The Long Way to Machu Pichu by Sandy Barker 

 “It is salmonella and parasites.”  These were not the words I wanted to hear from a doctor the night before I was due to start the Inca trail.  There had been times in my life when I had been sick, but I could not remember ever being this sick.  I had to sit on the toilet with diarrhoea, while vomiting into the bathtub.

The next day, the other 11 people I was travelling with would start their journey in the footsteps of ancient indigenous tribes.  I wouldn’t.  I would stay in my hotel in Cusco for at least another 2 days, possibly three.  I could not have been more disappointed.  It was the whole reason I had wanted to come to Peru.  The tour’s guide, Geraldine, would stay with me after handing the others over to the trail guide.

Two days, and many hours of sleep later, Geraldine revealed my alternative itinerary: the next day we would ride on a motorcycle to Ollantaytambo. 

“A motorcycle?  Do you have your licence?”

“Of course,” she replied with a laugh.  “I have been riding since I was a girl.”  Once there we would stay over night, then catch the train to Aguas Calliente, where the Inca trail ended.  The next morning, we would ride a 5am bus up to Machu Picchu, and hike up to the Sun Gate to meet the others as they finished the trail. 

I took a deep breath, “Sure.  Let’s do it.”  Geraldine, now my friend as much as my guide, grinned back at me.  We would leave at 10am.

As we stood outside the motorcycle rental place the next morning, I was sure that the men there were having a laugh at our expense.  The motorcycle was huge.  Geraldine is 5’3” and the handlebars reached her shoulders.  Still, she seemed confident as she climbed on and stood on tippy-toes.  I climbed on the back and after a couple of rocky starts we were off. 

It would be a couple of hours before we dropped the bike, and fortunately we would be stationary at the time.  I held on as we wound our way out of Cusco, brown rooftops disappearing behind us, while natural beauty unfolded before us.  As we drove the mountain passes, I started to relax and lean into the curves. 

“I have to take a picture,” I called to Geraldine over the engine.  We had just rounded a corner and seen our first view of the Sacred Valley of the Incas.  We pulled over and I took pictures which I hoped would do justice to the awe-inspiring view before us.  From on high we looked out across brown, terraced mountains and a valley dotted with a patchwork of fields, some planted with crops and others brown, barren earth.  With blue sky above us, dotted with clouds, it was literally a picture perfect moment. 

A little boy appeared at my side.  He couldn’t have been more than two, and he held aloft a wind-chime.  I didn’t know if he was showing me or trying to sell it to me.  He smiled as he approached, but when I did not take the chime from him, the smile dropped away.  My heart broke a little as we drove away and rejoined his mother at her road side stall.

Not long afterwards we stopped at a roadside llama farm, well-appointed and clearly geared towards tourists.  Nevertheless, the llamas ‘sell’ themselves, as they are extroverts with varied and amusing guises.  Feeding them was its own adventure; while holding long grass for one to nibble, another would poke its hungry head over my shoulder.  It was the first time in days I had laughed out loud, but walking for any length of time was still difficult.  An hour went quickly and we reclaimed our own ‘beast’, riding on to the ruins at Pisaq. 

To describe the terraces of Pisaq as ‘ruins’ is inaccurate; they are wholly intact and very well kept.  They are striking from a distance and imposing when standing on them. 

We stopped at the gates to buy tickets, and when getting back on the bike, we dropped it.  The brake lever snapped off, and I immediately thought our journey was over; someone would have to ride from Cusco to come and get us.  Geraldine’s response was, “It will be fine, Sandy.  I can still use it.”  Why was I even worried? 

The broken break, the heat and my weakened state were enough to make the shade and a cool drink seem more appealing than the walk to the ruins, but I knew it unlikely I would return.  So, I agreed to hike out onto them.  It was worth it; Pisaq’s enormity could not be judged from afar, and it was incredible to be standing where inhabitants of a long-gone civilisation had lived. 

Children’s singing filtered up the side of the mountain from the local school below.  Not too long after, the heat won out over my stamina and we rode on to Ollantaytambo, arriving mid-afternoon.  The road cut between the Urumbamba River, which looked like spearmint with swirls of milky tea, and the mountains, which became an intense green as we rode inland.  I was sick, I was tired, but I was completely aware of the incredible natural splendour surrounding me.

We arrived in dusty Ollantaytambo mid-afternoon and I gratefully curled up on my hotel bed and stayed there for the next 15 hours.  I was still a day and a half away from Machu Picchu, and I needed my strength for the onward journey.

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Photo Courtesy of Caruba, Creative Commons