Inca Trials...

INCA TRIALS...

Oh how original, I changed the word trail for trial, how utterly witty and incisive of me. The phrase has of course been used many times before in the context of the purported difficulty of hiking the famous Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, arguably the most visited and hence overrun tourist site in all of South America. I however am utilizing this crafty little pun with respect to the incredible amount of difficulties and frustrations I seemingly always endure when dealing with the cheapest and nastiest tourist operators possible. I never learn.

Me at Machu Picchu doing an "Ogston".

After weeks of staying relatively put in my incompetent attempt to learn Spanish, I was very keen to hit the proverbial road again, or trail in this case. Fortunately for myself, I had shown a rare glimpse of forethought and planning by having booked my place over a month before commencing. I say fortunately because despite there being vacancies for some 500 people per day to start the "official" trail (there are many other alternative trails available that all lead to Macchu Pichu), within days of reserving my place, the months of April through to the end of July were totally booked out. In addition to the hordes who ascend upon the ruins by train every day, that's a lot of people milling about the place.

Machu Picchu in all its glory on a spectacular day before its daily inundation of tourists.

Anyway clearly the experience is a popular one and I was excited at the prospect particularly because a friend of mine had raved about how great the whole experience was with the company she recommended me. The fact that it was also the cheapest didn't ring any alarm bells, nor the fact that it was run out the back of a pokey trinket store which also quadrupled as a money exchange, a book store and a clothes outlet. Furthermore my friend was Brazillian...

In any case, I made my reservation without reservation and promptly headed down to the Plaza de Armas on the designated day of departure to await my bus scheduled for a 6:00am departure. Despite being assured several times over the next four hours that the bus was arriving "muy pronto" by Walter of the aforementioned company, I was eventually put in the clearly negligent care of one Edgar, a manic taxi driver who was charged with the responsibility of getting me to Ollantaytambo, the departure point for the Inca Trail, in double quick time. This he promptly did at speeds of over 140km/hr, speeds I rarely like to travel when in a well maintained, reliable vehicle on a straight concrete highway let alone in a beat-up, rusted out bomb along roads precariously hugging jagged mountain sides. Credit to him however, he didn't send us plummeting to an incendiary death at any point during the hell and hair raising journey AND he got me there on time.

Some of the scenery enjoyed from a speeding taxi...

Once I was able to prise my fingers open from their death grip of the dashboard, I met my guide Maria Sol and before exchanging even a few basic pleasantries, she requested that I produce my unfortunately absent passport. I was quickly made aware that having this document on one's self is more important for completing the trail than say bringing shoes or water, a fact that was unfortunately overlooked by my agency when quizzed by yours truly w.r.t. essential items. Fortunately I had a copy in my posession which Maria just needed to confirm was sufficient via a phone call. All seemed according to plan, I heard lots of "si, claro, no problemas", and when she hung up she said all was fine and I was ready to go. So long as I paid US$175 of course.

Some typically impressive scenery from the trek.

Seems that Maria Sol's company had not received a dime from the little agency I had booked through but had neglected to inform anyone of such an oversight until my arrival in Ollantaytambo despite some four weeks since issuing my ticket. Maria Sol claimed it was an easy solution of me simply paying again but I was clearly not in posession of a) another lazy $175 nor more importantly b) a desire to hand it over even if I did. Although surprised by my disinclination at such a "comprimise", she did agree to search for an alternate resolution.

More impressive scenery. Clearly I am not referring to myself.

Unfortunately our discussion with tourist police was somewhat brief when I realised that my receipt was in the same place as my passport (i.e. not in Ollantaytambo) and for the life of me I couldn't remember the name of the agency apart from the fact that it included the word “Inca” which, as you can imagine when trying to isolate a tourist operator in Cusco is like refining a search for a website by remembering it finishes with a .com.

My other problem was that if I failed to commence the tour that day, which was looking increasingly unlikely, I would not be able to start again until sometime in late July. As a result I was left with no option but to return all the way to Cusco, a journey which when taken by buses not driven by Edgar, is decidedly longer, 2 and 1/2 hours in fact compared to Edgar's 45 minutes on the same road.

The beautiful craggy green mountains so associated with the trail.

With receipt in hand I made my way to Maria Sol's company in Cusco that afternoon and somehow everything seemed to be resolved soon after my arrival. Turns out they had been speaking to the wrong agency altogether and had simply failed to ask the right one for the money. This they said they would do promptly and in the meantime I was able to return to commence the trail that afternoon. They were of course very sorry and extended the gracious offer of allowing me to pay for another taxi back to Ollaytaytambo.

The starting point of the trail, somewhere I wasn't expecting to see beyond following my first day dramas.

As you might suspect it was getting rather late in the day by the time I arrived back to the starting point. Actually the day was pretty much over so far as sunlight was concerned, I didn't even start until 5:30pm but thankfully the first day is only some 11km long. The magnificent vistas normally enjoyed during this section were limited however to the tiny patch of blue light provided by my headlamp, sufficient only to place my next step and prevent me falling off the side of the mountain.

Machu Picchu aren't the only ruins seen during the trek, they're actually quite frequent along the trail.

Things at least started to look up when I finally met up with the rest of the group at our first campsite. Not only was I the solitary Australian but also the only non-Argentine and the only person in possession of a Y-chromosome. Awesome. Several advantages of hiking with 9 other Argentinian women became immediately apparent, firstly and most importantly, there is much more food available. They also tend to think Australian men are far more interesting than they really are and generally improve the view, which is quite a feat considering the surroundings. Another advantage of being the only male is that you get a tent to yourself, but I can assure you it didn't stay that way for long...

Mountains...

I'd like to leave it at that and have you assume that I am inferring that I seduced one of the Argies but apart from clearly being a preposterous notion in my case, the reality is a much more unpleasant one in that one of the porters, obviously averse to personal hygiene, took it upon himself to make use of the extra space. Not only did he stink terribly, but he also knocked over his water bottle in the tent soaking my sleeping bag AND he woke me up an hour early (at 4:00am) in the freezing mornings, nearly knocking the tent over when departing to start breakfast.

Another incident of my lack of sophisticated charm (if one is neccessary)occurred when during a typical breather waiting for one of the girls labouring up the hill I light-heartedly shared my observation that cardio was evidently not one of her strongest traits. She then politely informed me that she suffered acute Asthma. Oops. Thankfully the girl Jo turned out to be much more gracious than myself...

Fortunately for me, the women were all lovely and two in particular, the delightful Jo and Sol, showed more patience than was necessary and I was lucky enough to enjoy their company in particular for the entire duration of the trip during which time they summarily and regularly destroyed my attempts at Spanish. Even phrases and words I had learned in my classes and textbooks were deemed stupid and incorrect leaving me utterly bewildered most of the time. Immersion however does wonders for your spanish (the girls might disagree in my case) for following the trek I could sucessfully describe the intricacies of AFL in spanish, a feat which I never tire of performing for anyone interested enough to listen. And those who are not, which is the majority...

My two favourite Argentinians; the beautiful, graceful, witty and intelligent Maria-Josephine Dominguez and Soledad Merkau,who due to the fact I was staying with them in Argentina at the time of writing demanded I give favourable descriptions.

Anyway, a little about the trek itself. In a word, beautiful. The whole time you enjoy spectacular panoramic vistas of snow-capped peaks perched upon the craggy green slopes so synonymous with the trail and we were particularly blessed by perfect weather. Every day leading up to the trek, it was absolutely pouring in Cusco and surrounding areas but we didn't endure a single drop of rain, and barely a cloud was seen for the four days. I personally didn't think that it was all that demanding physically but our slow pace and having spent a month living at some 3300m prior certainly aided me compared to many trekkers. That and my superb physical conditioning and natural athletic ability of course.

The impressive scenery surrounding MP soon after sunrise (above) and yo con mi amigos otra vez (abajo).

The main event and star of the show is of course Machu Picchu itself. One of the main advantages of doing the trek is that it allows an early arrival to MP at sunrise on the fourth day ensuring you beat the hordes of lazybone train tourists who swarm the place daily come about 10:00am. The ruins are of course impressive and extensive but it is the the incredible surroundings and location of the place that make it such an unforgettable sight, particuarly when relatively free of tourists and on a perfect day as we were fortunate enough to enjoy.

The tour of the ruins proved a little difficult. I could (and can incidentally) barely hold a decent conversation about the weather in spanish let alone a understand a detailed description of Incan history and architecture.

Typically Peruvian. Huayna Picchu taken from the main courtyard of MP complete with llamas.

It's possible to climb the neigbouring mountain Huayna Picchu (the nose of a giant incan face in the eyes of the overly imaginative Peruvians) for a special view overlooking MP and the surrounding valleys. Great views, a great workout and I was fortunate to be stuck on the way down the single file path behind a riotous and sharp-witted American chap, who never tired in his selfless quest to provide mirth to every hiker who was fortunate to cross his path. Most would eventually tire of telling the same joke (he informed breathless hikers within vicinity of the top that it was “only one more mile” to go, hilarious AND original) but considering the pleasure that he no doubt assumed this brought everyone he forged on gallantly. I of course was fortunate to witness all 14 occasions.

The impressive view over MP from the peak of Huayna Picchu. Supposedly the ruins are built in the shape of a condor, a crocodile, a jaguar and any other South American animal you care to think of.

Despite the fair weather, beautiful scenery and fine company, my dramas were not limited to my first day fiasco. For instance the night before heading up to Machu Pichu we had been required to stay in the town of Aqua Callientes (Hot Waters) due to the lack of available campsites. This was to be an extra cost despite our tour clearly including the third night's accommodation. Particularly in light of paying some $40 extra already for other party's faults, I was fairly insistent on my right to a "free" bed for the evening. Maria Sol eventually relented and offered me a few square feet of concrete floor space in the storage area which would be available once the occupying stove was removed after dinner. The fact that it was outside, on the roof seemed an inconsequential detail to her and I was tempted to freeze to death just for the story. I insisted once again however and a real bed within a real room complete with a roof and walls was eventually provided.

Me and my girls. 8 of them at least. The big incan dude can be seen beyond, complete with chin, lips and nose (Huayna Picchu).

Worse was to come the next day when I was casually informed by Maria Sol that I no longer had a train ticket back to Cusco, despite it very much being an included cost within the tour. By the way, I’m not talking about a QR citytrain $2.40 zone 2 fare, it is more around the ridiculously expensive US$55 mark one-way to Cusco (the train is, unfortunately for Peru, owned by the crafty Chileans who not surprisingly make an absolute killing on the venture). Of course I was pretty annoyed about the whole situation but my anger was nothing compared to the fury unleashed by the Argentines upon their discovery that the company had also forgotten to book all of their tickets for any of the trains which were booked out for the entire day.

Truly a sight to behold (hell hath no fury etc); cocked hips, pointing fingers, and glares that wounded several people in the vicinity. I have to say spanish really is a most beautiful language when spoken at such speeds as to convey pure rage. The tactic was obviously a successful one however as they somehow managed to get on the train leaving my state of awe and wonder (and amusement) to dissolve into a frustrated reality that I was alone without my translators and in need of paying for a ticket that was supposedly not available...

Sol and Jo in particular put on quite a show at the train station. I could listen to angry spanish all day.

Now it is hard enough to remain calm and coherent, and express ones feelings of immense dissatisfaction in english when in the state that I found myself in, so you can imagine what a trainwreck results in spanish. Basically feels like you have slid back several thousand years on the evolutionary scale and are limited to communicating with basic grunts and chest thumping. In reflection, my only half decipherable attempts at communication amounted to little more than "Me angry. No, me VERY angry. And you stupid. You VERY stupid." I believe I may also have banged my stick several times forcefully on the ground for extra emphasis. (Amazingly, although never having had any lessons, in my frustration I also found myself speaking fluent French...).

From the top of Huayna Picchu.

I have found many times when dealing with tour operators particularly in these countries, it's very much a game of chicken, they probe and test you out hoping that you just give up in exasperation and pay the extra cash, accept the poor service, or neglect the omitted promise etc, anything to make an extra buck. For example, I was at first required to pay the full $55, then following my steadfast refusal (indicated by aggressively thumping the ground with my stick), miraculously I needed only 50 soles, or around $20. After another display of percussive rage, the price was then reduced to 10 soles which I accepted against my principles due to the fact several hours had passed already and train after train were blowing their whistles and heading off. Being that Aqua Callientes has very few redeeming features other than a proximity to MP, I was none to happy with prospect of spending another whole day there at my own expense and the facing the likely probability of having to pay the full amount for the train in the absence of Maria Sol.

The long and winding road that leads to MP's door. An easy way up for your average tourist via bus or a sweaty slog up for your budget travellers such as moi.

The last train for the day was actually blowing its whistle to depart when Maria Sol, within seconds of meeting a pulpy death via repeated clubbing with my stick, suddenly sprung into action and within about 15 seconds I was boarding the already moving train. It may have been that she saw the genuine homicidal rage in my eyes that transcends languages, I'm not sure, but Peruvian railworkers can exceptionally efficient when they want to be.

But aside from these little slip-ups which I'm sure everyone on the trail experiences, it was altogether a great trek and if I could remember the name of the company, I couldn't recommend them highly enough. If you ever go to Cusco just look for a company with the word "Inca" somewhere in the name. You'll have no problems finding it.

Til next time...

Doin' it for the kids...

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Doin it for the kids…

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The after-school program in the tiny village of Cai Cay, about an hour outside of Cusco.

After about three weeks of bastardizing the Spanish language by hanging about in Cusco I decided to head for the voluntary work project (for the comparatively bargain price of US$15 per day – yes you actually have to pay to volunteer in most circumstances…) in the tiny pueblo of Cai Cay, about an hour outside Cusco on the advice of some Belgian friends who were working there also. I’d like to think my reasons for heading there were along the lines of a genuine desire to make an impact on the lives of the children attending the project in question but in all honesty it was more just a lack of something to do, a chance to practise my Spanish (or so I thought) and the fact it provided alternative accommodation in light of Jodie’s return and hence my prompt eviction. I guess I wanted also to actually see if I had a paternal side, or at least a penchant for education and role-modelling for young people. At the risk of ruining the suspense of this entry, I can tell you now. I don’t.

Emilie, in the orange, at work with the kids. The girls were much better at than I was...

Well, I can’t say that for absolute certain because despite the purpose of work being to provide an after-school program for the entire village, there were hardly extensive opportunities for deaf mutes, which for all intents and purposes, I was, to test out their softer sides. The main responsibility of the volunteers (which during my time were two Dutch guys and two Belgians, from the bloody Dutch speaking part, so essentially all bloody dutch…) were to run various educational classes and activities every day after school for all ages ranging from as young as 3 years to the oldest of around 16. These ranged from english classes to sex-ed, to standing around watching the kids paint rocks (my specialty) or colour in pictures (I can't remember how many times I said "Ah, muy bien, me gusta!!").

The other "project", completing another wing for the school to house future volunteers.

Fortunately for me considering my aforesaid effectiveness in communication, or distinct lack thereof, there was also another task requiring only a small amount of elbow grease and no Spanish whatsoever. Even more fortunately, this task consisting of carting clay bricks over a ridiculously impractical distance of some 300m, which was impossible after rain (which occurred most nights) and had largely been completed by luckless Simon who had been at the project some two weeks already.

Even when I was there, it appears that Simon still did most of the work. My encouragement and moral support should not be underestimated however.

So what does one do when unable to shift bricks and has only two hours in the late afternoon which could even remotely be called work? Well, pretty much bugger all and therein you have a succinct synopsis of my time in Cai Cay. Yep, pretty much we had all day to ourselves up until 3:00pm every day to whatever we wanted, which, considering the town consisted of 1 semi-paved street still in construction, didn’t amount to too much at all. The fact that we had over 70 kids turning up from such a small village paid testament to the fact that even the populace had come to the conclusion that there was nothing better to do in this village with little to no communication with the outside world.

The main drag of Cai Cay. There was one other mud street but it was more a garden path than a trafficable highway.

With not even the baby-making pastime available to us, we basically passed the long hours either playing guitar in my case (thank god for the guitar…), discussing the internal family politics and drama of the director which put Dynasty to considerable shame, or hanging around waiting for the always late meals which in nearly every case proved hardly worth waiting for. The exception being for those among us who enjoyed a watery broth before every meal or plain syrup for desert….mmmm. Syrup.

Good times...An attempt to pass some of the overlong periods of boredom. Note the incredible lack of interest shown by everybody in my musical endeavours. Dina (far left) at least tried to humour me and requested Hotel California some 57 times. On Wednesday alone...

Before I set everyone, (which at this late stage of my blog updates, basically refers solely to my parents) to sleep with this seemingly non-eventful entry, I will say that Cai Cay was a beautiful place. What it lacked in traffic lights, telephones and contraceptives, it more than made up for with its spectacular surroundings, incredibly friendly inhabitants and particularly impressive Catholic church which indicated, depending on your point of view, that they either had their priorities spot on or completely whacked. Being that the village was situated in the Sacred Valley of the Inca, the same geographical feature containing Cusco and nearly all significant Incan sites, it was surrounded by beautiful peaks, raging rivers and very few indicators of western civilization making it perfect for long walks in the countryside, often needed in times of immense frustration.

There was some beautiful scenery around the village through which one could wander and get horrifically sunburnt.

Cai Cay was indeed an immensely frustrating experience on the whole for me. Apart from the fact we were essentially doing nothing for much of the time, frustrating in itself, I had little idea of how bad I would be with trying to cope not speaking my “Aussie” English for even 5 days consecutively. The Dutchies could obviously speak fluent English as well but it was exceptionally annoying feeling when surrounded by other languages I didn’t understand in the majority and I felt like a retarded three-year-old most of the time particularly when doing the classes.

Scenery continued.

Furthermore, my interaction with the kids, especially the very young ones, was doing nothing for my Spanish as even when I was saying the right thing I’d be hard-pressed for more than inquisitive stares as a response which in turn led me to doubt what I had just said and basically led to me being more confused than when I started. My yeti-like appearance may have had something to do with their often paralyzed reactions but I can only imagine what they must have thought when I first arrived and had to give a speech to introduce myself. Quite the rambling monologue to a tough crowd, in a 1 minute speech I somehow managed to traverse such disparate topics as Kilimanjaro, the Beatles, kangaroos and AFL, basically anything I could relay a skerrick of information about in Spanish. At least I think that's what I was talking about, no-one really knows. No doubt it came across as the incoherent ranting of a jibbering madman.

An afternoon spent drawing the scenery of Cai Cay and further practise for me to say "Ah, muy bien, me gusta".

I was once at least able to teach them how to play touch football (i.e. touch rugby) totally in spanish of which I was quite proud although they never did fully grasp the concept of passing the ball backwards nor of stopping when they tagged. Needless to say they were quite pleased when I let them continue they game of normal football (i.e. soccer).

Fun little game of twister. I include this picture primarily to show that I did occasionally take off my beanie.

Other instances of frustration were entirely more self induced. As mentioned in my previous entry and which is painfully clear to those who know me well, I have an in-built lack of charm, faux paus being my specialty, but I can’t escape my genetics. Story goes my dad actually proposed while covered in oil under the hood of his monaro and suggested the marriage because he didn’t really have much to do in the month of December. With heritage like that its understandable that I make such mistakes as inadvertently suggesting (jokingly of course) that girls wouldn’t want to/couldn't climb one of the surrounding peaks overlooking Cai Cay. Ordinarily not a problem but sarcasm supposedly doesn’t always transcend language barriers nor goes down well with a girl I suspect to be Germaine Greer’s lovechild.

An artist's reproduction of cave drawings found near the Jackson ancestral homeland of Mt. Whitestone near Gatton, Queensland, giving evidence that the (in)famous Jackson charm dates back tens of years.

Furthermore, my prickly relationship with the Belgians (entirely one-way, mind you, I love these girls, both great fun, they just happen to despise me) was subjected to further tension on my birthday, which happened to fall on one of these non-eventful days in Cai Cay, when I was extremely blessed by the generous efforts of Dina, the most lovely wife of the director (most lovely as in very lovely, Ernesto has only one wife…I think), who made a special trip all the way from Cusco with a beautiful cake just for me. Now having been gone for some 7 months, I could have explained my slightly depressed mood in any number of ways in English, i.e. I was a little more homesick than usual, I wanted to speak to family, catch up with mates etc. but I made a poor choice in Spanish, I believe I said I was bored. And with that, the mood of my party of well-wishers deflated like a pricked balloon and my fate as an object of contempt and scorn in the eyes of my Belgian co-inhabitants was sealed.

A Peruvian tradition on one's birthday is to dunk the celebrant's face in the cake. You better hope that you sucessfully blow out ALL the candles.

I'd like to hope that I'm slightly over-dramatising the whole situation but the point is, its hard learning a new language, particularly your first other than your native tongue at the age of 24 as I recently became. I didn't realise how difficult it can be when you just can't get your point across or express yourself as you would like, or when people don't get your jokes although many would suggest I should be entirely used to that. But for example, one of the girls spilt her drink all over the table one day and Dani, a Dutchie, was trying to block the path of the liquid with his hands, much like his famous imaginary countryman who prevented the flood by blocking the dykes with his fingers. When I observantly pointed this out by commenting "Wow, you're like the little Dutch boy", the irony being of course that Dani is in fact a little Dutch boy, hence the mildly amusing aspect (for me at least), nobody laughed nor had any clue what I was talking about. And they were from Holland!! (Ishint dat vierd!) Frustrating...

Ernesto, the director, and his wife Dinah, who in particular was very kind to me during my entire stay in Cusco. She is very much a mother figure to many from my school and a wonderful woman.

Suffice to say, I was glad for the weekend breaks where I would catch up with my all English-speaking friends, particularly Devin who took the bulk of my whinging for which I thank her now, and enjoy sumptuous, soupless meals with actual fruit included in the syrup. But still, before I give the impression that the whole experience was a write-off, I have to say, Cai Cay was fun for a whole number of reasons.

The team, from left, Veerle, Emilie, moi, Dani, Simon, Ernesto and somehow the evil wench who was our cook snuck into the photo as well. I can't even remember her name but she got sacked the week after I left...

Apart from the great company of the Simon, Dani, Veerle and Emilie, the kids were great. They were always laughing and despite my inability to communicate to any great depth with them, they did seem to tolerate my presence due to my supposed resemblance to a jungle gym and purported usefulness as a provider of gyroscopic force (a.k.a. helicopter rides...). The fact that Cai Cay was so small and that every kid in the village turned up to our program meant that you basically attained rock star status and could hardly walk 5m without giving your best pied piper impersonation.

Action shot...

They loved bashing my guitar whilst I made the chords with my left hand (I think "happy birthday" was about our only common musical ground, they didn't even know Enrique, the hero himself!!), they were fascinated with stroking the hairs on my legs (sounds dodgy I know) and they sure loved a big all-in tickling session (sounds worse...). And despite my real lack of impact, it was nice to know that for a short time at least I was aiding the genuinely important work of Ernesto and Dina which I think is having a real effect on those kids. As our T-shirt says, "Cai Cay es la Putre Madre", or in english, Cai Cay is the mother whore. Loses a bit in translation methinks but I have been assured that it is a good thing.

Simon (above) and Dani keeping the kids utterly amused with bits of furry wire. As I said, they were much better at it than me.

As for my legacy, when looking back on my highly non-eventful time in Cai Cay, I'd like to think that one day in the future when the kids of the village are discussing economic or health policies at the highest level of government, playing soccer in the world cup or just spinning the next generation of kids helicopter style, they'll think back to their formative days in the after-school program and say "Remember that long-haired tit who stood around looking lost whilst we painted rocks?" and in the highly unlikely event that one of them says "yes", I hope they'll reflect with a touch of longing "Man, that guy couldn't speak spanish for shit..."

Simon and I with Ernesto on our last day. I think my impact was such that my name was added to the farewell posters often as a squished afterthought...

Who could want for more?

Til next time from the famous Inca Trail.