Sand and salt

In the last two weeks we have gone from the torrential downpours of the Bolivian rainy season in Puno to the driest place on earth, the Atacama desert. After years spent in Saudi Arabia there is something very familiar about the desert that separates the Pacific from the Andes. As we made our way across the desert to the Peruvian border the unfolding landscape of rock strewn desert, punctuated with glissades of wind blown sand, seemed familiar sight. In between a games of bingo (in Spanish - I seem to still be mixing up my 60s and 70s) my mind wandered to the passing landscape and the strange draw that it seems to have for people. After 15 minutes without passing the slightest sign of habitation we started to pass grids of land, demarcated by lines of succulent plants; each box playing host to a small square shack made of interwoven leaves. What makes people lay claim to this seemingly barren land? My only guess is that it is some means of claiming ownership to land that could have future value for mineral rights.

The Atacama desert is far from a monochrome expanse of sand and rock. The landscape evolves from flat, rocky plains, punctuated with mineral rich hills in all shades of red, yellow and brown. The volcanic activity of the Andes creates large swathes of basalt an laval flows that over millennia have been eroded by the ever-present wind and occasional rainfall, to leave deposits of fine, multi-coloured sand to be blown into large dunes. Behind San Pedro stand the proud volcanoes of northern Chile. Mostly in the region of 5800m, these volcanoes (active and dormant) shape the landscape of the Atacama. as they catch the snowfall of the Altiplanic winter they become coated in snow, that subsequently melts, feeding the subterranean water courses that ultimately feed the salt flats. As the water flows underground the minerals leach into the water creating a hard water, heavily laden with salts of arsenic, boron, sodium, potassium and lithium. These water pool under the surface of the Preandean depression and ultimately form the salt lakes that are home to three species of flamingo (James, Chilean and Andean). With nowhere to run-off, the lakes evaporate, leaving salt flats rich in mineral deposits.

San Pedro de Atacama sits at the northern extreme of the Salar de Atacama shielded from desertification by a barrier of trees planted in the 1960s. The town, home to 1600 residents and 6000 tourists, survives under the most extreme environmental challenges. The sun beats down on the town, cloud-free, for 330 days per year. The temperature can range can be in excess of 50 degrees a day as the night-time temperatures plunge under cloud-free nights. At just over 2500m the sky atmosphere is clear yet the maximum temperatures are kept in check. The town is entirely dependent on tourists and as a captive market the prices are inflated, making it the most expensive town in Chile. During the summer months the tourists seem to be overwhelmingly South American, yet there are the ever-present hoards of backpackers and insulated groups of well heeled European package tourists.

The streets are lined with travel agencies touting trips to the dunes, salt lakes and geysers that make the Atacama famous. Well before dawn you can hear the streets come alive with tourists waiting to be picked up by the buses and the drinking goes on late into the evening. Without a car, we have been forced to take day trips to see the sights. As a commodity service provider to a captive audience the tours have been far from the best that we have taken but the sights themselves do not disappoint. The penetrating sunlight and dramatic backdrops combine to produce a landscape and environment that is unique and should not be missed.

However, after four days in San Pedro it is definitely time to move on. We have decided to head south to chase the weather. We will be heading to the city of La Serena tonight by bus and then on to Santiago. Before the week is out we should be in Ushuaia where we will look into last-minute vacancies on the Antarctica route. If we are successful we will be at sea for 10 days before returning to resume of journey up the spine of the Andes, through the legendary fjordland of Patagonia to the Lake District.

Deja-vu all over again...

The bobbing of the cone of light from my head torch on the footsteps ahead of me was a familiar sight. After a 1.50am wake up call we had been climbing for two and a half hours before the nausea began to abate. This time the ultimate goal was simply a connecting bus to get back to our transport back to Arequipa, however, the motion and experience of climbing at night was unmistakable. The climb out of the Colca Canyon, the second deepest canyon in the world, was the reward for a wonderful day descending the day before. Unlike its more famous cousin, the Grand Canyon, the Colca Canyon is a deep ravine, cut by a frothing river, out of lush pasture land between two volcanic mountain ranges. The flat desert plateau of the Grand Canyon is as far away from Colca as you could get. The snow capped peaks are gradually transformed by Inca terracing, planted with potatoes, beans and maize. Women adorned with intricately embroidered, wide rimmed hats work the fields whilst their husbands repair the terracing and clean the irrigation ditches in their impossibly large stetsons.

The further down the river valley you get the flatter the flood plain becomes until you reach a point where the river begins to cut deep into the alluvial deposits. Within a few kilometres the walls of the mountains converge, squeezing out the flood plain to the width of the river and so the canyon begins. Over two hours we dropped from the ledge onto the path into the canyon. Entering a think blanket of cloud that marked the temperature inversion,separating the warm air at the base of the canyon from the frigid air dropping off the snow capped mountains, the path was wide and lined with shrubby trees. Within half an hour we had emerged from the cloud to be greeted with a terrifying drop over a thousand metres to the river below. After four days on the Inca trail we were used to the exposure of these paths, cut into the near vertical canyon sides, but how the mules manage to negotiate the steep steps and hairpin bends, whilst fully laden is still a mystery. We stopped a couple of times to let families pass with their retinue of mules and donkeys carrying provisions to their villages below. It’s hard to imagine a two day round trip, every week or so, just to go food shopping. The luxury of a trip in the car to the farm shop is exactly that.

Our accommodation for the evening at the ‘Oasis’ the end of the canyon was a ‘rustic’ bungalow. It is hard to imagine what a ‘rustic’ bungalow is, but I had wishful visions of a slightly dilapidated bungalow with a porch and a basic kitchen. I should have know better. The closest comparator I can think of is an african rondhavel. On top of an adobe foundation of a foot or so was a five foot wall of bamboos, widely spaced for easy access to the local community of spiders and rodents. The round pitched roof of bamboo and grass looked less than waterproof, but that was to be academic. The beds inside the hut were much like the charpoi beds that are found in Pakistan and Afghanistan with dusty covers and rancid sheets. The one saving grace of this ‘oasis’ was the naturally fed swimming pool, a haven after a hot sweaty day of trekking.

After a fitful night’s sleep, mostly spent dreaming about spiders in Sarah’s rucksack, we were awake at 1.50am for a 2am start. It took the best part of two hours to get going as I was starting to come down with a stomach bug. The turning point in the climb was when I found out that I had a pocketful of lemon sours that each lasted a good 20 minutes and provide the much needed energy that I wasn’t able to eat in solids. Exhausted and slightly delirious, we finally reached the town at the top of the canyon at 6am. No more serious trekking until the Patagonian Lake District...at least that’s what Sarah thinks!

The City in White

Nestled at the base of the twin volcanoes of El Misti and El Chachani, Arequipa is Peru’s second largest city. Although it has a population of around one million it has managed to retain the small town charm of a city like Cusco. The city is a little off the standard gringo trail and as a consequence there are less street hawkers. In the off-season the waiters in the restaurants appear aimless as they wander between empty tables and occasionally venture to the pavement to try and drum up interest. Although the city spreads itself liberally over the valley floor the old colonial centre of the town is relatively compact, with the Plaza de Armas at the centre of a grid of streets that play host to the usual collection of monasteries, museums and churches. Arequipa is unusual in a number of respects though: the cathedral extends to a full side of the colonnaded Plaza de Armas; all the main building are built using a white volcanic rock called ‘sillar’, giving the town a slightly cleaner and lighter feel; and, the the most outstanding building is not the cathedral, but the Monastario of Santa Catalina.

Built in the 16th Century, this refuge for the wealthy second born daughters of Latin American and Spanish aristocracy served as the Four Seasons of the ecclesiastic world. On entry as a novice, the girls would be allowed to bring a maid to help perform their daily chores allowing them more time to perform their devotions and craft. As a precondition for entry the family would have to provide a healthy dowry that was, in turn, invested in property within the city and agricultural land to feed the nuns and fund building works. For the wealthiest of nuns it was possible to build a personal living quarters within the convent and, as a consequence, the convent extends over an extended block in each direction; almost a mini Vatican within Arequipa. In fact, when the Vatican finally came to find out about the ‘unusual’ practices of this Dominican institution it sent a rather severe Mother Superior from Spain to rectify their behaviour.

In the end, the charm of Arequipa and the company our traveling companions David and Anne-Marie led us to stay in town for the best part of a week (including our trip to Colca Canyon). Staying in this charming city was a nice way to close out our stay in Peru. As was the case with Ecuador, it feels like we have only scratched the surface of the country. There is still a great deal that we haven’t seen in Peru: the jungle of the North-East, the high altitude mountains of the Cordillera Huayhuash and Blanca and the beaches of the North. It is now time to head south though to chase the summer season in Patagonia. With the decision to head down through Northern Chile to Patagonia we have had to postpone our visit to Bolivia. Hopefully, serendipity will continue to serve up its usual pleasant surprises in Chile.

Floating Islands and stone arches

Five minutes of haggling by the dockside with the captain of the boat brought the price of our day trip to the islands of lake Titicaca down to a more reasonable 25 Soles ($8) per person. Having completed the negotiations the five crew members disappeared onto the quay only to return laden with fruit, vegetables,rice and an assortment of freeriding islanders toting their various handicafts. As the rain abated we made our way to the roof of the boat where we were finally able to see something of the lake.

Our first stop of the day was at the Islas de Ouros, an archipelago of floating islands. Each island plays host to an assortment of families that subsist from the lake and earn money from the passing tourist trade. Each island is made entirely from the reeds that grow on the lake. A floating base of reed roots are cut into squares about a metre across and then stitched together with twine. On top of this base they put down multiple layers of freshly cut reeds to bring the level of the island some 50cms or so above water level. On top of this they build huts out of the reeds as a shelter from the weather and reed boats to fish and travels round the other islands of the archipelago. The men spend most of their time fishing, hunting wildfowl and maintaining the island. The women and children make handicrafts to sell to the ever present stream of visitors from the mainland.

The whole visit to the islands was clearly a well choreographed routine. As we disembarked we were instantly assaulted by a stream of women and children pedaling their wares. Meanwhile, the men trotted of to fetch a board and some props for their demonstration in Spanish. A baby heron, used for night fishing like the cormorant fisherman of South China, squawked incessantly in the entrance to a nearby hut. After a fluent monologue about the island we were shepherded onto a waiting reed boat for a short trip to a nearby island. As we were about to leave, four young children jumped onto the boat and began working their way through their repartee of songs in French, English, Spanish and Quechua. Having exhausted their catalogue they arose with a chorus of One Sole and thrust forward their grubby little hands. You can’t blame the modern day islanders for taking advantage of an an opportunity to supplement their incomes but you do get the impression that this is fundamentally changing the culture of the islanders.

Our next stop on our tour of the Peruvian Islands of Titicaca was a small, but precipitous island called Tequille. This island, the home of our coca chewing crew is around four kilometres long and 500m wide. Rising steeply from the water, the island is terraced all over and plays host to 1800 people with a strong indigenous culture. All the men and women dress in traditional wool clothing: the men wearing black trousers, a voluminous white shirt, a woven cummerbund and a wee-willy-winky style hat; the women wear multiple layered skirts, a white shirt, a waistcoat and a black shawl that they use to cover their heads or carry goods on their back. Each man on the island wears either a fully red hat to denote that they are married, or a red hat with a white tail to denote that they are single. Each man is required to knit his own hat as a rite of passage. You often see them sitting on walls in the sun, intently focused on the task at hand, dexterously knitting their intricate patterns. The island itself looks much like what I would imagine a Mediterranean island to have been at the turn of the century. Small terraces take up every available piece of land to cultivate beans, potatoes and vegetables. Domestic livestock wander freely around the buildings and a small harbour is teeming with small fishing boats. As one walks up the steep steps to the village on top of the island one passes through ancient arches decorated with animal representations. Each archway frames a view across the shimmering lake back towards Puno on the mainland. As we made our way back to our base at Puno the skies began to threaten.

To the south, black clouds began to flash with lightening and the air on the lake took on a definite chill. The rainy season seems to have more relevance in this par of Peru and suggests that our time to come in Bolivia will be cold and wet, adding an additional challenge as transport becomes less reliable. However, today we head back to Arequipa for a planned visit to the Colca Canyon. We will be back in four or five days though, hopefully things will start to clear up or our journey through Bolivia will be the most challenging to date.

The Andean Orient Express

To our right a small flock of sheep are grazing on the scrubby grass against the backdrop of a wall daubed with advertising for a local beer. To our left a pair of dogs are chasing each other in circles around lean-tos, draped with blue tarpaulins. As we roll through the industrial town of Juliaca, en route to our final destination of Puno, the leaden skies threaten to break again. Over he last seven hours we have climbed from the green valleys surrounding Cusco to the flat Altiplano of South Eastern Peru. The boggy plain give way to low hills in the middle distance and ultimately to snow capped peaks on the horizon. The high plains play host to herds of Alpaca and Llama, their shepherds living in single story adobe buildings with corrugated iron roofs. As we climb in Altitude to over 4300m the plains become dusted with snow and the standing water is crusted with surface ice.

The bleak exterior is a far cry from our plush transport. As the railways of South America gradually disappear, we have taken the opportunity to make a trip on one of the few remaining passenger services to make our way to Lake Titicaca. The Andean Explorer is a luxurious three car train with all the trappings of a bygone age. Our carriage is wood paneled throughout with brass luggage racks and freestanding armchairs. The table on which I am writing this is covered in fresh linen with a brass lamp providing extra light in the late afternoon dusk. Waiters in crisp white shirts and sharply pressed trousers silently glide down the aisle, unobtrusively removing glasses and delivering frothy Pisco Sours. We feel a little out of place amongst our well heeled fellow travellers, delivered and collected by their personal fixers at each end. Bar a few 'flashpackers', like ourselves, the majority of the guests are approaching retirement and talk revolves around their plans for travel during their retirement.

Ever since reading Paul Theroux's 'Old Patagonian Express' I have wanted to travel by train in South America. This trip, although outrageous in it's luxury, has sated an itch. Tomorrow we will be back to reality, but today we have been on the Andean Orient Express.

Machu Picchu...I presume!

Our hopes for a clear morning for our final canter into Machu Picchu were dashed as the persistent low level rain continued. After a swift breakfast we were corralled into groups to await the opening of the day 4 checkpoint. As the trail opened at 5.30am the groups set off on their forced march to the Sun Gate, our first view point for Machu Picchu. An hour and a half of speed walking got us to the Sun Gate at just before 7am. Unfortunately, the anti-climax was confirmed as low cloud obscured our view of the sanctuary. Even after half an hour of walking to reach the classic view point, the visibility was only 50m at best.

Tired and wet, it was hard to get motivated for a couple of hours of guided walking around the site itself. In addition to the several hundred fellow trekkers, a hoard of day-trippers were awaiting entry as we checked our bags at the left luggage area. Over the following couple of hours the cloud began to break and tantalising views of the remains, finally observable in the context of their surroundings, added drama to the tour. The history of the site is mostly understood through the early archaeological work of Hiram Bingham. However, more recent work has begun to challenge the orthodoxy and points towards the uniqueness of the ‘sacred geography’ of the site. Its unique position in relation to the surrounding peaks and the meandering curves of the Urubamba river, suggest that it was unparalleled in its religious significance to the Inca civilisation. The domestic buildings, terracing and temples are second to none and the sheer drama of the setting is unsurpassed.

Despite the weather, the experience of seeing Machu Picchu at first hand was a real privilege. Being able to put it within the context of the pilgrimage that is the Inca Trail, helped to heighten the adventure. The insight into the Inca civilisation that we had received over the last few days has spurned a deeper interest in finding out more about this enigmatic period of history. Hopefully we will find out more as we head to Titicaca.

Dropping into the cloudforest

After the heavy rains of yesterday we woke with the forlorn hope of a drier day to come. Day three promised to be the most varied of the trek with high passes, multiple inca remains and a descent into the cloud forest. The heavy rains of yesterday had lessened to a drizzle but still required a full complement of waterproof clothing. The initial climb to the second pass at 4000m was much the same gradient as the previous day’s climb to ‘dead woman’s pass’ but with the brief respite of a visit to the ruins of an Incan staging post. The view from the ruins back over the valley was spectacular as the clouds billowed up the valley from the Urubamba river below.

As we waited at the top of the pass for the last of our party to catch up we could see large hummingbirds, almost the size of sparrows flitting from one plant to another in search of nectar. Dropping down into the next valley the visibility worsened. Within 300m of descent we were back into the opaque mist that allowed us visibility of the path and our immediate surroundings, but no points of reference height or exposure. Having passed through rough cut Inca tunnels and traversed small wooden bridges we approached further archaeological sites, grander and more imposing than before, but still shrouded in cloud.

After another astounding lunch we made our way to the final pass and the steep descent known locally as the ‘gringo killer’. An hour of steep descending on often slick steps brought us into a more humid and warmer environment. Bamboos and bromeliads became more abundant, moss draped from branches of the trees and epiphytic orchids began to appear on the trunks of trees. Lining the path were tall begonias with candelabra sprays of white and pink flowers, large fuschias positively dripping with conical flowers, their petals splayed back to reveal long stamens reaching for the floor. As the orchids became more spectacular, I began to fall behind the rest of the group taking photos and marveling over the super abundance. By now we had broached the lower limit of the cloud and the spectacularly steep, wooded hillsides of the Urubamba river were clear to see.

As the camp site approached we made a final detour to a set of Incan terraces used to grow maize and potatoes. Thirty eight terraces, cut into the hillside and irrigated from a spring a the top, dropped down towards the river. Wildflowers grew from the intricate Inca stone work and orchids grew out of the irrigation channel. Our final camp was the most luxurious of all with a fully stocked bar and showers to boot. After waiting in line for the rare commodity of hot water we retired to the mess tent for our final dinner and to say our good byes to the porters who had supported us so well.

The ascent of Dead Woman's Pass

We awoke on day two to the amplified sound of light rain on the dome of the tent. The star filled evening had transformed into a dull grey blanket of cloud, delivering a constant stream of precipitation. We donned our waterproofs and devoured a breakfast, before starting the long climb to the pass at 4200m. After an hour of climbing the steep path in the warmth and humidity of the forest, we were as wet under our waterproofs as they were on the outside. Water was starting to pool on the inside of my Goretex mitts and my hood had become useless as the sweat streamed down my face.

Over the next two hours the paths became increasingly precipitous and the altitude began to take its toll. As we broached the first false summit, the size of the granite steps increased and we were reduced to a zig-zagging method to appease our oxygen starved lungs. By now, the porters were beginning to pass us with their onerous loads. Bent double under the hefty weight with plastic ponchos draped over their loads they seemed to glide up the hill, chatting or listening to their portable radios.

As we passed the second staging post the rain began to abate. The long, snaking trail of brightly coloured ponchos came into view and the final crux of the pass became clear. The next hour to the pass taxed our bodies. The steps seemed to get steeper and the intervals between stops increased. It seemed that no-one was spared the pain; even the porters appeared to be struggling for the first time. The final ridge of the pass brought into view a sweeping panorama down to the campsite in the far distance. The inevitable updraft reduced the temperature and chilled our hands and faces. A short stop for photographs and food was long enough to begin the shivers.

Within five minutes of the descent, Sarah's hands had gone numb to the point that they were causing real pain. We stopped a few minutes so that we could warm them and dig out some gloves. The closer we got to the camp the warmer we got. The sun broke through the cloud to warm our backs and dry our sopping waterproofs. With twenty minutes of walking remaining, we were able to remove our waterproof shells and dry our sodden base layers. Tired and still damp, we traipsed into the campsite to the warm smiles of the porters, effervescent as ever.

First steps on the trail

The persistent pitter patter of the rain on the dome of our tent and the hoods of our jackets was to become the soundtrack to our Incan Odyssey. Over four days we covered 45km, along lush green valleys, up impossibly steep steps, past cascading waterfalls and cloud forest vegetation. Our ultimate destination was the eponymous Machu Picchu, the religious centre of the Incan civilisation. However, as with all treks, the destination was only the culmination of an incredible journey.

The first day's trekking flattered to deceive. Bathed in sunshine, with hard dusty trails underfoot, the going was good. After two hours of undulating trekking we stopped in a shaded valley, by a babbling brook for lunch. My experience of trekking food is squashed cheese, crackers and the odd chocolate bar by the side of the trail. This lunch, and all the meals to follow, were a world away from that. A large mess tent with canvas stools and linen table cloths became our culinary retreat after long hours on the trail. Three course meals of fresh fruit, meat and vegetables, prepared by an industrious cohort of chefs and porters, were as good as we've eaten on our trip so far.

Around 4pm we reached our camp for the night. Located at the foot of the valley that leads up to Dead Woman's Pass and directly below a set of Incan remains, our tents were ready and waiting for us on arrival. After a brief cup of Coca tea and a change of clothes, we headed up to the village to watch the porters playing football. To one side of the pitch, amongst the remains, a small group of local children were playing football and climbing on the walls. What was a site of cultural interest to the many trekkers, was the local playground for the kids. The next hour or so was spent playing football with the kids and showing them photos and video of themselves. Unlike the kids in the cities there was no ulterior motive in their playfulness; no "one photo, one Sole" or "one caramello Meester", just the infectious giggles from seeing themselves on video.

The Inca heartland

Over the course of 300 years the Inca civilisation made an indelible mark on the culture and landscape of Peru. As we emerged on the crest of the hill above the village of Pisac the tiers of terracing came into view, dropping several hundred metres towards the valley below. Each terrace, perfectly flat and approximately 5 metres wide, was faced with a retaining wall made with boulders the size of a basketball. The curve of each terrace follows the contour of the hillside, in the shape of a scimitar, ending below a group of ruined buildings that formed a part of the cemetery complex. As we made our way around the hillside above the terraces we passed through a trapezoid doorway that marked the entrance to the sacred area. The religious buildings in this part of the complex are easily recognisable by the exquisite masonry work, reserved for the most important sites. Huge stones, the size of a small car, fit perfectly to the contours of the bedrock on which it is built. Each stone fits exactly to the next, with multiple fascia, cut to such tight tolerances that even a credit card wouldn't fit between them.

As we made our way from one site to the next, with our guide William (Guillermo), the flood plain of the Urubamba river cut through steep sided mountains, scarred at various angles by ancient pathways that gave access to high pasture. Every so often we would get a glimpse of glacier capped mountains as the moisture laden clouds parted. Wav

es of light rain processed up the valley, giving ample warning to don our rain jackets. If this day was anything to go by, the next four days of hiking on the Inca Trail will be an unforgettable experience.  The prospect of reaching the Sun Gate at Macchu Picchu at sunrise is thrilling and I am sure that it will be an unforgettable experience.

We have been in Cusco for four days now, acclimatising and preparing for our trek. The town itself is probably the most beautiful we have seen and certainly the most heavily geared towards the tourist train. This is certainly the epicentre of the Gringo trail. The Plaza de Armas, the central square, is teeming with visitors and Cusquenans hawking their wares. Elderly, well heeled, American tourists rub shoulders with grungy backpackers. As we make our way through the narrow cobblestone streets the separate our hostel from the city centre we hear all manner of languages and dialects, a veritable tower of Babel. 

The closer you get to the main Plazas the more often you are approached by hawkers: "one postcard, one Sole Meester"; "Massagee? Massagee?...no...maybe later Senor?...after treking?". The strangest of all are the local indigenous ladies with their daughters, dressed elaborately in their finery, towing their prettiest Alpaca or cradling their most photogenic lamb. "One photo...one Sole?", is the standard refrain, often delivered in unison.

Despite the comforts of Cusco and the fantastic restaurants I will be glad to get on the trail to Macchu Picchu. The prospect of stunning panoramas and a feast of interesting flowers (we are in prime orchid flowering season), all topped-off with the promise of one of the finest sights in South America, is hugely appealing.

I have posted some pictures from our first week in Peru in the Peru gallery and will do the same for the Inca trail pictures when we get a rest day next Tuesday. As it stands, we plan to leave Cusco on Wednesday by train to Puno (the gateway to Lake Titicaca). From there, we plan to make our way out to the islands for a few days before heading into Bolivia. Our visit to Peru will be short but sweet, leaving ample opportunity to return for the areas we have left untouched.