Machu Picchu and the Inca Trail: 12-13 June

We jumped off the train at KM 104, making our way over dusty sleepers and across a wooden bridge suspended over the white waters of the Urubamba river. We'd descended more than 1000m from Ollaytambo following the river as it dropped into the canyon away from the high plateau of the Sacred Valley towards the jungle.

Zac, our gregarious guide for the week, led the way up a steep trail dating from the Inca times with Paulino (the first of many porters to come) heading up the rear with all our provisions. We climbed the side of the mountain slowly, passing harsh shrub-land, dusty brown soil and languid looking trees. The midday sun slowly roasted us.

We'd opted for the one day Inca trail, preferring to swap the legendary hike for three days of trekking in pristine mountains later on. But it's easy to understand the magic of the Inca trail: you trudge along ancient stone pathways carefully constructed some 500 years ago by an ancient, mysterious people; the scenery changes slowly but perceptibly at first, but then abruptly as you enter the cloud forests and the mountains explode in a riot of green; and you can chase a romantic notion of following in the footsteps of Hirham Bingham and other explores to find the lost city of the Incas.

I'd heard many stories of paths strewn with empty plastic bottles and errant turds lurking in the bushes left behind by thousands of uncontrollable bowels. But the only PET I saw was in my pack, and the only wafts of excrement came from my own backside. What's more, the climb is full of surprises that keep you refreshed. Just when I was feeling hot, sweaty and sunburned, we arrived at the jungle and disappeared beneath it's deliciously cool canopy past a sparkling waterfall. Then when I'd had enough enough of the jungle, we found Winyawayna, an Incan ruin clinging improbably to the step convex hollow in the slope. I was glad to wander amongst the crumbling walls, marveling at the elaborate structures, and slouching on the grassy terraces to catch my breath.

After several hours and a few hundred heart-poundingly vertical steps, I walked through the Intipunku at 2720m – the Sun Gate. And there it was, Machu Picchu, basking in the afternoon sun. Trying to describe this ancient citadel, one instinctively reaches for superlatives. Gorgeous. Enchanting. Unique. Those are a few that spring to mind.

Nestling on a hillock, Machu Picchu sits on the only flat space amidst a thicket of spiky green mountains. The ruins spill down the gentle slope of the hillside: a few houses, then some terraces, a temple, then an open expanse, and some more houses. The city has been artfully restored, lovingly almost, stone by stone. The creation part supposition, part reconstruction. It allows you to easily imagine what it must have been like 500 years ago: a spectacular citadel of thatched roofs with smoke gently wafting about, a few workers in the field tending to the coca plants, a noble at the Intihuatana (Hitching Post of the Sun) preparing for the night’s lunar observations.

As the Incas had no written language, the function of much of the city remains pure conjecture. Was the burial temple really shaped like a condor flying to the east to take the Incas’ souls to the next life? Were the carved recesses on each side the elaborate double lintel doorways used to secure the doors drawbridge-style? Why did the conquistadors not discover Machu Picchu? Was it abandoned or simply hidden? So much of the Inca’s story is impossible to pin down. But these enduring enigmas are what lend it such mystique.

It was also at Machu Picchu – or more accurately on a cliff-edge up Wayna Picchu – that I discovered that the Incas were completely loco, 100% barking mad. Dad and I had been scrambling up the side of the picturesque peak that forms the backdrop to the stock Machu Picchu postcard. It was hard work as the path is nearly vertical with just a bit of vegetation hiding the cliff edge and the subsequent plunge to the valley floor.

I could understand the Incas wanted a strategic lookout to protect their most holy city. But when I got to the top, I found that they’d build terraces into the cliff face for farming as well as a series of elaborate temples on the edge of a precipice. Yet what really blew me away – and almost made me need a new pair of pants – was the staircase that ran up the outside of the wall, in effect hanging on the edge of the cliff. It was quite literally the last bit of solid earth and then there was a void. A 1000m void.

Worse still, I had to walk down it. My stomach spun and I tried not to look at the watery jade squiggle just off to my right on the valley floor. I had an incredible urge to take a giant leap off the edge. I imagined flying like an Andean condor, soaring, floating, hanging in the air. Very odd. Maybe I am as loco as the Incas.