Travel. The heights at Machu Picchu
I blame Disney's ‘The emperor’s New Groove’, for my misconception of Cusco. Although fantastical in its unique way, Cusco bears no resemblance to the Aztecan caricature Disney painted. As I climbed the steps up to this terracotta-coloured city, situated at a lofty 3,400 m (11,200 ft) above sea level, my breath was taken away. Perhaps due to the thin air, more likely, from the sensory overload: Bustling markets, plazas, and alfresco eateries. Intoxicating smells of coffee and cigarettes filtering through iron-balconied cafes. A circus of street performers, hawkers, and locals selling massages to weary travellers returning from multi-day hikes.
Before sunrise, the next day, the most energetic part of my South American adventure began: a four-day hike to the heights of Machu Picchu. I clambered down from my topmost bunk in an 18-person dorm, ‘Sorrocho’ (altitude sickness) hitting me like a bad hangover. I’d signed-up to the Lares Trek that covered forty-six mountainous kilometres at heaven scraping altitudes. The trek would take us up over three summits, reaching a (quite literally) breathtaking 4800m. Snow painted the peaks.
There were thirteen of us in all: the backpackers; Aldo, the amazing guide; and the superhuman team of cooks and safety consultants. The sights were breathtaking—mountains, stone villages, rivers, lakes and glaciers. At such heights, breathing was difficult. I'm fit but found myself needing to pause every twenty paces up the steep mountainside to get oxygen into my screaming lungs. My body felt alien and cumbersome at altitude. At least it allowed me time to breathe in the view, very deeply and very often.
Unlike the over-commercialised ‘Inca Trail’, where bookings must be made months in advance, the Lares Trek seemed to avoid the hordes of tourists. On it, I was fortunate to experience pathways less adventured across the Andes. The Inca trail is flatter and scattered with the remnants of Aztec presence, but the Lares offered the opportunity to see a living, breathing Andean village that still worshipped Pachamama (Mother Earth) and her Apus (mountains). They ate a diet that consisted almost solely of potatoes. They froze in the extreme temperatures and were ground into a porridge-like stodge that staved off the chill. A brilliant bit of trivia: there are, in fact, over 3000 types of potatoes in South America alone. Use that on your next pub quiz! The female village elder had given birth to the majority of its inhabitants and had forgotten her age. She was layered in traditional llama wool garments. Her feet were black and calloused, impervious to the freezing, high-altitude temperatures.
As advised by our guide, we each brought with us a dozen saucer-sized loaves of yellow cornbread and a large bag of coca leaves. Rumour had it that chewing on the coca leaves like tobacco eradicated altitude sickness. I was curious about the effect of chewing coca and spurred on by the thundering in the base of my head (a common symptom of altitude sickness). I chewed diligently, abiding the coca etiquette I’d been taught. When the left side of my face went numb, I got a glimpse into why the locals loved the stuff. Everything felt a bit better. Locals we met greeted us with broad, gapped-toothed grins when I gave each of them a handful of the dried leaves. The bread was given to the children we met in the Andean village we camped in for one night and along the journey. Their smiles of gratitude shone through their grubby, never-washed faces. Their characteristic rosy cheeks made that way because of how red capillaries go to the skin surface at altitude. The pureness and sincerity in their faces transgressed the language barriers, and my heart could not help but melt.
At night, we camped between glaciers and snow-capped mountains and were blanketed by more stars than I could fathom. The air was sharp, pure, and energised the soul. It clarified the muggy head I’d had since arriving at high altitude. It was the air—or the rum that we’d spiked our apple-coca tea with—that enabled us to sleep in the below-freezing temperatures.
Aguas Calientes is the town nearest to Machu Picchu. As its name suggests, it's home to natural hot water springs that soothe the muscles of hikers whose feet have long lost feeling due to the cold. I welcomed the warmth of the water and a comfy bed.
The alarm woke me again before sunrise. Time to hike up to Machu Picchu. It's worth noting, that although I opted for the adventurous route to Machu Picchu, it's possible to reach the infamous Incan city without barely breaking a sweat—simply get the train. A railway now joins Cusco to the seventh wonder for those looking for a whistle-stop experience. In order to have the mountain city to ourselves that morning, we needed to beat the first busload of train travellers to the top. It also meant we'd be able to secure a pass to climb Waynu Picchu—the incredibly steep mountain behind Machu Picchu. Only a handful of people are allowed to scale its sides a day to catch an even rarer view of the ancient, unfinished city that was built and consequently abandoned one hundred years later after the Spanish Conquest in 1572. My passport was checked at basecamp at 4:30 am. In the darkness, I hiked, as fast as possible, up the steep mountainside to Machu Picchu. I urged myself on, as fast as I could on the limited air that I could draw into my lungs. Through the tree cover, I could just make out finger-like mountains that loomed out from the darkness. Past other walkers, I kept the guide in my sight—he scampered higher with ease. Oh, to be Peruvian and accustomed to the thin air. I managed, somehow, to be the first female to the gate at the top that morning. I smiled contentedly with my eyes shut for a moment before taking a mental photo of the mountain in the first glimmer of sunlight. Then a real photo.
I stood on top of the agricultural sector of the site. I could have spent all morning surveying the hidden city. It felt as though I had discovered this secret place, as the clouds covered and re-exposed it over and over again. As I walked through the many buildings and temples, I let my hand trail against the stone. The grooves of the stone were smooth and perfectly aligned. I’m told the Incas were impeccable stonemasons in the art of ‘ashlar’, piecing stone together without mortar. There was something new to behold at every corner. Every stone in the labyrinth had an exact purpose and story to tell. Seemingly randomly positioned, an awkward, diamond-like stone contradicted the symmetrical temple windows. I later discovered that it was, in fact, a sundial—a centuries-old timepiece.
Making use of the Waynu Picchu pass I'd obtained by racing up the mountainside that morning, I scaled the winding path engraved into the steep side. From the base, it looked an impossible feat. up close, it didn't seem to get any easier. I was confronted by a seemingly vertical wall. Taking in as deeper breath as I could muster, I began the ascent. There were aid-ropes, caves to clamber through, and steps so steep that even a toddler would have difficulty fitting their feet onto. I scrambled, finally, through a dimly lit chamber and out into the bright sun. I blinked and wobbled on the perch I’d claimed for myself. From this topmost point, I saw the rare, sweeping panoramic of the ancient city, cradled by finger-like mountains that seemed to hold it in place and secret from the world.
One of the most exciting aspects when travelling is those moments that take your breath away. Whether it is the awe one feels in sublime natural geographical landmarks or the sheer amazement at man-made wonders. Mighty Machu Picchu took my breath away for more reasons than the altitude. With tourist numbers on the rise and the foundations of this ancient city sinking beyond saving, the time, as that old stone sundial will tell, is now to discover this truly amazing wonder of the world. Or never, and let nature reclaim it.
