When did bum bags sneak back into fashion? Or have I been travelling too long? After a few weeks away from mass tourism, it was a shock waking up in Cusco to find coach loads of international package tourists wandering the streets wearing their bum bags with pride. As the starting point of trips to Machu Picchu I should have expected nothing less.
Machu Picchu is on most people's list of things to see before they die; it never made it onto mine, although I thought that, seeing as how I was passing, I might have a quick look in to see what all the fuss is about.
There are three main ways to get to Machu Picchu : 1. The four-day Inca Trail featuring blood, sweat, tears and blisters. 2. The two-day Inca Trail featuring blisters but fewer tears. 3. The train and bus - delivering you, hairdo intact, straight to the top without so much as breaking a sweat. The legendary four-day Inca trail is closed in February (the rainy season) due to fears that the ground is slipping through overuse as it is trampled by hundreds of thousands of tourists annually.
As a failed Brownie, being prepared was never my strong point, so it was no surprise then that I missed out on a booking for the two-day Inca Trail. The moral of the story: book as far in advance as you can. I was told to take the train with the old, infirm and lazy whilst my fellow travellers hiked the exhilarating seven hours to Machu Picchu.
Usually happy to take the easy option, I felt cheated out of my chance to earn my Inca Trail stripes. After hearing hundreds of travellers' tales about the "spiritual experience, sense of satisfaction and the feeling that it was all worth it," I too yearned for the blisters. Not to be outdone, I'd heard that there was another route to walk from the base town, Aguas Calientes, to the entry point of Machu Picchu, a completely uphill climb not for the fainthearted. I set off in the hope of "earning my right" to see the ancient city.
Ian Roberts of Wigan, if I ever find you, I will kill you slowly for suggesting this route. Contrary to his opinion, it is an arduous, lung-battering steep climb and under no circumstances should any other 31-year-old, unfit, asthmatic smokers attempt it (unless you are complete masochists). As I eventually dragged myself puffing and wheezing to the top, I was rewarded by ... teeming rain and complete cloud cover, I decided against paying the entrance into the actual site and took the bus back down, more than a little bitter, to town, saving the full Macchu Picchu action for the following day with the rest of the group.
It turned out to be the right decision when, the next day, we were blessed with bright sunshine. My first view of Machu Picchu was definitely worth the wait. Light clouds parted to reveal the awe-inspiring Inca city, terraces and buildings were etched against a dramatic mountain backdrop; it quite literally takes your breath away.
Our tour guide, Marcelino, walked and talked us through temples and houses across terraces and altars and turned what could otherwise have been a pile of well-arranged stones into an organised and skilfully designed Inca settlement with traditions, rituals and a lifestyle a world away from our own.
Climbing to the highest point within the Machu Picchu site you access the most incredible views, only then can you appreciate the scale of what the Incas created, a magical city at a height that cuts through the clouds.
I had been sceptical about Macchu Picchu, expecting to be disappointed in an over-hyped mass tourist attraction. My verdict? It deserves some hype and is definitely worth a one-time visit, although perhaps because I didn't sacrifice four days of blood, sweat and tears on the Inca Trail I won't be raving about it quite as much as the Machu Picchu ambassadors I've met thus far.
Back in Cusco, I prepared for a marathon voyage to Venezuela. Thirty hours and three flights later I landed in Caracas having spent many hours in airport lounges playing "spot the Colombian drug baron" in Bogota and longingly trying on Gucci sunglasses in Lima.
Caracas is one of those places that, if you heeded the travel warnings, no one would ever visit through choice. Keen to avoid becoming another tourist victim stat, I opted for the first available flight out of the capital and to the north-east coast in search of sunshine, heat and carnival spirit.
Carupano, for 361 days of the year, is an unremarkable coastal town on the shores of the Caribbean, but for four frenzied days, it's Venezuela's carnival capital. I was doing the backpacker equivalent of off-roading as, according to my guidebook, Carupano just doesn't exist. Undeterred, I managed to find myself a hotel and some carnival action.
When I was a cocky 17 year old, inter-railing with my equally smart arse friends, we used to laugh at solo travellers, anticipating the dreaded opening line: "Hi! I'm travelling alone, do you mind if I join you?" Well, my travelling karma has come back to bite me firmly on the backside. Finding myself alone in Carupano on day one of the carnival, drinking, dancing and general merriment all around me, I realised that I needed to find some company fast!
