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Often adventure happens when things don’t go to plan. I was in Cusco, the wonderful high-altitude gateway to the Sacred Valley of the Incas. Most people travel the 75km to Machu Picchu by comfortable high-speed train in an effortless four hours. But at a cost of three times my daily budget I opted to make a day of the journey and, for a fraction of the cost, I would take a bus, collectivo (shared taxi), taxi and then hike the remaining 15kms. Needless to say, with so many moving parts things didn’t go to plan, but I ended up with a good story.
.... Cusco has a wonderfully homogeneous colour palette – rooves and church domes of terracotta tiles, white-washed walls, dark wood balconies, foundations of light grey stones fitted together with legendary Inca precision, all beneath a bright blue sky. It’s like a South American Siena. I’d spent a couple of days there between trips. As always, the first 48hrs is a fabulous antidote to the privations of the road – a hot shower, clean sheets, a comfortable bed, electric light after dusk, restaurants, cafes, culture, people. But after that I become impatient to leave. I like departures, moving on – packing up and putting on a rucksack, getting on a bike or driving off in a car - for me it’s an uplifting and liberating experience, especially if the day I leave is brighter and bluer than the day I arrived. I suppose it's partly the anticipation of a physical challenge and partly of new experiences and encounters.
And so, on a bright morning I set out from my dishevelled but elegant hotel in a seventeen-century galleried courtyard and headed up the narrow, cobbled streets to the bus station. On the way I passed a crumbling barbers shop.
One of my great travel pleasures and slightly strange habits is to have a haircut and beard trim at traditional barber shops and experience local grooming customs. In Turkey I had my ear hairs burned out with a flaming cotton wool ball, in India a head massage and threading to remove cheek hair, in China a terrifying deep ear scouring. I like the ritual of male grooming which largely remains the same wherever you are in the world – the reverence with which I’m ushered into the chair, the ceremonial begowning, the theatre of the clipping, cutting, and trimming, the cadenza of local virtuoso techniques, the finishing touches of gel or wax and a good dousing of aftershave, and finally, the formal mirrored introduction to the new me. Nothing prepares for an adventure like a neat, short haircut and beard trim. To me, it is the physical expression of a trip-ready, clear thinking mind.
So I enter the tiny, ancient barber shop and meet its tiny, ancient barber, Begnacio. He sat me in the oversized silver rimmed, red leather chair which dominated the small space, and proceeded to get ready. With a theatrical air he slowly brushed and gelled his hair and put on a crisp, white, high-necked tunic. Then with a flourish he gowned me, and gave me a hard stare in the mirror. He looked like a retired Prussian officer about to dance a jig. To avoid his gaze I looked up and noticed his diplomas on the wall. He had trained in folk music and dance. Of course. Suddenly he began to cut at lightening speed. As he got near my ears I noticed his hands shaking a little but fortunately no blood was drawn. Despite this, it was a good cut, although he left my moustache long and pronounced giving me the slight air of a Victorian dandy.
Of my journey to the start of the hike, all that needs to be said is that it was much longer than expected; a combination of torrential rain, rutted roads, and major roadworks. At one point at gridlock on a half-built motorway I watched through the window as a group of bareback horse riders galloped past on the opposite carriageway. At another, I found myself in the boot of a shared taxi, bumping through dark lanes looking out through the hatchback window.
By the time I arrived at the start of the walk, at a bleak power station next to a railway track, it was dark. I was told that all I had to do was follow the track for 15kms, and not to worry about trains as they don’t run at night.
The railway track followed the edge of a deep valley with a river at the bottom. There was a cliff on one side and a steep drop to river on other. The rough path shifted from side to side across the tracks. It felt good to be walking, free from confined spaces and back in control of time.
A little later, I saw a mass of lights coming towards me, like a large group of people with torches. But what sensible person would be out on the railway track at night? They must be up to no good. Perhaps they were bandits. If so, they moved very quietly. I felt for my penknife in my pocket – not that I was going to use it, or could even open the stiff blade without stopping, but it was comforting to feel it in my hand. As I walked closer, I noticed that they didn’t seem to get much bigger and, with relief, I realised they were just a swarm of fireflies lighting up in the beam of my headtorch.
After some time I came to the main river in the region, much larger and more violent than the one the track followed. The railway crossed it on an old-fashioned metal lattice girder bridge like you see in New York. On the side was a pedestrian walkway, much less sturdy than the main structure, like an afterthought. I took a few steps to check it out. Some of the thin metal footplates had a lot of give in them, whilst another had a raised edge which bounced as I stood on it. The hands rail was rather slender and there was nothing between the rail at waist height and the footplate and so it was possible to fall through. The bridge was long and I couldn’t make out the far side with my headtorch. But I could see and hear the raging white water below and I knew that if I fell in, that would be it.
I sat down, drank some water, ate some nuts, and weighed up my options. Firstly, was this the right route? No-one had mentioned crossing a bridge, but I had just followed the railway track and there was a walkway. So, it’s reasonable to assume the bridge must be crossed. Given the state of the walkway it might be better to wait until dawn to cross. Or, I could just go very cautiously and if I felt uncomfortable I could always come back. What did I want to do? Of course, I wanted to go on. Partly it was instinct that I felt I could manage the risk, partly the excitement of walking down that narrow path into a black infinity above a raging river, and maybe also what psychologists call ‘Plan Continuation Bias’ - the desire to underplay or explain away obstacles to convince yourself that ‘the Plan’ is still the right course of action.
So I took another swig of water, waited until my heart rate had stabilised and, keeping one hand on each rail, slowly moved forward. I kept my headtorch pointed on the footplate just in case any were missing. After a few steps instinct seemed to take over. I felt calm; on the one hand hyper aware of every step and hand movement, and on the other slightly detached from my body. Mid-way across the bubble suddenly burst and the reality hit me - I was above a deadly river, on a rickety walkway, in the middle of the night, and no one knew where I was. I must be mad. Should I go back? That would have involved turning around and letting go of one handrail which seemed even more risky. I had to carry on, so I needed to focus on my breathing, believe that I would get across safely, and cautiously put one foot in front of the other. The sound of the river disappeared and the next thing I was conscious of was being at the other side. I turned around and the sound came flooding back. I looked at the walkway I had come on disappearing into the blackness of the night.
I sat and took a moment. The moon was full and the sky was bright. Ahead of me the valley was narrowing. The dark, jagged mountain walls were closing in on the river, whose rough waters were speckled with reflected light. Night drapes grandeur and majesty on a landscape. Like a desert or snow, it cleans and purifies. These are the moments I travel for. To dig deep and overcome, and to witness hidden beauty.
I carried on along the tracks for a couple of hours. It was now around 2am. I’d been travelling all day and walking most of the night. I was a little punchy and drew in the cool breeze and the smell of the vegetation which seems to intensify at night with the loss of sight.
I was walking next to the cliff face and the path was very narrow and rough. Ahead of me tiny lights were moving. Initially I thought they were stars, but they seemed to be getting bigger. Maybe fireflies again. But now they were coalescing into a single source – it must be the moon. Bigger still and heading straight for me. It was the vibration of the track which finally got through to me – it was the headlight of a train, and coming at speed. There was no time to cross the track, I squeezed myself into a natural indentation in the cliff wall and a moment later, towering above me it thundered past, with a blinding light and a deafening rumble. So, empty trains do travel at night. I found out later that this one was headed back to Cusco to be ready for the next morning’s passengers.
A few hours later I was in Machu Picchu which did not disappoint. Its location makes it the benchmark for a dramatic ruin; on the edge of sheer mountains which plunge to a deep gorge below and rimmed with precise and narrow terracing. Wrapped up in the beauty of the site is the romance of its rediscovery, by the intrepid early twentieth century American explorer, Hiram Bingham, the inspiration for Indiana Jones.
Later I caught the train back to Cusco. It retraced my steps of the previous night. In the cold light of day it was an unremarkable section. True the setting was still dramatic, but the colours were bleached and flat, the track was scrubby and litter strewn, and the edges of the river were clogged with storm debris – tree trunks, branches which had caught plastic bags; some billowing in the wind others shredded into ribbons, and little vortexes of plastic bottles.
Wherever it cuts its path the modern world leaves a messy trail. But like some fairy tale, hidden in plain sight for half the time, night masks the scruffiness of day, and restores to the landscape purity and dignity.
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