Buenos dias,
When we left you last time my favourite shoes had just been destroyed by a cunning Peruvian child and Krys was hastily looking for some cookies to take the edge off my grumpiness. Thankfully the next week was so exhausting there was little chance to indulge in mood swings.
We arrived in Cusco, which is a beautiful little town that was the base for our trek to Machu Picchu. The first morning was a bit of a concern though; after a full plate of bacon and eggs plus an assortment of pastries, the 4 flights of stairs back to the room felt more like an uphill ultra-marathon through quicksand, and left me lolling on the bed like a stranded whale for the next hour. So unless the pending trek was going to be less strenuous than chewing through some grissly bacon and walking 20 steps, we were facing some significant fitness tests in the days ahead.
After recovering from a bacon induced semi-coma, we were off to meet our group for the trek and find out more details. Was a typical South American start; for the 10.30am briefing the guide turned up at 3pm, gave us a long list of things we should take but imposed a 4kg limit, then ducked off to do pisco shots. The main things that stood out from the briefing was the length (45kms averaging 8hrs walking per day) and the lack of facilities. Any thoughts of settling into a morning bathroom session with the Sydney Morning Herald for company were quickly erased. Squatting behind a bush is hardly conducive to a thorough reading of expansive, left wing opinion pieces. Although a reading of Piers Ackerman pieces would certainly help with the purging process.
Our group for the trek was fairly large at 14; and applying the normal benchmark of 20% of all people are idiots, we expected 2.8 people to be challenging. Thankfully I seemed to fill the entire idiot quota as the rest of the group was wonderful, including a mine supervisor called Freda who had the unique ability to use the word f#ck as a verb, adjective and noun. This was best summed up by her description of her physical condition after a particularly difficult walking day. Her words were “well f#ck me I feel f#cken f#cked”. I’d be interested to hear how she described the act of vigorous love making.
Our trek started with a visit to the Sacred Valley, and some time with a local community. This had us all dressing up in traditional Peruvian attire, which seemed to consist of exceptionally colourful skirts and dresses for both men and women. The guy skirt was passed off as a poncho, but looked remarkably similar in shape to what Brittany Spears was wearing during her “no underwear” phase. Thankfully I was at the front end of a washing cycle and had plenty of Bonds to wear, so would not scare the Peruvian children with any vigorous twirling. Once we were all dressed, the locals had us prancing around a tree to the sound of wind pipes and drums. I can’t help but think that these Peruvian “traditions” were invented to allow our hosts to make money by recording a bunch of tourists dancing around a tree in skirts then putting it up on Peruvian YouTube for the rest of the locals to laugh at. Suspicions were raised further when the local man presiding over these festivities (who was introduced as the local priest) turned up again as a porter 2 days later. Obviously a Peruvian Parish is not a profitable venture and needs to be supplemented by lugging supplies for out of shape tourists.
After our skirted frolic, it was onto the trek itself. Day 1 started well as we were excited to get going. About 2hrs in this excitement had faded to concern given the trail seemed to head straight up into the mountains, and the Incas liked to construct steps that only Luc Longley could navigate comfortably without a trampoline. With my stumpy legs and belly full of pork products I was lagging early, and Krys wasn’t enjoying the progress (or my whinging) either. But after 8hrs of plodding we reached camp, only to be greeted by a local Peruvian lady acting as a moving, colourful corner store. She had done the hike as well, but had done it lugging an assortment of local beers, snacks and a smirk that reeked of pity for some out of shape tourists. But the least we could do was help to lighten her beer load.
The next 2 days were tough; steep steps, rain and a lack of conditioning had us clawing our way towards the end like Paul Hogan edging towards a tub of wrinkle cream. But then we saw it; Machu Picchu through the haze. And what an amazing sight it is; a city perched on top of a mountain, surrounded by clouds, sheer cliffs, and fed by a trail that winds into the forest like a snake sneaking up on a guinea pig. How on earth a group of people could see such a site and decide to build there almost defies belief; almost as unbelievable as those people who discovered Adelaide and thought that it would also be a good place to begin a community.
After working our way through Machu Picchu it was down into town for the night. At the end of 3 days of hiking, bathing with baby wipes and bush bathroom breaks, a warm shower and a sit down toilet had us on such a high that we had to go out and drink. After demolishing a 2 for 1 cocktail bar our whole group found ourselves at a salubrious Machu Picchu nightclub with slippery floors and flashing neon lights. And it was time to dance. Krys was off to a flying start, regaling the crowd with her much talked about Running Man. But I’d had enough rum to convince myself that I had something to offer too – I would pull out a move that had been resting since Year 9 – I would rebirth “the worm”.
I was so confident I moved the crowd back into a circle, then launched into my signature move. The first wriggle felt natural but something felt out of line. I found out my technical worm error as my chin smashed into the granite floor. Into the second wiggle I made an effort to keep my chin up, but to no avail and smashed it again. By wiggle three I think my chin had resigned to its fate and just braced for one more dance floor smashing. I could not even enjoy the warm applause of the crowd due to a frantic search for a chin split, as well as a fairly solid concussion. Thankfully there was no real damage done, and the dance-athon could continue. Krys and I finished off our performance by performing the Dirty Dancing lift. The look of horror on people’s faces as they watched Krys run at full speed and leap into the arms of someone who 30 seconds before was incapable of doing the worm without landing chin first was an amusing sight to see.
After Machu Picchu we made our way back to Cusco to wrap up our South American adventure. On our final night we decided to finish with a dinner at one of Peru’s more stylish establishments. But attempts to leave Peru with a bit of class came undone after we came across a Peruvian cover band playing Pearl Jam and Red Hot Chili Peppers on the way home. One pisco sour and a quiet sing along to “Better Man” on a couch in the bar eventually became 10 pisco sours, Krys belting on the upturned box which was the band’s drum set and me on stage making up random Spanish words to the verse of “I Shot the Sherriff”. Last time I checked, “buenos noches, par favour, aqua caliente” were not on the official Sheriff Shooting lyrics list. I’m not sure if the crowd cheer when we finished our performance was in appreciation for the display, or relief that we were again leaving the musical performance in the hands of the band. But we stumbled out onto the Cusco streets where I put my last learned Spanish phrase to the test. With hands stretched in the air every Peruvian that walked by was greeted with a “Buenos noches. Me nombre es Trent. Estoy borracho”. The locals response to a stumbling tourist saying “Good evening. My name is Trent. I am drunk” was mixed to say the least.
One reaction we got from a local was particularly interesting. A sly looking young man with greasy hair greeted my drunken proclamations by leaning in and saying in a low voice “hey man, do you want some cocaine?”. I think I stared at him a little too long, before asking him for a hamburger instead. He then very helpfully gave me directions to the three best burger place sin Cusco. So our time in South America had ended as you’d expect; an offer for drugs from a friendly local who also doubled as a tourist guide offering advice as to the best restaurants in town. Could not have imagined it ending in a more fitting way.
So now we are home, and apart from a muddled head, sore chin and some confused Spanish phrases in our heads it feels like the trip didn’t happen. So now it is time to start planning the next one. Will no doubt catch up with you all in the coming few weeks.
Adios.
Trent, Krystal and a fractured chin
smallthoughts 