Machu Picchu - Another Lesson in Demand and Supply - 20 Apr 2003
In search of Paddington
Sleepless in Sicuani
Inca road
Pricey Peru
The "cheaper" way to do Machu Picchu
A new day and a new country - Peru. Unfortunately for me my cold, although abating, had manifested a huge cold sore that had taken residence over the entire area between my upper lip and the bottom of my nose. This in itself may just seem like an ugly pain in the lip. But this is the land of coca and they are vainly trying to control the production, use and transport of coca paste and cocaine. I had visions of being intimately searched at the border, when the guards convinced themselves that I was a cocaine sniffing gringo.
Nothing of the sort, the border was relaxed and sociable. Why do I worry?
Just a bit of a tiresome long conversation with a border guard held us up. He claimed to have been a member of the motorcycle escort group in La Paz riding Harleys. Not sure how he ended up lifting the barrier at the border, then. We didnít ask.This is the land of the tricycle. Mopeds converted into little mini-vans and push bikes designed like a back to front rickshaw went back and forth into the border town on the Peruvian side.
We made it to Sicuani and booked in at a clean and basic place next to the bus station. This had the advantage that there was no danger of sleeping in, in the morning and the disadvantage that there were bus announcements over the Tannoy all night. It was a fully functioning town that was happily surviving without the intrusion of tourism.
Tea was a simple affair with something unrecognizable for pudding. It was red, warm, like thin unsweetened jam. It was not unpleasant, but we were at a loss to decide what it was. Our best guess was sorrel flavour. Hmm, still not sure myself. Life would be rather dull if you knew what you were eating all the time, I suppose. We were not ill, so it wasnít all bad.
Not ill, but then again, we got no sleep either. When checking into a hotel by a train or bus station always get a room facing away from it. Mustnít really grumble at 10 Soles for the two of us (2 quid). Parking in Sicuani is worth a mention. This hotel clearly was not catering for motoring clients and when asked where I could park they recommended the fire station. Now, weíve eaten in Fire stations in Chile and parked in them in Peru. What next?
On the way to Cusco there were a few sights to see. Inca of course! Up a very muddy track, as we slithered up the slope the site attendants looked rather shell shocked that anyone would arrive so early. But brightened up a little when we donated them a carton of wine that had begun leaking in the rucksack. They were sort of guarding the remains of a temple, the base of which was some amazing stonework in a cyclopean kind of a way. It had supposedly had once had the largest roof in the Inca Empire, now sadly only one full height section was left standing. But it still gave a good feel for its grandeur. The style of the columns and wall combination looked somewhat like Karnak to me. I guess its all part of the evidence that the Egyptians got over here. Next was an imposing Inca gate way which looked so huge it could have been a dam, reaching as it did from side to side of a valley. Funny I should say that but when Pat climbed to the top (because he could) he found that it had doubled as an aqueduct. It looked pristine and impressive with stunning views of a verdant valley between the sides of the portal.
As we approached Cuzco, the signs of commercialization and tourist came thick and fast. Cuy al horno a-go-go (roasted guinea pig to you). We had heard that Cuzco was meant to be some kind of feast of wonderful architecture. I couldnít see it myself, the approach in was dreadful, the worst of concrete construction, that I donít think had ever dirtied an architects drawing board.
Peru like Bolivia clearly has a shortage of sign writers so it is left to intuition to try and find a particular road. In the end we just went for the first Hotel that looked accessible for Bertha. Pat came out made up with a bargain of a hotel that was the lap of luxury for a reasonable number of Sols (40 reduced to 30!). It was gorgeous, tasteful, clean towels and everything, even breakfast. We took fantastic hot showers and spread all our stuff out. Too gorgeous. Had they meant 30 sols each?
Pat checked. No they had meant 30 Yankee dollars for the room! Ouch! Thatís the dayís budget gone! Ok, Ok. But Iíd only paid 10 soles the day before and thought that the 3 fold increase in price might have accounted for the fantastic improvement in quality. We were certainly in tourist-ville when all the prices are in dollars. To be honest this kind of thing annoys me, the country has its own perfectly good and pretty stable currency, it is a shame it looks to the dollar. It may have something to do with a set of ruins on a nearby hill from hereÖ..called Michy Pichy or something. We were going to try and squeeze in a trip up to Machu Picchu on our way to Lima. When I had asked for clarification on the price, I had obviously looked as distraught as I felt and when we left to go out in the evening, the desk clerk tugged my sleeve and took me to one side to explain that theyíd do the room for 20 dollars. How nice is that?
In fairness when we hit the central square it became clear where Cuzco architectural reputation came from. It was a mixture of tasteful, balustraded colonial architecture often utilizing Inca foundations. From a biker pub overlooking the square we got the most wonderful views of the plaza. Jeff the manager, was of course a biker himself, and the walls of the bar were bedecked with bike travel photos. He was obviously a man who shared our affection for old bikes, from the era of metal rather than plastic, simple rather than complex, when it was OK to be able to see the workings of a bike and it was not felt necessary to cover them in tacky bits of plastic. We chatted of course for hours like bike people do!
Sadly, as I looked around the bar and outside, I could have been in Krakow or Verona. This did not feel like Peru, the place was full of gringos and the level tourism meant that the locals either saw the tourist as either someone to rip off, our at best someone to avoid.
Someone had said to us in Bolivia, to enjoy while you can, because in a few years it will be another Peru. I now know what he means!
Stop Press:
The other Bolton scarf Found in Cross Keys bar Cuzco... Stop
Thank you Fi!
Obligatory photo shoot... Stop
Other punters somewhat confused...
The "cheaper" way to do Machu Picchu
We had already decided that the Inca trail was beyond our budget (200 US each), and would also take too long. That was the excuse I was sticking to with Hippy ñ nothing to being too unfit, too lazy, badly equipped or any other truism. Looking into day trips to the ruins wasnít looking much cheaper. We returned to the hotel, fed up and disillusioned. It was another, ìyou are in Vic Falls now brotherî
But the Hotelier was our saviour, he told us about an alternative route to the ruins, by the local train rather than the tourist one (unfortunately there is no road), it meant a bit of bussing but it would save us nearly 100 dollars. Same guy who also had dropped the room rate to 20 dollars realizing we had genuinely thought he meant sols. He was a nice guy. I was not only pleased that the trip was cheaper but it also meant that we got there the night before and could get to the ruins themselves before the hordes arrived on the tourist trains. I realize that I am a tourist but selfishly I rather resent other tourists who arrive at places where Iím visiting.
That day in town was Palm Sunday and there were wandering bands of local churchophiles clutching woven palm leaves and processing from one church to the next to pay their respects. By chance we stumbled into the front of the procession complete with a live facsimile of Jesus, and a donkey. Indigenous Indians having the genes they do are incapable of convincing beard growth, so this chap had one stuck on and some rather overdone theatrical makeup to make him presumably look less brown. Sad really, that he felt it necessary to alter his skin colour when the Middle Easterners are hardly pale. Thatís colonialist religion for you!
We headed off for Agua Calientes, the base of Machu Picchu, early in order to guarantee tickets at Ollyantomba where the local train left from. This was definitely a bonus. We liked this unknown little town, it has its own huge set of Inca ruins, but more impressive was the entire Inca built streets which were still in use by the locals. Row after cobbled row of basic housing, behind perfectly built stone doorways and Inca walls. We discovered all of this as the twilight came, we had timed it too late for photos, but it was awe inspiring in its simplicity. More amazing when you think that these streets have survived a number of earthquakes ñ cannot say as much for the modern efforts. We left on the train wishing we could stay the night and enjoy the tranquil nature of this little known town. Although tourist buses arrive and shed their loads into the ruins very few tourists ventured into the rest of the town. Luckily for us and a loss for them. Shame! This meant that there was none of the Vic Falls mentality in the shops or caffs. I was back in Peru, rather than gringoville.
The rain had set in up the time we reached Aguas Calientes at half ten. But this did not deter the hawkers awaiting the train for punters for their hostels. For once this was a god send and we got a room overlooking the railway line. It was not quite crossing cottage, but it was a bed for the night. And it was surprisingly cheap considering the pull of Machu Picchu.
Things were not quite as we had thought. There was no cheap train back to Ollantaytambo, well there was at 6am, which meant if we wanted to visit the ruins weíd need a two night stay, which we could not fit in. So the 12 dollar train fare each had just tripled in a minute to 35 each. The manager of the hotel, clearly, had seen the look on our faces before and told us that the information desk in Cuzco deliberately misinforms to get people on the cheap train and then force them to return on the expensive ones. I know the webmaster likes to rail us over our stingy comments but the point here is that the rail company is owned by an American concern and the rates are outrageous compared to Peruvian local railways by a factor of about 20. We are all in favour of paying over the odds, up to a point, when it will benefit the locals butÖ My heart bleeds for Mr ìFly me to Cuba for a holiday from my holidayî ñ itís supply and demand dear boy [webmaster]
There was a nasty feeling that we now in Vic Falls 2. It was clear from the manner of the manager that she was as fed up as we were with tourists being deliberately deceived. Now we were trapped in Aguas Calients with no alternatives.
5.30 alarm
5.45 get up
Pat off to station to buy tickets for the afternoon train
6.10 Pat return with no tickets but a reservation and more importantly 2 mugs of tea.
I knew there was a reason I married this man.
6.30 start the walk up to MP past the tour buses waiting to ferry oodles of grockles up to the lost city.
The walk up the hill was slow, in my usual style, (note, Hippy is writing this bit not me. I of course was sprinting up and down the path.) and a couple of more youthful tourists strolled effortlessly past as I sat regaining my breath. But the route was not nearly as busy as we had thought; clearly the vast majority take the easy option. The early morning mist filled the valley and as we rose the peaks on the other side could be glimpsed momentarily as the mist eased and then the curtain of fog would close again and the mountain would disappear.
It gave the feel of something very mysterious and it added to the sensation that we were entering a hidden world.
Nearly the summit we met a grockle who had passed us earlier, on his way back down to meet his mates for breakfast. Did we feel unfit or what? What.
From the footpath we indeed emerged into a different world, as the tour buses landed and open their doors and the hoards oozed out on route to the entered. These contrasted with the people who had clearly just completed the Inca Trail, tired and dishevelled just devouring sausage sarnies.
Well we are here now and entering the site we saw very little as the mist still enveloped the valley. The mist would tease and tempt by thinning momentarily to reveal a little snippet of its hidden treasure. I did think that if this did not clear it, could one of the biggest disappointments of the trip. We went for a little diversion to the Inca drawbridge round the corner. For me the highlight were the orchids hanging on the trees and the rocks on the hillside. They were quite stunning, pink ones, yellow one, purple ones, white ones need I go on, all set off by a verdant mossy backdrop. We have all seen the pictures of Machu Picchu but no one prepared me for the floral gem loitering casually on every corner.
Strolling back to the main site, the cloud was lifting and the full glory of Machu Picchu perched on top of the dramatic rocky Andean mountain emerged. Orderly terracing runs down the sides of the mountain and the rich lush green plazas of the city, with roofless houses surrounding them. A few llamas grazing in the plaza looked like they had been put there for tourist interest. This is a most ethereal setting, and it is not hard to be convinced by the wonders of nature up here. Fair to say that the wonders of manís achievements without the aid of machinery are fairly impressive, too. As we looked down on the main site, it looked much like the photos that you will have seen. And to be honest that lessened its appeal for me.
Its fame and high exposure means that it felt less of a new experience for me, less of a discovery, less to learn less of an adventure, less private. Walking through the streets of the ruined city they were masters of masonry and the craftsmen was second to none. Well maybe second (or perhaps equal) to the Egyptians, Romans, Greeks and the Tiwanaki people in Bolivia. There was something that was sticking in my throat about the whole MacPic thing, that everyone wows on about the Inca culture but in fact they only lasted a couple of hundred years and the previous cultures were just as sophisticated and skilled but they go un-promoted.
It is quite a good place for people watching, though. I left Hippy doing just that while I attempted a sprint up the ìotherî peak to take pictures down on the whole thing. This is described as a slippery path that takes an hour to go up. I had 35 minutes to get up and back. I failed and got very sweaty in the process.
I took the opportunity to escape the crowds and found a quiet rock to sunbathe on, look at orchids and watch the butterflies. The sunbathing was a mistake and the mosquitoes had more fun than I did. I chatted for a while to a lovely English couple, who seemed to be appreciating the nature here as much as the antiquities.
When I got back, I had a few minutes to get my breath back before Hippy arrived and was most entertained by a classic group of whinging poms. This was a group of 18ish year olds who were on some kind of tour with a bit of built in flexibility. It was apparent that they could not even agree on how they were going to meet up during the evening in town and it all blew up into a big argument. As I watched and shook my head, another tourist in front of me turned and shrugged telling me that they had been within his earshot and carrying on just the same for the four days that heíd walked the Inca trail. We were so pleased that we had insufficient time to do the walk as we imagined how much weíd spoil everyone elseís enjoyment with our incessant bickering.
All possible angles covered on the top, we belted back down the path to catch the train to Cuzco. We nipped into a cyber caff as there was one right next to the train station and we had half an hour. We were surprised, though; that there were so few people waiting for the train back. To wit: 2.
Ten minutes after the train should have departed; there was no sign of it even having arrived. I went to ask at the ticket office and by chance overheard a conversation where a local guy was explaining where the other station was. Other station? What other bloody station? It turned out that when weíd arrived the night before, the spot we assumed to be the station was in fact where the train pulls up to discharge locals. Oh, joy. Our train has gone. Hippy sprinted up the line to see if the train had been delayed while I stood patiently in the queue at the ticket office to see if we could catch a later train. Eventually some other dude emerged from a side door and obviously noticed that I was hopping from foot to foot. After a 30 second conversation he soothed me by telling me that there was another train waiting at the station that I could catch. I asked him when it left and looked down at his watch to give me the reply ìtwo minutesî. As we had been told it was a twenty minute walk up to the station, I hoped that Hips had managed to get there and hold the train.
Our train had indeed gone, but after explaining our problem, the guard seemed happy to let us on to the one sitting in the station and due to leave in ten minutes. 5 minutes later no sign of Pat. Where the hell is he? I peer down the track hoping to see him approaching. Nothing.
There is only one thing for it. Iím going to have to leg it down the track to fetch him. Every small child, dog and dithering tourist seemed to slow my progress by blocking my way as I ran ungainly down the track trying not to end up face down by tripping up on the railway lines. I spot himÖ
I sprinted up the track and found Hippy coming the other way to meet me. ìHurry up, thereís another trainî. We made it in time to sit on the train for 15 minutes before it set off. ëTwas ever thus.
The delay was in fact due to another pair of tourists in the same situation. One had made it to the right station and the other had not. This must happen every day, by the casual expressions on the guardsí faces. As we set off a very stressed looking traveller was reunited with her friend in our carriage.
Of course, by the time the train we were on got to Ollantaytambo, weíd caught up with the train we should have been on and transferred to our proper seats. We didnít even take the train all the way through to Cuzco as a speedier option was offered down the line. At the point where the train starts on the winding up and down hill bit, there is a car park where enterprising bus companies pick up tired travellers and whisk them home saving them an hour and fleecing them for a further couple of dollars.
Still, been there, seen it done it.