Machu Picchu.
Visiting Machu Picchu is like visiting Disney World. From the lines to board the buses up to the entrance to the lines at the entrance to get into the archeological site, I couldn’t help but think of Disney World and the ways in which they shuttle guests from the airport to the hotels to the various parks. All I lacked was a wristband.
The night before, a guide had stopped by the hotel to make sure I understood the schedule. I was to meet him (or another representative) at 07:00 in the square (there was only one square; it wasn’t far). I was to bring my passport and the guide would buy my bus ticket. Our entry ticket was for 08:00 and after purchasing the bus ticket we’d board the bus to Machu Picchu.
He asked me if I understood and I nodded. He waited. Was there anything else he could help me with? I shook my head. He waited. Anything at all? The hot springs were just up the hill if I was interested. Nope. I thanked him and he reluctantly left me to my own devices.
Thursday morning, 6am.
I got up and packed my bags and had breakfast at the hotel. At around 06:30 I grabbed my bags from the room and put them in the storage room. The square was a ten minute walk away, and I could see small groups had formed in various spots when I arrived. The majority of the guides stood to one side, looking out for the people they were to usher up the mountain.
I didn’t see my guide and so I waited. Groups collected and left, en route to the buses. I waited. Eventually, guides started calling out names. As I was walking by, a man asked me if I were me. I said yes and he asked for my passport. He called out other names and a Filipino couple rose from a nearby bench. He asked for our passports and disappeared up a street.
Tickets in hand, he led us to the bus line. It was long. People had 07:00 tickets in hand as they waited. A steady stream of buses arrived and departed, filling up with tourists eager to get up the mountain. I learned that the earliest entry was 06:00, and thought about whether it would have been better to have booked everything on my own vs with a group.
Store owners sold hats and mosquito repellent. It was towards the end of the wet season and rain was still not uncommon. The Filipino woman lamented our late departure. She had wanted the site to herself.
Up up up.
The journey began alongside the river, heading out of town and then back and forth up switchback roads to the entrance. As we climbed the view became more and more beautiful. Near the top, as we approached one bend, I could see the city through the trees, and terraces on a nearby mountain. I was happy not to be hiking.
On arrival, we waited to get in. There were two lines, and suddenly a third. An attendant asked how many in my party and lead me to the front. The guide told me to wait under a canopy for the rest of the group to join. Once inside, one coupled asked about the bathroom. The guide sighed and said it was outside. A few peeled off to use the restroom and the guide told us to wait once again.
Once we we were again together, we began our climb to the various viewpoints over the city. Every time we rounded a corner for a view we stopped to take photos. The guide waited patiently, knowing that the top was where all the photos would be taken; the classic “do it for the ‘gram” spot.
When we arrived, there were groups and lines to take “the photo”. At various points there were three people lined up along the edge, splaying out their hands or posing with their backs turned, looking over their shoulders to the camera. We waited as people took all of their photos. Finally, as the crowd thinned the Filipino woman asked if I wanted a photo. I said sure. I’d send it to my mom.
As we walked around the city, I became curious about the guards. The guide told me there were about 20, some friendlier than others. They appeared throughout the town, dressed in khakis and sporting masks.
Now and again Jorge would stop and explain bits of the complex and fill in the history of Machu Picchu. He told us that the smaller mountain behind us was called Machu Picchu, but no one knew the name of the town itself. He told us it was as well-preserved as it is because the Spanish never found it.
On climbing up to the main observation deck, Jorge tried to translate his words into English, but it was too much to climb and talk. The Filipino couple understood Spanish and I told Jorge that I’d figure out enough from the Spanish and that he needn’t translate just for me. He thanked me, but then found opportunities as we walked ahead or waited for people to finish taking photos to fill me in.
We wound our way around the complex of temples and houses, the sun warming our bodies. We had gotten lucky with the weather; the skies were mostly clear, though clouds hung over the mountains around us. At one point in the tour, we paused by a large rock in the shape of the mountains around us. Considered sacred, it sat between two huayranas where people would sit, watching over ceremonies that would be performed there.
At one point, Jorge stopped to tell us about the mountains around us. You could climb Machu Picchu and you could climb Huayna Picchu. He said he had done the latter only once. It was a difficult climb, sometimes almost straight up on a narrow stair. It was not for the faint of heart, and in truth a German traveler had died of a heart attack in the months previous as he attempted to ascend.
From our vantage point we could see terraces and a storefront set high into the mountain. He told us there were people climbing it now, but we couldn’t see them.
As we left, Jorge told us we could take any bus back to Aguas Calientes. I thanked him for his time and got in line to head back to town. I wanted to grab lunch before I boarded the 14:00 train back to Ollantaytumbo; unfortunately, I wouldn’t have the time to take in a hot spring bath.
Aguas Calientes.
Back in town, I grabbed my bags and chose a restaurant with a 15 soles lunch special, honoring my backpacking past. While the grilled trout was smaller than the portion at the more expensive restaurants, it was still tasty and I found the potatoes more flavorful.
I sat at a table on the street and I watched backpackers and locals wandering up and down the hill. With the time I had available, I wrote some post cards before heading down the hill towards the train station.
Back to Ollantaytumbo . . .
At the hotel, Roxanna had asked me if I remembered how to find the train station. She said I should walk back the way we came and then through the market. I told her yes, and walked down to where I had alighted from the train. I waited for a bit before asking someone where the station was and they said it was back towards the Main Street, by the river.
I made my way up the tracks without finding the station. I asked another local and they said I had gone too far. I should walk back and then up the hill and through the market. I did as they were told and found myself lost in the market. I asked a woman attending a stall and she pointed the way. It was then that I saw the makeshift signs pointing the way through the market to the station.
and then to Cusco.
The train ride was significantly quieter. I was on the same side of the train, facing the same way, and I used the time to nap lightly. As we approached Ollantaytumbo, we were told that we’d be boarding buses back to Cusco. We were given numbers corresponding to the bus we should take and told that they would be leaving as soon as we arrived in the station. We were to hurry.
At the station, I followed a woman carrying a sign to the buses. There was no bus with my number (five), they jumped from four to six. I was told to wait.
Eventually, they boarded us onto bus number seven. And then we waited. The smaller buses began to leave, and then the bus beside us. And then, one couple boarded, and we were off.
As we drove past mountain and the plains, it became apparent that the couple next to me had been engaged that morning. He had proposed while they were at Machu Picchu, with photos from the photo spot to prove it. She FaceTimed friends and showed them the ring, and spent the rest of the time editing photos and posting them to social media. She beamed with happiness.
I congratulated them and wished them luck and settled into my seat for the rest of the ride.
Cusco.
The bus dropped us off just outside the station, a 20 min walk from my hotel. There had been no communication about what I was to expect when I arrived, so I shouldered my bag and walked back home, stopping along the way for dinner.
At around 21:00 I got a frantic call from the tour operator asking me where I was. I told them I was home. At the hotel? Yes. I could almost hear an audible sigh of relief. They thanked me and hung up. Moments later they texted to apologize for texting so late, but were happy I was home safe. I told them no worries and prepared myself for bed. ⛰
