Posters Underestimate, Machu Picchu, Peru
4:05 am and I found myself falling into an uphill rhythm in the dark, something that is slowly becoming familiar to me. I’d decked myself out in all of my raingear, taking the rushing river outside the hotel for rain, expecting the worst. The worst has been my luck in the weather department, lately. Alas, this time the skies held their contents in and, unfortunately, so did my rainpants, in which my legs were throbbing and sweating under the uphill sway of my body, hot and sticky in the muggy jungle air. Lone drops occasionally added contrast to my skin, cold rivulets hitting my head or sneaking down my back by way of the nape of the neck. Everything, the vines and trees, moss and rocks, even the darkness itself, was dripping.
Wheezing lightly, wondering why a month and a half in the high altitudes of Bolivia hadn’t helped my lung capacity by the time I got to Peru, my mind wandered to the two days it took us to get there, bus stuck in the muck, rock slides on the road, thick curtains of rain that melted the way right before our eyes, milky brown mud half way up spinning tires, pushing the bus, walking along the train tracks, chatting with local men who, with a lock of the eyes, offered to be my “guide” on my next visit, looking out steamy windows to see the land change from mountain rocks to furry green valleys full of coffee, fruit, tea, cacao, coca, birds, bananas, clouds and their wet contents, and pueblos there where the Inca have lived for centuries, leaving so many ruins behind and now opening restaurants to feed tired gringo explorers. We didn’t want to take the train to Machu Picchu with the other tourists. It costs too much, it’s a monopoly owned by Chile, and then there’s no adventure in it at all. So we contented ourselves with pushing buses through mud and clearing newly fallen boulders from our path.
Honestly, after months of seeing Machu Picchu posters in travel agencies in the streets of Bolivia and Peru and after two days of crazy (yet great) transport, I was just happy to finally be there. I didn’t really expect it to impress me much, cynical as that seems, yet I had gotten up at 3:45 and followed Cyril up steep stone steps, river rushing below us, darkness above.
By 5:30 we reached the top of the hill and made for the park entrance where we were met by a sleepy guard but there was no one else around. I looked for the people from the Inca trail, as they usually tend to arrive before everyone else but none were to be seen. Somehow, we were the first ones up, though the tourist buses arrive at six when the park opens. Internally I gave myself a little high five and glared at the people fresh off the bus from my post at the front of the line. I felt as though I’d earned it.
The doors opened, then, and we ran into the park, my legs still burning from the climb up, and made our way to the top of a hill where, looking down on Machu Picchu, the awe hit. Ringed by low wisps of cloud while the sun just tipped above the hilltops, streaking them with warm light, the site was completely empty but for the birds.
Sunlight sparkled from drops of dew in the grasses. I took my moment, then. Just a minute of stillness while my eyes and my mind took it all in.
Everyone else filed in and kept coming in bunches. By eleven the park was full of people following paths in every which way. We made our way back down, then, happy to have gotten up early, happy to have hiked up the trail, to have pushed a bus through the mud, to have chosen this crazy life.
More photos on my flickr site!
Tags: Inca, Machu Picchu, Peru, South America, Travel
April 20th, 2007 at 2:26 am
It’s funny how some of the tourist things are so over rated, but others are as good as there are in the posters. I’ve also learned that getting there early makes a huge difference.