Buses, Boats and whole lot of water

            The night was cold, a slight dampness hung in the air, and it was in these conditions that I and one other traveller were climbing aboard a night bus. The destination Puno, the objective Lake Titicaca. The bus was dark and cramped but comfortable; it did not take long for me to fall asleep.

            Awaking with the jolts and noises of the stopping of the bus groggily rising from my less than comfortable sleep I made my way into the early morning twilight. The sun was not yet up, mixed with the higher altitude it was a very cold morning. Entering the station we quickly met a friendly looking Puno chap and booked our tour for the day. The small amount of s/.40 (around £10) was paid for a tour of the floating islands of Lake Titicaca, and another proper island called Isla Taquile. It was only four am, and the tour did not start until seven. So we waited, drank terrible cold coffee, ate a small breakfast that did nought but make us hungrier and watched the sun rise over the lake. A site which made the terrible meal worth the pain, as it rose the light danced and played on the surface of the water, calm in the early morning serenity. As the sun gave life to the dull water, with it came the life in the town. Fishermen leaving to find the days haul were watched from our bus terminal balcony, and the distant bleat of the taxi drivers horns was hear echoing through the empty streets behind us. The theatre of the start of the day over, and life simply going on we left the café and headed to meet our tour leader.

            We left the terminal via taxi heading for the port. At the port we found the boats, dozens of them, all tied together blocking each other, the boats seemed to be penned in like animals, almost as if when left alone they would come alive and try to escape to somewhere on the lake.  Boarding our vessel along with others with the same tour group the skipper set us off, barging any other boat in his way thoroughly out of his way. The ride was little over half an hour, along the way we saw Puno from the Lake. It spread out along the shoreline narrow and thin, a streak of grey against the deep blue of the water and farmland green of the hills surrounding it. In truth the city seemed intrusive on the landscape, a mistake that grew out of hand due to tourism.

            We soon reached the main attraction of the lake, the floating islands. Hidden amongst tall reeds that grow in the shallows around the islands, our first indication of life were the magic pigs. A glance out the wind made me think I was hallucinating from tiredness or the terrible food, but others were seeing them too which made me more worried.  Before being told we were in shallower water I was convinced the Peruvians had created or bred pigs that could walk on water, I was a little relieved upon hearing the truth. We entered what could only be called the main road, or causeway. On either side were islands made of reed and held together by rope, some were large holding up to a dozen or so houses others like the one we landed on were tiny holding only three or four homes. Upon our approach a line of women all dressed in brightly coloured clothes were waiting for us, a welcome party for the tourists the islanders depended upon.

            We landed (sort of) at the island and disembarked on to the reed floor. We walked around the small space for a few minutes before being summoned to a circle of rolled up reed logs. There we were told about the history of islands, how they were originally built by the Uru’s to escape the more violent tribes in pre-colonial Peru. Now they were kept going to preserve the Uru people (an endangered people) and the way of life they created for themselves. The lecture continued going into detail about how the islands are anchored by large blocks made of rock covered in more reed, and how the reeds are harvested and dried, then bound and laid to form the floor we were walking on. It was at this point I noticed the dampness around my feet; every step caused water to seep through the damp reeds. We were told of how every two weeks around another 2 feet of reeds have to be added to stop the islands and homes being destroyed. That was really the life on the lake and the islands, a constant battle to preserve their way of life against the modern world and the water; I couldn’t decide which would be more merciless if things went wrong.

            We moved from the first island after viewing some homemade tapestries and trinkets. Hitching a ride on a local boat, made of the same reed as the islands, we moved slowly across the main causeway to another much larger island. This island held small shops, a bar and the church, along with numerous houses, people, children and oddly a cat. We looked around for a while, waiting for our boat to come pick us up. It was much the same as the previous island. Houses raised above the floor level by a few feet to protect them from the invading damp, small watch towers, relics of a previous age, rose off of most of the islands, no doubt to keep watch on each other as much as for the enemy. After moseying around a bit more, looking down in all the nooks and crannies we eventually left.

            From here we left the floating islands behind, moving slowly through the reed fields deeper in to the oceanic lake. The ride took hours, and we arrived at the next island. The very solid Isla Taquile. We landed at a small dock, nothing more than an extension of the islands edge. We followed a path leading up the steep cliffs and soon hit farmland lying outside a small hilltop town. We made our way to the town. A walk up a steep path through the farms, no shade, berating sun and an uneven path made the walk difficult but in comparison to the previous adventures pains they walk was pleasant and held little difficulty.

            We reached the town’s main plaza, a small dust laden square surrounded by buildings stuck somewhere between colonial architecture and modern monstrosities, it looked like two jigsaws mixed together in some places. Despite the strange appearance of the place its beauty lay in not what was there, but in what was not, in this case it was what you could see that was not there. One side of the square was nothing more than a low wall. Beyond it farms and paths, then the great unending lake and its surrounding hills, slopes and mountains. The panorama before was silence inducing in its beauty and vastness. The water seemed to go on forever and the hills around it seemed nothing more than future victims to its seemingly insatiable hunger to be greater. Even though it looked poised to grow further we were told that the lake is actually getting smaller, and that one day it will dry and become salt flats like those in Bolivia or America.

            We ate a small lunch in a restaurant situated on the open roof of a building just off the square. Fresh fish from the lake adorned our plates and we ate with a ravenous fury found in the likes of wolves or other wild beasts, it was delicious. After eating we had a quick talk about the island and its inhabitants, Kechua’s we learnt, we heard of their customs, the importance of the cocoa leaf and how a man or woman wears their hat. Strange customs rang out in our minds and soon we were worried how we appeared, many of us en-hatted, and all of us confused.

            We left the restaurant and set out on the small walk to the next boat pick up. The walk was short and initially led us to the edge of town. From here the road became a winding snake cutting its way across the island top. Walking through I felt like I was in another world, one akin to the writings of Tolkien or Pratchett, it was mystical, the fields around full of life and people tending to it. Strange that so much life should appear and carry on in such a small out of the way place, it has something to say about just how tenacious it can be. Always persevering and generally succeeding, even the driest deserts have life hidden away, and now it would seem so would the tiniest island nestled on the world’s highest great lake. It really can make you wonder about what has yet to be found on this strange little earth of ours.

            Leaving the mystical land we hit the summit of the island and from here watched a rain storm travel across the lake; we could see the shifting mist below the clouds signifying that the fall was more a bombardment. We stood and watched the storm cross from the Bolivia side of the lake to Puno, laughing as we all saw our own futures. From the summit we walked down steep disorganised steps, looking down on the small port hidden away on this side of the island. We made our way down, some moving precariously and others moving with the agility of cats. We re-boarded out boats at the foot of the hill, and then began the long journey back to Puno, and the even longer trip back to Cusco.

            We soon reached Puno, ate a small terrible and explored the small town, small streets were lit up by neon signs and lit up signs, it looked more like Singapore or Bangkok than a small lake side town in Peru. Despite its look the town was mostly uninteresting, solely based around the Lake, tourist came for the water, not the land. We soon got on our return bus and left for home. The long day over, I fell soundly asleep.

Next time -  The Final post – Leaving Peru, my final thoughts and returning home.

Rain, the jungle and a bunch of stones

Ok, Ok, Ok. I know I am home now. And that technically this isn’t really a travelling blog, but I want to finish this, so there are a couple of things I want to put down on paper to give it that finished look to it. That being said, here lies my account of my last two big adventures.

Arising early one Wednesday morning, myself and three friends left the orphanage to begin our Inca Trail. Opting to do the Jungle Inca trail, mostly on price and availability. Carrying only light gear as we were to stay in hostels we hailed a cab and made our way to the main square to meet our pickup.

Arriving early at the Plaza, we watched the early risers of the city go about their busy business, toing and froing from place to place. The stalls set up, the shops open and the lengthy business of the day slowly awaken to the sounds of birds, people and taxi cabs. Waiting in patient silence the 4 of us were eventually picked up by our brand new mini-bus.

A slow climb up the city took us to a small road in the newer part of town. Here we stopped to pick up the bikes we would be using for the first part of the journey, we were given a small breakfast, a simply mix of fruit, bread and hot beverage of your choice. The loading of the bikes took some time, which was used to explore the little we could safely go to without getting lost in the maze of alleys, walkways and corners. It was here we found a part of the city hitherto unknown to us, a poorer district where the houses were still of mud brick like those found in the rural areas. The people seemed poorer also, contriving in a way to look downtrodden and sad, their faces showed it all. A people forgotten, possibly the area was an old village, swallowed up by the inexorable urban growth, which was now struggling to cope with the newly enforced ‘city life’. Looking out from one certain spot you could see a ravine where sheer stubbornness had overcome things such as architectural security. Along the steep edges (too step to climb without the aid of rope and other such equipment) were tall houses and small huts built into the edge, hanging on to the edge, much like the people who inhabited them.

Having loaded up we rolled out. The bus now carrying the 12 of us on the trail together as well as our future transportation. After a couple of long hours we reached our final destination. The highest point we would reach on the tail, atop the mountain we found ourselves in small almost lay by like place, a gravelled patch off the road. Shrouded in mist we could barely see 50ft ahead of us, and it was only going to get worse. A small safety brief was followed by the call to choose a bike and to get on. Choosing a sexy little number in grey I hit the jackpot, a good bike with decent brakes and gear shift. One friend who knew about these things informed me that I had chosen well (in a way not unlike some sort of sage of bicycling, he even had a beard…….). Giving the bike a try I was impressed and happy. We set off, the mist closing in around us, taking away our light, and making the early morning seem like the late evening, looking around we saw that the fog could well take away more than just our eyes if we were not careful.

We departed from the mountain top. Riding carefully through the dense oppressive fog. We could see nothing, only the small amount of tarmac on the road around us. Cycle too fast and we lose sight of each other, we were riding by the feel of the ground beneath, and when the rumbling started we knew we were going off the road and into danger. By feel and some sixth telling us where to go we slowly wound our way down through the cloud.

An hour or so passed, navigating the mist slowly and carefully, we soon began to start to be able to see things, the hint of grass for off the road, and the sight of rocks high above let us know that the we had ridden down through the worst of the cloud layer, and soon we would be able to see each other and maybe some landscape.

Within half an hour we had dropped down out of the deathly fog and into the clear passes of the Ollantay valley. The road smooth, the landscape a flurry of bright greens, dark muddy browns and the bright white of crashing water as it fell over the edge nearby cliffs. Around us were small farmlands and houses. The only people we would see for miles. They waved greetings and spoke the native tongue of Kechwua in a friendly manner. We passed them fast and without stopping, their greeting lost on the wind that rushed past us. I only heard the greetings the second time as around that point my seemingly good bike broke. A problem with the gears which stuck it in 1^st gear, therefore I was going very slowly past the second farm. I managed to change my bike to one which also didn’t work, but didn’t work better than my previous bike so I had to live with it.

Moving fast to catch up on the new bike the surroundings were soon a blur, only at the next rest stop did I notice the sudden change. Barren mountains had become lush forest, waterfalls calmed to streams and rivers, and muddy dirt had become thick undergrowth. All this had changed so fast that I had not taken it in until I had stopped. We had left the rugged mountain tops and entered the cloud forest. I moved on, slowly, my progress halted by the poor bike, and a want to take in what I was seeing. If it were not for the road charging its way down the side of the mountain this place would have been untamed, a wild land of dangers and god knows what. From the safety of the road all that could be taken in was its beauty, the swaying of the trees in the wind, the rustle of undergrowth as an unseen animal made its way through and the constant sound of rushing water as it made its way to the base of the pass.

The road provided a strange opposition to the forest; it seemed almost as if nature was fighting to take back the land taken from it by civilization. A war it was winning. Along the road the trees had broken the barriers with their roots, and at certain points the river washed out along the road, creating a fjord. Many times that day were our boots wetted by the rivers, and our arms cracked by invasive branches. But eventually we made it. We passed through the cloud forest and survived the treacherous road and its warring neighbours. Avoided the cars and truck drivers, and now stood at the base of the mountain pass. The river now raged, roaring with the anger of the thousand smaller streams that fed its ever growing anger. The water white and below, stood out brightly against the deep mud at our feet, and dense jungle around it. We had moved into the Amazon. What we had experienced would seem like small woodland in comparison. Taking in the new surroundings we moved onto town, the hostel and blessed sleep.

We awoke the next morning with the suns gentle rise over the mountain tops. We were deep a valley, jungle surrounding the small town we stayed in. The fog hung low in the mountains, clinging to mountains to escape the destructive heat of the sun and there was heat. We set out having eaten a light breakfast and re-supplying our water. We moved on foot now, leaving the town and heading towards another small far more unsettling town. An hour on foot away from our more civilized stay was an open area of river, shingle plains disrupted the flow and the river was calm, it flow fast but calm. It seemed to be waiting though, for a time to come when it would rise again, as a tide of white flowing force. Completely devastating and utterly thorough in the destruction it would cause. We could the ruins of the old bridge, a lonely leg in the middle of the water, and gently breaking the surface the old rails. Crossing the new bridge we passed into the wake of the rivers last destructive outburst. We entered the old Saint Maria. A ghost town. The river burst its banks and swept away buildings, roads and people many years ago, leaving only a shell with a path carved through it. The town was silent, there were no birds. Only the distant roaring of the river gave this place noise. Sound was not welcome here. A single man lives in the town now, and this day he had lit a fire in the lower floor of a washed out house. The smoke filled the air, adding smoke filled mystery to an atmosphere of dread and anticipation. The buildings were overgrown and ruins, the jungle was taking back its property, patiently, piece by piece. Leaving the town, silent at its eerie wonders we moved on into the jungle, following the path of the river its violent qualities white hot in our minds.

We walked for a few hours uneventfully. Passing through the jungle on trails well worn by previous travellers. The trail had scared most of nature away, only the trees insects and a few birds remained. Turning off the bigger track we started to make our way up the mountain. Heading to our own little Inca trail. The climb was hard, the hill steep and the sun had set about besieging us with inexorable heat. The humidity of the air around us, combined with the heat made the climb up seem an insurmountable task. Our supplies of water were running low and we had not been trekking for 3 hours yet. Trying to walk through the thick air felt more like swimming than hiking, every step an herculean labour, every breath a gasp. We were hot, we were tired, and the sun was only testing us, slowly turning the heat up with every passing minute. After climbing for what seemed like days we reached a farm hidden by the growth of nature and stationed by one lone woman. Here we could resupply and rest, much needed after the climb up. After 15 minutes we moved on, passing thanks to the woman and the shade. The climb now only got harder and it was not long before we had to stop again at another farm to fill our bottles and rest our legs. Another short rest and we were heading down, thanking the gods we were soon disappointed. We reached the bottom of a small crease in the mountainside and crossed a rickety wooden bridge and looked up.

It was the only direction and one that we all feared. This time the mountain and jungle had conspired to make life hard, and the sun seemed eager to become a third partner in the relationship. The climb was steeper than before and the track smaller and rougher. The jungle was overgrowing, branches hung low and roots rose high. The steps become slower, more laboured and the water reserves were being carefully rationed as our next refill would not be for some miles.

Fighting the jungle the mountain and holding off the sun we eventually reached the top where what was left of our breath was taken away. Looking out from the gap in the trees we saw an incredible landscape. The river, once so violent and forthright in our minds, seemed peaceful from this high up. The jungle oppressive and stifling though it was had become a beautiful see of green, yellow, orange and the occasional glint of a blue. All of this bracketed by the earlier foreboding mountains which had blocked the suns light early in the day, but not were illuminated by it, glowing in its once bombarding rays. We could not help but stop the image before us making all our pains, aches and wheezes seem worth it. No words were said, an occasional mutter to one’s self but no real words. There was just pleasant, silent perfection in front of us. A testament to the beauty all around us.

From here we accessed the ancient road of the Incas. It was nothing more than small path carved into the mountain side. It was almost like a gantry found on old city walls. A place to walk or stand, it did not seem like the artery of an empire it once was. We clung to the wall, if we didn’t we could fall off the sheer cliff below us, into the deadly waters hundreds of feet below. Moving at a careful pace we walked the road walked for hundreds of years, we learnt of its secrets from our guide. Telling us how every 2km there was a post office type place, like the one we rested at. And that Inca’s would run between these, a dangerous run no doubt, and pass the messages onto the next runner. A giant relay race if you will. It is supposed that when the trails were in perfect working order they could send a message from Cusco to Macchu Picchu in 6 hours. A journey that was taking us 4 days on foot and bicycle and takes 4 and half hours by train and bus. An impressive feat we had to admit.

Moving again we began to descend off the trail, this trail only being a mile or so long. The rest lost to time and the jungle. Going down, the walk was thankfully easier, the path wider once we were off the trail and the trees offered more shade. Still tired by the heat we eventually came to our lunch stop. The restaurant was past a small village our guide led us through, at one particular point not really different from any other we turned into the bush. Truly walking in the wild now we carried on until a small group of buildings appeared, dotted with hammocks hanging from the trees. It was here we ate, we rested, the hammocks taking the weight off our tired swollen feet.

A half hour rest seemed sufficient to our guide who promptly moved us along, the promise of swimming in a river soon keeping us going through the crushing humidity and torturous heat. The process of the afternoon was steady, the walk gentle and the landscape as beautiful as ever. Along the path we found a small pitiful little graveyard. Overgrown, un kept and lost. The strange sight quietened the quiet cheerful group, and we moved by silently respecting the honoured dead around us.

At one point the path where we would have walked had been destroyed by a landslide, common to the area the area we were walking. A detour had to be taken, of a sort anyway. We walked across the gravel shingle of the landslide, our footing unsure, one slip here and it would be a long painful slide down to the bottom. You would probably survive, but you’d wish you hadn’t by the end of it. Very carefully and thankfully with no slips we made it to the bottom. We walked along what was once part of the river bed, hard stone under our feet, and no shade to speak of, I have never walked in a desert, but I imagine that is what this part of the walk was like, the heat was reaching dangerous levels now and if we didn’t stop soon we would likely succumb to the siege of dehydration, sun stroke and so on. Luckily our next stop was sooner than expected. As we left the river bed we passed a small rapid, part of the river Ollantay, a tributary of the Amazon River. It was here that we were to swim; the water was shallow in places but the current still strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet if he wasn’t careful. Standing strong against the rush, the water was gloriously cold. There is a saying “The taste of bread depends on how hungry the eater is” and we were famished, the water was most incredible water to ever be swum in.

Our little break over, we pushed forward. Coming to a new problem, we had shade, the heat had subsided a little and we all felt fresh, but our path was blocked by the lack of bridge. Instead 5 small trees, no more than a few inches thick had been placed over a section of rapids that would surely kill us if we fell in. There was no choice however we crossed here, or we didn’t cross at all. We went one at a time, all of us worried if not scared; the water was rough and had soaked some of the trees. Slowly but surely we made it across, those of us who were already safe watched in silence willing the trees to hold and the nerves of those of us who were more worried to not break. By the luck of the gods we all made it across safely, with nothing more to show for it than wet boots, we uttered thanks to whoever was watching us from above.

The rest of the second day was largely uneventful, more jungle, more heat and a lot more pain in some cases. Another bridge was crossed, and a waterfall negotiated with.

It was at the end of the day that the next big things happened. First we had to cross the river again; however there was no bridge present. Instead there was a cable car, not a cable car like we know in Europe, this was hand operated by a man who pulled you across with a rope. The rope was attached to a small basket of steel, large enough for two people to sit in. Myself and Joe were the first to go; nervous smiles plastered across our faces at the beginning became smiles of genuine enjoyment as we crossed the 100 or so feet of the white river not 10 feet below us, it was truly an amazing experience. We tipped the gentleman who pulled us across and waited. When all had crossed we made our way to our final destination of the day. The hot springs.

This was it; we had reached the end of the day, and before us lay the soothing waters of the springs. Located next to the river and within the mountains, the place does not seem real. Three pools heated by underground heat sources sit snuggly in the jungle, a small village a few miles away gives it most of its custom, but the trekkers who come give it a nice boost. It is secluded, calm, and peaceful. When soaking in the waters the troubles of the day seep away, the violence of the river is replaced by calm oceans of the mind. The oppressive heat was changed to relaxing warmth that gave the bathers a glow of indescribable peace. It was here that a man could be king of his own little peaceful world, and this is what we did. With the help of a few beers of course. After some hours in the springs we moved to the town of Santa Theresa, our home for the night.

So began the third day, our final day of trekking before we reached the wonder. The morning was less tiresome than that of the previous day though, as we were not in fact trekking. For the small price of $30 some of us had paid we went zip lining. The centre was located half an hour out of St. Theresa where we greeted by a large bearded friendly hippy looking type. We laughed, he was hilarious. We kitted up, helmets, and harnesses, neither flattering and one really quite painful for gentlemen. A short walk uphill and we were at the first of 6 lines, the first was quite slow and around 250metres long across a valley. I went first, the wind rushed; the floor hundreds of feet below, it was exhilarating. The adrenalin pumped and pumped, I felt incredible. Hot for more, I ran to the next line and had to wait for the rest of the group to come across the first line. The 2^nd line took us back the way we came, only faster, and straight to the third line. One of the longer ones, this was about 300m long, and was fast, landing us on a platform attached to the cliff face of a second valley. And then back again along the 4^th. The fifth took us to a higher platform, from which we had to climb up the face of the cliff, and I mean climb, metal hoops were installed for hand and footholds, and our harnesses had a safety rope attached, these did not make you feel safer. I did not look down until I was on safe footing, and I wish I hadn’t. The final line was the longest, 450m across the valley, about 200ft below, the river again and the canopy of the tree tops. The view was astonishing, and letting yourself hang, rather than hanging onto the lines, you felt like you were floating. The energy of the lines instilled was incredible, and all I wanted was more! I was denied though, and soon we were packed on to the mini bus to meet those who did not line with us, and had done another trek.

From the mini bus we saw where they walked, I had almost instant pang of envy. The valley they walked through seemed barren, inhospitable. It was landscape littered with the evidence of humanity trying to conquer it. All that was left was the road; it was a violent place, lifeless. Mordor or Koom valley, were comparisons that arose in my mind. I would have loved to walk that landscape, the morning had been cooler and the walk was apparently gentle, but to see that kind of natural aggression up close would have been an experience worth having I feel.

The second half of the day was the walk to Aquas Calientes (Hot waters) which sits at the foot of Macchu Picchu. The walk was easy enough, flat following the train line, the only access to the town. There is no road there, only the train line and on foot. The afternoon weather turned on us; soon we were walking in true rainforest rain. It didn’t fall, it plummeted to the earth, thick wet droplets, and they blurred the landscape and made the path difficult to walk. It was cool though and we were thankful for that. At some points on this part of the trek the jungle was the densest we had seen so far and at other points the tamest. It was an interesting walk; we passed abandoned farms, and crossed old rusted rail bridges, that were slippery under foot and treacherous in more ways than one. Along the track we found two rusted old rail carts, abandoned to the jungle, a relic of a previous time when the trains coming along were more than just passenger trains meant for the wonder.  We carried on for some time; the walk was short, only 3 or 4 hours. Within no time at all we reached the town and were at the foot of Picchu. We got to the hostel, rested, ate, slept and awaited the next day.

It was 4am when we rose. We dressed, and we set out for the foot of the mountain, walking by torchlight, we had to work to recognise who was who, it was easy to lose people in the lights of all the others doing as we were doing. We reached the foot of the mountain around half past 4 and crossed the bridge to start the long climb up. The route up is simple, 1600 steps will get you there, uneven steps of the crazy paving kind. A rhythm is almost impossible on the steps and it does not take long to tire out, even in the cool dark air. As we climbed we were silent, waiting for the sun to rise and illuminate our path further. It took just over an hour, an uneventful hour, every thought was focused on the next step, of getting to the top, and every thought was pain. Eventually the crest beckoned, the sun was up now, though it was hard to tell, a dense fog had set in and the light came through but not the sun. But we were here, we had reached the top of the mountain, we sat down, the first of our group up, and it was only just 6 o’clock. Together we smiled, laughed that tired laugh of the end of a trip and ate our breakfast looking for the others, and a break in the fog.

So there we were, sat at the top of a mountain, outside one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and we were waiting. Eventually the others came, and eventually we set about this ruin. The fog was thick and we could see barely anything, the classic view of Macchu Picchu was a just a white pea soup, with a touch of grey. The majesty and impressiveness of the place lost to the mists. We pressed on with our little tour anyway, hoping the fog would clear and we could really see where we were. We were not disappointed this day. After an hour or two of fog the sun broke the clouds, scaring them off and warning them not to come back. What was seen when the fog cleared was indescribable, a city, on a mountaintop. The order of the place, the dignity held in its secrets. It was a proud place, it is hard to describe it without seeing it, and I will not try. I will say that when you are there, sat atop that mountain, looking at the ancient rock and carved stone surrounding you, there is a feeling an atmosphere. The air is full of mystery, what was that building for? Why did they place a temple around that stone? All there is on that mountain top is mystery upon mystery, wrapped in riddles and enigma. When you are there though, you do sense one thing, one very important thing that is that where you stand is and was important, it probably always will be, and that we should not forget what it is that our world is built on. The old world, the civilisation that came before it, and the people who forged that civilisation. That is the feeling Macchu Picchu gave me. It made me wonder what our cities will become in the future, will great metropolises like London or New York be remembered the way we remember Macchu Picchu? Will they be considered great examples of our time? Or will they just be lost to history? I think that’s why it’s called a wonder sometimes, it makes you think about the fragility of our present, and how one day it will just be rocks and stones to some future generation.

We left the mountain after many hours spent wandering. We walked down in the afternoon heat, shirts off for added comfort. We had a drink and a cheers to our achievement, we were proud men, tired, but proud. We left for home that evening, returning to our own beds, showers and some fresh clothes. We slept, for a long time.

Next time Lake Titicaca, the floating Islands and Puno.

Coming soon……………Leaving Peru, my final thoughts………….