the case of Sleepy - the mountains!
The tour guide had given our hotel room to the other William on our van. So instead of having a double, we found ourselves in a room with three single beds. I didn't care, I was in agony. My neck was actually paralyzed. Jen fed me a handful of her industrial-strength painkillers and once they kicked in, I actually started to feel pretty good. I didn't even mind that in this town of Aguas Calientes, which translates to "Hot Water," I could only get a cold shower.
Sleep was an overstatement, as we were awake for 4am to collect our brown paper lunch bags from reception, and get down to Checkpoint Charlie for entrance to the site. The entry ticket must all be in order and match your passport. Scrutiny of your documentation is tighter than at an international border. The deeply-creased face of the guard wrinkled even harder as he pored over my documents, pointing and shaking his head. I strangled back the urge to panic. He kept pointing to the entry time and barking in Spanish.
'Hola amigo?' I offered. He pointed again to the entry time. A person behind leaned in. 'He said you can't go into the citadel until the actual start time.'
At the moment it was 5am. Our entry was for 7am. I nodded and smiled 'Gracias amigo.'
This proved not to be a problem as to get to the citadel of Machu Picchu we first had to climb 2000 stone steps known as the Inca Stairs. This alone took two hours. There is a bus, but as it cost £20 each, the walk would have to do. I started the climb with a fair degree of confidence, but each one of the 2000 steps was a steep thigh-burner. Soon my spritely stride was reduced to a sweaty, groaning stagger. My stomach felt hollow and necking back water only caused me to vomit. As we reached high into the jungle the air became thinner and the climb more laboured. Some of the steps were actually just rocks jutting out of the side of the cliff face.
Our route cut through the bus lane which weaved a trail up the mountain. As each bus leisured past, that £20 seemed ever less unreasonable. When I saw we were near the top I screamed in relief. My legs were jelly. It was easy to spot the red-faced and sweaty stair-climbers compared to the bus riders, still yawning and shaking off the early morning rise.
At the gate was a bag search. All food, walking sticks and selfie sticks were taken. We pulled open our lunch bags and I inhaled a carton of juice. But still couldn’t hydrate fast enough. Tourists can only enter beyond the gate with a guide. We were told to look for a yellow umbrella and spotted it attached to Julio, who rallied the other English speakers and took us through the gate. As Julio recounted the history of Machu Picchu we turned a corner and I got my first peek.
The site was much bigger than I realized, with a labyrinth of stone walls disappearing into the rolling mist. Julio led us up to a better viewpoint. After jostling with other tourists for the best photo spots, the early morning fog began to lift and revealed the entirety of the ruins, the towering boulder behind and the dramatic landscape around us.
Getting to Machu Picchu was devastating, but the site had a magnetism and wonder. In the moment we sat on the grass and got to take it all in, I knew the effort had been worth it. If only Sleepy was here to see it... he could have been our personal photographer!
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