Travel Blog Peru - Lares Trail to Macchu Picchu (22nd - 25th July 2019)

My organsational prescience had failed me, back in January/February, and I did not get one of the 500 daily permits to trek the famous Inca Trail up to Machu Picchu, THE thing to do in Peru.  It turned out, as so often, to be a blessing in disguise, as the alternative 4-day Lares Trek to this most famous and beautifully photographed, but by no means single Inca archeological site, was just as rewarding, and much less crowded.

The Lares Trek leads through valleys and mountains around Ullatantambo in the Sacred Valley, a trek of 4 days and 36km, starting at 2,700m of altitude, passing a peak of 4,800m on day two before descending into Machu Picchu at 2,600m on day three and four.  After the Canyon Colca experience, we were respectful, but confident that we were on top of the altitude, and ready for the trekking challenge of 6-7 hours and some 1,000m of altitude a day.

Cusco had spoiled us with its beauty, its Baroque architecture, splendid churches and monasteries nestled between surrounding mountain ranges, the smells and colours and vistas of its San Pedro market, the luxuries of a clean warm bed and hot running water, and so much more.

Our trekking troupe included three American ladies that, at first sight, could not have been more different: a cool, tall, Irish-American lady that turned out to be a retired CEO living in New York; a quietly spoken, Chinese-Mexican Californian from San Fransciso that loved animals and touched with her girly naïveté; and an outspoken alpha female that was an attractive young Indian-American from Manhattan that took charge of her group of friends and turned out to have made a extrodinary 21st century career in gender transformation consulting  for herself, getting the girls to listen attentively as she told her unusual story and profession over Coca tea on the second day.

Turns out they had been a little apprehensive of what was implied by trekking with a family of six, just as we had been a little apprehensive about which kind of Americans might accompany us day and night for over half a week - both concerns, it turned out, were unfounded. And the old adage proven right again: nothing opens your mind as much as travelling, including opening up to new people and their perspectives on life.

Whereas the Inca Trail is the bumper-to-bumper highway to Machu Picchu (there always being the Condor option of the scenic train ride up), the Lares trek is much less trodden. On day one one enters the beautiful elongated valley of the sacred panther, formed millions of years ago by a glacier, at the end of which sits an imposing and partially snow-covered peak,  signaling with its 4,800m of altitude that this is not going to be a walk in the park.

But parklike were its flavours as we entered the valley, fertile irrigated fields either side testimony to the presence of several Inca gods, the sun and the water emanating from the revered mountains. Eucalyptus trees, imported by the Spanish in the 16th century and now dominating the slopes, passed an intoxicating and addictive odor into the cool wind, alongside ‘munja’, the special domestic form of mint, and the famous coca leaves,  (“la hoja de Coca no es droga!” .... ‘coca leaves are not drugs!’), which we started chewing and storing behind our teeth in our cheeks like the locals, in order to beat the altitude demons.

But a trek like this, into the wilderness, would not be possible for amateur trekkers like ourselves without many industrious helpers - in this case, apart from the two guides, a cook, an assistant cook, a waiter and tent builder, and two ‘muleros’, driving the 5-6 mules that carried all the gear and food up and down these mountains in unflinching manner.

Whenever we had a moment of weakness and were tempted to feel sorry for ourselves, one look at these cheerful and hard-working people, two of them only with sandals on their feet running up and down the mountains, was enough to put our little qualms into perspective.

Black smooth granite either side of the valley contrasted beautifully with the flora, complemented by a wild-looking herd of 25 lama grazing alongside the river running through the valley.  Having set up tents at 4,200m near the creek, marvelled at the stars including the Cruz del Sue and a very bright Milky Way, having lit a fire and sung some songs, we went to sleep happily, and experienced another very cold night in Peru!

At 5am the next day, a rainy drizzle at next to zero temperatures turned into snow by 6am, and by 7am into driving snow with 10cm on the ground, with temperatures including wind chill dropping to -5 Celsius as we got to 4,400m, looking concernedly ahead towards the snow-covered peak at 4,800m in difficult atmospheric conditions. Our gloves got cold and wet, making use of walking poles difficult just as the ground become all white and make it difficult to pick your next step carefully, with another 5 hours of trekking staring at us.

Making a long story short, we decided to be sensible in the group and with our guides and turned back, losing 1,600m of altitude over 6 hours before doing a 2 hour bus drive to the thermic baths at Lares that had been our target destination for the day; a valley full of endearing and strange alpaca, a cousin of the lama that was apparently developed by the Inca for its fine wool and tasty meat (alongside the guinea pig, which the tourists find less easy to sample for obvious reasons, but which are lauded as a special occasion delicacy by the locals).

After the disappointment of day two, day three rewarded us with a leg of the Inca Trail, starting from km 104 of the quaint train track the takes most of the 5,000 daily tourists to Machu Picchu. Having driven through more snow in the morning, we were now in a subtropical jungle full of orchids, as hard as that was to believed, and naturally overdressed ...

The keywords of this trip were about to come into prominence.  As far as Inca history is known, the Inca ruler (of which there were only 12 in this short but very successful culture) travelled to Machu Picchu twice a year, at solstice, stopping enroute at a wonderful site with terraces and houses way above the river along which the rail track runs. Sitting at 2,666m, its original Inca name is not known, but it is now known under the name:

Winaywayna,

which means Forever Young.

Its terraces were full of grazing lama, exuding a peaceful graciousness spoiled by few tourists.

Then drizzle set it, and - having gotten up at 3am - we reached the entry to Machu Picchu, soaked and tired, and a little irritated, by 4pm, having mastered the 300 steep steps known lovingly as ‘the gringo killer’!  The entry, known as the Sun Gate, or Intipunku in Quechua, usually affords a splendid view and postcard photo opp - but we were engulfed in San Fran fog, and suspicions arose that this, one of the seven wonders of the world, might just be another piece of ‘fake news’ ...

It eventually emerged out of the fog and did its reputation proud, but we could only really appreciate this most beautiful of Inca towns, in the shape of the condor, on the sunlit 4th day.  Allegedly it served as an elite habitat for up to 500 people from the most Aristocratic Inca families from across the empire, which at one pint included territories that today are in Ecuador, Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and Chile.  In 1540, a few years after the conquistadores had reached the vicinity, it was abandoned, and only re-discovered by a US arecheologist with the accidental assistance of a local boy in 1911.  It is a UNESCO world heritage site and may be partially closed to visitors soon, as the 5,000 daily visitors are apparently adding to its natural degradation.

True to our trekking pedigree, we not only visited the ‘old mountain’ (Machu Picchu), but also the ‘new mountain’, some 250m of steep steps above the site, similar to the sugar loaf in Rio de Janeiro, and which carries the evocative name of:

Waynapicchu.

Snow, rain, tropical forests and breathtaking archeological sites in 3 1/2 days - while we paid in blood, sweat and (nearly) tears, it was well worth it! (but we now need a vacation!!)

[Back in the novel by Vargas Llosa that I carried over all these mountains, our Peruvian hapless lover throws himself into work, becoming both an interpreter at UNESCO as well as a simultaneous translator, a profession one of his colleague describes as speaking for others, as articulating a million words but not remembering one. His travels to many conferences around the wold lead him to discover the ‘swinging London’ of the late 1960s and early 1970s, where the hippy movement, free love, psychedelic parties full of drugs and promiscuity, plus the music of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, give it an edge over his elective home town of Paris.

He reconnects with a Peruvian school friend living in Aussie’s Earls’ Court, and soon spends more time in London than anywhere else, flowing with the tides of the time. His Peruvian hippie-turned-equine painter for the horse-owning upper classes of Newmarket in Sussex has a photo in his pied-a-Terre where he identifies, four years later and having passed 40 years of age, La Niña mala! 

She is now Mrs Richardson, married to a British entrepreneur and horse-lover. All the money in the world, but not happy, nor in love; and odious of the quadrupeds and the provincial life in Sussex.

Ricardito says to himself upon re-discovering her: “Me basto verla para reconocer que, aún a sabiendas de que cualquier relación con La Niña mala estaba condenada al fracaso, lo unico que realmente deseaba yo en la vida con esa pasión con que otros persiguen la fortuna, la gloria, el éxito, el poder, era tenerla a ella, con todas sus mentiras, sus enredos, su egoísmo y sus disapariciones.” (‘It was sufficient for me to see her to recognize that, despite knowing that any relationship with the nina mala was condemned to failure, the only thing I really desired in life with the same passion with which others pursue fortunes, glory, success, or power, was to have her, with all her lies, her entanglements, her egoism and her disappearing acts.’)

Notwithstanding that insight, our narrator, El Niño bueno, commences a two-year romantic liaison with her, meeting in Russel Hotel every week, across from where my daughter now studiess at UCL. It is the happiest time in his life, until he asks her once again to own up to her emotions for him ... his second mistake after letting her leave for Cuba when she was but 25.

More to come.]