From the Cordillera Blanca to Cuenca

The final day of my trek only contained a couple of hours of trekking before we were driven back to Hauraz, and the following day was a day of relaxation. Once again I booked my own room and television. The Hobbit was my friend.

That night I took the night bus to Trujillo, and the following day I decided to visit the nearby ruins of Huacas del Sol and de la Luna. I opted out of going with a tour group and I travelled there myself; all I had to do was get in the right collectivo. Collectivos are tiny little buses that look they were built decades ago, look like they should have been taken off the road years ago, and look like they should have fallen apart months ago. Usually they are totally overloaded with people. Because of the strong grip of the Peruvian Gringo Trail and it's plush buses, I had yet to be herded into one in South America. Until now.

I waited at the corner of the street where my hostel told me to stand. A steady stream of collectivos pulled up. A man hung out of each one yapping its destination on repeat. "Haucas del Sol?" I enquired to the first one I saw. He pointed further up the street. I walked nearer the back of the line of collectivos further up the street, but I failed to find the one heading my direction. I waited for twenty minutes next to the ever changing line of collapsing collectivos and yapping men, but I never stepped on any of them. After asking a couple more collectivo guys if they were going my way, I finally realised that I actually should be standing way up the street, not just a few metres away. And so I walked higher.

A collectivo guy barked in my direction further up the street; "Haucas?". I stepped on. Before long I was in a speeding collapsing box of metal, with various body parts of various Peruvians in and around the space I was trying to hold for myself. To them it was nothing. Eventually, one by one, the locals got off. My tourist stop was last. I was in an empty tin can by the time it was my turn to disembark.

Haucas del Sol and de la Luna are huge ancient pyramids. The murals within Huaca de la Luna were undiscovered until 1990 and are in remarkable condition. The colour is still there. Having arrived alone, I was the sole member of my guided tour. Often I get bored in such situations, but this tour I really enjoyed. Maybe it was because it was one on one, maybe it was because my guide was so good, or maybe it was because I had done it all by myself. I had let go of the Gringo Trail, and that is when independent travel is at its most fulfilling.

The following day I took a local bus to nearby Huanchaco beach ... and one hour later I returned again. The beach was deserted; a seaside ghost town. An hour was enough. I returned to Trujillo to sample a local popular fish restaurant. I was finally both on the coast of Peru as well as not feeling ill, and so it was time to try ceviche. Ceviche is raw white fish marinated in lemon juice, onions and hot peppers. I've never been a fan of sushi, but this was great. While I still feel that at least a flash on the frying pan does anything raw a world of good, the kick of the marinade made it delicious.

I returned to my guesthouse that night to relax. Residential Munay Wasi is just a regular home on a regular street, but the friendly Peruvian woman who lives there has opened up most of the rooms for travellers; and she soon becomes incredibly trusting of her temporary lodgers! I only stayed two nights, but on the second night she wanted to go and play cards with her friends, so she gave me the keys, informed me we had some new guests due at 10pm, and left me to it. And so for a few hours the guest house was under my control! The new guests arrived very late, but I gave them a small introduction before the owner returned a couple of minutes later.

And other than the start of a lengthy bus journey, that was it for the Peruvian section of my journey! Overall, I enjoyed Peru. My trek around Cusco was the highlight, but there were also little moments here and there which will always stick in my memory. But now it was time for my fourth and final country; Ecuador.

As soon as we crossed into Ecuador we stopped for a lunch. The timing could not have been more perfect. Just kicking off on the little border side cafe TV was a friendly football game; England v Ecuador. It was like the world knew that I had arrived.

That evening I finally arrived at my destination; Vilcabamba. Vilcabamba is an odd little place. Half the local residents are middle aged American expats. Just weeks after feeling like the oldest person in Huacachina in Peru, I was now feeling like the youngest person in Vilcabamba. But the place was small and pleasant.

On my first full day in Vilcabamba I went for a walk in Rumi Wilco; a small nature reserve. The walk was lovely, and I never saw another person for the entire trail. There were various different routes to take, and I chose to climb upwards to get some elevation very quickly. At one point there was a sharp narrow bend looking over a steep drop and I was forced to crawl underneath a rocky outlay jutting out around the curve. Afterwards I continued to climb higher and higher, and eventually stopped to relax at the peak. Looking down over Vilcabamba below, everything was very quiet. The odd ant-like person could be seen walking through the distant streets. I sat there for a while, enjoying the time and space I had. It was peaceful.

Much time went by. Eventually I got up and began to descend down the other side. I very quickly reached a massive spider web blocking my narrow hill-top path. Sat stationary in the middle was an ugly and fair-sized spider. Clearly this was a very newly built home for the spider, or really no-one had taken this trail for quite a while. For the second time that day I was forced to get on my hands and knees and crawl underneath my obstacle.

As I continued to descend down the hill I reached one of many forks in the trail. I was tired but enjoying my walk, and pondered whether I should continue deeper into the greenery rather than take the trail back down to the bottom. I took out my map. I had a decision to make. Eyes down, studying the routes, I caught something move in the corner of my eye. A spider, identical to the one I had recently ducked under, emerged from my back and crawled over my right shoulder. And so I spasmed.

The spider was even more startled than me. It promptly abseiled down my back. Presumably it found the floor and scuttled away. Presumably. I would check my back for signs of eight legs multiple times for the rest of the day.

Once I gained my composure a couple of seconds later I realised my legs were moving. As it turned out, my navigational decision had been made by my feet; partly to move away from the spider, but mainly because that was the way I was facing when the spider emerged. I didn't dare turn back to re-enter the territory of my foe; I was heading back to the park entrance, and my walk was coming to an end.

The following day I embarked on a second walk; this time up to the lofty peaks of Mandango on the other side of Vilcabamba. It was a tougher but less eventful walk, with nice views from the top. At the peak I walked along the upper edge of the cliff. My heart stopped for one second as my right foot slipped off the crumbling stones. It wasn't long before I then decided that too should signal the end of that walk, and besides, I had an important Skype conversation with a man call Karl at 3pm, but the details of this I shall save for my next blog entry.

I left Vilcabamba one day later to visit Cuenca; a pleasant city, if rather lacking in excitement. My stay there was short. My travels are soon coming to an end. Just two weeks remained. After three months of sightseeing, walks, and landmarks, I was finally looking forward to home. But before my outgoing flight I wanted to try something a little different. And Karl said it was fine ...

From Lima to the Cordillera Blanca

I spent my final day in Lima dragging my sneezy self through the city centre, before coughing my way through a night bus journey to Hauraz. There I booked a single room (as opposed to the usual dormitory bed), and hibernated until I felt the world was ready for me again. My room had a television, and Friends, The Big Bang Theory, Shrek 2, and various other on-screen joys became my best friends.

By the Wednesday I deemed myself fit enough to re-integrate into society. I joined a four day trek in the mountains and valleys of the Cordillera Blanca.

After the ease of my trek in south Peru, I didn't have any fears. However, days one and two proved surprisingly tiring. I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe because I had recently been ill, or maybe the trekkers around me were just fitter. The nights were very uncomfortable too, largely because I was squashed into a tent with two other guys, as if the cold and hard floor wasn't uncomfortable enough. Maybe I had just been spoilt on my previous fantastic trek. My previous trek was expensive, but this extra expense bought me a spacious tent, a great sleeping mat, insane amounts of ridiculously good food, two great guides, and plenty more. I had been spoilt, and this trek was highlighting that fact.

When I finally reached the highest peak halfway through day two, I was exhausted. The views finally began to come close to matching those from my previous trek though. We had reached a lovely snow-capped peak, and the valley we would descend down stretched far into the distance.

Half of our group made a decision on day three; Four Americans and one Spaniard were to speed ahead and finish the entire trek that day. Right from the start they set their pace, and a couple of Germans joined them in their initial haste. After an hour or so I found myself alone, and with a crossroads ahead of me I waited for the guide, our only guide, behind me. Once he caught up he informed me in broken English that we were not going the way to the end. This initial path had been a scenic detour, but we needed to turn back now. I was unsure how much of this the early pace setters had known, but the guide raced ahead to shout to the distant walkers.

Eventually five trekkers returned. I asked them where the two Germans were. They pointed in the direction of the hill they had just come from. "Do they know they need to come back?", I asked. "I think so", was the response. I wasn't so convinced. Eager to finish the trek that day, the four Americans and one Spaniard continued towards the correct distant valley. Meanwhile I waited for signs of the Germans, or our guide.

When our guide emerged from his high view point, I informed him that the Germans were still out there, but they were nowhere to be seen. Our guide therefore pointed out the way we needed to go and raced out into the hills to look for the Germans. There was nothing else I could do but head the right way with the two other remaining trekkers.

The views began to excel, and before long I found myself ahead and alone. My pace was good. I wondered if I would soon begin to catch up with the front pack, or at least find them with our chef eating lunch.

I walked through a sandy valley. I walked past a lagoon. I walked past trees, mountains, and increasingly great views. But I never reached a point to stop for lunch. Only then did I begin to wonder; were the front runners actually stopping for lunch today? Had our chef actually gone ahead to set up a lunch point? Where was I suppose to be? With the group now split in half, I suddenly realised I was the front runner of those spending the full four days on the trek. And I had been alone for a long time.

I eventually reached a campsite for a different tour company, and there I decided to stop. It wasn't far past midday, but I was hungry. On the previous day lunch had been around 1pm. I eventually backtracked a little and found a guide from another company with a couple of trekkers. I asked him if he knew where my company stopped for lunch. He asked me who my guide was. "Edgar", I replied. "I have heard about you!", said the guide. "You were suppose to wait at the lagoon for lunch, but you weren't there! Edgar has been looking for two Germans. They are lost. He is waiting for them at the lagoon!". I had past the lagoon a long time ago; There was no way I was going all the way back there. I was tired and hungry. I laid down on the grass, put my hat over my face, and decided to wait.

I don't know how long past. I sensed something had approached me. I must have been asleep. I uncovered my face to the sight of an inquisitive donkey wondering why I was sleeping on the grass. I sat up. The donkey began to sniff the contents of my bag. I had no food. If I did, it wouldn't have been for the donkey.

I had been waiting well over an hour before some familiar faces emerged. The remaining two unlost members of our group approached. They told me about the two lost Germans, but also that our campsite shouldn't be too far past the current one. I couldn't believe I'd almost trekked the full distance by little past midday. I had missed lunch though, and my energy was low. The final slog would not be pleasant.

I went ahead by myself to try and spot the camp, but after ten minutes I'd found nothing. I backtracked slightly to let the others meet me, and they were surprised it wasn't in sight. A guide from another company approached from behind, and so we enquired. He told us our camp was still an hour and a half away. My heart sank. I was starved. Luckily a couple of the trekkers from the new guide had some biscuits to spare, and before long I had enough energy to keep me going.

After half an hour of more walking our adopted guide and his food-giving tour group reached their own camp. We still had an hour to go. We were told our camp was beneath a waterfall.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.

"Waterfall!" shouted Olga from the forthcoming corner! I sped ahead.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.

"It's here!" I shouted back to Olga at the first sight of camp tents. And I was home.

It had been a hard day. I do not recommend skipping lunch on a trek. But more importantly, I actually enjoyed day three the most. The scenery was by far the best, and I had enjoyed speeding along by myself, and in a way, I had enjoyed the drama. Edgar and the Germans, I feared, were enjoying the day less so.

Only half an hour past until Edgar emerged from the trees. The Germans were not far behind. "What happened?" I asked them when they finally arrived. "How did Edgar find you?". "He didn't" they replied. "We weren't lost. We knew we had to turn back. We just went to see the hidden lagoon behind the hill". What an anti-climax, I thought. Maybe I had had the most exciting day after all. And to rounds things off, that night I slept really well. I had a tent all to myself.

From Cuzco To Lima

The pace has barely stopped. Sometimes travelling can feel like a train ride; a set track in which you see and do exactly what everyone else has seen and done before you. In South America, it's known as The Gringo Trail. While the attractions of the trial are usually worth a visit, I've been searching for that 'wow!' moment a lot lately.

My Gringo Trail all started after my fantastic Lares trek. I spent one extra day in Cuzco to relax, and then finally moved on to Arequipa. There I visited Santa Catalina; an old nunnery like an enclosed village stuck in the middle of one of Peru's most populous cities. Following this I went to Museso Santuarios; the new home of Juanita, the incredibly preserved frozen Inca mummy sacrificed on the nearby mountains hundreds of years ago. She looked good for her age.

The pace continued. Arequipa is the gateway to Colca Canyon; the second deepest canyon in the world after the nearby but less accessible Cotahuasi Canyon. I took a two day trip to witness the lofty views and local settlements.  The highlight though was the deep gorge itself, and the massive condors that glided above, seemingly never needing to flap their wings to elevate their huge weights.

The pace continued. My two day trip was followed by a night bus to Nazca; home of The Nazca Lines. Nazca itself was rather void of interesting sites, and despite it being the base for one of Peru's most famous attractions, I was staggered to barely spot another western face in my first 24 hours. However, the evening lecture at The Maria Reiche Planetarium introduced The Nazca Lines to me wonderfully. The Nazca Lines are ancient shapes, drawings and lines cut into the stony desert at various points between 900 and 200 BC. Despite their epic size, modern day humans only noticed the patterns as an offshoot of the invention of the aeroplane. Since then, various theories have developed about their original use and meaning, but their relation to the stars and sun makes the astrological argument for their meaning very convincing.

Most tourists to Nazca choose to fly over the lines to witness the designs themselves, but I had not heard or read great reports about taking the expensive vomit-inducing air rollercoaster, not to mention the fact that many governments advise against flying over Nazca due to a large history of fatal crashes. And so I opted out of a night of worry in my bed, and I took a land tour of the attraction, including a few elevated view points. As the occasional tiny plane banked and circled above my head, I felt no jealousy or regret.

And the pace continued. By nightfall I had arrived in another new destination. Huacachina knocked me back for a couple of moments, it was like Peru had evaporated and I was suddenly in a holiday resort. A series of modern looking restaurants circled a small lake, and almost every t-shirted or bare chested cool dude youngster I past spoke with a British accent. I'm not sure where they all came from! Unfortunately this was the start of a period of man flu which has stifled my travels somewhat, but I did take a morning trip to The Ballestas Islands. From our swaying boat I saw hoards of birds, penguins and seals ... if only my deteriorating health had let me appreciate it fully.

Huacachina is popular amongst the young tourist crowd for sandboarding and dune buggies, but regrettably I wasn't feeling up to it. Equally it didn't feel like a place to relax, and so the pace continued, this time to Peru's Capital; Lima.

I'd heard many unsavoury stories about Lima, mostly involving robbery. I therefore opted to stay in the nicer Miraflores area rather than the city centre. While it seemed void of any major attractions, I was surprised at exactly how pleasant it was! As I wandered around, my man flu taking an ever a tighter grip, I walked through a small city park; Parque Kennedy. A tiny section in the middle had a number of stumps to sit on, all facing a lone piano ladened with the words 'Play me'. Almost every stump was occupied, and the small crowd listened lovingly to the excellent young Peruvian who had currently opted to sit at the piano. I found a central vacant stump and occupied it. And the pace finally began to slow.

Ten minutes later, to a small applause, the young pianist played his last note. Without hesitation he instantly stood up, and without looking back at his audience, but smiling with pride, he walked away. Within seconds he was just another face in the crowd; another t-shirt clad twenty-something walking through Parque Kennedy. But he was proud And after a week of Nazca Lines, Condor Canyons and bare-chested cool dude tourist sand surfers, I realised something; it was moments like this which I travel for.