The Arena Of The Unwell

You want pain, but pain costs, and right here's where you start paying, in sweat ... and a few blisters. If Galapagos was high on my list, this one falls squarely in the bracket of childhood dream.

Upon my return from Galapagos I have a couple of days back in Quito to hang out with Julian and Paul. Paul's just flown in from Peru and I haven't seen him since about September back in London - he looks like a man who's seen the light. He's recently completed the Inca Trail and puts me on track to securing my space with SAS Travel Peru in Cusco ahead of my booked flight to Lima. Unless robbery and mugging is your idea of excitement, I've heard little to persuade me to stick around in the Peruvian capital so I book an immediate onward flight to Cuscu. Before I depart Ecuador, I manage to seduce Paul and Julian with anecdotes of Cotopaxi so we retreat to the countryside for a couple of days. The three of us and a charming young Tasmanian girl named Meg have the place to ourselves before returning to Quito and finally heading our separate ways.

Quito is enduring its coldest snap in about 60 years right now. As a result, my efforts to get out and see a few more of the sights (e.g. the equator line at Mitad del Mundo) are annoyingly scuppered.

After dinner on one of my last evenings spent on the terrace at The Secret Garden, the hostel staff announce a free bullfight next door and it's the real deal. My conscience gets the better of me when it comes to gratuitous bovine slaughter in the name of entertainment and I decline the offer. Oddly enough, the other worldly guests seem to lap it up - "It can't hurt to go just once, can it?". Yes it can, dickheads! Of course, if you gave lethal weapons to dozens of matadors and set them upon each other I'd pay handsomely to watch the uncivilised wankers die.

I'm told next Sunday is Quito census day. In addition to no booze, there'll be no open shops or functioning transport and anyone found outside their "home" will be fined by the police. I'm quite pleased to be leaving this crazy place so I wrap up warm, kick back and await my scheduled departure.

The layover in Lima is a pretty miserable seven hours, punctuated only by the wonders of modern technology which allow me to watch films on my laptop - I can now highly recommend Anvil! The Story Of Anvil. Sympathetic comparisons to This Is Spinal Tap are not undue. Cheers Bob!

My first Peruvian stop is the beautiful Loki Hostel in historic Cusco. Never a dull moment round here, it's buzzing all day with English speaking tourists. The place revolves around a lounge bar which resembles a student union bar. It has a pool table, ping pong, televised footy and serves great food all day - the Chicken Caesar Salad is right up there. My roomies here are an Aussie girl and a pair of hilarious stoner guys from Vancouver who are hitting on anything with a pulse. I kill a couple of days here, not venturing far from the hostel whilst my body tussles with the vicious altitude. The night before the Inca Trail, fifteen trekkers descend upon the SAS office a few blocks away for our briefing. I leave with a 9kg capacity duffel bag (which a paid porter will kindly carry for me) to accompany my day-pack and my alarm is set for 5am.

Day One. A cheeky 15 mins snooze before I spring into action and I hit the hostel reception fully laden at 5:30am. I'm challenged by a sleep-deprived fellow trekker from my hostel, "Where were you at 5am?". Ooops! It seems I'm 30 mins late, but then again, so is the bus. I love when an plan comes together. En-route we stop off for breakfast and a last opportunity to purchase coca leaves. Our guide, Fredy, assures us these will simply assist us during our ascent and not reduce us all to drug-addicted bums. We trust his judgement and move on to our starting point at Piscacucho, or "Kilometer 82" - so named as it's approximately that far from where we set out in Cusco. In the group photo, we're standing just in front of the train tracks which ferry fat Americans in relative comfort to our destination in a matter of hours. We're going to Machu Picchu "bareback" and the fun starts right here at the checkpoint. Passports at the ready. Our names are checked against a government registered list of 500 names, the maximum permitted on the trail per day. What I didn't realise is that about 300 of these names are guides and porters. It's is a pretty significant operation at hand and us weedy gringos are gonna need a little help.

It's a fairly leisurely 12km / 7 hour hike which allows plenty of surplus energy to throw in the odd pirouette and appreciate the scenery. It looks a bit like Snowdonia but stretched skyward to breaking point. The ferocious torrents of water which thunder through the Urubamba river are screaming, "Don't fuck with these mountains, amigo". Llactapata is our first archaeological site where our guide gives us our first history lesson. I'm a bit awestruck by my surroundings and don't catch many his musings except a bit about Quechua, the onomatopoeic language of the Incas. It's claimed the name of the city of Cusco is constructed from the sound of two stones being banged together. Also, the names of native birds in these lands loosely match their mating calls. Or something like that. Another one of those, same time next week.

We stop off for lunch at a ramshackle family house where two valleys meet. The catering porters are here, and our dining and kitchen tents are already set up. I'm beginning to think these guys are magicians. We continue on for another couple of hours to our campsite at Ayapata where the porters have set up about ten three man tents into which our duffel bags have been dropped ready for the sleepover. The catering porters have also hot-footed it up from our lunch spot and start preparing dinner. Now, I know they're magicians. A lone traveller named Veronika asks if she can share my chosen tent. How could I refuse? Freshly made popcorn in hand, the night sky is crystal clear and the stars are treating me to the best movie I've seen in a long while. I could get used to this.

Day Two. I had been pre-warned the second day is a killer. It's two peaks over 16km in 9 hours with a vertical ascent of 1km. It all starts pleasantly enough, heading up through a glistening canopy of trees with hanging vines and tiny streams which look like they just meandered their way into position overnight because they fancied a change of scenery. One visual treat gives way to another. Stick insects are replaced by iridescent butterflies are replaced by yellow hummingbirds are replaced by hawks as we emerge skyward through the roof of the forest. Here we get a chance to look back and see how far we've come and how much further we have to go until we reach our highest point of the trail at Warmiwanusca, or Dead Woman's Pass. There's nothing to do but chomp down hard on the coca leaves and power through to the top of the peak where exhausted trekkers wearily applaud the new arrivals before passing the applause baton to their replacements and setting off again. Up here the sunless side of the mountain is throwing over huge swirls of freezing cloud which seem to rise up in ghostly shapes and dissipate as quickly as they appear. We wait to regroup before heading down the other side towards our awaiting lunch in the Pacaymayo Valley where a couple of our group are starting to succumb to some kind of debilitating and unmentionable sickness. Hats off to them, that was my worst nightmare and they all made it.

We thought the worst was over but the rain set in which made the afternoon a little more challenging than expected. Up to the peak at Runcuracay Pass and a most unlikely lake perched on top then through a natural cave tunnel to the steep downward home straight. The stones are getting real slippery after the downpours and my hiking poles saved my arse a couple of times. I skip the opportunity to inspect another archaeological site off the beaten track and haul my battered bones to our campsite. After dinner our guides treat us to a well deserved Rum Hot Toddy but I could have done without the spooky camping stories and bad jokes. There's a number of other tours out on the hike today and by busting our balls over two peaks today the intrepid fifteen have stolen a lead on the competition for tomorrow which gives us a better chance of getting a spot in the preferred campsite for the final assault.

Day Three. Much more down than up today but it's still a straight six hour hike to to our final campsite. I'm running out of superlatives but this one is a real treat. The weather is perfect and the trails are starting to resemble something like one of those fancy jungle warfare video games with water dripping from every overhang. There are tons of awesome archaeological sites on the way. You can't refer to these sites as "ruins" as the travel books do. We're not talking about the sort of buried nonsense you see on Time Team. These were full on functional buildings - agriculture laboratories and sophisticated observatories - that remained almost perfectly preserved and hidden from the public gaze for over five hundred years. If straw roofs lasted more than two years they'd be pristine.

When we reach our final campsite I take my first hot shower for a few days and relax for a while. We're given one last archaeological treat at Intipata. It's special simply because it's not exactly open to Joe Public like Machu Picchu - you really need to have done the Inca Trail to get there. We've got a 3:30am alarm call tomorrow so I skip dinner and call it a day early, foolishly leaving my boots outside.

Day Four. No stars overnight, just cloud, rain and a boot thief. I wake in a panic. How the hell am I going to finish this in socks? Thankfully, the boot thief was one of our porters who kindly recognised the opportunity for a genuine thief to stitch me up and gave them a new home for the night. Panic over, with torch in hand and rain poncho donned we rejoin the trail to the entrance gate for the home straight. It doesn't open for an hour so all the groups line up in anticipation of daybreak and a change in the weather which doesn't come. It's and hour hike up to The Sun Gate where we're promised our first view of Machu Picchu - it barely emerges from the blanket of cloud. We really should have been here yesterday. Onwards, we trek down to the famous landmark hoping that the weather changes. Major buzz kill. It doesn't. The disappointment is hard to suppress. I'm pretty wet and miserable at this point. Sure, we got here before the fat American commuters so what we can see of Machu Picchu is looking pretty unspoiled but I'm still gutted. I think all of us had the intention of tackling the final peak of Huayna Picchu for its feted views but as we can't even see the peak itself, our exhausted consensus was, "What's the point?".

It's still raining when we leave the visitors centre for nearby town Aguas Calientes (Hot Springs) in a bus like a pack of zombies. I avoid the offer of Guinea Pig for lunch and wait, dazed and confused, at a nearby hostel for a very uncomfortable 4 hour train ride back to Cusco.

In hindsight, The Inca Trail is without doubt the highlight of my travels so far and is gonna be real hard to top. OK, so I wish I could re-shoot the final scenes, but look on the bright side, I can always come back and try again.

Next stop, Bolivia via Arequipa and Lake Titicaca, maybe? ... who knows?

Choon of the day: Foo Fighters - Next Year

Day One, Kilometre 82 - bring it on!

Our first archaeological site at Llactapata

Lunchtime

The hike up to the campsite

Cast and Crew

Sunset at campsite

Day Two, hiking through the forest

The brutal hike up to Dead Woman's Pass

A brief respite before the final push

The intrepid fifteen at Dead Woman's Pass

I'm pretty sure the Inca's never did lunch like this

Day Three, leaving the campsite

The view back to our campsite

Don't ask, it just seemed like a good idea at the time

Jeez, you can't expect me to remember all the names of these things ...

Intipata

Winaywayna

Machu Picchu from The Sun Gate

The path down to Machu Picchu

and last but not least ...

Machu Picchu

Machu Picchu, looking down towards Aguas Calientes

Machu Picchu with Huayna Picchu peeking through the clouds

Aguas Calientes

The Galapagos Islands were always high on my to-do list. To be honest, Ecuador was only meant to be a stepping stone to the wild, mystical lumps of volcanic rock that time kindly forgot. Spewed up in the Pacific Ocean over five hundred miles off the coast of Ecuador and galvanised in social consciousness by the insight of a certain Charles Darwin. It is perhaps only the cost which dissuades many travellers from visiting. As a "homeless" guy from London, I couldn't resist.

The flight from Quito stops off in Guayaquil to drop off some suits. Their seats are claimed by the embarking flashpackers and we refuel. Quite why the flight crew insist that I keep my seatbelt on during the refuelling remains a mystery. When we arrive on Baltra Island a couple of hours later I find myself in a glorified bike shed. The first thing I notice is a troop of nuns (what is the collective noun, anyone?) stepping off the plane. A few seconds later a thought hits me. What exactly is the purpose of nuns coming to Galapagos? Is this some kind of religious test whereby they wrestle with their conscience whilst buried up to their wimples in evidence that creationism is bullshit?

I'm here for five days with ten complete strangers on a sail boat named Encantada. Two of my shipmates step off the plane with me and we're met by our representative. We take a ferry across the canal to Santa Cruz Island and a taxi down to the main town Puerto Ayora for lunch where we meet a newly-wed couple, Danny and Sarah. They're from London and have been travelling the world for the best part of two years - that's a proper honeymoon! Our boat is due to depart at 6pm.

We spend the afternoon at the Charles Darwin Research Station, the highlight of which has to be meeting the icon of these islands, Lonesome George. At approximately 120 years old he's the last remaining giant tortoise of his species. For shits and giggles, I imagine switching the scenario around - there's me, the last man on earth, in a cage staring blankly at my laptop with a facebook friend count of zero and a pack of giant tortoises pointing at me and taking photos. Even the hardest heart is gonna be melted by George's story.

A brief aside for all you trivia junkies. The story of the Galapagos tortoises underpins Darwin's research. He realised that the islands each had different weather patterns - some are wet, whilst other dry. This dictates the height of the trees and hence how high up the fruit will be. The tortoises would adapt over time to their habitat and, on the wet islands, the shape of the front of their shell would change to allow them to reach up to the higher fruit. Evolution 101. Another one of those, same time next week.

Like other boats, the Encantada runs a mixture of five day and eight day cruises which overlap, so when the five of us newbies arrive at the boat we meet the remaining shipmates who have been at sea for a few days already. We're shown to our minuscule cabins, have dinner, get shown our itinerary for the next day and set sail while we sleep.

We awake just offshore Floreana Island, take a dinghy to the beach and head up to Post Office Bay. I pick up a letter addressed to someone in Bishops Stortford. I must admit, my personal postal service is not really worth paying for as my staff do not arrive in the UK until May and they have a habit of misplacing items en-route. From here we head to a nearby lava cave before returning to the beach and going snorkelling for the first time with sea-lions, turtles and tons of tropical fish. After lunch, we do some more snorkelling around a volcanic outcrop known as The Devils Crown where a pack of twenty eagle rays glide effortlessly beneath us. This is a definite highlight for me. We board the boat again and disembark further down the coast at Punta Cormorant. Alas, the lagoon flamingos were not present but we did get to see our first beach full of sea-lions and their newborn pups which were neat.

The seven hour overnight trip to Española Island is a bumpy affair but the puke pills are working their magic and I sleep well. Our first point of call is Punta Suarez where Marine Iguanas, Blue Footed Boobies (Fnar, fnar! Literally seconds of comedic value there), Albatrosses, Lava Lizards and a rather impressive blow-hole await. Along the coast at Gardner Bay we check out more sea-lions and snorkelling. Day three over.

The tiny Lobos Island, off the coast of San Cristobel, is our first destination the following day for more sea-lions and birdlife then back on board before heading to Santa Fe Island with its cactus forest and the awesome Frigate birds there. If you sense that I'm rattling through these at this point you'd be right. By this time four of my shipmates have been laid low by some kind sickness or other and I'm getting a little anxious that the same fate should befall me. Somewhere along the way today our paths crossed with my Baños mountain biking buddies James and Paddy who are on another boat and we arrange to hook up once back on land.

Our last, and very short, day is a ridiculously early start at North Seymour Island and we finally disembark near the airport. I've claimed a couple of extra days to chill out here before returning to Ecuador so I take bus back to Puerto Ayora and locate the outrageously cheap and well hidden Los Amigos hostel. After being a sea for a few days, I start getting the wobbles. It's a weird feeling, which is accentuated by enclosed spaces. Getting up in the night for a piss is a major achievement.

Before my Irish buddies turn up I meet my hostel neighbour, an Aussie girl named Amanda, and we head out for food at the superb street market. The next day, whilst devouring some delicious quesadillas in The Rock, James and Paddy pass right by me. By the time they've settled in at Los Amigos we've just enough time to check out the gorgeous Tortuga Bay. It's a pretty long walk but with beaches like flour and crystal clear water scattering the midday sun it's a kind of paradise and well worth it. The Marine Iguanas here seem even less bothered by our presence than is imaginable. We chill out for a bit on the beach before heading back.

I need to get up for my flight in the morning but the demon drink has other plans. We drunkenly play pool until 3am in a bar named Limón y Café on a table so bad it could double as a crazy golf course. I get a couple of hours sleep before missing the last bus to the airport. I reluctantly spunk 20USD on a taxi while my head spins in the back seat. Upon arrival at the bike shed I manage to get my bag checked in, the relief of which precedes my best attempt yet to redecorate a toilet.

So, my Galapagos box is ticked. In summary, I'm very glad I did it despite the cost but I will probably never return. I remember chatting to the Aussie girl Amanda, casually flipping out some rhetoric along the lines of "... after all, you're never gonna come back to the Galapagos, are you?". She disagreed. Perhaps I learned something important here. I'm guess I'm not that big on animals and I find the lush greens of Ecuador far more visually satisfying than volcanic grey rock, the odd cactus and the smell of fishy sea-lion excrement.

Next stop, Peru via Ecuador.

Choon of the day: The Cinematic Orchestra - Night of the Iguana