Friday, 01 Aug 2008 09:18
Rhian Nicholson has swapped the bright lights of London for a three-month journey across South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. Here is her seventh blog:
Following in the footsteps of the Incas is not an easy task. Initially the thought of covering a mere 33 kilometres over four days seems like a rather long walk in the park. However, throw in altitude, seemingly never-ending slopes and early morning starts and the reality is really rather gruelling.
You start bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and blister free at KM82 just down the road from Ollantaytambo, clutching your passport like it's an oil slicked eel - if you lose it your permit for the Inca trail disappears too.
So one strict passport control and a gaggle of women selling painted wooden walking sticks (the best five soles or one pound ever spent) and woven water bottle carriers (tacky but incredibly useful), you finally set a tentative foot on the legendary Inca trail.
To be fair it's a pretty easy start with a rock-strewn, fairly flat path taking you into the heart of the valley past grazing cows, tiny houses complete with roaming chickens and the odd electricity pylon that seems remarkably out of place.
Still, in the blazing sun it's not long until thirst kicks in and the sweat begins to pool on your brow. Then the uphill starts and before you know it you're traipsing along with your tongue hanging out in a rather unattractive manner, the altitude ripping the breath out of your body and a dull ache starting to plague your leg muscles.
At this point, three months preparation in the gym seems like it would have been time well spent. And if you need reminding of your abysmal fitness levels, the porters laden with 20kg packs containing gas stoves, tents and even a camping version of the kitchen sink bound past like energetic puppies.
How they manage to storm up the hills hour after hour is an incredible feat of human endurance - plus when they arrive at the campsite they proceed to put up your tent and guard your bags while you're still a distant speck on the horizon.
And for all their efforts as human donkeys they get paid peanuts - modern day slave labour is very much alive and kicking in South America.
On the plus side, their superhuman efforts leaves you free to concentrate on the essentials; putting one foot in front of the other and moaning about the lack of showers when you arrive into camp hot, sweaty and minging.
But the first day was a rather gentle introduction to what lay ahead. Rocking into camp after a mere five hours walking, desperate for water, covered in dust and with your hair matted with sweat, you're prepared to pay a large amount of money for a hot shower.
Unfortunately there aren't any: in fact the only running water is in the freezing cold stream nearby. And then there's the loos - the stench from them was bad enough to bring lunch back up into your throat even before they were frequented by people with 'stomach problems'.
Still the campsite itself was charmingly rustic with inquisitive donkeys grazing nearby and dirt paths leading to the huts where a handful of locals lived. And just to prove that the Andean people have a sense of humour, they called the tiny little shop selling water and chocolate the shopping centre.
With some much energy going out, you need an awful lot of food going in and the chef certainly didn't disappoint in producing carbohydrate-laden meals in sufficient quantities to feed an Olympic rowing team.
He also proved a dab hand at carving toucans out of aubergines. Being veggie there's only so much white rice, omelettes and pasta you can stomach but the chilli-stuffed potatoes would have had Gordon Ramsay purring like a kitten in front of a fire.
After a cold sleepless night, the 6am wake-up call was less than appreciated - and after a quick wet wipes wash it was time to gingerly climb back into the previous day's grime-encrusted clothes to face the toughest challenge of the whole trail: Dead Woman's Pass.
To say it's an uphill struggle would be a major understatement. At 7am it's freezing cold, your muscles have gone on strike and you have the prospect of a five hour trek up steep rocky paths staring you in the face.
At that point the urge to kidnap a donkey becomes almost irresistible. Still, somehow the basics of how to walk return to your numb legs and with your stick firmly grasped in your hand you start to make slow progress up the mountain, initially along gravely inclines with stunning views over the valley below.
Rhian Nicholson has swapped the bright lights of London for a three-month journey across South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. Here is her seventh blog:
Following in the footsteps of the Incas is not an easy task. Initially the thought of covering a mere 33 kilometres over four days seems like a rather long walk in the park. However, throw in altitude, seemingly never-ending slopes and early morning starts and the reality is really rather gruelling.
You start bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and blister free at KM82 just down the road from Ollantaytambo, clutching your passport like it's an oil slicked eel - if you lose it your permit for the Inca trail disappears too.
So one strict passport control and a gaggle of women selling painted wooden walking sticks (the best five soles or one pound ever spent) and woven water bottle carriers (tacky but incredibly useful), you finally set a tentative foot on the legendary Inca trail.
To be fair it's a pretty easy start with a rock-strewn, fairly flat path taking you into the heart of the valley past grazing cows, tiny houses complete with roaming chickens and the odd electricity pylon that seems remarkably out of place.
Still, in the blazing sun it's not long until thirst kicks in and the sweat begins to pool on your brow. Then the uphill starts and before you know it you're traipsing along with your tongue hanging out in a rather unattractive manner, the altitude ripping the breath out of your body and a dull ache starting to plague your leg muscles.
At this point, three months preparation in the gym seems like it would have been time well spent. And if you need reminding of your abysmal fitness levels, the porters laden with 20kg packs containing gas stoves, tents and even a camping version of the kitchen sink bound past like energetic puppies.
How they manage to storm up the hills hour after hour is an incredible feat of human endurance - plus when they arrive at the campsite they proceed to put up your tent and guard your bags while you're still a distant speck on the horizon.
And for all their efforts as human donkeys they get paid peanuts - modern day slave labour is very much alive and kicking in South America.
On the plus side, their superhuman efforts leaves you free to concentrate on the essentials; putting one foot in front of the other and moaning about the lack of showers when you arrive into camp hot, sweaty and minging.
But the first day was a rather gentle introduction to what lay ahead. Rocking into camp after a mere five hours walking, desperate for water, covered in dust and with your hair matted with sweat, you're prepared to pay a large amount of money for a hot shower.
Unfortunately there aren't any: in fact the only running water is in the freezing cold stream nearby. And then there's the loos - the stench from them was bad enough to bring lunch back up into your throat even before they were frequented by people with 'stomach problems'.
Still the campsite itself was charmingly rustic with inquisitive donkeys grazing nearby and dirt paths leading to the huts where a handful of locals lived. And just to prove that the Andean people have a sense of humour, they called the tiny little shop selling water and chocolate the shopping centre.
With some much energy going out, you need an awful lot of food going in and the chef certainly didn't disappoint in producing carbohydrate-laden meals in sufficient quantities to feed an Olympic rowing team.
He also proved a dab hand at carving toucans out of aubergines. Being veggie there's only so much white rice, omelettes and pasta you can stomach but the chilli-stuffed potatoes would have had Gordon Ramsay purring like a kitten in front of a fire.
After a cold sleepless night, the 6am wake-up call was less than appreciated - and after a quick wet wipes wash it was time to gingerly climb back into the previous day's grime-encrusted clothes to face the toughest challenge of the whole trail: Dead Woman's Pass.
To say it's an uphill struggle would be a major understatement. At 7am it's freezing cold, your muscles have gone on strike and you have the prospect of a five hour trek up steep rocky paths staring you in the face.
At that point the urge to kidnap a donkey becomes almost irresistible. Still, somehow the basics of how to walk return to your numb legs and with your stick firmly grasped in your hand you start to make slow progress up the mountain, initially along gravely inclines with stunning views over the valley below.
Indeed taking photos every tenth step is a brilliant way to kid yourself that you don't really have the fitness level of a stoned couch potato.
Then just as you're getting into your stride, and your lungs become less likely to make a bid for freedom out of your rib cage, you hit the stone steps. And not just any steps.
These are irregularly shaped, some steep, some slippery and all contributing to the painful lactic acid build up in your legs. And they seem to go on forever. The guides tell you to zig zag across like the porters to save energy, although this just serves to increase the time it takes to reach what you think/hope/pray is the top.
In my expert trekking opinion (hmmmm), it was easier to bolt up the middle and deal with the burn later. Add to this the bitter cold and your body can't make up it's mind whether it's hot, cold or on the verge of collapse.
Indeed, the Inca trail seems to have a rather nasty way of playing with your mind: you think you've reached the top of one section only to turn the corner and find another steep stretch yawning out in front of you.
And the only way is up, meaning the altitude makes it harder and harder to keep the pace, or even to keep upright. All the way the stream of porters is steadily plodding along in front of you.
To be continued…
Article in travelbite.co.uk
Then just as you're getting into your stride, and your lungs become less likely to make a bid for freedom out of your rib cage, you hit the stone steps. And not just any steps.
These are irregularly shaped, some steep, some slippery and all contributing to the painful lactic acid build up in your legs. And they seem to go on forever. The guides tell you to zig zag across like the porters to save energy, although this just serves to increase the time it takes to reach what you think/hope/pray is the top.
In my expert trekking opinion (hmmmm), it was easier to bolt up the middle and deal with the burn later. Add to this the bitter cold and your body can't make up it's mind whether it's hot, cold or on the verge of collapse.
Indeed, the Inca trail seems to have a rather nasty way of playing with your mind: you think you've reached the top of one section only to turn the corner and find another steep stretch yawning out in front of you.
And the only way is up, meaning the altitude makes it harder and harder to keep the pace, or even to keep upright. All the way the stream of porters is steadily plodding along in front of you.
To be continued…
Article in travelbite.co.uk
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