Perulog XII: First Steps on the Inca Trail

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I suppose it’s not every day that one sets out to begin a four-day hike along the world-famous Inca Trail to the even world-famouser Machu Picchu, but today it is.

By 7am I was showered, brushed, packed up, checked out, and waiting outside of my hostel like an eager little Canadian beaver ready to make tracks.  Soon a van pulls up and I slide the side door open with a cheery “Good morning, team!” only to be met with reluctant glances and a few muttered murmurs of hello from the five touristos huddled in the back.

I jumped in and added my small shoulder bag to the mass of luggage piled in the back seat.  The van drove around the corner where three more hikers were waiting with their backpacks.  There was no room at all left for them in the van so I suggested we’d have to put some of the bags on the roof to make space for the newcomers.

“Ees naht possibell!  Ees naht possibell!!!”  The quartet of French tourists beside me were suddenly beside themselves.  “Deese peeple wheel ‘alf to fine zum other way,” said the eldest one, gesticulating grandly before settling back into his seat with his arms crossed in a huff.  Well, that wasn’t very friendly. 

Turns out the four of them (three men and a woman, ranging in age from twenty-eight to fifty-four; the fifth tourist was a fellah from Hungary who was a bit younger than me) had flown straight from France specifically to do the trail, and while their disgruntled demeanour exuded nary a wisp of amity towards their fellow adventurers on this unique and exciting morning, I must say I sorta get it.  They had booked their trip through a sit-down travel agent back in Nice (“Oh, isn’t that nice?!?” I implored, discovering instantly that they had no sense of humour whatsoever) and had paid through the nose for a private group trek along the Inca trail, and here the van was picking up more and more people.  

But while I understood their position, my stuff was already in the van so it didn’t seem to be my problem.  I sat quietly and watched as the ultra-cliche French tourists argued with the driver and the tour operator and anyone else who would hear their heavily accented complaints.  I was not among them.

Amazingly, the tour guide eventually relented and put the three newcomers on different bus altogether.  I was surprised but even more disappointed, as the young British couple and the Canadian girl had seemed very cool, even in the face of such an awkward situation.

Somehow the Hungarian kid and I survived the bickering and bargaining session and finally the six of us, along with our guide Al and our driver, were off.  After two hours of splendid driving we stopped for supplies.  Al insisted that the Hungarian and I both purchase walking sticks (the Frenchies were utterly laden with gear, a pile from which poked four ultra-light high-impact ergonomic titanium walking sticks, still brand-new and wrapped in plastic), and while we bargained with one of several walking-stick merchants he and the driver hoisted packs of food and fuel onto the roof of the van.  A half-hour down the road we reached the starting point of our hike.

Here we were introduced to our porters, of which there were many.  Recent regulations stated that there had to be at least one porter on the trail per tourist, and the maximum load any porter was allowed to carry was twenty kilos.  As this was being explained I glanced at the growing amount of luggage that was being offloaded from our van and realized with a start that our collective supplies – tents, stoves, food, etcetera – was all still on the roof!  I swear, the Nice people each had a large backpack plus a huge green army surplus bag per person (and then some), and the Hungarian guy had literally the biggest backpack I’d ever seen.  All I had (for my whole trip to Peru) was the sort of shoulder bag a teenager might take to school every day.  It didn’t weigh ten kilos fully stuffed, so I was good.  The French folks carried their backpacks and employed a small army of porters to carry their extra bags, while the Hungarian hired a porter to carry his massive backpack so he would be free to hike laden with only his camera and a small bottle of water.  

Al told us that we were Team Puma, so we had to be strong.  I felt dumb having no idea what a puma was and when Al showed us our small team flag I could only assume “puma” was Spanish for “sneakers”.  I decided to be shoe-strong and ask no questions.  We checked in with the trail patrol and after our porters had their packs weighed we crossed a short bridge over the mighty Rio Urubamba – the very gushing mistress that had nearly taken me just one day earlier – and were off on yet another adventure of a lifetime.

Day one of the Inca Trail was by far the easiest with regard to the actual climbing, though there were a few major hills to endure.  The scenery was simply awesome and the trail was continually dotted with incredible Incan ruin sites along the way.  It was basically a leisurely, if highly-exaggerated stroll along trails littered with ancient ruins whilst enveloped in a continuous panorama of jaw-dropping views. 

In an effort to get to know everyone, I made a point of falling in step with each member of our small team of pumas at least once during the day, and our guide Al proved to be an easy favourite (I’m not counting the porters.  There was no catching the porters, who would rush past us in a run a half-hour after we left camp every morning).  Though I was pulling liberally from my paper sack of coca leaves the hills were still leaving me quite winded, so Al offered me something called llipta that all the porters use to help with climbing at altitude.  Llipta is a gooey black paste that is concentrated from the coca plant.  For an extra energy boost the porters pinch a bit of llipta into the middle of a coca leaf and not long after tucking this into your cheek badda-bing, your face begins to freeze and you start running up the hills.  Al could see that I responded well to the llipta so he gave me a big wad to put in my pocket, no charge.

After six hours of glorious hiking we stopped for the night.  Our porters had run ahead and set up our camp in the yard of what seemed to be some family’s farmstead.  The little plot of land nestled in the crook of the steep mountains had room for a small house, a barn and not much else.  There were cats, dogs, chickens, roosters, cows, bulls, and all manner of critters wandering around completely unfenced and untethered, with absolutely nowhere to go.  

Al gathered us around a pair of folding tables and announced “Tea-time-happy-hour”, unveiling a treat of hot drinks and crackers/toast/cookies that we would enjoy every day at the end of our walk.  The elder French gentleman muttered something about an “aperitif” and started rummaging through his bag, soon emerging with a bottle of something clearly quite fancy that tasted like Sambuca.  

Okay, I thought, maybe these Frenchies won’t be so bad after all.

We sat together sipping our drinks, munching on cookies and quietly taking in the majestic beauty of the place for a few moments before the Hungarian kid asks for a washroom.  He is pointed to an Asian-style hole in the ground behind the barn but he quickly returns asking where he could find the “tourist” washroom, and also the shower?

I said he could probably find both those things at the internet cafe and he quite honestly asked me where that was.  When it was explained that he wouldn’t see a shower or a proper bathroom until the final night of the hike he was clearly shaken.  Later, during dinner, he quite nearly freaked out about the moths that fluttered around the lanterns, insisting that he just can’t stand bugs.  Geez, how did the guy get this far? 

Of course the two of us had been paired up to be tent-mates.  As we turned in I could hear the porters murmuring to each other from their tent on the fringe of our camp and I swear I heard one of them finish a sentence with the phrase “…not yet heaven,” to the grunting approval of the others.  I knew that I must have misheard; the porters weren’t even speaking English.  They would have been speaking Spanish, or more likely Quechua.

But still, as I lay there enveloped in the quiet, darkened shadows of the misty Andes mountains waiting for the silky shudder of sleep to overcome me, I couldn’t help but to smile at the prophetic mondegreen:  Not yet heaven.

Not yet, but soon.