Cuzco, Peru
Saturday, August 31, 2002
I had misgivings about this trip. The more I travel the less I like places that are full of tourists and Cuzco, the gateway to Machu Picchu, certainly falls into that category. I prefer instead destinations where other travelers are so rare that I look forward to seeing them.

As it would be pretty hard to get to get to Machu Picchu without passing through Cuzco, I decided to just grin and bear it. In addition, the other places I planned to visit weren't exactly unknown to my fellow travelers - the jungle town Puerto Maldonado, Nazca in the south of Peru and Quito and Otavalo in Ecuador. So, without really thinking it out I just decided to keep my stay at each place to the minimum, that way if I didn’t like the crowds in one spot, it wouldn’t be long before I would move along.

I arrived in Cuzco around 10:00 in the morning. I had spent the previous night in cool, damp Lima after my daylong flight from Detroit. As I stepped out of the airport into the noticeably thin air - Cuzco is over 2 miles high - I was approached by a taxi driver, an "official" taxi driver.

He made this perfectly clear by holding up the ID badge that was hanging around his neck. I had already inquired in the airport and knew this "official" status would mean two things: first, he would be more expensive than the "unofficial" taxis that hang around just outside the airport (he wanted 10 sol - $2.75) and, second, there was a better chance he wouldn't try any tricks. Arriving in a new town I always prefer to use the official taxis until I get a sense of how much trouble the other, cheaper ones will be.

It was only a ten-minute ride from the airport to my hotel, the Cristina. This was enough time for the driver to probe me about my plans and to gently pitch me on various tours and trips. I declined all preferring to make my plans as needed.

At the hotel, which is located on the main street leading into town and just a short walk from the main square, I dropped my things in my small, but adequate room. I then headed out to see the city and to find out if the altitude was going to be a problem. It's the standard warning to take it easy your first few days in Cuzco to acclimate yourself to oxygen-poor air.

First, I started up Avenue Sol toward the main square. In front of my hotel there was a group of 10 of so men and women with calculators and bundles of sol in their hands. In addition, every other shop seemed to have an exchange counter - no problem exchanging dollars here.

The main square - it was called Plaza De Armas like the main square in every Peruvian city I visited - had a large fountain in the center, churches and shops surrounding it, and kids selling postcards - more that a city 10 times Cuzco's size could support. These waifs follow you everywhere with their box of postcards held out and try every imaginable line to get you to buy. If you say no they will plead: "Why no? It's for my lunch." Other times they will demand, "No? Don't you want to send a postcard to your wife?" But most commonly they just try to make you to agree to buy when they see you again, "Later, ok? Promise?"

The air was cool and the sky brilliantly sunny one minute and cloudy the next. I walked around the square and headed randomly up this or that street, trying to get a feel for the city and to work the travel kinks out of my legs. Cuzco - the center part at least - certainly was lovely with its steep, cobble streets, its jewelry and alpaca shops and its lovely colonial buildings (many of which were built directly on the massive foundations of the Inca building the Spanish had destroyed.)

Finally, I ran out of energy and stopped for lunch at one of the many expensive restaurants that surround the main square. There I met a trio of young English lads who were drinking coca tea. One of these guys told me how much trouble he had had getting used to the altitude. "I was laid up for more that a day. I had a terrible headache and felt sick all over." His companions nodded in agreement. "Does the coca tea help?" I asked. "Sure, a little." So, I ordered some with my lunch, as I had a slight headache myself. In fact, the tea does seem to relieve the headache but you would have to drink it constantly to keep the headache at bay.

After lunch I started walking up to Sacsayhuaman, the fort that sits above Cuzco, but quickly discovered I wasn't up to the task. I waved down a taxi and for a 5 sol ($1.50) got a ride up the many switchbacks to the fort. At the top there was a gate where I had to buy a ticket. I had a choice: I could get a ticket for just the fort or one that covers the majority of Cuzco's sites. I chose the later one - it was $10.

It struck me as odd that some prices were quoted in sol and others in US dollars. At hotels my bill was often in both: dollars for the room and sol for extras like laundry and meals. In fact, you could pay with either, the conversion made using the standard exchange rate of 3.6 sol to the dollar.

At the fort the sky was now full of huge, fluffy clouds and local kids were flying their kites in the cool breeze. Sacsayhuaman is made up of zig-zag rows of enormous stone block - so big that where the Spanish were wreaking havoc on Cuzco they were unable to completely destroy the fort. What you see today is the indestructible base. I wandered around, took a few pictures and then got another taxi back down to the main square.

In town I walked over to the local market, which is just across the street from the train station to Machu Picchu. This market, part in a large, covered building and part spilling into the adjacent streets, was the single most interesting place I visited in Cuzco. Nothing here was put on for the tourist. This was where the locals shopped.

I was carrying a small digital camera and found that if I took a few pictures from a distance and then show them to the vendors I could sometimes get them to pose for me. Or at the least we would have a good laugh: the other vendors would often crowd around wanting to see the tiny pictures too.

I general I found the Inca population, especially the ones in local dress, somewhat reluctant to have their pictures taken. Who can blame them? They probably get damn tired of people pointing cameras at them. I always get permission before I take anyone's picture.

One note about the market: several days later I talked to a Peruvian guide. I told her how much I enjoyed the Cuzco market. She said, "We don't recommend tourist go there. It can be dangerous." I asked what sort of danger she meant: pickpockets? muggings? She would only say, "Things happen there." (I also read on the Lonely Planet Thorntree about a young man being robbed in the market.) I only mention this because the guide was so emphatic. That said, of all the markets I visited this was the most interesting, probably because so few tourist do visit it.

I woke several times that night breathing heavily - a product of the thin air. I had been warned about this but I was surprised how dry the air was. My nose and mouth were always parched. I learned to keep a bottle of water next to the bed. The first few nights my sleep was quite restless.

Next morning, after I dropped some laundry off at the hotel desk, I went looking for a bus to Pisac, the site of another market. The desk clerk marked the station on my map but it turned out like much of the information I got from him - not completely accurate. Anyway, after asking several locals I finally found a dusty courtyard where a line of people were buying tickets. The bus was marked "Urubamba" but when I asked, "Pisac?" I was pointed to the same line. Urubamba apparently is a town a little farther down the same road.

The bus slowly filled up with locals and their belongings. My presence was occasion for many sideways glances and hushed comments. Soon the seats were all full and we started to move. "Well, this won't be bad," I thought - the bus wasn't that crowded. I had heard the local buses were always jammed packed.

We pulled out onto a side street and then around the corner onto the main road. Here we stopped again and more people started getting on. As all the seats were full these new arrivals stood in the narrow aisle. They brought many boxes and bags with them - so many that I was obliged to put someone's groceries between my feet.

It wasn't clear whether these additional passengers were just an extra source of income for the driver or some kind of second class passengers. Anyway, we headed directly out of Cuzco along a windy road with this crowded mass of humanity.

The bus seats we designed for riders of a considerably smaller stature and the headrest hit me in the shoulders in such a way to cause them to roll forward and inward - very uncomfortable for a long ride. The bumping of the swaying people in the aisle and the crying babies also added to the "atmosphere" of the ride.

I only had a small view out the dirty windows next to me but could see the land was lovely: the fields were green and hillsides ocher and brown. There were many small mud walled compounds and an occasional village. A few cattle grazed under the bright sky. Eucalyptus trees lined the riverbed next to the road. We repeatedly stopped to drop off passengers or to pick up more.

After about an hour, we stopped at a bridge over the Rio Urubamba on the north edge of Pisac where most of the passengers got out. I followed the crowd up the narrow, cobble stone street to the main square where a market was being set up.

I could immediately see this was going to be a tourist market. There were more rugs and blankets then vegetables and produce. As I wandered around I found every sort of tourist item: jewelry, pottery, sculpture, paintings and CDs of local music. Despite my initial disappointment it was still an interesting place to take pictures as the market was very colorful and there were always mountains in the background.

I walked around for about an hour but as more and more tour buses arrived, and the streets filled up with photographers all competing for the best spot to shoot from, I decided I had had enough. I headed back to where the bus had dropped me by the river. Along the way a man in a black vest asked me something: did I want to a ride somewhere or other. I said no, because I always say no. As I walked away I realized he was talking about a ride up to the citadel above Pisac. I had completely forgotten about it. I had meant to visit it and here I was already getting ready to leave without having made the trip.

I walked back and made a deal for a round trip to the fort with a one-hour wait. The driver suggested a two-hour wait but I didn't think I would need that much time - boy, was I wrong. I should have more carefully read my travel guide.

We drove up a windy road with spectacular views in every direction and stopped in a small parking lot at the top of a hill. I could see a path leading away from the far end and that's where I headed. Conscious that I didn't have a lot of time I hurried along the path passing knots of slow moving tourists. First, the path was flat then it took a steep dip down and as quickly reversed itself and started abruptly up. I kept up my fast pace passing panting walkers. Proudly - perhaps too proudly - I passed groups of teenagers resting along the side of the narrow path. "Ha," I thought, "they can't keep up with me."

It took near 20 minutes of strenuous effort to reach the main fort. I was seriously winded when I topped the last hill and stood looking out over the opposite valley. There were various crumbling walls and tour guides explaining their significance to groups of visitors. I knew that there was also another group of buildings up little higher - and I could see people up there - but I had neither the time nor the energy for that. So I had to content myself with enjoying the wonderful view and taking some pictures before heading back to the waiting driver. I made it back in almost exactly one hour. My advice, if you go, is to give yourself two hours - then you won't have to race like I did.

Back in Pisac I got the first bus back to Cuzco where I was surprised to find that almost all the tourist shops were closed: Sunday in a Catholic country - I guess I should have known. I walked the mostly empty streets and visited the few shops that were open. Then I stopped to send a little email. Nothing could be easier in Peru as every town had several Internet shops and they were quite cheap - no more that a couple of sol ($0.55) per hour.

Then I broke one of the cardinal rules for dealing with altitude: I stopped at a quiet café and had a beer. Travelers are told to avoid alcohol while they are acclimatizing to the thin air, but I find working on my journal often requires the help of a cold beer. Anyway, I also ordered a cup of coca tea just in case there were complications - which there weren't.

Back at the hotel I asked about my laundry. "Oh, it won't be ready until tomorrow. The laundry lady is gone now," the young woman at the desk told me. "But the morning clerk promised I could have it back tonight. I'm leaving for Machu Picchu tomorrow and I'm out of clean clothes." I travel light and am used to having the hotel return my laundry the same day - in fact, I was counting on it. "Oh no," she replied, "the laundry lady won't be in until 9:00 tomorrow."

Well, I had a problem: I would be leaving the hotel at 5:45 in the morning - 9:00 simply wasn't going to work for me, so I pushed my case. I had been promised, I told her. I needed my clothes, could she help me? I pleaded. "Come back in a hour," she finally relented.

What in fact happened was that she ironed my clothes dry. When I came back an hour later I found her in the office watching TV as she ironed away. Of course they weren't ready yet, and in fact several hours passed, but she finally brought them to my room. I was about to give up and was getting ready for bed.

And this wasn't the last time I had this problem. Whenever I turned in my laundry I was always promised I would get it back by day’s ends and as often it turned out someone had to iron it dry. Of course, ironing it dry also meant I was often wearing damp clothes. This coupled with the complete lack of heat in any of the building was my biggest complaint about Peru and Ecuador.

Cuzco, in particular, gets quite cold - near freezing at night. Getting up in the morning was always an effort. I learned to quickly put on all my clothes and go into the bathroom and start the shower. Then when the room was steamy and warm I would undress, enjoy a hot shower and just as quickly get back into my sometimes-damp clothes.

Next morning I got up early and had a quick breakfast. The streets were still dark as I hailed a taxi for the short ride to the train station where other tourists were arriving for the daylong trip to Machu Picchu. The train was modern with large windows and comfortable seats - but like everything else in Peru, there was no heat.

The train loaded up and pulled out right on time. There were many empty seats and I felt a little foolish having worried about getting a place. The first part of the journey was back and forth over several switchbacks slowly climbing out of the bowl that Cuzco sits in. From the top we started our almost four-hour ride to Machu Picchu.

The countryside was lovely. We passed through steep canyons, over a wide, fertile plain, and finally along the Rio Urubamba. The river in particular was lovely: in some spots it was filled with giant boulders and white water while in others it was flat and calm. It all depended on how steeply it was falling.

There were two constants. First, we were going gently down hill the whole time. Machu Picchu is considerably lower than Cuzco. Then there was the rain. Never hard but it drizzled against the windows the whole way. The gloomy sky created a little uncertainty: would the rain stop or would it come down harder? I figured I could live with the drizzle but I was a little worried what would happen if it got worse.

Just after we crossed the Urubamba we stopped in the town of Ollantaytambo where the rest of the seats filled up. Apparently many visitors to Machu Picchu choose to stop for the night in Ollantaytambo thereby shorting the trip by a couple of hours. Now full the train chugged along with the Urubanba on the left side and lush, green vegetation on the other. All along the plants had been changing: we had started with cactus and Eucalyptus and were now surrounded by climbing vines and ferns.

Finally, when I thought my butt would surely break from sitting, we reached Machu Picchu. We quickly piled out into the cold drizzle and marched past pleading souvenir vendors to the buses that waited to carry us the last few miles to Machu Picchu. (A roundtrip ticket cost $9.) As Machu Picchu sits above the train station the trip consists of a series of muddy switchback climbing steeply up the mountainside. One bus after another slowly climbed the narrow road. At the top we got in line and paid $20 for an admission ticket. Then it was just a few minutes walk over a little rise to a wonderful view of Machu Picchu.

There are few sights in my travels that rival that first look at Machu Picchu, with mist and clouds wrapped around the surrounding mountains. The drizzle had mercifully halted and in the moments when the clouds blew clear there were spectacular views of the lichen covered walls, grassy terraces and jagged mountains. Machu Picchu sits on a spit of mountain with the Urubamba circling it down in the valley. In every direction there were breath-taking views. Neither words nor photos can accurately convey its majesty - you have to make the trip yourself.

There were also lots of tourist but the place was big enough that it was fairly easy to find a quiet spot if you want one. I walked along slowly climbing every hill, checking every building and taking loads of pictures.

At the far end there were a couple of thatch-covered buildings. Just as I got there it started to rain. As I had been walking for several hours I was ready for a rest so I took a seat in one of the buildings. As the rain increased more people came in. Soon the wooden bench was full and I had plenty of company. I spent the next hour talking to other travelers as it continued to pour outside. After awhile I began to wonder if I would have to make a dash back through the rain to the buses. Then the rain slowed a little and finally stopped so I quickly headed back. I stopped for something to eat at the refreshment stand near the entrances and then got a bus back to the base where I planned to do a little shopping.

There is a path, actually a set of steep stairs, from Machu Picchu down to the base that cuts across the switchback. On the way down a young boy ran down these stairs and each time the bus crossed his path he would yell at us, showing that he could keep up. Maybe 8 or 10 times he yelled as we passed him. At the last crossing the bus stopped and let him on. He then proceeded to walk the aisle with his hat held out. He must have collected a good amount of money as just about everybody gave him something for his impressive effort.

I started wondering about that money. Surely he wouldn't be able to keep it all for himself. That made me wonder further who had the controlling interest in this lucrative enterprise. I suspect someone was making good money off this boy's labor.

Back at the base it was raining too hard to make shopping any fun so I simply found a dry spot and waited for the train to leave for Cuzco. The trip back seemed longer, as I was cold, wet and tired. The attendants put on a little fashion show displaying garments of baby alpaca which as near as I could tell no one purchased. The guy across the aisle wrote children's books and I spent much of the trip talking to him. I also worked on my journal, looked through the photos I had taken and deleted the ones I didn't like. This is one of the advantages of digital camera: you can take lots of photos and later weed out the ones you don't want.

As we neared Cuzco, and it grew dark, we were offered a chance to take a bus the last few miles thereby saving 30 minutes. For 10 sol ($2.75) I jumped at the chance. Back at the hotel I again discovered that my clothes were not ready - no surprise this time - but it wasn't a problem because I wasn't leaving until midmorning the next day. I was cheered by the thought that I was on my way somewhere warm - Puerto Maldonado. Tired, I went out and bought couple of beers, got into bed to warm up and watched CNN until I fell asleep.

Ann Arbor, Michigan
November 2002

Part Two: Puerto Maldonado
Part Three: Otavalo & Quito, Ecuador
Part Four: Nazca
Part Five: Travel details

Read more of my travelogues

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