The Inca Trail

We adorne our team colours and wear our scrunches with pride.  United as one we begin the journey along the sacred Inca trail.  The jungle canopy engulfs and the cobblestone track of ancient times echo to the sound  of trekking poles and laboured breathing.  Constant photography of the scenery fails to do justice; rugged cliff faces raise their heads above the clouds and the omipresence of vegatation suffocates and hides sheer drops of no return.  (A young American women fell to her death in January this year.)  The sun breaches the high jungle and our shadows celebrate the presence of the Sun Gods.

We walk through a myriad of seasons and temperate zones.  The sun inflames our skin, the mist engulfs us in its cocoon and the rain lashes like a cat of nine tails.  The altitude sucks you drier than a hangover from Pisco Brandy and the constant grind of the upward ascent burns our lungs and fills our entire body with fatigue and pain.  Coca leaves are chewed and the swallowed juice enriches the spirit just in time to encounter the beast known as the Gringo Killer.

The Gringo Killer leads up to the highest peak along the trail of 4280m and it is brutal.  A three hour climb over a original formation of rock stairs, it fills your mouth with the rancid taste of bile and the only way to continue is through the development of the 500 step game.  500 steps then rest.  It is through this strategy that sees us ascend to the peak of the trail and collaspe.  As we recover we watch the snail like procession of trekkers make their way forward trance like to the peak.  (A total of 17 hours have been walked and a total of 33klms covered.)

At camp we gag on the stench of the squat toilets  and work out best way to squat without defecating in our shoes.  We entertain ourselves with the formation of top ten lists, stories of the day trekking are snared and laughter fills the tent and the screams of UNO erupt into the airways.  We are pampered by our porters and Chef who ensure that our tents are erect and our stomach content.  It is not an over estimation to state that the Chef would give any Master Chef a run for thier money.

Ruins emerge from mist filled sarcohagus' and Llamas stand sentry scanning our presence and allowing us entry in to the sacred sites of Patallacta, Phaysptamaka, Sayacmaka and Winawhyna.  We take photos of the Inca ghosts long pass and await our reckoning with the Sun Gate and the Old Mountain itself Macchu Picchu.