Inca Jungle Trek - Days 1 & 2

JUNGLE TREK 

6/12/10 

I know what you're all thinking. "But Bridget, you had made 8 valid and witty points for why you shouldn't exert any energy to see Machu Picchu. Pray tell, [I presume my readers speak Elizabethan English] why would you subject yourself to said physical exertion?" Honestly? I don't know. Partly subjection to peer pressure, but mostly because I couldn't find anything else to do in Cusco for a week. There's only so many churches and museums you can go to before they all start to look the same. So, I signed up for the 4 day, new, "Jungle Trek". It varies from the Inca Trek in that it involves mountain biking (which I am obviously a champion at), a slightly different route, and sleeps in hostels instead of tents - and the main selling point, it's roughly $150 cheaper than the Inca Trek. I must've forgotten that I'm not a fan of getting physical, despite loving the song of the same name.

DAY ONE 

We leave the hostel at 7(ish) (all times in Peru require the "ish" suffix) and board a van blasting 80s tunes (in my books, a good sign). There are 10 of us in the group - 3 Dutch boys, 4 American girls, an American guy, an Aussie guy, and me. A good group, even if it does sound like the perfect nationality mix for one of those backpacker disaster movies. We drive quite a while to Moray (not like the eel) – an Incan site. So, in other words, a bunch of well-stacked rocks. Nonetheless, it was still impressive. After a brief tour (after all, we were on a schedule. We had to reach a certain road by 1, because it closes for several hours each day, reason unknown/unexplained to us. So Peru.) We started sorting out bikes and helmets. This is when I realize I haven’t the faintest idea about gears on bikes. Can I have an automatic? 

After pretending to understand the difference between “up” and “down” and when to use them, we set off on our merry way. We were in farm country, absolutely gorgeous. The dirt road was a bit bumpy for my liking, but I did enjoy the views of flocks of sheep in paddocks set against snow-capped Andean peaks. It didn’t take long for me to lose the rest of the group, except for Nick, the other Aussie, who’d taken on the role of shepherd at the back, making sure the straggling sheep (i.e. yours truly) didn’t lose the rest of the flock (I saw a lot of sheep today, I’m sure there’ll be more ovine metaphors). The road got a bit bumpier, and a lot scarier. We had to cross a canyon, and of course, the only way to do that was to go down and come back up again. Is it too late to ask to be taken in the van now? See, I have this little fear of riding mountain bikes on bumpy, narrow, cliff-adjacent “roads”. I made everyone pass me, not wanting to stop any crazy adrenaline junkies from taking their drug of choice, and walked my bike down and back up on the other side, taking me a super long time. Maybe, I thought, if I take so long, the guide will get annoyed and make me get in the van? Wishful thinking. I eventually reached the rest of the bike-capable gang who had stopped, and then we got going again. The worst thing about being last is that you never get a break, but you do get the guilt that you’re keeping everyone up. Breathlessly apologizing all the way. I assure the boys in the group that I don’t mind taking the rear, that I’m going that slow that any accident I have is probably going to do the reverse and actually help me catch up with everyone. Along the way I got a few more lessons on those gear things, but still only know how to change them one way. Safe, right? 

Our next major “stop” is some pre-Incan salt mines. I say “stop” in quotation marks because we are still on our bikes, paused, while our guide briefly tells us about salt mines before jetting off again. Two kinds of salt – sodium chloride and sodium “get-me-back-on-the-freaking-van”. The next part was even more cliff-adjacent and bumpy. My favourite combination. At some point, we reached (or were reached by) the van. My new favourite thing with four wheels. We get back on, not really knowing what the next stop is, just glad to not be doing anything. I’ll tell you now, my butt was SORE! Like two teams of munchkins representing the Torture Guild had been playing polo on My Little Ponies wearing thumbtacks for horse shoes. I. Was. Tenderised. The music on the van had changed from ear-pleasing classic 80s tunes (which even included ‘Endless Love’) to pounding modern club remixes of all the latest offenders, including my favourite (sarcasm) “We No Speako Americano” (standard). Very appropriate for daytime nature driving. So a bit of time passes, and one of the American girls asks, “how much further?”. 

“Two and half hours,” the guide responds. 

We all look around at each other, hoping to see that someone else has understood it, to in fact be a joke. It wasn’t. We didn’t have time for jokes. Two and half hours until I can feed my poor strained belly? So not only was I feeling tenderized, but my belly was empty too. Obviously, this makes for a very happy Bridget. We make it just in time to the magic “on hour of usage a day” road, ten seconds before it closed. Which turns out it was closed for road works. Scenery wise, everything starts to change. We’d gone from chilly mountains to tropical, mosquito-ridden villages. No alpaca sweater necessary. “Who wants to ride again?” we’re asked. Being a sheep (told you about the metaphors), I went along with it, even with my pulverized behind. This time we were actually sharing the road with larger-than-us motorized vehicles, who weren’t afraid to (over)use their horns. At least we were not longer on 40cm wide trails. Re-taking my position in the rear of the group, apologizing to my arse, I actually liked this segment through tropical villages that smelt of mango. There were so many great photo opportunities, but not wanting to hold the group up anymore than I already had, I settled for mental pictures. I was mainly excited to see tropical vegetation. Taking the rear, I soon realize that our van is following me. I mostly noticed this when he overtook me, signaled for me to stop (I thought he was going to make me get on because I was holding everyone up) and showed me how to use the gear changey thingy the other way (I’m good with bike technical terms). I did have a scare, when the support van tooted to signify a truck was about to pass, and I got such a shock I had a little spill in the mud. Luckily I ride at a granny’s pace, so the damage was only mud to my pants. Most of this segment was downhill or flat, except for one part which made my thighs burn more than a Disco Inferno set alight by a young John Travolta, but without the groovy tunes and cocaine. Eventually we arrived at Santa Maria, around 3.30 for lunch. That’s roughly a nine hour gap between foods. So clearly, I didn’t mind the lunch of mystery meat, which was actually pretty tasty. After mystery lunch we were taken to our hostel, Nick & the American girls went white water rafting (I had had enough activity for one day, plus I’m freaked out by smashing my face onto a jagged rock). I settled down to write this while the hostel owner’s six year old son, Jorge, plays around me. Now a few of us from various tours staying at the same hostel are gas bagging about our horror travel stories. Wonderful things to bond over. After day one, and the way I’m currently feeling, I can tell you, I still hate exercise. Now where’s my beer? 


DAY TWO 

That was some crazy Indiana Jones shit we went through today. Early enough start, 7AM for breakfast, and probably got going at about 8, a short ride to our starting point for some trekking. Welcome to the Jungle, indeed. I thought the biking was tough, but those vertical jungle climbs were killer on all parts of my legs. Maintaining my spot at the back of the pack, of course. We trekked mostly uphill through jungle vegetation, and it was lovely to be in tropical heat, even if it did make me the sweatiest bitch in all the Sacred Valley. My legs did not enjoy the uphills, even after trying to fool myself into believing it was flat terrain by internally chanting “it’s flat, flat, flat like the chest of your 15 year old self”. Not super effective. Turns out this whole trekking business is not akin to a leisurely garden stroll (because I take so many of those in my day-to-day life). We reached some kind of monkey house, so called because it was a house with a monkey tied to it. Here we learnt about chicha and coca, well, I would have, if I hadn’t been so focused on not feeling like death anymore. We got dressed up in Incan clothes and painted with some orange dye from some kind of fruit. So tribal right now. All for the photo opportunities, of course. I was definitely jealous of Caroline, one of the Americans, who got to have a fake, blonde, Incan baby included with her costume. Bitch. Almost everyone washed off their “Survivor” paint, and I tried too, but mine basically turned into a horrid Lindsay Lohan tan, which stayed with me for the remainder of the day. 
After regaining strength (or gaining numbness) from chewing coca leaves, we set off again. Only this time, more cliff-adjacent. I took my sweet arse time, holding up the few people who stupidly decided to walk behind me. I’m not the strongest downhill walker. Let’s just say, I was clutching the “walls”, kind of reverse-crawling down the make-shift steps, all the while profusely apologizing to the boys behind me, who I’m sure would’ve preferred to run down the narrow cliff-side paths rather than follow a timid, shit-scared, slow little white girl. So we continued to walk, up and down, but thankfully not too much up. We had a few little stops along the way – necessary. Luckily the rain held off for us too. We got to a little restaurant (i.e. a hut in a jungle that had a kitchen), complete with hammocks and wandering chickens (lunch). Had a refreshing lunch of hot soup and some mystery chicken with rice (what you need after some hard trekking) all the while being soothed by the sultry sounds of the Best of Milli Vanilli CD. After a while, the rain started to fall, not too heavy (i.e. no plastic poncho required) accompanied by some tropical thunder. Perfect time to start walking again. 

So, we did some more cliff-side walking (with me all the while thinking there’s a perfectly drivable road to our next town, why am I walking when it causes me this much pain and bitterness?) until we got to a “bridge”, i.e. a log, which had been placed over the Rio Urubamba. I waited until the rest of the gang braved it, just in case it gave me faith in my sense of balance, which it didn’t. I needed my hand held by our guide the whole way. After everyone gets across the log, all these new rivers start forming around us. Flash flood. Uh, this wasn’t mentioned in the itinerary. Clearly our guide was shocked too, when he looked around at us in panic and said “The river is growing!”. He tells us to take our shoes off. The classic “can’t go over it, can’t go under it, will have to go through it” scenario. Especially good when you can’t see the shape of rocks you’re putting your feet on. Struggling along some not-very-trodden paths, sin-zapatos, I learnt which plants are not good ones to put your hands on. Ouch. We reached a part where we could wear shoes again, trekked a little more, until we got to a classic rickety Indian Jones-style bridge. It didn’t help my cause when our guide decided it was hilarious to shake the bridge (with only rocks and rapids below us), and it didn’t seem to stop with my panicked screams of “THAT’S NOT FUNNY!!” 

More trekking, more of me clutching cliffs and crab walking down hills, until “45 minutes later” (our guides “go to” time, no matter if it means half an hour or two hours), dreaming of beers and we reached the hot springs, after a trip over the river in some kind of cable car, pulled with the manpower of our guide and an old Peruvian man we gave a sol to. After changing in the girl’s change room “behind the rocks” (not so useful when you’re in a valley that has walking paths on either side), buying a big beer from a 7 year old boy (the most well earned beer of my life) we settled into the hot springs. Absolute bliss. I feel like I should say something like “ah, the treks and the cliffs were worth it for this”, but really, there was a road leading to the hot springs. Could have taken the van for a couple of soles. But, beers in the hot springs were HEAVENLY. The hot water was heaven on my achey body. My legs have never been so sore. My whole body had been tenderized, really. Who talked me into this? I have only myself to blame. 
After getting a little tipsy on the beers, we were shepherded into various vans heading to Santa Teresa, our home for the night. And now, here we are, getting our shit together before complimentary “Incan tequila” and getting talked into zip lining in the morning. I’m down for drinks, but signing up for extreme sports? Ask me tomorrow. 

Later that night… 

Things escalated. Fast. Papi (nickname for our guide) took us on the town in Santa Teresa, his friend’s restaurant to enjoy their food, party tunes and 2x1 happy hour, including pisco sours. Danger danger, high voltage. Soon after the tequila shots (peer pressured) and agreeing to go zip lining tomorrow (will definitely chunder whilst doing so) it got out of hand. Party tunes from yesterday’s bus ride were pumping, and the small family restaurant became the hopping night spot of Santa Teresa, with a brief two minute interlude when the whole town blacked out. All part of the charm. We managed to get Papi highly inebriated, and found some other tour groups also doing the Jungle Trek and headed for the town’s discotheque (reliant solely on Jungle Trekkers, I’m guessing). Tragic tunes blasted, beats were dropped, and I definitely Hammer danced several times (it’s not my fault if the DJ plays the same songs multiple times). It goes without saying that ‘We No Speako Americano’ played several times. 

The discotheque, naturally, had a pole. Mostly used by the tour guides and drunk Aussie guys. At one point there was a monkey. Monkeys just don’t belong in discotheques. No one knew where it came from. It looked really happy to be hearing the dulcet tones of Snoop Doggy-Dogg… So Peru. Definitely did not expect to have a wild dance party, featuring a monkey, on a Jungle Trek. So much better than that Incan Trek garbage. At least I get to sleep in a bed, complete with hideous teddy bear blanket (don’t worry, took a photo), while those Incan Trekkers sleep outside. And I got to dance to Beyonce. Suc-cess.

• Machu Picchu
• Peru
• Jungle Trek
• Inca
• exercise
• mountain biking
• trekking
• Monkey