Lares Valley: 15-17 June

To most people, myself included, trekking means slinging a bag on your back and heading for the hills in search of adventure. You’d probably carry all your gear yourself, and you’d be expecting modest meals. Well, as I was now part of Mum and Dad’s Peru extravaganza, things were going to be a little different. We were going to trek in style.

Zac had marshalled our support team: two cooks, Chibai, the head chef, who sported a splendid white apron and hat whilst on the job, and Paulino, his ever helpful assistant who was always running; two porters: tiny Faustino whose pack was almost bigger than him, and Ocscar, a chiselled Spartan figure affectionately known as the “rocket man” as we was responsible for our portable loo. We also had two rancheros and their four horses. And finally, Zac brought along Mario, a trainee-guide whose crazy hairdo, ear to ear grin, and enthusiasm kept us amused.

The upside of trekking with this entourage is that you get to sleep in big, sturdy tents with deluxe sleeping bags and ultra comfy Therm-A-Rests. You will be served three course dinners in a pukka dining tent complete with table and chairs. You will have hot water waiting for you in a little bowl at the end of each day to wash the sweat from your brown. And if you are tired, someone is always ready to carry your pack.

If this sounds extravagant (well, it is), then let me tell you that inducements are needed and creature comforts most welcome when trekking above 4000m. Our route took us through a remote tributary of the Lares Valley, up and over the 4200m Coltambillo pass. The altitude sapped my energy, gave me headaches, and initially made me nauseous. But as I huffed and puffed up the mountain, our team thundered past, practically running with huge loads balanced on their backs.

The trail took us past two deep black lakes which sat at the foot of the 5,829m Mount Terijuay. Cloud enveloped the snow-capped peak, swirling in and out. The ground was harsh and rocky, the only vegetation that survived up here was prickly grasses and mossy lichens. It was rugged, wild, and huge. The sky stretched from corner to corner, and at night you felt closer to the stars.

The local villagers were modest yet proud. Their houses, like them, were sturdy and solid stone and mud constructions. Life up here in the mountains was undoubtedly hard. They plough the tough brown earth by hand to plant and harvest potatoes and the kids have to walk 2 hours each way just to go to secondary school. But they are organised and well adjusted. Unlike villagers in China I found that they’d grouped together, saved, and put piped water into every household. They’d used a long-existing local custom known as manu, where in an act of civic duty each villager donates his or her labour to a communal project. Of course, there is a danger of romanticising their tough life and admirable resilience. But these people had not just accepted their lot; they were happy here and were making gradual improvements to their lives.

It was refreshing to step off the tourist trail just half a day’s drive from the Sacred Valley. However temporary, I was glad to catch a glimpse of the vast countryside and its people.

Hiram Bingham Express: 13 June

This is how train travel used to be, and this how train travel should be. I’m on the 18.00 Hiram Bingham Express from Aguas Calientes to Cuzco. Mum, Dad, and I sit in an elegant booth in the dining car, sipping pisco sours. The train bobs up and down, side to side. There are not sudden or uncomfortable jolts. I feel the starch of the tablecloth under my fingers and look at the gleaming silver cutlery and crystal glasses. I lean back and sink deeper into my plush banquette.

I couldn’t be farther away from the dreary Tube and its gum-ridden seats, sweaty armpits, and discarded crisp packets. This, I think, is civilisation! I smile to myself and savour this moment.

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.

Galapagos: 3 - 10 June

Going to the Galapagos is a bit like going back to biology class at school with a bit of geography thrown in. You spend all week looking at "endemic species" and hearing about "natural selection" and "tectonic plates".


But it is a thousand times richer experience than anything you can learn in the classroom. In fact, it's more like being in a giant laboratory. The animals are completely fearless. As you walk up to a pair of nesting blue-footed boobies (and before you ask, these boobies have nothing in common with the human counterpart) they simply stare at you and, then mistaking you for part of the landscape, they ignore you. And so, the Galapagos offers unparalleled opportunities to get up-close-and-personal with the wildlife, making even the most seasoned naturalist-paparazzi salivate.


We spent a week aboard M/V Eric, a 60ft yacht with twenty passengers, eight crew, and two naturalists. We cruised through the night from island to island making landings in pangas (dinghies) during the day to meet the birds, lizards, snakes and other exotic mammals. Snorkeling was also on the menu. With this immense buffet of on-land and in-sea wildlife, I was soon gorging my way to obesity.

The climate in the Galapagos is cold - a brisk 23C, mainly cloudy, with a cool breeze. This is because the cold Humboldt current rises from Antarctica bringing nutrient rich waters to the Galapagos where this icy stream of water meets the warm tropical Panamanian current. The result is an explosion of marine and wild life that is both odd and fascinating. Once I saw marine turtles gracefully grazing on sea grass whilst jet-propelled Galapagos penguins zipped by. It also means that the water is cold, very cold. The Liverpudlian on our boat joked that he could tell how cold the water was by the number of expletives that came out of my mouth after I'd flipped over the side of the panga.

The big schools of tropical and pelagic fish are dazzling in their fluorescent hues, shiny silvers and blues. But it was the sea lion pups who stole the show. They came out to play with the snorkelers, twirling and flipping all around us. They blew bubbles at us underwater, tugged at our flippers with their teeth, and played an elaborate game a chicken - charging at us and then pulling away at the last possible moment. Exhausted they returned to the beach to nuzzle up to their mothers and dry their sleek fur coats.

Here is an aside on Dad's t-shirt collection: it's like a brochure for exotic holidays. On Monday, the puffin from the Shetland Islands is emblazoned against the dark green of his chest. On Tuesday, a subtle "Luang Prabang" accompanies the Lao flag. Wednesday is a grey number with Concordia Hütte 2850m in red Coca-Cola script. Thursday has just become a blue-green Galapagos National Park number. If he continues at this rate, by the time he reaches 70 it will take many weeks of his wardrobe to see all the places he has conquered, uh, I mean travelled to.

Quito: 2-3 June

Quito, like much of Ecuador, surprised me. I was expecting a sprawling city perched on a high dusty plateau. I thought it would be full of bleak concrete architecture. Well, it was thin on the oxygen (at 2800m) and there was the ubiquitous cinder-block sprawl. But it was also charming.

At its heart is the old colonial city built by the Spanish after their arrival in 1533. There are grand squares where palazos are on proud display, long straight cobbled roads leading visitors past the intricate masonry of yet another church. The churches and monasteries of the Franciscans, Jesuits and Dominicans dominate the old town. Their former wealth and power are on display at every turn. I was stunned by the Jesuit church with its odd mix of ostentatious gold leaf and semi-cultish Moorish carvings. The art inside these churches was so graphic - Christ on the cross with blood squirting out of his side, or a scene of the Last Judgement full of devils, fire, and evil - that it made me draw breath.

The imagery and grand settings transported me momentarily to the time of the conquistadors. I wondered what life was like for those early settlers. But I was also reminded how hard life was for the colonised. The Indians were forced to abandon their indigenous beliefs and worship the Church's white patron saints. Indian religious customs were outlawed and traditional feast days aligned to the Papal calendar. Large servings of gore in art, and fire and brimstone preaching, instilled a sense of fear in the new converts. Why? I wondered. "Because it's what the Indian's understand" one of the guides told me. But I thought it looked more like a form of psychological warfare designed to snuff out any thoughts of rebellion, rather than an attempt to educate the new subjects.