The morning brought the third of our adventure activities: zip lining. We were driven to the top of a hill and strapped up, ready to make our way down. Eight lines criss-crossed the river back down the cliffs. We took the first few with ease, running until our legs couldn’t touch the ground, and then flying to the end of the runway. Then the guides decided to spice things up a bit, letting us go upside down and backwards, or what I shall term ‘flying squirrel style’. We encouraged each other on as we tried more and more daring stunts until the lines ended. Before we returned to safer climbs beside the river, we had to navigate a two hundred metre rope bridge. The walkway of this bridge was like walking along a dodgy railway line, slats of wood every metre or so was all there was separating us from a plunge into the trees waiting like snapping alligators beneath us. I held on tight to the ropes acting as handrails either side, and made my way slowly but surely. The nearer the middle I got the wobblier the bridge became, swaying viciously from side to side. Thankfully, I made it to the end without incident, but not without injury: I cut my hands from holding onto the guide ropes too tight.
From Santa Teresa we were driven to Hidroelectrica, the only hydroelectric power station I can name which has its own mainline train station. Diane and Vicky were getting the train from here to the town of Aguas Calientes where we were all to spend the night. The rest of us were to walk up the railway line, dodging trains as we enjoyed the jungles surrounding the Urubamba River. It was walking up this train track that we got our first glimpses of Machu Picchu.
We took our time along the route, enjoying a gentle walk next to the idyllic river. Every direction you looked there was a spectacle to behold: look around you and you see forest and a tributary of the Amazon, look down and you’re reminded you’re on a train track, look up and you see the mountains and Machu Picchu waiting for you like a beacon calling from its precarious perch at the top. We reached Aguas Calientes by mid-afternoon and were greeted by a thriving town. Originally a small settlement of farm huts, this town grew to serve the demands of tourists wishing to spend more than a day at Machu Picchu. It is now a fully developed tourist hotspot in its own right, complete with natural hot springs, a plentiful array of hotels and restaurants, a bustling modern train station, and a large market all centred around a plaza perched next to a babbling stream heading down to join the main river. We celebrated reaching our destination by all going out for pizza before catching an early night ready to get up at four in the morning to beat the rush to the top.
The time came to rise and we eagerly jumped out of bed, ready and raring to go. We had a slight panic making sure we were wearing appropriate clothes – it is forbidden to enter Machu Picchu in the traditional costume of another country. I wasn’t sure if hoodies were the traditional costume of the UK or not but decided to risk it anyway.
We walked down the dark street, already heaving with impatient tourists aching to be the first one up to the top of the mountain. We reached the gate in good time and found ourselves near the front of the queue which, by the time the gate opened, was reaching most of the way back into town. When the gate opened, all semblance of queueing fell away as the crowd charged through the gate, over the river, and began the long climb up the never ending staircase, ascending six hundred and fifty two meters from the gate to the site at the top. There are over three thousand steps at Machu Picchu, and the vast majority of these are on the walk up. We started altogether, with the exception of Diane and Vicky who were in a queue for the bus to the top, and charged up the hill with ardent strides, overtaking whenever possible and getting incredibly angry whenever someone would dare to not dive off the narrow staircase to let us pass them. Eventually though, only Dan could keep the pace and the rest of us dropped off one by one, Lizzy fell by the wayside first, urging us to leave her and get photos of the sunrise, then Nate stopped to show solidarity, and Beth and I carried on, stopping occasionally to catch our breath and making it to the top half an hour after Dan and the sunrise.
Dan was patiently waiting in the queue, saving a space for the rest of us, to be sure our group could be amongst the first tours of the day into the site. Eventually we all made it up the hill, Peter coming with Diane and Vicky on the bus. We entered, getting a novelty stamp for our passports as we went, and began our tour with Peter. We walked up the path from the entrance gate and found ourselves standing over the main part of the ruins. In 1911, Hiram Bingham, an explorer and professor from Yale University, took this same route in his discovery of the place. It had always been well known to locals, but Mr. Bingham brought it to the attention of the world at large.
We walked down into the ruins; all that is left of a city destroyed, just to stop it falling into enemy hands, by the very people who built it. That’s how sacred this place was to them, and it’s not hard to see why. Llamas stood idly about the place, staring back at the tourists staring at them in wonder. The place was so awesome that no one dared say a word. I gazed out across the mountains, and sensed that all too seldom perceived feeling. I was looking at a scenery so beautiful it stunned me. I couldn’t even begin to start describing how impressive the view is. The city sits on a narrow perch atop a mountain, and the drops off the cliff are dramatic. With my fear of heights, I should have been scared in this storks nest of a place, but there was something about the silence that inhibited the fear. There was a sanctity and a peace that no fear could conquer, the only feelings possible in this place are awe and veneration.
We duly walked around taking photos, in terrified awe and reverential wonderment, desperately trying to take in as much of each moment as we could, and in the process losing most of it like water in a clenched fist.
Davey Womack is a travel writer. He’s also a tour guide, hostel receptionist, and all-round nice guy. Whether it’s chasing bears in Alaska, or attempting to swim with sharks, Davey always has a unique take on the adventures he gets into and documents them right here!! He likes pizza, walks on the beach, and all animals except goats, but most of all he likes to make you smile. If you want to see what Davey does next, follow him @womackswonder on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.
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