Monkey Magic

The Linger Loco!

Chapter 12: Monkey Magic

On the outskirts of Cusco, somewhere on Calle Puputi, a

small tired bus waits for passengers as we prepare to

embark on a journey through the Sacred Valley. With our

multi-site tickets wedged in our back pockets and a small

rucksack each stuffed full of camera equipment and clean

pants, Si buys a huge sack of oversized popcorn from a

sweet little old lady with a moustache and we leap aboard

the bus.

Franco told us the best way to get to Machu Picchu is to

first get a bus to Pisac, 32km north of Cusco, and then a

bus to Ollantaytambo where you can catch a connecting

Peru-Rail train to the town of Aguas Calientes. We sit at

the back of the bus, wide-eyed and grinning like two excited

school kids going on a day trip to a fun park. The fact that

we’re both adults with hairy legs and swinging testicles

isn’t the point, as it’s not everyday you get to spend quality

time in the Sacred Valley and get to cruise around the lost

city of Machu Picchu – one of the most famous archaeological

sites in the world!

Green terraces cling to the sloping valleys and tiny settlements

flash by my dirty window, and after an hour we

descend a steep mountainside and arrive in the quaint little

market town of Pisac. The bus drops us off on a bridge just

before entering the town, and a young guy immediately

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appears and points to a white taxi parked up on the other

side of the bridge. He speaks a little English, and proudly

informs us that Liverpool is the best football team in the

world. We happily agree, and negotiating a deal (including

a little tip) he takes us to the top of the mountain. Arriving

at the ruins of an ancient Inca fortress, we thank our new

friend and purchase corn on the cob from a woman wearing

a bowler hat. The weather is exceptionally good considering

the heavy downpours over the past few days; the sun is

bright in the sky and I curse for forgetting the sun block.

With our jumpers and fleeces tied around our waists, we

walk around the ruins and look down into the stunning

valley below.

Once back down the mountain we head for the ruins at

Ollantaytambo, and squeeze onboard a mini-bus packed

with smiley locals. We see snow-capped mountains and

pass through tiny picturesque villages along the way. It

takes about an hour and a half to reach Ollantaytambo, a

beautiful town with a central plaza surrounded by a number

of rocky cliff faces. Marching up to the entrance gate of the

impressive Inca site, we flash our multi-site tickets like

VIP’s and lose ourselves in a maze of enormous Inca steps

and terraces. The Inca blocks (canchas) are perfectly intact

and the terraces, which were defended by the Manco Incas

warriors, reach high up over the town.

It’s dark by the time we arrive at the small train station a

few kilometres outside Ollantaytambo. The atmosphere is

buzzing, with local Peruvians selling food and refreshments

from little stalls beside a river running alongside the

station. Everyone waits in anticipation for the train to

arrive. It isn’t long before we hear the clattering of carriages

and see the blue train pull into the station. Dozens

of people begin filing through the gate, its absolute chaos

and pitch black on the platform. We find carriage ‘A’ and

climb aboard. The lights aren’t on inside, so we stand by

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the window and watch the raging river below the tracks.

The carriage is full by the time the lights flick on, and finding

our seats we feel the train pull out of the station and

begin its arduous climb to the remote town of Aguas

Calientes.

* * *

Considering we’re staying in a town called Aguas

Calientes, meaning ‘hot waters’, I can’t help feeling a little

disappointed that the shower is freezing cold. That said

the icy cold water perks me up a bit like a slap around the

face, and I quickly dry myself with a T-shirt, having forgotten

to bring a towel. Chris decides to skip the shower completely,

and simply sprays some deodorant under his arms

and down his pants. He pulls on his jeans, slips on a fleece

and before we know it we’re out of our room and creeping

through the dimly lit hostel. Tiptoeing down the stairs, we

leave the key at reception and step out into the dark

muddy street. It rained heavily during the night and I

think of the poor souls walking the Inca Trail. At this unsociable

hour, 6:05am to be precise, the street is deserted

with the exception of some old boy dashing past with his

head bent low.

We find our way down to the river and see a line of white

buses parked up outside a small office. There are a handful

of grumpy tourists dressed in raincoats standing outside.

They all look miserable and in no mood for conversation.

After ten minutes, a bus driver walks out of the office and

opens the door to one of the buses. We all clamber aboard

and squint as the bright interior lights illuminate our

swollen faces. The bus fills with more grumpy faces and it

isn’t long before we’re ready for the offing. It quickly

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begins to grow light as we make the journey to Machu

Picchu, and I glance out of the window at the misty mountains

above our heads. The bus climbs the steep mountain

road that zigzags through the damp forest and climbing

higher and higher, the bus brakes sharply and weaves

around a workman clearing enormous boulders that have

fallen into the road during the night. Looking up at the

cliff face that towers above us, I imagine a large rock

falling out of the sky and crashing through the window of

the bus. We turn a sharp corner and cloud begins to swirl

around us and fill the valley below. I wonder how the

driver can see, but he doesn’t appear to be worried in the

slightest and continues to speed up the mountain with his

precious cargo (i.e. me!).

Thankfully, we arrive safely at the top of the mountain

and park up next to a small hotel. It’s low level and doesn’t

spoil the view too much, but its presence in such a remote

location is truly bizarre. The air outside the coach is fresh,

and we stand in a short queue at the entrance gate to

Machu Picchu, which means ‘Old Peak’. Scanning the

guidebook I’m intrigued to learn Machu Picchu was a royal

estate and religious retreat built by the Sapa Inca

Pachacuti in 1440. The city’s life had come to an abrupt

end around the time of the Spanish conquest of Peru in

1532.

We purchase our tickets with the small amount of money

we have left and file through the gate. Thick cloud is all

around us, completely hiding the city from view. Chris

begins to worry we’re about to do another Lake Baikal,

where we drove 7,000 miles from the UK to Lake Baikal in

Eastern Siberia and failed to see one of the largest fresh

water lakes in the world due to huge forest fires. Quite

some feat when you consider it’s the size of Belgium and

holds approximately 20% of the earth’s fresh surface

water. I try to put his mind at rest by telling him that the

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cloud will eventually clear, well, at least it had better!

We follow a high Inca wall that leads us to a flight of

stone steps, and we disappear into the mist. Crashing into

each other we try to find our bearings, and stumble across an

ancient Inca road that winds off into the forest. We follow it

along a high ledge that plunges deep into the forest below,

and are careful where we tread for fear of slipping down

the steep verge. The trail itself is an impressive sight and

is made of large blocks that have been cut and aligned perfectly

square. Some of the blocks of stone must weigh at

least 100 tons, and we find it hard to imagine how they

managed to construct it without the use of machinery.

Realising pretty quickly that it was probably by using

slaves, we continue to marvel at the Incas incredible

achievements, but try not to forget the thousands of lives

that were more than likely sacrificed in its construction. I

picture a barefooted messenger 600 years ago running

through the forest, and I get a chill down my spine at the

thought of how amazing it must have been for Hiram

Bingham to discover the ruins in 1911.

Returning to the main site, we climb higher into the

clouds and sit with our legs dangling over the edge of a terrace.

Chris offers me an Oreo, and I feel like Monkey Magic

as I watch wisps of cloud drift past my feet. A gap appears

in the cloud and my stomach does summersaults, when it

suddenly dawns on me that we’re sat on a ledge that

plunges vertically into the Urubamba River canyon below.

The sun rises higher and more cloud begins to lift, and we

look in complete awe as the ancient city of Machu Picchu,

a city lost for centuries, is unveiled in front of our very

eyes. Making our way cautiously along the terraces, we

descend a steep flight of stone steps and see a hawk swoop

across the Inca houses. It lands nearby and ruffles its

feathers, and seems to be completely unconcerned by our

presence. A bewildered tourist disturbs the bird, causing it

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to take flight and soar low over the city. We wander

through the streets and look around the many buildings and

houses made from granite blocks where the women, children

and priests lived. I take photographs and try to avoid the

tourists that increase in number with every hour that passes

by.

Around midday we’re drawn towards Huayna Picchu, a

mountain 360metres higher than Machu Picchu, and like

true explorers, we stretch our skinny legs and climb to the

top. It’s tough going and I quickly discover that I’m not the

strong, athletic iron man that I had first thought. Some sections

of the trail are slippery and steel ropes provide some

support, but I begin to wish I hadn’t worn trainers without

any grips. Scrambling to the top, we finally reach the summit

and stand on a ledge high above the lost city. The view

is incredible and I feel like Tarzan ‘Lord of the Jungle’.

Chris stands beside me and also looks ready to beat his

chest, but we repress our natural desires to release a loud

animal cry and go and check out the Temple of the Moon.

After crawling through small holes and scraping some skin

on the rocks, we prepare ourselves for the descent. The

rain begins to fall in bucket loads as we slip back down the

mountain, and I try not to laugh when Chris loses his balance

and slides down the muddy trail on his arse.

It takes us a good hour to get down, and once back at

street level we stand with a few dozen wet muddy tourists

beneath a wooden shelter. Deciding it’s time to head back,

we walk through the ancient city that’s covered in low

mist and wait for the bus outside the main gates. The journey

back down the mountain is a pleasant one, partly due

to the fact that it’s great to sit down and also because of the

entertainment provided by a young kid out of the window.

Waving at the bus, the funny little kid, who’s dressed in

traditional Inca clothing, proceeds to race the bus down

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the mountain by taking a short cut through the forest. We

see him at various points down the mountain and we’re

surprised to see him jump aboard the bus at the bottom of

the hill. He’s out of breath, and despite only having a few

pesos left we feel obliged to throw him some shrapnel. We

arrive at Aguas Calientes and scurry back to our hostel.

Feeling exhausted and hungry, we sit in the room for a

while in our pants before finding the energy to stumble to

a small dodgy hamburger vendor in the Plaza. We go to

bed and dream of beers in Cusco.

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