La Paz

We rumbled stop-start through the choking streets; crowds of people thronged the pavements either side of us, while cheap multi-storey red brick building loomed above. And in the shops, the flickering white-hot light of the soldering iron worked tirelessly, the constant construction of a city growing rapidly. This must be La Paz.

'This is El Alto - The Heights,' I overheard a long-time ex-pat ahead of us explaining. 'all the people from the countryside end up here, and it's now as big as La Paz itself'. She motioned out the far window to her friend - that is La Paz.

And there it was. From the heights we saw down into the mountain cauldron, a giant sea of red buildings swirled at its base; splashed up the valley sides and hung like precarious droplets to steep ledges. 2 million souls all jostling in the morass of busy streets and highways.

La Paz

La Paz has a bad reputation - from crime to a lack of culture, to just being plain unattractive. Many other travellers were missing it out altogether or spending one night in transit to get out to the 'real' Bolivia as soon as possible. But any capital betrays the ambitions and aspirations of its people: and amongst so many millions there are always good times and good places. So Mhairi and I had resolved to spend three days getting to know the city. Furthermore, La Paz seems to know its reputation for being dangerous and has decided to capitalise on it: its signature day trip is the WMD road - a 3000m downhill mountain bike notorious for the number of people who injure or kill themselves by going over the edge (? In the last year, free T-shirt if you survive). It has South America's longest and fastest zip line a day trip away. And of course as we sat down to our meal on the first night arriving at the Star of India, in true British-Indian style, it had South America's hottest curry and a challenge to finish it (again, free T-shirt). It is almost all about excitement and adventure with a hint of danger in La Paz. And that leads to a very young crowd. In Cusco we'd seen the tired, old Japanese and American tourists filling buses with withered arms holding cameras for that bucket-list photo of Macchu Picchu. Here it was all pubs and clubs with free shots, and the appeal of riotous fun wherever we went, everyone willing to swap stories of their latest crazy experience.

To avoid the worst excesses, we'd again hooked up with a quieter hostel - Residencial Latino - where we could again sleep well without the fear of noisy parties. We were to get direct experience of such a hostel on our second day in La Paz at the Wild Rover. Signed in as guests to watch the rugby, I watched breakfasting hostellers have cider or vodka-orange with their toast, all big believers in hair of the dog. And it was no surprise when we took the bus to the wrestling that the riotous, drunken guys at the back were all inmates of that hostel.

Courtyard of the beautiful Central Art Museum, La Paz

Our first day though was cultural, and the main thing that stood out - Angels, with guns. The central art museum of Bolivia in La Paz is relatively impoverished but 16th Century oil paintings of the angelic host brandishing an arquebus or two are not easily forgotten. The highlight for us was the modern art of the first floor where the beautiful flowing stone sculpture work of Maria Nunez del Prado was presented. A lot of the other twentieth-century art still vacillated between idyllic rural scenes and dystopic visions of the urban present. Bolivia still lives with a lot of the pain from how both its near neighbours and those further afield have despoiled its progress into the modern world.

San Francisco Church

Nowhere was this more clear than in the coca museum. It painstakingly outlined the use of coca leaves in traditional custom for hundreds of years where the leaf helped bind communities together. It showed the scientific evidence that coca is beneficial for the respiratory system and contains a high concentration of vital nutrients as well as providing a stimulative effect similar to caffeine - vital when most of the population worked thin, high-altitude land. It was America that first synthesised cocaine: Sigmund Freud was a massive user. It was a wonder drug for pain relief until it got out of control and was misused. At that point two things happened: pharmaceutical companies lobbied to have cocaine banned while they could sell their inferior synthetic substitutes (novocaine and others). Secondly, it was the coca leaf that was declared the root cause of the illegal narcotics problem, and the US (with UN backing) sent in its agents to destroy crops in Bolivia, aiming at eradication. Of course at this time Western governments still bought coca leaves from Bolivia to synthesise cocaine for research purposes, and Coca-cola still bought hundreds of tons a year to add flavour to its leading brand soft drink. But the implication was clear - Bolivia couldn't be trusted managing itself, and years went by where coca was destroyed to the impoverishment of local communities, economically and culturally. With the accession of Evo Morales to the Bolivian presidency, himself a former coca farmer, things have changed. Bolivians chew coca with a defiant air, they point out that cocaine is an American drug used predominantly by Americans (50%??), and Europeans. America still blames the source. The argument continues...




With a rugby fuelled Saturday at the Wild Rover as mentioned before, I can only say again: La Paz has a lot of tourist-friendly joints for drinks. Oliver's pub saw us finish our evening dancing with a mixed crowd to the best of world pop music, with the odd free vodka and grenadine shot passed across the bar to us. All that remained for us to do the next day was scrape ourselves together for the afternoon's Cholitas Wrestling. This low-rent show-wrestling came complete with its own cast of masked characters - the American Ninja, Doberman, Satanica: even Batman made an appearance. The perfect hangover cure for sluggish minds, the wrestlers sprayed foam at each other, bashed tin cans on each others' heads and generally misbehaved. True to form, after many setbacks, the good wrestler always beat the baddie, justice was always served.

Cholita takes a break

We'd enjoyed our time in La Paz, it was easy and accessible with the most English speaking joints we could ask for: aside from the drinks, all the restaurants were great food and great value. Perhaps its because tourism is a lit more ghetto-ised around Sagarnaga, or just the capital city effect, but every waiter had perfect English and they were exceptionally friendly. We'd also walked around a lot in our three days, and seen cholitas running every kind of street stall imaginable, their traditional clothes marking them out distinctly from the totally urbanised youth of the city in jeans and brand label tops. As Bolivia aspires to me more independent from foreign influence, and assert its national identity, these ladies are the engine room of small business and no Bolivian goes a day without buying their snacks, drinks, and common items. They were some of the most vocal crowd members at the Cholitas Wrestling; they were also behind every popcorn and souvenir stand. But they are not in any of the banks or museums or tour agencies: they seem to only fill the many gaps in Bolivia's infrastructure in the lowest paid positions. It feels like they deserve more. In fact, just like in the modern art museum, it feels like Bolivia needs to reconcile the idyllic rural life which still provided its coca leaf and workforce, with its ongoing struggle with modernity.

How do YOU like your Toby?

Into Bolivia and Lake Titicaca

Just woken, we jumped off our comfortable night bus close to the Lake Titicaca border between Peru and Bolivia and, glancing up and down the semi-deserted road, swung the backpacks on from the luggage rack. 'De donde tomamos el bus?' we asked the conductor in our pidgin Spanish, who gestured at a cheerful matronly lady nearby, 'La senora'. Uh-huh, I thought dubiously as we followed her to a white minibus, or collectivo, with a young Spanish woman from our bus. And as we settled into our seats it emerged that yes indeed, if we wanted to go now to the border rather than wait around for an indeterminate amount of time for a bus which may or may not exist (this was left a little unclear), it would be 5 soles each. But surely not, Senora, we explained, for we have purchased tickets all the way from Cusco to Copacabana. Directo. In fact, the on the very same bus, we had originally been assured. Ah yes but this was a private vehicle, she explained regretfully in return, and therefore the driver needed payment. Mmm-hmmm, we agreed, quite the predicament - but see we have already paid the bus company for a direct ticket all the way to Copacabana, the closest town to the Bolivian side. Yes, she understood, but this was only 5 soles and it was a private vehicle after all, you see. Our Spanish associate took on the lion's share of the argument; her 'Not our problem' line of reasoning growing more exasperated and rapido by the second. 

Copacabana harbour

Eventually we succumbed, as one always does when tossed off a night bus before 8am in a far-flung corner of the world to find someone in a taxi requiring more money than expected to whisk you off to the nearest bastion of civilisation. And to be fair, the cost itself was nothing, and if the good lady was attempting to make anything out of the exchange she certainly wasn't charging a fraction of what she ought to have been. Annoyingly, I can't even remember the name of the bus company, who are predictably pulling a fast one on this score by mis-marketing as a direct route to Copacabana one that is actually simply a bus to La Paz which will dump you reasonably close to the Peruvian side of the border. Much like many others I'm sure and by no means the worst of travel predicaments in which one may find oneself. But suffice it to say, exercise caution with cross-border buses, kids, there is almost always a catch, be it delays, scams or appalling currency exchange rates...

Bolivian ladies rule the world

Lake Titicaca is one of those exotic destinations that tend to sound fictional. Like Timbuktu or Mombasa. As the world's highest altitude lake, I had somehow imagined a desolate, lunar Ladakhian place, one cold and windswept where the living is hard. While the latter is almost certainly true, if alleviated in some areas since the tourist trail caught on, the former characteristics couldn't be further from the truth. Over the border - a couple of semi-deserted police stations and passport stamping offices interspersed with exchange booths and small shops, much more your India-Nepal crossing (minus all the people) than your Argentina-Chile - we sat in a small collectivo waiting for our journey into town. Bit by bit, the bus filled up with wizened old Bolivian ladies in tall bowler hats and huge colourful bundles of groceries or goods for sale tied across their shoulders, as the driver sat outside with his friends finishing some breakfast until he had enough customers to make the 3 Bolviano pp journey worth it's gas. 

Copacabana cathedral

As we barrelled bumpily into town the lake started to sweep tantalisingly into and out of view. A bright, deep blue, with mountains still visible far into the distance, green and brown rolling hills surrounding: your only clue to its crazy 3800m altitude the cool, foreshortened feeling in your lungs that accompanies the traveller around the altiplano. Copacabana is an engaging little town, now very adapted to its tourist profile - which leans decidedly towards the backpacker due to its remote location but is nevertheless visible on every street. Andean knitwear abounds in quantities and affordability far exceeding those we'd seen in Peru, and rough and ready tourist restaurants (ever amusingly billed as serving 'typical food') dot several of the main thoroughfares in town and the lakeside. Yet it still feels quite small and sleepy, and it was easy to see why so many hippy travellers end up pitching up for a while, selling jewellery on street corners and stoning a few months away by its beautiful wooded lakeside.

Seafood stalls dot the shore and there are little peddle-boats for rent, along with the ubiquitous daily boat-trips out to the Isla del Sol just a few hours away. Copacabana would have an almost alpine flavour, with its gentle hills and the deep blue greens of the lake, if not for remaining so utterly and distinctly Bolivian. For just as we'd felt the click into Peru from Chile, the countries again shifted into place for us with the journey into Bolivia. I felt things slow down a little further, as clearly as the prices dropped a smidgen further. One of the poorest countries on the continent - and notable for its political instability even in the South American context - Bolivia has a very distinct cultural richness, sense of identity and pace. 

Lake Titicaca from the Inca clock

Rush hour at Vicky's carniceria

Almost literally with the border crossing, too, the hats appeared. Of course they are all over the place in Peru too, the Andean altiplano essentially being a shared cross-border culture, but not like this. On men and on children, but above all on the women, they are a glory to behold. Tall, tiny bowler hats perched atop waist-length jet black hair worn in two long plaits laced together at the bottom with woolen tassels  The women in general, in fact, may have been the most notable emblem of Bolivia for us: stout, matronly ladies as wide as they are tall, sat stately and authoritatively in shops, guesthouses and behind little butcher's counters surrounded by huge hanging carcasses, which they'd swing heavily down with no regard for lost fingers or basic hygiene to chop off cuts with huge metal cleavers. Even from a cursory stroll around Copacabana's marketplace or the souvenir stands fronting the huge, eerie cathedral (arrestingly medieval and bare both outside and in, where two small boys messed around in a dark wax-encrusted side chapel with nothing but a terrifying Virgin figurine at it head), it was clear that the Cholitas rule the roost.

Car in hat!

Dried llama, anyone?

We took the ferry out to the Isla del Sol, mythological birthplace of the Incas, for an overnight stay. You can buy tickets all over town for either of the two daily crossings and from the ubiquity of the tickets in our first few days I had expected the small island, hikeable top to toe within a long morning, to be rammed with tourists. Disembarking in tiny Cha'llapampa mid-afternoon, this appeared far from the case until we wandered through the small village - still virtually undeveloped, with small-scale extensions to family homes and kitchen-adjacent little 'shops' springing up to capitalise on all the strange grubby backpackers descending daily - to hit the beach on the other aide. For 10 Bolivianos you can pitch your tent here, we realised, smacking our foreheads for not bringing our own along and a tourist shanty-town of 30-40 tents was camped out on the sandy shoreline, ringed by bemused islanders who kept little shop tables nearby set up with water, wine, beer and biscuits with which to woo the foreigners. What-evs, we said sniffily, picking out a room in a little guestblock nearby. More money into the local economy, we congratulated ourselves airily, handing over eight times the sum to a chirpy septuagenarian who, fair to say, had seen much harder years here on the Island of the Sun.

Cha'llapampa on the Isla del Sol

It was a truly beautiful place, with deep turquoise waters giving way to deeper blues and distant islands which seem from a distance to float on the horizon. Well-cultivated gardens, quinoa fields and flower patches spill out over pretty, domesticated hills and ridges, with mules and goats tethered to tiny cottage fences. We hiked up to the Chincana ruins on the headpoint, wandering among the Incan sites, where it is all supposed to have begun. The modest charms, spectacular though the view, of the ruins compared with those on the Inca trail a week or so earlier couldn't help but raise the question of why the great kings wouldn't have lavished greater resources and attention up here at the site of their origin - and we thought of our guide Ramiro's ruminations that the creation myth was more a political sop to bring the eastern reaches of empire into line than a national history. Nonetheless, standing along the spine of the captivating little island towards sunset, it's not so difficult to see why the Sun God would have come into being here. 

Titicaca from the hilltops of Isla del Sol

A bottle of Bolivia's finest on the beach

Returning to the village, we bought crackers and a bottle of 28 Boliviano (less than 2.60) wine and cheese puffs and drank it on the beach before lying on our backs staring up at a crazy bright starscape while nattering amiable nonsense about the size of the universe, general feasibility of God and literary stylings of Christopher Hitchens. T had the Titicaca speciality of lake trout with mustard and I had the big veggie salad at one of the two tiny family restaurants before we headed to bed to get ready for an early start. The next morning we rose to pouring rain and overcast skies but hit the trail by 9 to hike across the spine of the island to the southernmost settlement of Yumani in time for the 1.30 ferry. The landscapes evoke a south-east European pre-war era, all small-holdings and bushy green-brown scrubbed hills above chilly green-blue seas. We'd past the worst of the rain by 11am but still had the trail almost completely to ourselves. Halfway across, we stopped for an ancient, hardy old man sheltering from the wind and rain by a small wall on the open ridge - there was a 15 Boliviano toll or ticket for the 'Sacred road'. Adding it to our ticket from the ruin complex we'd come from, necessary to access the trail, we reasoned that the community of Challa halfway along the Island had to toll for something; with boats coming into either end of the island and both port villages able to charge an 'entry/exit' fee, they must feel somewhat bypassed by the boomtimes. After a gorgeous 3-4 hour walk we descended into the metropolis of quiet little Yumani, the island's biggest settlement. A small boy of perhaps 7 or 8 stepped out, both authoritatively and uncertainly, to level the village entry charge as we approached. Peering up at us he assumed an expression of gravity beyond his years and a mildly belligerent posture in the middle of the narrow path; all too aware that most of his clientele would merely have to step straight past him, failing to recognise his authority in matters tolling. Were we getting the 1.30 ferry, he inquired? Ok, go, he assented gravely, waving us through and stepping aside.

Back in Copacabana we climbed the hill to the old Incan clock where a girl not much older materialised from nowhere to collect her entry fee to the ancient rocks, inspecting the notes carefully and professionally for fakes. Ah, child labour; for all the mildness of its expression here, truly back in force for the first time since India. The climb, like that on the Island, left us pausing for breath every 5 minutes and wondering why, after all our hiking and the challenges of the trail only a week before, did this crap not get any easier?? But the view rewarded amply, again taking us aback with its accessible prettiness, its gorgeous Mediterranean light and calm waters. We developed a taste for Pacena beer, T ate more trout and we watched sunset from the harbour. We found US sitcom repeats on a cable channel, wandered around the cathedral and people-watched from little coffee-shops where the service required ordering at least half an hour before hunger or thirst descended. And we developed a growing affection for this mysterious, land-locked, wild and be-hatted Andean land.

But now, we realised, we were staring down the barrel of our last month in South America, which provoked an odd combination of mild panic and travel fatigue, particularly as we were now down to the great Salar de Uyuni as the sole 'must-see' left on our list. Deep breaths, all will be well. 

Copacabana harbour at sunset

After 3 meandering days, we checked out of the pleasant little guesthouse it had taken us and the Spanish girl from the bus about 2 hours to find (despite parting ways almost immediately after checking in, we had somewhow all felt obligated to each other after the border crossing tribulations and proceded to tramp about town together dismissing guesthouses that were insifficiently cheap, clean or appropriately spaced for all three of us) and pointed ourselves towards the the big smoke. Our 3 hour bus became a 6 hour bus due to a road strike just beyond the boat crossing at San Pedro de Titicaca (Buses carried across on tiny boats! A pretty wonderful sight I can assure you). This was a common problem, explained an older Englishwoman onboard who had been living in Bolivia for some years: workers with grievances to highlight to the authorities barricaded the road in person, allowing only small vehicles through but no tourist carriers. It was effective, she said, but it did make travel time-consuming. Never the strike-breakers, we settled down to wait on the hillside in the large crowd of held-up tourists, commuters and protesters. Eventually as evening approached, we left the cool, calm shores and slow living of Lake Titicaca behind us, winding through the crammed, precipitous outerburbs of El Alto and on down the valley to La Paz.

Cusco and The Inca Trail

The beautiful courtyard setting, the comfortable beds, and free breakfast where a real effort had been made (guacamole and whole wheat bread as standard, and a reasonable 5 soles to add on eggs/muesli/pancakes etc.). Yes, Ecopackers had done everything right to put us in good spirits as we prepared to hit the Inca Trail - holiday highlight, most expensive item in our tour travel bag, and the thing we were most keen to enjoy as a result. With that kind of expectation, Ecopackers helped put us at ease. It's part of a new breed of hostels which offer a fully integrated experience. In addition to the above, they offer meals during the day, a bar, a tv room with slouchy beanbags and a massive cinematic-TV, plus a back entrance to a tour agency for the sights and onward travel. Hell, they even tag you with a festival style bracelet and put on barbecue nights and football matches to draw you in. Loki, Wild Rover, there are numerous guys getting in on the act, but with a slightly de-emphasised party atmosphere compared to the other two mentioned, we hoped to get all the good stuff AND some sleep at Ecopackers. And we did, so job done.

Cusco´s busy central square

The central square of Cusco is a beautiful affair, with two massive churches: one in fact being a chapel, temple and cathedral joined into one. Arched colonnades flank the cobbled stones at each side of the plaza, sheltering tourist shops and numerous bars, restaurants and night clubs for Cusco's surprisingly raucous nightlife. Like Arequipa before it (and in marked opposition to Copacabana aftwerwards), Cusco's going out scene did seem very integrated with locals and when Mhairi and I ended up in these bars post-trek, we joined Peruvians and a cross-section of travellers knocking back Cusquena beer and pisco sours.


All that was to come later. First we had to do the Inca Trail to earn our rest and relaxation. And before that, culture, dammit. We reasoned we couldn't go on the trail without learning more about the context. So we bracketed the Incan experience to come with two sights - the pre-Columbian museum of art and the colonial awesomeness of the main cathedral. Both were incredible in their own way.

The art museum treats the pottery, jewellery, ceramics and wood-carving of the South American civilisations as art rather than primitive archaeological relics. The mastery of abstract form that some tribes achieved pre-dated European art by centuries. Quotations by the 'primitivists', such as Gauguin and Monet, are woven between the exhibits that can look strikingly sophisticated - clean line and form patterns; representational rather than realistic works and a very high quality of workmanship. A lot of it looked, well, modern. Two-tone vases stressing the perfection of shape in muted black and cream colours was something you'd quite happily put in John Lewis for punters today. The Viru and Mochica sculptures impressed us most. Tubby little figures with expressive faces: some with the long drooping earlobes of higher caste representations. Then there were llama headed vases, and condor headed ones, and pumas - all wrought with an eye for pleasing shape and substance. And then there was the gold - golden necklaces, ear studs, brooch pins. Gold was relatively plentiful to these people, and so its value to represent and reflect the sun was a ceremonial worth, and high craftsmanship in its working valued more aesthetically and culturally than anything else. Intricate small works were mixed alongside carefully moulded golden jugs and cups. It would take the European conquest to convert gold to a commodity and means of exchange, where its scarcity across the Atlantic meant that any block of the metal commanded a high material price. It was then that the cultural element fell away, as the white man demanded more, and the locals had to produce. Altogether, the museum is an incredibly interesting and engaging way to look at highly advanced societies of the period, about whom so much knowledge has been lost. There was also a kick-ass looking restaurant on its ground floor, but Mhairi pointed out that we were on a budget, so I sighed an agreed to pass it by...

Returning to losing knowledge of the native South American peoples, nothing made that so evident as the cathedral in the central square. This mega-structure took around 70 years to complete and it was built by destroying Incan sites, plundering the stone to build the cathedral's massive walls and huge vaulted arches. There is no tenderness in this church, it is all about the demonstration of power. Paintings even depict the trampling of Incan natives by Spanish conquistadors on horseback, a godly light shining on their efforts. We spent some time in awe at the weird mix of insecurity, arrogance and huge endeavour that the cathedral represented, before leaving. We are fortunate indeed that Macchu Picchu was only discovered by Europeans in the 20th Century (locals of course always having known of its existence). Had the Spanish found it while cementing their colonisation of the Altiplano, it would have been turned to rubble.

The Trail

Our team for the Inca Trail

The day came for the Inca Trail to begin. We'd had a briefing the night before, but with the anticipation all I could remember was the pick up time of 5.40. After two 4.30am starts for the geyser fields of the Atacama, 5.40 was child's play. Mhairi and I were alert and ready to go as the minibus pulled up to our hostel and we clambered in to meet our fellow trekkers. Introductions had been done the night before, but were quick. We had a journey of two hours to Ollantaytambo for breakfast and last minute provisions (coca leaves, alpaca socks etc.) followed by another hour and a half to Piscocucho, the start of the trail, which was more than enough time to get acquainted, in between stolen naps at the early start. And I can say quite happily that we were very lucky and that everyone in our group had a great personality: by the time we hit the trailhead we were cracking jokes together and sharing stories. Mhairi and I could feel that we were a little advanced in years compared to the rest of our team. We were the only ones to have breached the 30 mark (whatever that is meant to signify) but in any case, with sparky and mature heads on all members of the group and everyone's general good sense of humour, it didn't matter. It did mean that Mhairi's big reveal of her age later on was indeed a shock, especially to our guide who perhaps unkindly asked her to repeat it as he thought he'd mis-heard. No-one was shocked at how old I said I was. I said I was only thirty by mistake though: that extra year quietly forgotten at the time.

Ramiro: knew his stuff

The 5 hours of Day 1 rolled by, with high spirits and great views. Our guide Ramiro displayed his encyclopaedic knowledge of the trail, pointing out different plants used by the Incas for food, medicine, dyes and so on. As we hit some smaller Incan settlements, he would slowly release information about the customs, society and really, the ingenuity of the people who ruled a massive empire from Quito to Santiago and across the Altilplano for a hundred years. Before you think that's impressive, it's worth noting that there were no horses in South America until Europeans introduced them. The fastest that information could travel was by a man, running. For the 2000 mile stretch of Quito to Cusco, a system of relay runners carried information in a little under three weeks: for the 42km mountainous Inca trail that would take us three days to complete, the runners could manage in three hours. These and other amazing facts Ramiro would calmly relay over our trek, building up to the architectural wonder that is Macchu Picchu.

Cholita with her pack horses

Day 2 arrived and with it some sense of trepidation. We would climb 1200m before lunch. Our biggest ascent in a day had previously been at Torres del Paine up Valle Frances: 700m up to 2100m which can be done without backpacks as it is a 'there and back again' deal. Here we were starting at 3000m where the altitude already presses some weight onto your chest. Most of the group decided to take a porter at this stage if they had not already done so, particularly as we were running a slightly modified trek that would go on past the 4200m mark, drop down 1000m and then climb again to a second pass at 3700m before a descent to our campsite for the night. Over 9hrs of altitude trekking was before us and for whatever reason, Mhairi and I held on to our rucksacks. With 7months of traveling to budget for, 100 soles for a porter to carry our packs seemed profligate, and we had carried our packs through Stok pass in Ladakh, Northern India at 4000m despite really struggling then.

Views early on did not disappoint...

And you know what? We were fine. We've both toughened up and lost over 5kilos since starting our adventures. Our feet are so mean we saw through socks and blisters are a thing of the past. And our time has included some super-high altitude action, hitting 6300m at one point. We've also carried our full packs every 3-5 days at least to take them to the next bus, rail, boat, plane, or rickshaw. So we ascended breathless but in good spirits. One of our group, the youngest and a super-fit eager Californian of 20years, had almost run to the pass to get the glory of being first there. 

Mhairi hugs another man with joy at reaching the pass...

As we breached the top, there was much high-fiving and hugging as we fed off of the American's infectious enthusiasm. We settled in to enjoy the view. It was a long time before the rest joined us though. The Swedish couple with us had really struggled to cope with the altitude. Their slow and blue-lipped ascent was monitored by our guide and two Canadians, one a paramedic and the other an a&e nurse. With a high level of fitness, the Swedes would rally easily on day 3 at more human heights, but for the rest of day 2 it would be a careful pace.

View back from Dead Woman´s Pass at 4200m

Mercifully for all of us, porters were carrying our tents and all the food, and then cooking up huge meals to sustain us for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As we set off in the morning they would start to strike camp. They would easily overtake us mid-morning, often running the downhills, often in flip-flops but always with at least 25kilos on their back. They'd set up a lunch tent for us at midday, and then perform the same overtaking action mid-afternoon to get ahead of us for the evening camp. On day 2 in particular we all badly needed the very late lunch after our slow ascent, but without their help every day the trail would have been much slower and almost impossible without proper training, given all the extra food weight we'd each have had to carry.
By this time, the views were also getting properly epic. All of the mountain ranges we've visited have been unique and the Andes had a special verdant and lustrous hue, with searing white peaks sometimes rising as if from nowhere. The weight of the green is deep and dense against a fast moving sky which sends cloud shadows scudding across mountain slopes. The direct sunlight can wash out the colours, and frequent rain showers greyed the landscape. But at dawn and dusk in particular, the crepuscular light breathed a magic into the landscape: and the Incan ruins, the most modern structures in our view, stood proudly against the gigantic scale of the nature surrounding them.

It was excellent fortune for us that a third Canadian in our group had a passion for photography. His generosity saw all of us improve our shots and get the most out of our cameras, while his off-beat humour kept us entertained. With the difficulties of day 2 behind us, and together at the campsite above the clouds, the group had gelled and even Ramiro was moved to laughter as we talked over dinner.


Day 3 saw us make rolling ascents and descents at a good pace across the more humid side of the mountains, where a more jungle feel to the trail took hold. The scale of Incan ruins increased dramatically, as if sensing the approach to our final destination. The path led us ever onwards - amazing to think that over 90% of the trail we'd walked, with its cut steps, rock tunnel passages, and laid stones was original from the Incans' time. One last heave up the monkey stairs - so named because their steep angle pushes you to climb them on all fours - and we reached the Sun Gate, the breakthrough pass that sits due East of Macchu Picchu and transports the dawn's first early rays down onto the mountain citadel. We took in our own first glimpse of the incredible city: the breath-taking view stayed with us as we descended down the last part of the trail. As we came closer, Macchu Picchu's form and shape grew in complexity - the extent of the walls, the size and number of the farm terraces, the quality of the stone work: it is an amazing feat of engineering set amidst an awesome landscape.

Lords of Macchu Picchu, at the Sun Gate.

A brief photo shoot and some time to drink in the view were all we had on Day 3. We'd pushed the schedule to reach Macchu Picchu early as our tour agency, Inca Reservations, had concerns about the safety of the last campsite after a landslide in 2012 had killed a tourist. So we sped on to Aguas Calientes and spent a slightly odd night in a restaurant where our porters first cooked, then gratefully took their tips: and then the next morning gleefully woke us up at 4am with torches to drag us out of our darkened sleeping bags arranged on the restaurant floor, in order that we make it back to the mountain top for sunrise. After Mhairi had regained her composure - early starts not one of her special skills and men wielding flashlights the wrong way to approach the deficiency - we headed up for the sunrise view.

Dawn breaks on Macchu Picchu ruins

Ramiro went through more and more detail on each aspect of the ruins. A simple rock proved to be a compass. A large rock was actually a scale model of the surrounding mountains. Indeed, the Incas were the kings of rock.... Well before BonJovi (sorry, couldn't resist).Ramiro's exhaustive tour filled our imaginations and we were surprised when he finished and it was only 8am. Mhairi and I took some hours to enjoy the site on our own. We then headed down for some well deserved pizza and beer, before a trip to the eponymous thermal baths of Aguas Calientes, where we bathed carefully in tepid milky water that probably sees too many sweaty trekkers and bathing locals to be called a luxury experience.

Macchu Picchu

Did it deliver? Absolutely. Was it worth it? Yes. Should you go? Yes. Even those that struggled most in our group physically ultimately enjoyed the sense of achievement. And the up-close concentrated experience with Incan history is totally unique. To be so advanced in some ways, and rule the largest pre-industrial empire without horses or any draft animals for ploughing, without inventing writing but having a sophisticated accounting system using knotted and coloured string... It is something that every Western head should be forced to look at when we sit and think we've defined how the world works, and that it is the only way things could work.


Back in Cusco we sprung for dinner and drinks in the city and finally (having been rained off pre-inca trail) we made it to Saqsaywaman. Peeved at the high entry cost, and more so when we realised there was zero information and that you could probably sneak in, the size of the massive stones still reverberated the awe that we'd experienced from the Inca trail and the site gave us our last long look at Cusco from above. We just couldn't get enough of the Incas now, so we packed our bags for Copacabana on Lake Titicaca - gateway to Isla del Sol, the birthplace of the Inca religion.

View of Cusco from Saqsaywaman

The Facts

- You can't do the classic Inca Trail independently. The independent option is the Jungle Trail which takes another route to Aguas Calientes. Cheaper tours this way are offered by Agencies in Cusco too.

- We did the 4 day three night package available through Inca Trail Reservations. They were great: other companies like SAS and Peak are also good.

- We paid 500 USD each. Any less and apparently the porters are getting a poor wage to keep costs down.

- Look through the options when booking. Most companies offer tickets for Waynapicchu at that time. They are virtually impossible to get when at Macchu Picchu, so if you want to climb it, book in advance. What is Waynapicchu? Click here.

- Altitude sickness... Is no joke. On our tour, one person arrived in Cusco with three days to go and couldnt acclimatise in time. She and her partner missed the trek. Another couple made the trek but really suffered on Day 2's climb. Again they'd flown Lima to Cusco with three days to acclimatise. Fitness is not an indicator - in fact, low blood pressure can make a person more prone to dizzyness and headaches. The best option is to bus from Lima to Arequipa and spend some days there first. Arequipa is an awesome city with a lot going on at 2400m. This will prepare you for the climb to 3600 in Cusco. Buses in Peru have improved a lot but in the rainy season there can still be landslides so allow time for delays.

- Tips. Everyone says tipping is not compulsory, but it is overwhelmingly expected. For our trip we had ten porters, including one cook, plus our guide. We tipped 60 soles per porter, the chef got double at 120 and our guide about the same. There was some discussion of more for the guide at 200 soles, but it didnt pan out that way. 1 sol: £0.25: $0.38 Also, you'll be expected to introduce yourself during the trek (and the porters will introduce their selves too) and to say thank you at the end during the ceremony where tips are given. The guide will arrange both of these sessions. Think about what you might say - everyone appreciates a bit of Spanish.

- Other costs: a porter costs around 100 soles per day to carry your rucksack. If you can't decide then try Day 1. If you find it in anyway tough, then bite the bullet and pay for Day 2 which is much longer and harder. Day 3 can be long or short depending on your tour, but the porter rate stays the same. The bus up and down from Macchu Picchu to Aguas Calientes is 9 USD and you can pay in Soles. One trip down will be included for you in the tour, but if you push the pace to have more time at Macchu Picchu then extra trips will be on your own dime. Finally there are ladies selling chocolate, Gatorade, and even beer if you want it. They also sell toilet paper which you will need if you don't bring your own. Aguas Calientes has many ways for you to spend your money of course, mostly on overpriced pizza.

- What To Bring. Porters carry all food and tents. You'll be given a sleeping mat to carry yourself at the start of the trek so leave space. If you carry it outside your rucksack, bring a black binliner to keep it dry. Poles are on offer from all tour companies. They are generally cheaper to hire from the numerous trekking agencies in Cusco rather then when you book. If you don't normally use poles then they are a burden; I took one pole in the end for the steep downhills on day 2. Others swear by two poles all the time. It gets very cold at night at high altitude (especially so in dry season) and no fires are allowed on the trail, so overpack on warm clothes for the evening. There is nowhereto charge camera batteries on the way, so bring a spare. And if you prefer trail mix, nuts and dried fruit etc. then bring that to snack on: the tour will give you ample sweet snacks and you can buy more on the route (chocolate etc.) but the emphasis is on calories only and the variety is limited. The porters can boil water for you if you want it, but on our tour most preferred to use puritabs and drink cold water from streams/taps as it was more refreshing. Other than that, usual sense applies: waterproofs, strong shoes, blister treatments, sun protection et. al. Oh, and unless you're super-energetic and an entire day's hiking doesn't wear you out, then a book is weight you can do without!

Arequipa mini-break

`Lima-Arequipa-Cuzco?.`Swinging our backpacks onto the nearest bench in Tacna bus station just over the Chile-Peru border, we shook our heads no. `Lima-Arequipa-Cuzco?` one hopeful tout after another continued to chorus to the same response as we got our bearings, went to change our pesos for soles and bought water. And we smiled, glancing around the bustling terminal where ragtag bus concessions lined two floors, women in wide brimmed hats sat amidst piles of luggage bundled in sturdy colourful blanets and rugs, and ruddy-faced kids tottered and crawled around in woolen trousers, bellowing at their siblings. Almost two months after leaving India, it felt a little like a homecoming. Except that in Peru, it seemed, bus and taxi agents moved on smilingly after your shake of the head, gesturing to their offices in case you changed your mind. Whereas in India, of course, a sizeable semi-circle of salesmen, touts and curious onlookers forms around you as the various options at your disposal are repeated at regular intervals and everyone stares on in puzzled curiosity to see what inexplicable thing the strange foreigners might do at any moment.

Plaza de Armas, Arequipa

We had intended to visit Arica, the Chilean seaside border town, for a day or two of beach life before entering Peru. But over a greasy spoon breakfast straight off our night bus we looked to the cheap taxi options outside and shrugged at one another. We still had about a week until the Inca Trail begun but, with more altitude acclimatisation to do beforehand (even despite San Pedro`s 2400 metres) we were slightly wary of running into rainy season bus problems on the Peruvian side. So why not?

Beetles. Incongruously everywhere in Arequipa.

4000 Chilean pesos buys you a speedy two hour shared taxi ride over the border, with the driver shepherding you through the formalities, to Tacna, where we could spend a night or two instead. The drive was quick and the scenery continued much as it had in Chile, exposing - as ever - the fiction of border demarcation. In Tacna bus station, considering the 6-7 hours to Arequipa, Perus`s second city, and our quick progress so far, we again looked at each other and shrugged. And so it was that by 4pm, we were pulling into an overcast, late afternoon Arequipa bus station - an unplanned but painless 18 hours, three buses and one cab ride after our departure from the Atacama. Against usual practice (and rusty after the European smoothness of the South) we let a mumsy tout guide us to a reasonably cheap hostel 10 minutes walk from the centre. It really wasn`t that cheap and we could have been much more central. But it was fine for the price and it led us to Mario and the cheery  ragbag Yunta Wasi hostel. Mario and his teenage daughter (delightful to us but switching, as 16 year olds do, to surly and expasparated whenever her father was in the room) were over from Lima to look after the place while his brother was away. A welcoming, absent-minded and eccentric fellow, Mario was given to entertaining monologues and struggled against his better bohemian nature to maintain some kind of handle on his brother`s business while the hostel, somewhat like an orphanage run by a teenage boy, bumbled on around him. He needed a woman here, he sighed in confusion to T one morning; `It`s a lot of work`. Asking where we should put our food supplies as we entered a chaotic kitchen to greet the daughter, an incomprehensible Argentian hippy from El Chalten and a Peruvian motorcyclist, preparing for the nigh`s BBQ, they shrugged cheerfully - anywhere. And there you have it, we thought; Well Toto, I guess we`re not in Chileargentina anymore. 

Streets of Yanahuara, a hilly suburb of the city

Man in a pot. Quite the photo-shoot was had.

We liked Arequipa immediately - and as with any first experience of a new country, it was impossible to tell if that meant we were taking to Peru or developing an affinity with the city itself. Actually it was both and it was only on our return to trek in the nearby Colca Canyon  (I write this back in the White City) that it was clear how much we liked it. Peru´s second city is set beneath the towering El Misti volcano and crammed with convents, churches and old colonial mansions carved from volcanic sillar. It is beautiful without veering anywhere near chocolate box-twee - which Cuzco, for all its gorgeousness, can stuggle with - and has bite without feeling unfriendly or dangerous. It has upmarket sophisticated restaurants housed in old colonial buildings and courtyards, cheap hole-in-the-wall eateries and legions of tiny cave-like bars promising myriad crazy hours lost to Pisco and Arequipeña beer (an offer we were sadly unable to test to its messy conclusion due to a pre-Inca trail detox). It is also a natural gringo-trail stop which rarely feels touristy; always a tough balance to strike. 

The marvellous hats of the Altiplano

`I think there are two kinds of country,`T mused, as we padded the city in the drizzle, adjusting to the cooler climate and the sights and sounds of the Peruvian altiplano,`Those where you go and buy an umbrella from the shop when you need a new one, and those where people approach you on the street selling them at a premium as soon as it start raining.`Paraguas paraguas paraguas,` shouted entrepreneurial old ladies and adolescent boys on the street corners - much as they had in rainy Macleod Ganj five months earlier. The mist enveloped the sturdy low-rise city, obscuring its mountain ranges and whipping puddles around our feet. And as we looked ahead to six weeks in the Andean heartlands, we breathed in a bit deeper and acquired an extra spring in our step even despite the thinning air. However orientalist it sounds, to leave Chile and Argentina - beautiful as they are - for Peru or Bolivia is to feel you are on the cusp of a little more adventure, a little more character and a little more chaos and energy. And however controversial it sounds - and despite the vibrancy of the towns and landscapes we left behind - I think it is also true to say we absorbed more culture in two days of Arequipa than in much of the previous seven weeks. The South simply feels much newer I suppose. Vast wildernesses where semi-nomadic tribes were almost completely wiped out in the colonial encounter; cultures made anew, at least below their northern altiplano expanses where the four countries share much more in common with each other than with their respective capital cities.

But reaching Peru you find a civilisation still comprising some 45% indigenous peoples, while in Bolivia this increases to more than 60%. So while in their Southern neighbours there are still meaningful indigenous roots, despite their decreased visibility and the brutality of periods of internal expansion such as the 19th century Argentine Conquest of the Desert, pre-Columbian history is immediately much more live and present in the northern lands. Languages like Quechua remain widespread and Spanish a learned tongue for many. Peru feels, in fact, rather akin to India for me; a civilisation where conquerers came - with brutality, with plundering, with cultural appropriation - but for all their might were also absorbed into the tapestry. Where destruction and instruction never totally wiped out indigenous lifestyles, even as they claimed lives, but were themselves re-formulated and adapted into new hybrids.

Arequipa cathedral

Peru´s churches, cathedrals and religious art seem to show this vividly, as goldleaf murals depict tropical fruits and birds of paradise in a glorious tangle of colour, form and gesture. The missionary eye on the Amazon basin contributed but the Christian cosmovision also slammed spectacularly into that of the Andean world to fuse together the forms and significance of key shared symbols - from the bird to the cross to the Virgin. There were some attempts to fight this profane semantic intermingling: for example in Potosi, Bolivia the religious art collection of the excellent Casa de Monedo features 18th century paintings where the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are re-imagined as a rather terrifying set of identical Jesus-triplets in a bid to stamp out the Andean symbolism around birds. But as in India, there is a special thrill when you glimpse beautiful churches or Christian artworks, to see the familiar so entirely re-owned. Images and architectures so ingrained in your psyche (and I write as a person as thoroughly secular as it is possible to be) are reabsorbed and digested into forms entirely of their own place and time. Where the Holy Spirit becomes a tropìcal bird and the Virgin is fused forever with the Andean earth godess Pachamama (whose unquenchable thirst was to be assuaged with many a glug of our cerveza or water in the succeeding weeks, spilled on the ground as an offering at the behest of surrounding Peruvias or Bolivians). And where, as in Marcos Zapata`s masterpiece in the eerie space of Cuzco`s cathedral - itself built from plundered stone dragged from the nearby Incan fortress Sacsayhuamán - the Last Supper may well involve roast cuy (guinea pig) and papaya.

Passageways in Santa Catalina convent

So Arequipa amazed us with its embarrasment of cultural riches. Even on our first evening we`d stick our heads around an open church door only to audibly gasp at its dark, stony glamour and haul of gold and silver altarpìeces. The jewel in the city`s crown is undoubtedly the Monastario de Santa Catalina which takes up an intimidating block just north of the Plaza de Armas. A Dominican convent set up in 1579 by a wealthy Spanish widow, Maria de Guzman (its first nun), it has undergone several incarnations and has a rich history, remaining both an active convent and the heart of Arequipa`s UNESCO World Heritage status. A captivating warren of cells, chapels, gallery spaces and communal living areas are linked by shady cobbled streets and beatuiful courtyards. It was, and is, essentially a city within a city and as you walk around you sense the bevy of wealthy young novices (a convent to which only the rich need apply) getting into mischief around every glorious terracotta peach or deep-blue corner. And sacrilege to even cross my bourgeoise mind, I`m sure, but the place is also an Interiors master-class...

I will be moving in shortly

The art museum of the Carmelite Monesterio de Santa Teresa was another highlight - housing just 21 nuns now, as since 1710. We were shown around the galleries open to the public by a charming young guide whose English language services were included in the ticket price for an additional tipping fee (a system commen in the city and which struck us as very sensible and valuable given how easy it is for tourists to be overly tight on these things). The real treasure here, as in the beautiful San Ignacio chapel of the Jesuit Iglesia de la Compañía, is the original painted walls and ceilings. Miraculously spared, if a little worn, by the volcanic eruptions and earthquakes to have wracked the city over the years, the paintings are entirely different to any Christian muralwork I`ve seen before and were quite captivating.

Paintings in the San Ignacio Chapel, Iglesia de la Compañía. No photos allowed, so this is from a postcard.

Santa Teresa convent

Finally, Arequipa is also home, until the museum currently being built in Colca Canyon near her final, brutal resting place of Ampato is complete, to Juanita, the `Ice Princess`. The university-run Museo Santuarios Andinos provides a fantastic half hour video of her discovery plus a student-guided tour around the findings and finally one of the forlorn, huddled little mummies themselves. Juanita, famously and uniquely, is not an actual mummy. The 15th century adolescent girl, believed to have been of noble birth, was found preserved in the ice in the 1990`s in unprecedentedly perfect condition, along with a number of fellow-child sacrifices. The question of Incan human sacrifices is a bit of a sore point, we found later on the Inca Trail, since it was one of the grossly inflated Spanish propaganda points. But as the sensitive and engrossing collection in Arequipa shows, there was nothing particularly bloodthirsty or rash about the practices, as far as these things go. They were the rare, meticulously planned and executed offerings of a sophisticated, hardy and devout people, with the children selected as babies and raised and educated to their envied fate.

One of the aspects which struck me most though - ahead of our journey in their sandaled footsteps a week later - was the sense that, unusually for pre-modern mountain-dwelling peoples, the Incas presumed to ascend to their Gods. That mountains are where the Gods reside, with altitude sickness and the ravages of bitter cold indicating their displeasure at our intrusion, has tended to be the way mountain cultures interpret their cosmology. But this strange Andean civilisation - which, for a mere 100 years expanded far beyond the heartland to rule from Ecuador to central Chile, despite having no horses, no written language and no formal monetary system - climbed thousands of metres into desolate mountainscapes to deliver healthy, noble-born adolescents to their wrathful Gods. Juanita was in her winter preservation period when we visited, so instead we saw, encased in her sub-zero glass tomb, one of her mummified fellow-victims. She looked tiny. And you can`t help but wonder what went through her mind as the intoxicants kicked in and before the blow came.

  *****************

We were an hour out of town, close to 10pm, before we were halted. There had been some sort of landlside on the road which couldn`t be cleared until morning, it transpired. So after an hour`s wait and deliberation and discussion among the various Peruvian paterfamilias on the bus who went down to negotiate with the authorities, we returned to town. Maybe 9am tomorrow, maybe 10.... Returning from Mario`s befuddled orbit the next morning with a British fellow-evacuee, we had checked our bags in before the the rueful lady behind the desk confirmed that actually, no, it still wasn`t clear. Maybe tonight? she suggested with an air of wishful thinking. Ten hot, sun-burned hours later - where it emerged that, yes! There were indeed mountains beyond the city! we successfully boarded our Cuzco bus, bound for the heart of Empire itself.

Arequipa twilight above the walls of Santa Catalina

I remembered our second day, where we`d walked over to the suburb of Yanahuara to check out the views and treat ourselves, after a few days self-catering, to the friendly garden restaurant El Cebillano - reputed to have some of the best ceviche in town. Lunch didn`t disappoint and neither did the views from the plaza at the San Juan Bautista de Yanahuara. I`d wondered at how, in a volcanic city, the incredible buildings stood so firm and the art so unspoiled; the riches so resolutely abundant. But then, looking out over the white city from the hill, I thought that - if I was Pachamama - I`d probably spare Arequipa the worst too.