...on the Inca Trail

Depending on the list, it is one of the wonders of the world. It is also the most expensive destination on our trip... and it took four days to walk there.
Yet our overwhelming reaction on seeing Machu Picchu was of being, well, underwhelmed.
However, as the sunlight edged its way over to light up the 600-year-old Inca city, we slowly came to appreciate its beauty.
It is the natural setting as much as the man-made construction that makes the site impressive.
Cradled by towering mountains, the city reveals another stunning vista around every corner.
Some of the theories about its boundaries being modelled on the shape of a condor - or its buildings on the form of an alligator - seem, at least to this sceptic, a bit dubious.
But the more you see its constructions - and hear how their shape fits with the movements of the sun and stars, and follows a route to the mountains - the more believable becomes the premise of it being a path to the gods and reincarnation.
And still more impressive is the fact it is here at all.
Despite the use of agricultural terraces and storehouses, it is still hard to figure out how they fed the army of workers it must have taken to build this city in such uncompromising surrounds.
Some of its buildings, like many in the old Inca capital of Cusco, are constructed from huge stones - expertly fitted without mortar.
Exactly how they did it remains a mystery.

Many travellers tell you the Inca Trail is like a motorway of tourists, too packed to be enjoyable, and that alternative treks involving zip-wires and mountain bikes are better.
I suspect more than a few of them just failed to get around to booking their place before the daily limit of 500 was reached.
It certainly is busy - as would be any route as important as this - but the One With The Common Sense and I found ourselves completely alone on more than one occasion.
The landscape was probably not as attractive as on the Choro Trail we had walked in Bolivia but as a creation it was more impressive.
Climbing over a mountain pass to 4,200-metres above sea level, it then plunges deep into the cloudforest jungle, taking in several Inca sites as it passes through their Sacred Valley.
Each day had its highlights.
As we overlooked our first Inca site - a small temple - on the first day, a wind whipped up carrying distant rumbles of thunder. Very atmospheric - like a warning to modern man to reconsider his path.
It was a fantastic feeling to reach camp after struggling 1,200-metres uphill during an 8km slog on day two.
Meanwhile, emerging from a tunnel carved into the mountain to a jungle of ferns and vines, hemmed in by mist, as hundreds of frogs whistled around us, made for a magical hour or so on day three.
And after watching the beauty of Machu Picchu emerge from the "sungate" on the mountain above, it felt great to walk around the site, feeling strong despite a four-day hike with early mornings and uncomfortable camp beds.

When we had realised two 60-something Americans were our only fellow passengers for the trip, our hearts sank.
Dick and Adrienne (how hard to resist re-enacting the closing scenes from Rocky) were not quite the obnoxious gun-toting Texas Republican-types we feared they might be.
Both having had interesting careers, including working in the Middle East - they were far more broad-minded than the almost-always inaccurate stereotype.
However, it quickly became apparent that they were happy to talk about themselves and totally disinterested in us. As they were entertaining enough company, that was no bother to us.
They were quite funny to listen to as they fussed over each other, while Adrienne´s dodgy stomach had a comical habit of letting rip with loud, rasping farts at regular intervals.
The cracks in our relationship with them started to show when they expressed their distaste for alcohol.
Dick - his name suiting him more each day - suggested that while the Catholic Church permitted alcohol in moderation, its followers indulged a little more than they should.
The One With The Common Sense was not going to let that lie and pointed out that she was no alcoholic, at which point Dick admitted that it was those with no faith who were most at fault.
Laughing, I put him right that a committed atheist such as myself was not automatically a drunkard.
The more opinionated Dick became, the more ridiculous he sounded. Even my friends from the States would see the irony in an American declaring that "those from Germanic nations" were annoyingly loud.
What really set Dick off, however, was the fact we finished the gruelling second day a full two hours ahead of them. It brought out the Alpha male in him and suddenly everything became a competition.
He even wanted to beat me at my slightly tragic hobby of birdwatching.
And despite numerous digs at "my fellow countrymen", as he called them, I maintained a self-deprecating view and British stiff upper lip.
That is, until the last morning when I awoke in a serious grump.
After a petty argument about whether Americans had better toilet habits than the rest of the world (seriously), we fell silent until a group further forward cheered as the sun popped up.
"Idiots," grumbled Dick, adding that the route should be the preserve of the sensible over 40s.
I finally snapped, telling him: "Heaven forbid that anyone should have fun here."
That finally shut him up - I don´t think he´s used to people answering back.

Inca sites are not the only phenomenon on the trail.
The porters and camp cook also fit that billing.
Mostly tiny guys from farming communities, the porters charge along the treacherous stone paths - often running - with towering 20kg packs containing tents, gas bottles, camp chairs and other supplies on their backs.
No fancy hiking shoes for them - most wear thin trainers or sandals, their blistered toes hardened and thick cracks showing in their heels.
Among their burdens is the party´s food - enough for two or three courses at every sitting - and generally prepared with quite some flair. Stuffed peppers, meat rolled around a vegetable filling and vanilla pudding all featured.
One morning for breakfast, our bread and jam was supplemented by eggy toast, a banana meringue pie and even a huge cake.
It certainly set you up for the day but, if anything, there is just too much. I did my best to pull my (growing) weight for the group.
However, it all proved a little too much for the One With The Common Sense. One night, her digestive fumes were so powerful as to awaken me from my slumber. Good thing our tent had plenty of vents.

We had spent the night before the trek at the village where two of the porters lived.
It was a chance to get a taste of life in a rural community, where families use bulls rather than tractors to plough fields.
Getting there was fun enough. Along with about 25 locals, including several in traditional dress, we crammed aboard a tiny minibus.
Facing backwards, we saw the amusement our fellow passengers were having at the expense of the pasty pair struggling to keep hold of their bags as the van swung wildly around corners.
The village was fascinating, as our guide showed us the mud bricks used to construct houses and the fruit and herbs grown in most gardens.
We visited some of the homes where people live around tiny kitchens, heated by clay ovens.
Most farm small areas of land, neighbours helping with the donkey-work, to sustain themselves - selling whatever surplus they have.
The simplicity of life was shown by the presents we were advised to take - a couple of packets of biscuits, some hot chocolate and cooking oil.
We finished our night with something of a hoe-down in our host´s kitchen, as a harp-playing neighbour bashed out traditional tunes and the porters and their wives did their holding-hands and swinging around dance routine with us.
Invariably, the floor of the homes were alive with guinea pigs - one old man had 50 of them.
Far from being pets, they are bred to serve up on special family occasions.
Obviously, I wasn´t going to pass up a chance to try a new meat but I had to wait until we were back in Cusco to taste the fat little critters.
At a local place recommended to us by our trail guide, I was presented with half of every six-year-old girl´s favourite pet, served on a bed of the obligatory two carbs - pasta and roast potatoes.
It´s head - teeth and all - fell off the minute I put the fork in but there was no getting through the rubbery skin.
It looked like crispy chicken skin but was much more greasy and rubbery, so I scraped it off and tucked into the meat.
It was quite hard going finding morsels between the tiny rib cage but the rump revealed plenty of fragrant flesh.
The nearest comparison I can make is to crispy duck´s stringy meat but the guinea pig was much stronger and sweeter.
I don´t reckon the locals mess about with a knife and fork but I did my best and devoured most of it... though I did resist the temptation to chew on its stiff little claws.