Thursday, May 18, 2006

The air was different this morning. Not warm, but not painfully cold either, and unzipping the tent flap and letting in some fresh air was actually enjoyable. Crawling out of the tent was not so enjoyable as my legs were still ridiculously stiff, despite the half-day's rest. Breakfast was pancakes and porridge again and, after last night's pasta debacle, comfortingly plentiful. I did wish they had just served half the fruit yesterday and given us the rest today with the pancakes, but oh well. And that Inca Jam is delicious.

There was a slight change in routine today. To make up for not walking all the way to Lucmabamba yesterday afternoon, we were getting a ride there in the truck that was taking our luggage to Aguas Calientes. And we were also saying goodbye to the tents, with the happy knowledge that we'd be spending the night a hotel. When Michael and I had been presented with the itinerary back in Cuzco I'd been disappointed that we would be sleeping in town instead of camping and walking into Machu Picchu in the morning. But I got over that by Day Three. I wanted a shower. With soap. And water that doesn't hurt me.

Milthon reminded us that today we'd have to decide whether we were going to walk up to Aguas Calientes from the lunch spot or take the train. It's about a two hour walk along the train tracks, and the train costs seven dollars. He said there was no need to decide right then, that it would be much easier for us to tell him after the day's walk. At that point I was already leaning towards taking the train, but I would have preferred to walk, and I hoped I'd somehow find the energy for it.

It only took a minute to drive through La Playa standing in the open truck bed and holding on to the high wooden sides. Almost immediately we were out of town, where the road became bumpier and more narrow. It was a rough ride, standing and bouncing up and down, dodging branches as we went. We went over a very unsafe looking bridge, and through another small town.

It was only a twenty-minute ride, but probably would have taken us a while to walk, and as Day Four covers the most distance, we needed all the help we could get. We climbed out of the truck at the place where the fourth day's trek ordinarily starts, a remnant of genuine Inca steps. It was around 8:00 a.m.

The stone steps were high and widely spaced so it was hard to find a comfortable stride, but there was no more of that infernal scree to send us sprawling. We passed through another tiny settlement and were met by an old woman sitting on the ground, her hat outstretched for donations. Probably she knows the trekking schedule, because I can't imagine enough people walk by on any other day to make it worth her while to sit out there.

Michael and I were shortly left behind again (I seriously think some of these kids are running), except by Marshall, and by Gerry who told us, "I'm going to walk with my dad today, since this is the most significant part of the trail." Aww. The two of them settled on a comfortable pace and Michael and I left them behind in hopes of not arriving too far behind the front runners.

The first hour of walking led us through a cool forest full of trickling streams with soft, damp leaves under our feet. Finally the trail emerged from the trees and we found ourselves high up on the edge of a mountain, looking down, down, into the valley cradling our river. We wound around this mountain for a long time. It was slightly cloudy, which was good, as we would have been beaten to death by the sun if it hadn't been. The trail alternated between this awesome overlook and the cool forest.

At around 11:00 a.m. we came to a crossroads in the forest. It was not tough to figure out which direction to choose, as one was blocked off by logs and the other was not. There was also a note held down by an arrow-shaped arrangement of stick addressed to Jonathan, Megan, Michael, Gerry, Marshall and Joseph saying "this way" and "Keep going - you are nearly there!! See you later - Julia et al." We left the note behind for the others and went on, cheered by the notion that we were nearly there. I was hungry and thought we'd be having an early lunch.

Shortly after the note in the clearing, we began going downhill again, and every step on the narrow path jarred my knees and my possibly-not-long-for-this-world toenail. But most of the trail was in the shaded forest, which was good, because it was pretty hot. After nearly freezing to death on the first afternoon, I was now completely drenched with sweat. That was extra gross because when I would take off my daypack to rest, the sweat on it would get cold and feel disgusting when I put the pack back on.

Eventually we reached the point where it's possible to see Machu Picchu from the back, on one of the mountains way off in the distance. If we hadn't been looking for it, we wouldn't have seen it. But once we saw it, it was amazing. To think we were actually going to walk all the way there. It seemed unreal.

We spent a lot of time marveling over the view and Marshall, Gerry and Joseph caught up with us. After that we saw them more often along the trail. They caught up to us again when we stopped at what was in my opinion the most remarkable viewpoint of the day. We stood in a small field of purple-tipped yellow grasses that faded away into a lavender haze in the distance, overlooking the river far, far below, and the deep green mountains on three sides of us.

There were two or three small houses perched on the mountainsides across from us, making us wonder how on Earth someone could reach them. And then Joseph pointed down, down, down, to a tiny bridge over the river, and a small cluster of buildings barely visible to the naked eye. That was Hidroelectrica. That was where we would have lunch. The note was an hour behind us, and we were not in any way "almost there." We were hours from there.

The day's trek was not miserable as Day One had been. But there was a lot of walking and I was tired. I would have liked to give up. But luckily or unluckily, there was no giving up possible. Unless I wanted to live on a path along the side of a mountain for the rest of my life, I would have to walk. So walk we all did. It was all downhill from that point, except for a short distance across a grassy field containing an abandoned stone house.

Back in the forest, the trail turned to black mud that sent me skidding along and desperately stabbing my trekking pole at things to keep my balance. More switchbacks. Down and turn, down and turn. There was a brief clearing where we walked through someone's near vertical cornfield. That's where Michael had his bad moment and I got to play the rational, calming one. We got a glimpse of a couple of roofs down below us at the bottom of the trail. Almost there! I wondered happily what we would have for lunch. Butterflies danced along our path.

After a long time, Gerry came bounding down the trail behind Michael and me. "Three minutes!" he said. Three minutes! I tried to quicken my pace, but my rubbery legs were not having it. And then we were at the bottom! There was a rooster crowing! A dog barking! The town! Lunch!

But it was not the end of the trail. It was just the bottom of the hill. No town, just a house. I felt betrayed. Michael tried to tell me not to dwell on it, to just focus on keeping on walking, but with my belief in "almost there" being bludgeoned at every turn I couldn't do it. But again. Walk, or spend the rest of your life on the trail, right?

Walk, walk, walk. At least it was flat now that we were down off the mountain. Then there was the bridge. At first I thought Michael was deliberately making it sway just to scare me. But no, that bridge just naturally swayed in a terrifying way. It was a narrow bridge of boards over some kind of metal cable, with high cable sides that I held onto for dear life. Somewhere in the middle I started to relax, until I saw the places where the weathered gray boards were missing, leaving little chutes to the rushing white water underneath. I had faith in the overall structure of the bridge, but not in the boards that were hanging on like my right big toenail.

On the other side of the bridge we found ourselves on a wide, flat track. At that point even flat ground was not enough. I was limping along like I was still clambering over rocks at 4000 meters. Joseph walked with me. I told him my pierdas were como mermelada, (legs were like jelly) and he laughed. Joseph is just the nicest person ever. I can't say enough how good he is at his job. I mean, he never once seemed bored or impatient or frustrated by my slow pace and he was always ready to smile and chat.

Soon we came upon the huge waterfall we'd seen from high up on the mountain. Some of the others were there too, chilling on the rocks. Julia was there and we laughed about her little note. It seemed funny by then because I thought at the waterfall we actually were almost there for real this time. So when Joseph said we had another half hour to walk, I really almost freaked out. We'd been walking for almost five hours already.

Five hours of dusty paths, followed by muddy paths, up steep stone steps, through streams, baking in the sun on the sides of mountains, through cool forests (ok, that part wasn't so bad) down and around the tightest of switchbacks, across bridges of death. After a previous two and a half days of walking. Plus my toenail was falling off. It was kind of funny, in a miserable way, how I kept thinking it was over when it wasn't.

"Treinta minutos mas!" I shrieked at Joseph, gasping and laughing. He looked a little nervous, like he was thinking back to the rear-guide manual and trying to figure out if I was showing signs of being about to bash my head open on a rock. But when I seemed to be mostly laughing, he laughed along.

We trudged along and eventually came to the edge of Hidroelectrica, where we saw the train tracks. There was no question that I was taking the train to Aguas Calientes. Are you kidding me? I tried to hold my head up as we followed the tracks to where our group was having lunch. We passed stall after grocery stall, each equipped with a local woman chanting, "gaseosas, gaseosas, gaseosas." I tried to look as though I had no need of a soda because I was not at all a crumpling mess.

The rest of our group had been at the lunch table for an hour. I don't know if Milthon had held the food until everyone arrived, or if we simply had good timing, but the soup came just a few minutes after we latecomers sat down. Michael had bought us a nice, cold Coke and that and the soup were the most delicious things I'd ever consumed. The soup was followed by an assortment of food, much of it vegetarian, all of it tasty. Well, I didn't try the dish with the hot dogs in it. I'd have to walk a lot more than five hours before I'd be willing to eat a hot dog, or food that's had a hot dog jammed into the top as a garnish.

After lunch those of us who were taking the train piled on with our bags, and the few who were walking took their crazy selves off. Back in Cuzco I'd told myself I'd far rather walk than pay seven dollars to ride the train. It was a trek, wasn't it? Not a sissy train trip. But smack in the middle of the reality of it, I laughed at my naive Cuzco self as I sank gratefully onto the train seat. Of the twelve trekkers in our group, only three chose to walk. I can't even describe how much I enjoyed just sitting on my butt while the lovely scenery scrolled pleasantly past me. To get to point B without having expend a single bit of effort.

I didn't have much of a mental picture of Aguas Calientes, but what we eventually rolled into was not it. After three days of subdued nature, the garish mix of colors was a shock. But I was happy as we rolled into town, closer and closer to a shower and a real bed. The train tracks were lined with cute tourist restaurants full of foreigners having a beer and watching us struggle off the train with our packs and straggle after Milthon.

Michael and I lost track of the others for a while, but eventually found them, and after a tiresome sorting process, we closed the door behind us on our own room. It had a double bed, a real bed that was so soft to lie on and which we were fairly certain contained no surprise rocks to be contorted around and avoided all night. There was a toilet that flushed, and an electric shower.

We were meeting the group for dinner later, and in the meantime we had a few hours to clean ourselves up and rest. I have never seen my shower water turn brown before, but today it did. And I squeezed more streams of brown water from my t-shirt when I washed it in the shower. Unbelievable.

Michael and I took a nap after our showers, and we were careful to set an alarm because we knew that if we didn't, we'd probably sleep straight through the night. Dinner was at a restaurant, but cooked by the same team of cooks who had fed us since Day One. At dinner, Milthon came around and discreetly mentioned that tonight would be a good time to tip the cooks. This prompted another painful discussion.

I struggled for a while with how I was going to address the tipping issue in the blog. There have been a lot of times when I haven't written quite what I wanted because the subject might read it and I didn't want to offend them. But I really want to talk about the tipping thing, so at risk of causing offense...

Please, if you do the Inca Trail, or any of the alternative treks like Salkantay, you need to tip. I understand tipping is not the custom in every country and it might be hard for you to pay more than the price, especially if you are on a tight budget. But tipping is the custom for these treks. It is also optional, yes, as it's optional everywhere. If you had a bad time due to the poor work of your guides, porters, or cooks, by all means, refrain from tipping. But if they did a good job, and especially if they did a great job as our guys did, you need to tip.

Milthon had suggested $5 per trekker for the porters, and we decided to stick with that for the cook, "Teacher" and his two assistants. Most people threw in the agreed-upon sum in soles, fifteen. Without saying anything to the rest of us beforehand, two of our group decided to just put in ten each. "We're poor," shrugged one of them as he threw the money down. I just kind of stared at him. I did not say anything because I hate confrontation so much, but I wish I had.

Poor? If you were poor, could you have bought a round-the-world plane ticket with multiple stops on each continent? Gone to see a Broadway show and two sports games in New York? Bought World Cup tickets? Paid twenty dollars to get into Mansion in Miami, and ten dollars each to rent deck chairs on the beach? If you were poor, could you have paid over three hundred dollars to walk around in the mountains for four days and then sit on your butt while these guys cooked excellent food for you on a portable gas burner?

Broke, maybe. After all that spending, I could see someone being broke. But if you were really broke, maybe you should have just drunk the free tea instead of paying 3.50 soles for that beer. But you're not broke, and you're certainly not poor. That five soles you didn't contribute is less than two dollars. A fifth of what you spent to sit in a chair. These cooks are not going to Miami to sit in a ten dollar chair. They are trying to eat, and to put their kids through school. Denis, who was so cute, and who you played fútbol with? He eats food and wears clothes and his father needs money for that.

I've been poor. It sucks. But I'm not poor now, and it's quite nice. I tip, especially here. I don't hand out money like candy, but in places and situations when tipping is expected, I do it happily. It would be pretty crummy not to. If you don't want to tip (for good service) be honest and say, "I'm stingy." Do not say, "I'm poor" and insult the actual poor people of the world, who would love to take the $300 you just spent on a walking trip and buy food with it.

So... that's my little rant. Please tip your trekking staff. They work really hard.

Anyway, the cooks came out and we gave them a thunderous, and on some people's parts, hypocritical, round of applause and their tip. (To which others had made up the difference for the group's poor people.) And then, full of sour feelings, we all went back to our rooms to sleep. Breakfast is at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning and we get on the bus at 5:30.

 

Post a comment:

Name:
Email:
URL:
A cat says:
Comment: (HTML is allowed)

Climbing into the truck.

In the truck to Lucmabamba.

The beginning of the longest day of my life.

Me and my trekking pole.

This is the vista that greeted us when we emerged from the trees.

Joseph and me.

More vista. If you have incredible vision, you can make out Machu Picchu somewhere on that foreground mountain.

More vista.

I couldn´t believe we came from all the way down there.

Another scary bridge.

Everyone was sad to discover that this waterfall is a manmade part of the hydroelectric plant.

Joseph and me again. Good thing he was so nice.

Train to Aguas Calientes.

Milthon on the train to Aguas Calientes.

Aguas Calientes comes into sight.