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D L M M J V S miercoles Destino: Machu Picchu

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Modo: Tren, ómnibus y Pies
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28 25 de diciembre
29 30 31 Distancia: 215 kilómetros

Cusco a Machu Picchu, Perú

This Christmas morning was unlike any in recent memory for both
! of us. The idea of being in a
four thousand miles away
remote corner of Perú, over
from friends and family, was
hard to fathom. Andy and I were both psyched about the
awesome spectacle that we were going to witness later that
afternoon in “the lost city of the Incas,” Machu Picchu. As we had
already settled our hostel bill with Lida the night before, we were ready
to hit the snow-free streets of Cusco at 5:30.
Andy went south to Avenida del Sol to see if the local ATM had been
replenished with soles, while I made a dash for the Estación de Tren to buy
our round-trip tickets. I wandered up the crooked avenue that runs
parallel to the tracks in a light Christmas fog. The few street vendors that
I noticed had either just set up for the day’s activity or never gone to sleep
the night before. I must have been really tired or just totally engrossed in
this early morning street scene, because I walked right past the train station
(which looked more like an abandoned airplane hanger) and cruised on
for another whole city block. Looking for the most direct
route to the station, I opted to double-back by walking on
the tracks. My brilliant plan was foiled halfway to the station
when two well-armed Peruvian policemen dressed in brown
uniforms and bulletproof vests emerged from a tiny trackside
shack shouting, ¡Señor! ¿A donde vas? Fairly certain that they
were not inviting me over for morning café con leche, I did a
one eighty and threw it into high gear.
By the time that I finally got to the station, Andy was waiting for me
at the boletería where he stood with both of our tickets in-hand. While
waiting to board the train which - like most transport in, out and around
Perú - was late, we struck up a conversation with an interesting guy from
Mexico City named Dirk Zavala Rubach. A twenty-two year-old law

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 student from Mexico’s Distrito Federal. Dirk
was in Perú for Christmas vacation. Like us,
he was planning on at least two full days in
Machu Picchu before heading to Andy’s and
my adopted home town of Buenos Aires for
New Year’s Eve with his girlfriend, Natalia.
Around 6:30, we were allowed onto the
dark platform where we boarded the last of
three cars in the brightly painted red-and-yellow
Machu Picchu train. It looked like a large
metallic Spanish flag with windows and wheels. We were assigned seats
fifty-nine and sixty in the last row of
the train and visions, rather flashbacks,
of the Temuco to Santiago de Chile
Express danced in our heads.
Unfortunately, this train would
offer no such creature comforts as
Chilean tinto, beautiful Argentines or
even legroom. Each car had dozens of
small black benches. Four passengers in each section were supposed to
face each other and, between eight legs, share three by five feet of floor
space. Fortunately for us, seats 63 & 64 remained vacant, so Andy and I
were free to get up and squeeze about the cabin.
The first leg of the journey brought to mind the phrase, “Nowhere
Fast.” After backing out of the station, the train went forward for several
kilometers. It then came to a screeching halt, got off on a siding and
backed up for several more kilometers. This exercise was repeated four
or five times. What we did not realize initially was that the train, in order
to climb a steep grade loaded down with
passengers and baggage, had to gradually
ease up the side of the hill on the rusting
tracks that were laid out in a sort of
sideways “w” fashion. Once we reached
the top of the hill, we were greeted by a
spectacular sunrise over the rooftops of
Cusco Valley at Sunrise Cusco spread out below us.
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 Overall, the one-hundred forty kilometer journey was long and only
mildly uncomfortable, as the high-tension springs in the train benches
had us bobbing up-and-down Whack-A-Gringo-style most of the way.
Breaking up the trip were three brief stops at rural train stations including
Chinchero, Urubamba and Ollantaytambo. Each time that our train
rolled into a station, the local vendors would come out in full force
offering mantas, choclo and Inka Kola to our fellow passengers through
the windows.
¡Hay mantas! ¡Hay lluvia!

Chinchero vendors Rain in Puente Ruinas

At 10:30, we arrived at the Puente Ruinas station at the base of Machu
Picchu. The platform was crowded with the usual vendors plus several
women pushing fluorescent “ponchos para la lluvia.” Yes,
once again, the rain gods had conspired to spoil the first
leg of a new expedition. I was definitely not para
bromas today because cloudy visions of my saturated
self during that first trek in Torres del Paine kept running through my
mind. I was mad at myself for not shelling out some pesos for a Gore-tex
jacket back in Santiago.
Upon arrival, Ol’ Dirk latched onto the two of us pretty quickly
which was not exactly what we had been counting on. Being Christmas
Day, Andy and I were both looking for a little yuletide solitude, and
entertaining an amigo nuevo was not on the original Inca Triptik. Still, after
some initial confusion and subsequent
¡hay mantas!: blankets for sale!
donning of gear, the three of us Vendors often preface whatever it is
purchased bus tickets for the ride uphill that they are selling with the word,
hay (there is, there are).
to Machu Picchu’s main entrance. poncho para la lluvia: raincoat
no estar para bromas: to not be in a
The bus departed seconds after we joking mood. broma = joke.
boarded and began the long ascent to amigo nuevo: new friend
polvo: dust
the Inca ruins above. Despite the rain
and light fog, the view was increasingly spectacular. Looking downhill,

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the tiny train below took on
Matchbox car-size proportions.
The road to the park entrance,
much like the departure from
Cusco, was a serpentine path with
thirteen sets of kilometer-long
stretches and hairpin turns at each end. Not for the weak of stomach.
We reached the park entrance at 11:00, checked our mochilas in the
“Check Room” for one sol apiece and had a quick sandwich de pollo and
bottled agua sin gas in the overpriced, state-operated outdoor café.
Entering the ruins, Andy took off like a firecracker on the Fourth of
July leaving me and my new buddy Dirk in the Machu polvo. It was hard
to comprehend that almost every Spanish textbook I had purchased since
the sixth grade had included a picture or reference to this mountain oasis.
Now, finding myself at the gated entrance to the single most important
archaeological dig in South America, was truly overwhelming.
Anxious to learn as much as possible about this amazing site, Dirk
and I fell in with a tour group that meandered slowly through the ruins

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while hitting several points of interest like the Templo del Sol, the Altar
Principal and El Mercado. The archeologist leading the group, Tomás,
was a young Peruvian who knew his subject matter by heart. He spoke
of the achievements of his Inca ancestors with great pride. Tomás led us
through the ruins and finally to the top of the site where we all took some
last-minute photos before walking back to the bus.
Dirk and I exited the park around 15:00 and waited for Andy at the
entrance of the Hotel del Turismo. Around
15:45, he showed up and
we made a dash for the bus
Look, Mamá... that was set to leave. There
was an air of tension,
because we did not know if
we would be able to change
our train tickets at the main
No Guardrail ! station down below. Andy
had accidentally purchased
“De Ida y Vuelta” which
means that you have to “Vuelta” on the same day that you “Ida.” We all
three (Dirk was now officially part of our Pack Ratón) wanted to explore
the site for a second day, but we could not afford to fork over another
thirty soles tomorrow for a second train ticket back to Cusco. As the bus
was making its descent, we could see the train already pulling out of the
first of two stations at the base of Machu Picchu.
Miraculously, we caught up to the parked train at the second station
in Aguas Calientes. Aguas is essentially the Lake ida y vuelta: round trip.
Literally, there and back.
Buena Vista of Machu Picchu where many park aguas calientes: hot
guests choose to stay because of its proximity waters or springs.
gerente: manager
to the park. We jumped off of the bus and ran baños termales: thermal
to the station where I asked the station master baths, natural hot springs

if we could change the return date on our tickets. After a half second of
deliberation, he replied, “No.” So now we could either jump on the train
that was sitting outside preparing for the return leg to Cusco and pay
nothing OR stick around for another day and cough up another thirty
soles, on the outside chance that there would be two vacant seats on the
train back tomorrow.

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 After a brief strategy session on the train platform, we came to a
collective agreement that, despite the transportation risk involved, only
one day exploring Machu Picchu was not sufficient. For that reason, we
chose to stay the night in Aguas Calientes: a town that our travel described
as “not a bad place to hang out.” This “town” was not much more
elaborate than two strips of hostels
and cheap restaurants situated on

either side of the train tracks that bisect the general populace. Essentially,
Aguas Calientes’ Main Street was two strips of steel lying on a bed of
eroding wood ties. The presence of working mothers, smiling vendors
and laughing children made us feel that this was, indeed, a good place to
hang out.
After walking the strip for five minutes looking for a humble abode,
we checked into the Hostel Machu Picchu on Dirk’s recommendation via
a friend from Mexico City. In the lobby, I was intrigued by what sounded
like the world’s largest air conditioners churning away in the guest rooms
at the rear of the property. The noise turned out to be the roaring muddy
river rapids of the Río Urubamba, the sacred river of the Incas, right outside
our back door.
We got what had to be the best room in the hostel perched on the
second floor with a private balcony overlooking the mighty Urubamba
below for a mere forty-five soles. We settled in and changed from trek
apparel to shorts as the famous baños termales of Aguas Calientes awaited
us atop the hillside on the north side of the railroad tracks. We stepped
outside at dusk onto the elevated sidewalk/train platform and crossed
the tracks to the northern side of town. Behind the row of

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restaurants and hostels on the other side of the tracks was a steep hill
leading to the hot springs that we had heard so much about.
On the uphill climb, we passed several kiosks selling the usual
assortment of drinks and candies with one minor fashion exception:
bathing suits for rent. We were all curious as to the condition and rate
schedule for rental bathing suits. Obviously the townspeople were
capitalizing on the fact that most trail enthusiasts don’t come to Machu
Picchu aware of the possible underwater activities at their disposal. Over
the years, Aguas Calientes had probably turned away thousands of
heartbroken trekkers because they hadn’t thrown their board shorts, a
Speedo or a thong bikini in the ol’ backpack. Out of
this quandary arose the burgeoning rental suit
business. Still, seeing as how this fad has yet to
catch on at major resorts worldwide, bathing
suits-by-the-hour may remain an Aguas Calientes
phenomenon. Convenient or not, it was one niche
market that none of us were going to touch.
At the top of the hill, the Rental Suit District ends and the entrance
to the baños begins. We each paid five soles for the chance to strip down
®
to our Patagonia shorts and get all wet n’ soapy
with the bathing elite of Aguas Calientes. The
park layout consisted of three main areas: one large
pool that was full of locals and Machu Picchu
visitors passing the night in town like us, a trio of
hot tub-size pools that were much warmer, and a third
small pool that was fed by a large pipe suspended at
head height above the pool, making it perfect for
bathing and shampooing.
First, we all jumped into the
big pool for a spell amid the locals
Gather ‘round the Yuletide Spa
and a strange looking group of
pale-skinned Yankees and Eastern
Europeans that we couldn’t quite
draw a bead on. They smelled like
rough trade, or at the very least
rental suit wearers. Plus, the
affection seemed to be flowing X-mas in Aguas Calientes

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much too freely between most of the middle-aged members of their
group. In hopes of avoiding any potential cultural conflict or rash
contraction, we implemented a full-scale spa exit strategy. Our escape
led us to the smaller and, presumably safer, hot springs below. After ten
minutes of the springs, we each took turns shampooing under the Big
Kahuna: an icy-cold, spring-fed torrent pouring from an industrial
drainage pipe. What more could three red-blooded twentypicos want for
Christmas? Well…a good night’s sleep for starters. Fortunately, that was
in the holiday cards as well.
At 22:00, we left the three spring circus, carried our baño-soaked
bones back down the hill and hunted for Cokes along the way. Once
back at Chez Machu Picchu, Andy and I jumped into our respective single
beds and Dirk, after a quick Christmas call home to Mexico City, did
the same. The soothing roar of the river outside had us asleep in record
time on this truly unforgettable Christmas Day.

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 We were in an enchanted
valley where time had stopped
several centuries ago, and
which we lucky mortals, until
then stuck in the twentieth
century, had been given the
good fortune to see.
-Ernesto Che Guevara

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