Raiders of the Lost National Park
Trip Start
Oct 15, 2007
1
36
97
Trip End
Aug 24, 2008
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Machu Picchu,
Peru
Friday, December 28, 2007
Being late leaving our hotel meant we had somewhere in the region of a minute in which to work out what the hell to do in a railway station full of loud bustling Peruvians. All was not lost however, as we remembered that nothing ever actually happens on time in South America, so we got on the train in ample time. The train itself was quite sweet: a little old thing of about three carriages, with the seats upholstered in traditional stripy woven fabrics.
Cusco sits in a valley. A very steep sided valley. Even the llamas have handbrakes. Trains and steep sided valleys are not engineering's favourite bedfellows. So, there are various possible solutions to this problem: go a very long way round, twirling round in a big spiral; have some sort of winch/funicular thing whereby the train gets dragged uphill; have a rack and pinion system so the train can drag itself up the hill...or, the Cusco solution: stairs!
The track is built with a series of zig-zagging switchbacks, and before you've been told this, it's quite unnerving when the train keeps stopping and moving in the opposite direction. We had started to work it out just before the train staff told us what was going on, but even without the nagging worry that maybe we were on the wrong train (if the driver didn't know which way to go, what chance did we have?), there was the rather frustrating issue of which way round to sit! We didn't know which way the train was going to end up heading, so each time it changed, we wondered if we should move. We managed to time it perfectly though, so that as soon as we finally decided that maybe, this time, the zig-zags had stopped and we would be continuing in this direction after all and so changed seats accordingly...the damn thing ground to a halt and forward-facing seats became backwards once again. For half an hour.
Finally reaching the top of the hill, and underway in one direction, we passed through villages and scenery with ancient ruins and the like. There was a brief stop in Ollantaytambo to collect more passengers (the upshot of which being that we had to return to our originally assigned rear-facing seats) and then we rattled our way through to Aguas Calientes.
We got off the train straight into a craft market, out of which we eventually found our way. Not before being offered several bags though, which given that we were carrying all our belongings in four bags between us, seemed a little optimistic. Peruvians don't seem to mind how desperately unlikely the prospect of making a sale may be, they will offer it anyway.
We had booked into a hostel which we found after some wandering around in the heat of the midday sun. Unfortunately, despite our confirmed reservations, the room had been booked out to another couple. Oh, and the owner had fallen down the stairs and was waiting to be taken to hospital in Cusco to treat her probably broken leg, so we couldn't be too annoyed with her, could we? Well, yes we were, but what can you do? We were taken around town by a (Spanish only speaking) member of her staff to "get us a good deal" on alternative accommodation. This turned out to be her taking us to places and seeing if they had a room available, then letting us book it at the published price. Our Spanish was, by now, good enough to have achieved this without 'assistance'.
Whilst dragging our bags around in the midday sun looking for a hostel for a second time that day, it occurred to Kirsty that we had arranged for our Machu Picchu guide to meet us that evening at the hostel into which we had already booked to sort out arrangements for the following morning. Our Spanish wasn't good enough to explain this, so leaving Jacob guarding the bags, she returned to the hostel to have words. The best they could do was to offer to take details of our new hostel and send the guide on there when he showed up. We had absolutely no faith in this actually happening (in Peru, you either watch something as it happens, or you can guarantee that it won't happen: there is no concept of 'it will happen later').
We were right.
We got ourselves a hostel, dumped our bags and went to look for something to eat. By now, Jacob was feeling inexplicably revolting, and did not rate his chances of being able to do anything useful with whatever he may have chosen to eat before it made its escape. The only thing he could face was plain biscuits and a bottle of cold water, which Kirsty refused to share for fear of getting whatever was wrong with him. After sitting in the shade for a while feeling sorry for himself, Jacob decided to write off the afternoon and so sloped off to bed. After a bit of exploring, Kirsty realised that Aguas Calientes (or, to put it more accurately, 'Coca Cola presents The Machu Picchu Experience') was just a load of shops full of hats with Machu Picchu written across the front and cafes with the same menu, so gave up and went to catch up on internetty things for a while.
Feeling a wee bit better, Jacob reappeared and suggested looking for a bite to eat. A fairly unexciting bite to eat, as he was still feeling somewhat dubious. Fortunately, unexciting is the order of the day in many of the restaurants around Aguas Calientes; even more fortunately, whenever he's feeling under the weather, Jacob's number one favourite comfort food is mushroom soup, and this seemed to be available in most places. Unfortunately, it was sprinkled with cheese. Those of you who have even a passing acquaintance with Jacob's dietary habits will know how utterly loathsome he finds cheese to be, but at least Peruvian cheese tastes of bugger all, so when he scooped it out, it left little trace.
After this hearty repast, Kirsty went up to our original hostel (where we weren't staying) to make sure our Machu Picchu guide would be redirected to us when he showed up, which he never actually did. She left it until half an hour after the latest time at which he was supposed to be there before giving up. At least we couldn't blame the hostel for not sending him on to us...although as the place was deserted, we can blame them for the fact that they wouldn't have done.
Jacob phoned the travel agent's mobile, and realised that the cost of the phone call was something of a waste: yoghurt pots and string would probably have been a better method of communication. He hoped that the muffled crackling he could hear was the voice of the travel agent, and that by just speaking as loudly as possible he would make it clear that she needed to phone our guide and send him to our new hostel. It seemed to work, but we only found this out for certain when the guide showed up apologetically ten minutes later. He told us to be on a particular bus the following morning and that he would meet us at the gates to the park...and that was it. Why, when the travel agent had phoned him to confirm details while we sat in her office, he couldn't have said that to her and saved us the evening's charade is rather beyond us, but maybe he was just trying to help: there's precious little else to do in Aguas Calientes of an evening.
We had a further bite to eat, Jacob being a little more adventurous and ordering a lentil stew, Kirsty having a fairly disappointing pizza. After a visit to a late night pharmacist to get Jacob some Imodium (no, we know, it's not a great idea to cork yourself when the body's trying to shift an infection, but there are no bogs at Machu Picchu), we packed our bags for the following day, secreting bits of food and drink about the place (they're officially prohibited in the park), and went to bed.
Up disgustingly early (we had to take a 5:40am bus to the park gates), we breakfasted on biscuits, crisps, anti-motility pills and bottled water, met our guide and commenced the walk up the steps to Machu Picchu. Now, the reason we were there so damned early in the morning was that sunrise over the ruins is apparently a particularly spectacular...spectacle. Note the use of the word "apparently". It rained the night before, it rained that morning as we walked to the bus, it stopped raining briefly then started up again, and then it finally stopped and settled into just being heavily cloudy as we arrived at the lookout point. Seriously, it was such thick heavy cloud that we really had no idea what we couldn't see. Yes, we all know from photos what Machu Picchu looks like, but we had no idea where we were in relation to it.
As the cloud (very) gradually lifted, we realised that we had been prevented from seeing the view of the ruined city, and yes, it really is that amazing when the cloud lifts. We went off on a tour of the ruins, with explanations and theories being detailed to us about the discovery of the ruins, the purpose of the city and its buildings and the identity of its inhabitants.
In 1911, an American archaeologist named Hiram Bingham was looking for the 'Lost City of the Incas' when he happened upon a family of peasants living in the middle of nowhere to avoid paying taxes. They showed him the ruins and after much excavation and frenzied taking of photographs (in excess of 20,000), he concluded that he had found the fabled lost city. There is some evidence now to suggest that Bingham was beaten to the discovery by about ten years: there are dated names scratched on rocks, and Plymouth Brethren missionary reports of having climbed up to the ruins but having done nothing of any great note other than have a look around. Really though, if they didn't report their find to the world, then they have no basis for whinging when somebody else has the presence of mind to do so. Current thinking is that Machu Picchu is not actually the lost city of the Incas, but no-one can prove anything either way, as there are no records as to where it was. Hence the name, presumably.
Jacob asked the guide how, if there are no records anywhere giving any details about the lost city, did Hiram Bingham know to go looking for it in the first place. What gave him the idea that it existed, if it doesn't appear in any writings? Exploratory Indiana Jones type missions into jungle-covered South American mountains are all well and good if you've got some ancient glyphs on a mysterious scrap of parchment tucked in the pocket of your ruggedly distressed leather jacket...but if there is no parchment, anywhere, mysterious or otherwise...you get the idea.
The guide wriggled a little at this, and gave a rather circuitous answer, which amounted to there having been records of such a city a certain number of days (in unknown direction, using unspecified transport) from certain landmarks. Due to tribal wars and subsequent colonial Spanish invasion, all such records were destroyed and the fact that these records once existed is vaguely recorded somewhere by somebody who wasn't actually there at the time...or something like that. Machu Picchu is apparently approximately the right distance from the right place, but so are lots of other places, so generations of archaeologists and historians can make a name (and a living) for themselves with pages and pages of speculation. It's very pretty though, when the sun comes out.
After the tour and a load of pseudo-mystical "I believe in Inca fairy tales" nonsense from the guide, which unfortunately detracted from what had actually seemed quite an intelligently delivered and informative interpretation of the site from a reasonably well-read historian, we were left to our own devices. The rain didn't abate for another hour or so, so we sat in one of the buildings, ate our forbidden crisps and drank our forbidden water, and watched very earnest types approach a large 'sacred' rock. Apparently, the Incas would approach it, hold up their hands to it and think of whatever was troubling them. The troubles would then be left behind at the rock. Somehow, a queue of present day tourists in regulation zip-off trousers and waterproofs all holding up their hands in quiet submission don't seem very convincing. However cynical and superior that may sound...just picture it.
We went off for a wander, took a load of photos now that the light was better, and headed back down to Aguas Calientes. At a short distance from the departure point, a small boy in an orange robe bound with a sash stood up, shouted "Bye" and waved enthusiastically, got off the bus and set off at a run. The bus winds its way down the hillside, but there are paths and steps which head straight down. The boy took the steps, we took the road, and each time the two ways crossed, there he was, waving and shouting again. After a few appearances, it became apparent to everyone that he was racing us, and a lot of the passengers ceased their conversations and spent their time looking out for him. The bus stopped at the bottom of the hill, picked him up, and he went round the bus with a hat held out, angling for tips. Far too many people gave him far too much money. In Peru, you can buy a three course meal with a drink for two or three Soles. There were ten and twenty Sol notes going into his hat.
There is the argument that as a tourist from the developed world, a few Peruvian Soles is but a drop in the ocean, so why not let him have what we can easily afford? There is, however, the more sensible argument that if you can earn what, in terms of what can be bought for it, the equivalent of our daily earnings simply for running down a hill, then the local perception of the value of things gets wildly skewed. This is a nation who got through three different currencies in six or seven years through ridiculous hyperinflation, and a little more financial responsibility ought to be exercised, really. Throw vast wedges of cash at everything, and soon vast wedges of cash are worth nothing...
We had a wander around town, had a pootle around the market, went back to the hostel for coffee and a check of e-mail, then got annoyed with the rather cavalier attitude of the hostel staff towards our bags. We'd stowed them for the day after having checked out, so as not to have to cart them around, and when we got them back, two of the staff were running about the place, flirting in a 'he pulled my pigtails so I stole his satchel' sort of fashion, which ended up with them hitting each other with our bags and thus bouncing one of them off a wall, cracking Kirsty's torch. They were given a few stern words, but we received little more in return than a couple of slightly sheepish looks, so rather than starting a row which would have ultimately been fruitless, we left.
A walk to the station, a natter with a fairly elderly American couple in the waiting room, then onto the train back to Cusco...
