Choose another map, showing:

• Amazon
• South America
• The World

Other entries in Aguas Calientes

Climbing with shoestrings

They tell you there is but one way to Machu Picchu, and that is to take the exorbitantly-priced train the hundred or so kilometres from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes and then take the bus up. Better researched travellers will tell you to cut the expense by bussing it to Ollantaytambo and catching the backpacker train from there, then walking up to MP from Aguas. There are, of course, for the hard-soled, tight-fisted, bloody-minded traveller, several other ways to get there, many of which don't involve lining the filthy pockets of the Chilean/British conglomerate which rakes in sums of 50-100 US dollars from every tourist they haul a few miles up a decrepit track to the stranded village. It's not even as though the Peruvian government and people, or even a private Peruvian concern is making anything out of it. As with so many sites of natural heritage in South America, foreign interest grow fat on the Andeans' patrimony while the locals live in bitterness and squalor.

By the time we made the decision to hit the newly-ordained wonder of the world, we were down to a party of three, ourselves and Chris, a Californian nearing the end of a zig-zaggy world tour. The loose plan was to take the bus to Ollantaytambo, try and get on the cheapest train up and work out some cheap way back. There are many classes of train run by the misnamed Perurail, from the Hiram Bingham executive line, at a smidgin under 500 dollars to the local train for local people, costing twenty dollars for a round trip to Aguas Calientes. though some no doubt manage it, it's an extremely tricky task to get on this last train if you're in any way tall or light-skinned. If you try to get through the gates, you're hit with the Morton's fork request for your passport. As the vast majority of Peruvians don't possess the means to travel outside their own borders, simply reaching for a travel document is enough to disqualify you from passage. I've an ambivalent attitude to this double-pricing system. On one hand, it's galling to be discriminated against on the (almost exclusively correct) assumption that you're far better off than the average Peruvian, but if it were a case of only having one, higher, fare, then damn-all natives would ever get to see their country's proudest monument.

There were no affordable trains left for three days. We met a Swede with the most comical accent - a sort of cross between a Somerset drawl and a stage-Irish brogue - and a German ladyfriend, whose upbeat attitute to the dearth of available transport somewhat lightened the mood. He was also in possession of a detailed map of the area around Ollantaytambo, which illustrated small towns a little to the west of Aguas Calientes, on the other side of the town from the approach track from Cuzco, and some minuscule roads linking them. We made a quick sketch of the map and walked to the village centre, thinking of booking a hostel room and making some new plan for the next day. On our way up, a moustachioed man in a blue jump suit, obviously an employee of Perurail, beckoned us over and asked us if we wanted to go to Machu Picchu. Naturally we did, and so he outlined a sketchy plan whereby we would meet him at the nearby village of Chilca at eight o'clock and he'd take us there. He wouldn't discuss price or details of the journey, but assured us it would be less expensive than the train. With nothing to lose, we agreed, then went to buy some bags (I'd purchased a small backpack the day before which ripped to bits within five minutes of filling it, and the nice lady at the market was strangely reluctant to honour the unwritten sales guarantee when I brought it back) and food. On the way, we picked up an American on a whirlwind tour of Peru, who quickly warmed to the idea of a speedy, cheap, ride to Aguas. We got two nice, Alpaca-wool bags for a song - in another startling display of woeful maths skills, I was long-changed to the tune of four soles - some grub and a combi to Chilca.

We'd wondered how exactly we were supposed to find the meeting place. The guard had refused to elaborate on the instructions beyond "Chilca... there's just Chilca". He was right, there was just Chilca, and even that was barely there. Basically, a junction of two small roads with a corner shop, there was no more than ten square metres in which two people could possibly meet. As we waited for eight, with rum-laced coffee to fend off the evening chill, the shopkeeper tutted and assured us there was no way we would get on the  train. We nodded assent with internal we-shall-see grins and as the hour approached, went to meet our fate. By ten past eight, fate was late and we wondered if it was all going to happen or not. At quarter past, the train came tooting along, and as we edged closer to the track, we saw a woman step forward as if to board. Taking our cue, we followed her, but, after helping her on, the guard sternly barked at us to show our Peruvian papers, cough up forty dollars or bugger off. we frantically eyed the carriages left and right of us, but there was no sign of our collaborator and so we watched forlornly as the train chugged off down the track. We waited another fifteen minutes in case we'd misunderstood, and the guy was going to arrive with a 4x4 or some horses to carry us up the track, but it was in vain, the chance was lost. The last of the combis had gone for the night, so we resolved to walk back to Ollantaytambo and try something else in the morning. After a kilometre or so, a minibus came by, and we flagged it down. Packed to crushing, they said they could probably fit one more. It was about this time that a plan that had been bubbling under burst suddenly to the surface and after a quick consultation, we agreed on the madness. Jonah, our new companion, laden down by a full backpack and a heacy cold, would take the last seat, while the rest of us would go walking. But instead of walking back to Ollantaytambo, we decided to turn around and walk back towards Chilca and on up the 35 kilometres of track towards Aguas Calientes. The weather was mild and the moon full, and we'd met several people over the previous week who'd made the trek, albeit from a little further up the track, where the road ends. We had light bags and food for a few small meals, and the last train had just left, giving us nine hours to get there before the first morning train chugged out of Aguas, nine hours to trudge over rocky rails, along a raging river, through mountain passes and a series of tunnels, nine hours of insane adventure.

The Sacred Valley by moonlight is an ethereal wonderland, where all odd shapes take on terrifying forms to the nervous, sleep-deprived mind, shapes ranging from policemen (a bag on a stick) to wolves (a dead dog) to herds of cattle (a herd of cattle). The river, alongside which leads a crumbling precipice, offering slight respite from the ardour of hiking the rails, an irate and thundering swell, which even the most foolhardy whitewater rafter would turn his back on, both calmed the nerves with its ever-present swoosh and heightened the sense of danger. The black peaks reminiscent of the mountain of Doom to the romantic mind stood proud and impervious, dwarfing us with their immense presence. The echoing, derisive calls of the passengers of that minibus pointing out our folly urged us on, and once the ten kilometre mark was reached there was simply no way we were not going to make it, save for arrest for trespassing or immediate death by a rogue, lightless goods train. Each marker was a triumph and a new challenge - twelve gone, twenty-odd left. We had only a vague idea of how long the route actually was, guessing in the mid-thirties, hoping for less, fearing more. There was the odd comfort of the thought of doing an accidental marathon in the dead of night, which just failed to offset the growing discomfort of a swelling blister.

Well, we made it, by 6.15, having stood dazedly aside to watch the early train buzz by at 5.45, and, having heaved our unwilling bodies thirty-three kilometres over rock and rubble, took the first available hostel, as the thought of a further couple of hundred metres almost caused instant physical breakdown. Never has a bed seemed more soft, nor a pillow more pillowy as on that morning, just past seven, when the adventure ended. At least for now.

Add to del.icio.us Add to reddit

Photos / videos of "Climbing with shoestrings":