On Tuesday we left early and took a bus to drive us up to the pass at Abra de Malaga (4600m).
I felt quite sick. Part of this was due to the fact that the previous night was spent drinking and dancing with our group from the Inca Trail, resulting in less than 3 hours of sleep, but this was no ordinary hangover. I also was afflicted with some evil stomach bug which plagues me to this day.
When we arrived at the pass and got off the bus, it was like we had been dropped off at the top of the world. There were clouds whistling past us so we couldn't see much in either direction, but occasional breaks would
offer us a glimpse of valleys and other mountains close by. The pass itself was windswept and fairly desolate, although two kids did emerge from a barren earth hut, their clothes tattered and dirty and their snot freeze-dried on their faces.
The wind was unrelenting and it was indeed quite cold, my ears starting to feel crispy even underneath the wind-stopping hood of my rain jacket. We took a few pictures of whatever scenery we could but didn't waste much time heading down.
For this trip, we got better bikes with shock-absorbers over the front wheels. As we were soon to discover, these would prove invaluable over the course of the next few days. The roads were rocky and bumpy, so
much so that my biceps got bruised just from the constant shaking against the bone in my arm. Quite a novel censation.
As soon as we descended a little, the weather changed and we broke through the first layer of clouds, affording us some rather spectacular views. Much to our guide's annoyance, Chris and I felt the urge to stop every few minutes to take pictures or record some video footage.
It was after just one of these episodes that Chris started riding off again and planted his front wheel in a ditch. He flew forward over the handlebars and landed squarely on his chest. His video camera was around his neck at the time, and the swiveling eyepiece drove right into his
solar plexus before the plastic snapped.
Chris took a few minutes to recover (while I snapped away mercilessly with my own camera to record the aftermath of the incident), and good old electrical tape proved sufficient to secure the dangling eyepiece back to the main body of the video camera.
Then we continued down. Down, down, down. The incredible bumpiness of the road caused the handlebars of the bikes to feel like a jackhammer, totally unrelenting in their assault. I'd figured going downhill would be a breeze, but the physical effort involved in controlling the bike along with the intense focus necessary to maintain high speeds without wiping out are a lot of work. I swear!
What normally should have taken us about three hours took us almost five, with darkness settling in as we arrived at our first overnight stop. We had descended through many different climates before ending up staying with farmers (friends of our guide) at a banana plantation. It was quite fascinating to see so many banana trees, and to smell the different, earthy smells of jungle-like climate.
Chris refused to share a bed so I got it all to myself (heh, heh). He set up tent outside, not realizing that he was camping just two feet from a couple of beehives. Ha!
At four AM, the rooster started crowing. I don't know how the farmers handle it, because my first thought was to fry the sucker and have him for lunch. I mean, he didn't even have the decency to wait for sunrise! But we suffered through it and managed to sleep in until seven or so.
I should mention here also that Chris got treated to a dog barking in circles around his tent, and that when he got up and started packing away his gear he accidentally pressed his sleeping mat into some fresh cow dung. Oh, the entertainment!
It was tough to start riding again. Our butts were quite bruised, the seats having the incredible softness of a slab of granite. My hands and fingers were especially sore, and my finger joints hurt even now. Chris seemed particularly afflicted, his face contorting into a mask of
excruciating pain over every bump and turn.
It was tougher going on the second day, with less descent and a few uphills. La tortuga americana (our guide's nickname for Chris) was usually dragging behind, catching up to deliver a fresh wave of grievances (bumpy road, poor shocks, blisters, bruised butt, sore wrists, uphills, etc.) But by far his #1 complaint were the bumps, and he mentioned over and over the fact that he'd give anything for a paved road.
We arrived in the jungle city of Quillabamba (1100m) in the early afternoon, greeted by a nice deluge of rain. Our bodies exhausted, we both crashed and slept the rest of the afternoon.
On the third day we rode out to see some waterfalls further out in the jungle. Chris agreed to go solely on the premise that we would be bused back to Quillabamba, as the return trip was mostly uphill.
It took us a few hours to get there (to Chris' dismay, it included some solid uphills on the way there also) and the waterfall was nice. Chris was especially delighted that two of the bikes broke down, one losing a pedal bolt and mine one of the rolling gear things in the back--this
insured our return by bus. The so-called bus back was really one of those Japanese-style boxy minivans, into which we crouded like sardines.
The locals, after being reassured that I was not a leper, were quite fascinated by the skin peeling on my forearms as a result of my sunburn on our last bike trip a week previously. I think it deeply contented them to imagine that gringos are part snake!
Within a few minutes of driving, our rolling sardine can got a flat tire. The driver got out and fixed it. A few minutes later, another tire popped. There was no spare so we had to wait for another ride. A cargo truck came along and took most everyone but couldn't bring us because they were in a hurry and we were still detaching the bikes from the roof.
So we had to ride back. Chris was not at all pleased. (we learned later that the bus popped yet a third tire soon after)
At seven in the evening, we boarded the bus that would take us back to Cusco. This was by far the worst part of the trip, and the whole vacation in general.
The seats are cramped, with no room for people over five feet tall. My kneecaps are totally bruised--if not permanently ruined--from the experience. We had seats in the very back of the bus, with no aisle to stretch our legs in (the aisles were packed with passengers and chickens.)
I had a window seat, and spent the first few hours in mortal terror. I could see the cliff outside the window that dropped hundreds of feet down but not the narrow mountain road, and the driver drove along at breakneck speeds. The fact that we had seen many places on the
way down were buses had misjudged the road and tumbled down to their deaths did not help my state of mind whatsoever.
For some reason, when we entered the clouds it was easier to handle. I couldn't see anything but dark mist in general. We slept fitfully. A Peruvian, probably accustomed to camping out on a glacier at 15,000ft.
left one of the windows open and we added freezing cold to our long list of discomforts (another one being sitting neatly underneath the bus speakers blaring out local music.)
Ten long hours later we arrived in Cusco. We got back to our hotel and crashed. When we woke up around lunch time, we were both sick. Chris had a major cold, coughing and wheezing and constantly gurgling mucus. I
had a major stomach ache, and I was certain that I would vomit at a moment's notice.
Sadly, this meant that we had to cancel our planned four day hike. We were in absolutely no condition to climb a few thousand meters to camp out next to glaciers. Instead, we've contented ourselves with short excursions to local areas of interest.
But we're still sick. Chris' nose is dripping like a faucet and I'm always on the verge of throwing up. I've lost most of my appetite and have spent quite a few moments with a plastic bag in front of me, wondering whether I was about to witness my latest meal for the second time.
Funnily enough, this is normally accompanied by diarrhea. Instead, I haven't seen anything come out in days. My suspicion is that I've got some hard piece of you-kno-what the consistency of cement acting as a cork and backing up my entire digestive tract all the way to my throat. Even passing gas seems particularly strained and difficult.
But it can't last forever, and I expect a gargantuan explosion any time now. My greatest fear is to be stuck away from a toilet when the volcano decides to erupt, so I'm always on the lookout for the nearest baño, as the spanish call it...
Anyway, enough of that. Despite all this, we're having a great time, and making the most of it.
That said, I think both of us are ready to come home now. We've got one day left and then we're off. After some good arm-twisting, Kyle has agreed to pick us up at the airport on Thursday.
Cheers,
Gabriel
