Relative Winter is Coming

We said our sad goodbyes to Hoi An and climbed in to the Taxi back north to Da Nang to catch our flight to Nha Trang. We were scheduled to depart at 6:10pm and I for one was rather excited at the prospect of flying along the Vietnamese coast at sunset, especially once we had checked in and I had been allocated a window seat. Sadly, it wasn’t to be though as a late arrival meant we were delayed for about an hour. Ah well. We arrived in to Nha Trang and set off for our hotel, a large and spacious if slightly dated 2^nd story room with a huge balcony overlooking a busy street corner. It was now about 10pm so after a quick fashion shoot with our newly tailored wardrobe we called it a night.

There isn’t really much to do in Nha Trang; the city has a pretty decent beach and a massively overpriced theme park… and that’s about it. It’ only real feature of note is that it’s crawling with Russian holiday makers and expats, so much so in fact that Russian, rather than English, is the second language here. The popularity of Nha Trang with the Russians is a hangover from a period between 1975 and 2002 when the nearby natural harbour of Cam Ranh was leased to the USSR and later to Russia as a Naval base.

We didn’t really take to Nha Trang, it’s little more than a watered down version of Da Nang, albeit watered down with Vodka. Given the number of high-rise hotels and apartment complexes being constructed though, it will likely soon be giving Da Nang a run for its money. If you’re a fan of days on the beach and nights in the club all whilst ‘vanity-‘graming’ every 5minutes and doing everything you can to avoid interacting with the local culture, then Nha Trang is the city for you! That’s not really us though, so for much of the next two days we enjoyed the balcony and the cool sea breeze that swept across it whilst we gave our surplus a chance to heal itself.

Onwards then to Da Lat, a town which we already knew was going to being launching a full frontal assault on our finances. We set off from Nha Trang for the 4 hour drive to Da Lat in the back of a minivan whose suspension had been removed and replaced with cinder blocks and whose driver had clearly learned been trained by the Peruvians (that or his brain had also been removed and replaced with a cinder block). How we’ve managed to survive all of this insane driving so far this year is beyond me, but it has had the unintended side effect of helping Katy get over her fear of flying. She’s positively zen now when strapped into an aircraft seat rather than in a bus and holding on to the back of the seat in front whilst being thrown through another blind overtake.

Although shaken by our drive through the mountains we arrived at Da Lat and were instantly bowled over by the refreshingly cool air temperature. Da Lat lies at an altitude of just over 1500m, deep inside the mountains of the central highlands and at this time of year typically has temperatures in the high teens to mid-twenties. After 2 months of not stop 30+ degree heat, this was absolute heaven! Being cold has never felt so novel. A short taxi ride brought us to Tree House hostel, run by an English guy named Simon and his Vietnamese wife Hannah, which would be our home for the next 4 nights. That evening we enjoyed a ‘family dinner ‘which the hostel puts on on alternative nights for a small extra fee. The word ‘family’ is used slightly loosely here in so far as Hannah stays in the kitchen wither sister and cooks dish after dish of stunning Vietnamese cuisine, whilst Simon sits at the dining table with the guests getting steadily more drunk. It’s good to see that he has acclimatised so well to gender norms in his adopted country.

Over dinner we got chatting to fellow guests Esther and Richard from London who, like us, were a little older than the run-of-the-mill backpacker here and so shared our curmudgeonly disdain for loud, vacuous party-loving youths. People after our own heart. Before we knew it three hours had passed as food kept coming and beer and rice wine kept flowing until eventually Esther, Richard and ourselves felt the pull of our beds. The family dinner was such a nice change of pace from the usual hostel experience; travelling in the internet age means that striking up a conversation with other hotel or hostel guests is a rare thing and so it can sometimes be a quite insular experience. We’d almost forgotten how nice it can be to actually talk to other people.

We set off early the next morning to explore Da Lat following a self-guided walking tour that Katy had found online. The city was built by the French as a mountain retreat in the late 19^thcentury and grew quickly over the following half century as the French began producing wine and coffee on the slopes of the surrounding mountains. The city survived the war largely unscathed and today is the most popular domestic tourist destination for the Vietnamese. The city’s French origins are still readily visible; the wide boulevards are lined with trees; the hotels have that classic Parisian feel with neo-classical recessed columns and balconies and everywhere there are small parks and gardens, churches and bistro cafes. The city is centred around a large artificial lake which is circumnavigated by a wide, pine tree lined road. With the mountains in the background and the cool greens of the foliage, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in a small French or Swiss town somewhere in the Prealps.

The first stop on our little jaunt was Hang Nga Guesthouse, known informally as ‘the crazy house’. The guesthouse is an ever-expanding and highly unconventional freeform building designed by Vietnamese architect Dang Viet Nga. She started the construction in 1990 and has been expanding it ever since despite the efforts of the local authorities to shut her down (that was, until they realised that it was a draw for tourists and there was money to be made). Even today whole new sections are being added. Although started as a guesthouse, the site attracts so much attention that during the day the grounds are open for the public to explore for a small fee. The guesthouse features four main buildings; one themed on an anthill, one a greatly exaggerated mediaeval town-house, one as a coral reef and one that defies all explanation. All four buildings are intertwined by concrete pathways and ladders, each decorated to look like vines or rock formations or other more abstract organic forms. The site is a real warren and its location on a hill on the outskirts of the city means that from the top (if you could fine your way there) you can get some great vistas over Da Lat. We spent a good hour and a half climbing around through caverns and seashells, over rooves and across pathways having a great time getting completely disorientated. The attention to detail here is impressive and it would be a brilliant place to dump kids for a few hours and let them annoy someone else for a change.

Once we had had our fill we stopped in the small café attached to the crazy house and enjoyed the fact that, for the first time in months, we were out and about in Asia and not sweating our own bodyweight in water every 20 minutes. We slurped down a banana smoothie each and carried on our adventure, passing a church which famously has a chicken on the roof (ok) before heading down to a large, elevated park overlooking the lake which is home to a pair of imposing glass and metal structures; one shaped like an artichoke and another representing the head of a sunflower. Along with Wine and Coffee, Da Lat is also renowned for its flower production and the sunflower head is a celebration of that. The countryside around the city is dominated by polythene greenhouses which produce all manner of cut flowers, many of which are used liberally to decorate the public parks and gardens in the city. Because of its flower trade, Da Lat is a popular palace for young couples to come to take their wedding photos which, in local custom, are taken before the wedding. Evidently the Vietnamese have no equivalent concept to ‘jinxing’.

We carried on past the lake and up a steady hill to the train station. Da Lat is no longer on the main railway line, the tracks that used to connect it to Phan Rang were taken up after the war and used to construct the reunification line further north. The only remaining tracks are a short section leading from the station to a pagoda about 5km southeast of the city and to which a small tourist train runs twice daily. We had been told by fellow travellers at Tree House Hostel that it was a bit of a waste of time though, as the train is overcrowded with throngs of Chinese tour groups madly trying to take photos of themselves in front of every window, and that the pagoda is a bit of a tourist trap. We opted instead just to enjoy the grounds of the station; a 1930’s French Art Deco style building which has been lovingly maintained by local volunteers.

On our way back into town we stopped off for a light lunch in a café that makes home-made ice cream where Katy found she had a taste for durian, and I questioned why I agreed to marry her. After that we walked around the rest of the lake swearing at the local drivers who have a penchant for fitting customised horns to their vehicles that sound like shotguns being fired through church organs. We walked to Da Lat’s famous flower garden. And then past Da Lats famous flower garden. Because it’s a flower garden, and headed back home. Having walked about 12 miles in all around the city we felt we had burned enough calories to have a burger for dinner, so that’s what we did.

The following morning, we had booked ourselves on to a day-long guided sightseeing tour recommended by Simon & Hannah. About 9am our guide arrived, and we piled in to the 4×4 joining a pair of Dutch guys and a young Canadian called Adelle who had already been picked up from another hostel. We set off and quickly got chatting amongst ourselves as we made our way out of the city towards our first stop up by a small dam just to the south of city. Here our tour guide Cong told us about Ho Tuyen lake, the reservoir held back by dam which provides flood protection to Da Lat, as well as talking us through the itinerary for the day. Cong was informative, friendly and witty with an extremely dry and sarcastic sense of humour. He spoke great English and quickly built a rapport with us by mocking our accents and swearing at other Vietnamese drivers using rather choice words that Grandma would most certainly not approve of. Cong was also very open to talking about Vietnams society and politics, spilling all sorts of dark secrets about corruption and exploitation and the shortcomings of essential services. This was my favourite part of the tour and I really appreciated Congs willingness to tackle difficult subjects and answer probing questions. There are days, when travelling, when you say to yourself that no matter what problems your home country faces, things could be a lot worse. This was one of those days.

If all we’d done was drive around the Vietnamese countryside talking about corrupt institutions, the legacy of the War, social divisions and people’s attitude to propaganda, then this day would have been good value for money. It wasn’t though, and Cong had loads of stops for us to enjoy including a couple of waterfalls, a coffee plantation where we got to sample coffee farmed by weasels (if you’re now thinking about that story you vaguely remember about coffee made from weasel poop, yes, that’s the one), a mushroom farm, a massive statue of a female buddha (paid for with misappropriated funds according to Cong), a secluded golf resort for the Vietnamese elite, a cricket farm where we got to try freshly made rice wine and deep fried crickets (yum) and finally a flower plantation.

It was a packed and absolutely fascinating day and to cap it all off there was another family dinner back at the hostel that evening. We had intended to get a fairly early night as we had plans for the following morning but after 4 beers and too much rice wine, we found ourselves mixing it with the best of them over a game of cards against humanity. Best laid plans and all…

Considerably later than planned the following morning we set off to Da Lat cable car station for the short ride through the pine trees to Tuc Lam Phung Hoang Zen Monastery. We weren’t here for enlightenment just yet though; we had another agenda! About a 15 minute walk from the cable car station is Datanla Waterfalls which can either be accessed by a steep mountain path, or via an alpine bobsled roller coaster. No prizes for guessing which option we took!

An alpine coaster is a little different to a traditional roller coaster. Instead of a large train which seats 20-30 people each car is small and seats 1 or 2 people and is fitted with a manual brake for speed control. The geography also means that you start at the top rather than at the bottom, only going up the chain lift on the return trip to the station. Katy and I engaged in our greatest national pursuit and dutifully joined the queue whilst scowling at anyone who even looked like they were thinking of jumping the line. A short wait later it was our turn to board and Katy lead the way as we took separate cars. The trains quickly pick up speed coming out of the station and soon we were whizzing through the trees and flying through banked corners as fast as we dared. The ride was surprisingly smooth and really good fun and was the perfect cure for our hangovers. Sadly, it was all over too quickly and after being winched up a short hill we were made to depart at the second station and were presented an opportunity to buy some on ride photos. ‘Well it’s not like we’re ever going to be here again’ is a phrase we see to be saying with worrying frequency as we open our wallets at the moment.

At the bottom is a vantage point for Datanla waterfalls, which are perfectly pleasant, though not as impressive as the waterfalls we had seen the previous day and was absolutely swarming with those in pursuit of nirvana through the medium of the perfect selfie. We got back on the roller coaster for the shorter second section which mainly consisted of chain lifts taking us to the top of the hill. We walked back and I took a brief look around the Zen Monastery whilst Katy tried to shake off the lingering effects of her hangover and then we headed back on to the cable car and returned to the city. Our next stop was the market which we had hoped would yield some interesting wares but proved to be a bit repetitive and something of an anti-climax to our time in Da Lat, a city which had proven to be a real favourite of our time in Asia.

Luckily that evening there was no family dinner taking place, which was good, because the following morning we had to get up at 5am to catch a flight to Sai Gon and if there had been a family dinner, we certainly wouldn’t have packed and probably would have overslept.

But more on that next time.

Don’t be a (Expletive Redacted) Idiot: La Paz Part 2

(SPOILER ALERT: We survived)

‘Trust me’ said Omar, the rep at Gravity Mountain Biking who booked us on to the Death Road tour, ‘there’s nothing worse than trying to ride a mountain bike with a runny stomach’.

Good advice.

Heeding it, the evening before our tour we opted for the very safe bet of Tuna Pasta to cap off what had been a rather lazy day, save for heading across the street to pay through the nose to get our clothes laundered. Machine washing isn’t really be a thing here, many of the locals believing that it doesn’t get clothes as clean as hand washing, so the few laundrettes that exist can charge something a premium to travellers in need of the service. Some you lose, I guess.

We begrudgingly got up at the crack of dawn the day of the tour to head over to Higher Ground Café in Belen district, the meeting point for our tour and an opportunity for a spot of breakfast at western prices and some much-needed caffeine. 20 minutes or so after we arrived, a young American with a wide, warm smile, a blonde ponytail, Gravity branded hat and jacket and a clipboard (the universal symbol of competent authority) came in and introduced himself as Nate, our guide for the day. Once the final few bits of paperwork were sorted out, he rounded up our group and took us down to the waiting minibus with racks of mountain bikes on the roof. In we all climbed to head to the starting point for the tour, on the way getting to know the rest of the group; an Irish couple from North London, an American from Georgia, a couple from Belgium and a Frenchman.

Just over an hour later we arrived at La Cumbre Lake about 60km north-east of La Paz, the starting point for our ride. At 4,700m the altitude here is even higher than Salkantay Pass, but our short stay at this altitude meant the low oxygen levels had little impact. Pulling over in to a large dirt car park by the side of the lake the Gravity crew unloaded the bikes, gloves, helmets and overalls and handed them out. We were given 10 minutes or so to get comfortable with the gear and a feel for our bikes; high-spec and highly tuned mountain bikes with wide tyres, highly absorbent suspension and ultra-responsive disc brakes.

We soon got a feel for the bikes and Nate gathered us around to give the first of the many safety talks of the day; all of which essentially boiled down to the same message: ‘Don’t be a (expletive redacted) idiot’. Following this we gathered our group by the lake for a photo op and each of us made an offering to Pachamama for good luck by pouring a small amount of stupidly potent alcohol on to the ground, on to our bikes and then in to our mouths (Yes dear reader, the wisdom of the combination of high strength alcohol and ‘Death Road’ crossed our minds as well). Along with Nate we had a second guide called Luis who rode around the group taking pictures and ensuring that nobody fell too far behind unaccompanied. Over the course of the day Luis took the best part of 250 pictures, saving us having to worry about stopping to take photos ourselves. Apparently, Gravity offer this service so that their customers aren’t tempted to try to take photos whilst riding along and winding up on the wrong side of a cliff. According to Nate this is not unprecedented. Remember ‘Don’t be a (Expletive Redacted) Idiot’.

It was reassuring how safety focused Gravity were compared to the service offered by other tour operators also departing from La Cumbre lake, and you could clearly see where the extra money was going. Where we were riding as a group of 8 with 2 guides and a support vehicle, other groups had a single guide for groups of 20 or more and provided far less suitable looking bikes. Nate also told us that all Gravity staff are rope rescue trained up to 100 meters. Not hugely reassuring since the drops in many places are 400m, but he assured us that if we fall more than 100m it wouldn’t matter… Good to know…

Equipment readied, bikes tested, safety briefing complete and Pachamama appeased, we got under way. The first stretch, about 22 kilometres, a steady downward section along a wide, smooth tarmacked road. This was an opportunity to get comfortable with the bikes handling at speed, getting a sense of who are the faster and slower riders and, most importantly, to get used to how the brakes react. 99% of all accidents, according to Nate, occur when riders come up to a corner too fast, panic, hit the brakes way too hard and go flying.

After a short ride through La Combre Pass, the road turned a corner round the side of a mountain and the vista opened up overlooking a huge valley stretching off in to the distance. The view from here was stunning, the black and grey volcanic mountains flanked a wide, half-pipe shaped valley peppered with thin patches of vegetation. The meandering river in the valley basin caught the sun at just the right angle to make the whole thing glisten and the road ahead snaked down the northerly mountain side roughly parallel to the river. The morning cloud layer was breaking up under the heat of the sun and what was left of it was clinging to the tops of the mountains and casting patchy shadows on to the slopes below accentuating the slopes and the overall scale of the scene before us.

One of Nates points during the safety briefing was to not get distracted by the scenery. ‘The bike will follow your eyes’ he said, ‘so if you stare at the scenery for too long, you’ll end up joining it’. To not miss out on the view, Nate stopped us at the side of the road near the entrance to this valley for a photo opportunity and to give us a bit of history lesson.

Death Road is in fact known by 3 names; Death Road, North Yungas Road and The World’s most Dangerous Road. North Yungas Road is the roads formal name and until 2005 when the new road was built bypassing the most dangerous sections, it was one of only a few routes (and by far the shortest) connecting the Yungas, the name for the heavily forested region of the lower-Andes that border the Amazon Rainforest, with La Paz and the rest of Central Bolivia. The original road was about 55 kilometres long and ran from La Combre Pass to Coroica, descending about 3,600m in the process. Built in the 1930’s by Paraguayan prisoners of war, it was from the high death rate amongst the workforce that the road got the moniker ‘Death Road’. Through the 80’s and 90’s and in to the early 2000’s, the road started to see much more traffic and much larger vehicles than it was ever intended to deal with. For much of its length it was only single-track dirt road and had numerous sharp, blind corners. By the time the new road was completed in 2005 the original road was seeing 200-300 fatalities a year, earning itself the title of ‘world’s most dangerous road’.

Today, the new road follows the path of the original road for the first half, the section we were currently riding on, before heading north away from the original road, by-passing the most dangerous section; a narrow 15km descent winding along mountain sides complete with waterfalls, tight turns and sheer drops with no barriers. Nowadays this section specifically is the one generally referred to as Death Road, omitting the upgraded sections and the new bypass.

Before heading on our way, Nate invited us to peer over the edge of the cliff from which we were admiring the valley. About 100 meters below was the wreckage of a bus that had met its fate some 15 years earlier, apparently the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. A poignant reminder, if one were needed, that we whilst we were here to have fun, this road was not to be (expletive redacted) with.

We continued down the new road for another 10km or so, enjoying the thrill of the speed that the descent allowed for as we wound our way down the valley to a drugs checkpoint. Not really aimed at traffic headed in our direction, the checkpoint was there to prevent (or more likely to take a cut of) cocaine being smuggled from the jungle up to La Paz. Here Nate stopped us for one of his frequent head counts and to check how everybody was getting along and to give us a warning that the section ahead was a little bumpier and to take it easy round corners. Along the way I caught a bump unseen which knocked my right foot off the pedal and made the back end step out. The tyres and suspension did their jobs though and what would have been a nasty accident on a road bike was taken in stride by the mountain bike. A bit of a hairy moment, but It was actually pretty reassuring to feel the stability and understand how the bike would react and correct itself from a momentary loss of control.

Stopping to regroup before a short tunnel we got our first opportunity to try the bikes out off-road. Following a rather nasty accident a few years ago inside the tunnel involving a group of cyclists and foggy weather, the local authority had built a small gravel track by-passing the tunnel for cyclists to use. According to Nate this would be one of the most technically challenging parts of the day; the gravel track is only about 200m long, but as it isn’t used by vehicles the gravel isn’t as packed down and present more of a challenge that dirt roads used by vehicles.

Shortly after re-joining the main road we arrived at a checkpoint where we each were required to pay 50 Bolivianos (£5.50), ostensibly as a tax to help maintain the road. Bolivia, like Peru, forbids tour companies from including taxes in the ticket prices, obliging them to be paid individually by the tourists, so this is something that we’d got used to now. We’d been cycling now for about an hour and a half and covered the best part of 20km. We took a short break to use the toilets and have a quick snack and Nate gave us the option of either cycling the next few kilometres, all uphill, or loading up the minibus and driving to the top. Nobody wanted to be the first to say that they wanted to take the van, but as soon as someone said they didn’t want to cycle, the rest of the group quickly fell in line.

So on to the bus we all hopped for the 10-minute ride up to the start of Death Road proper. After a few photos with the ‘Welcome to Death Road’ sign we gathered around Nate for another re-iteration of ‘don’t be an (expletive redacted) idiot’ and a briefing on what to expect, what to look out for and techniques for riding downhill on Gravel. Death Road is still a public road, although since the construction of the by-pass the volume is nothing close to what it used to be and is now only really used by locals to access the handful of villages along the route. Nate also said that, owing to a landslide about half way down, he didn’t expect us to see any traffic at all, but that we should be vigilant nonetheless. A rule on Death Road that dates back to before the by-pass was built is that traffic has to drive on the left, rather than on the right as in the rest of Bolivia. The reason for this being that it puts the downhill driver on the outside of their vehicle where they can more easily see where their wheels are in relation to the edge.

As ready as we’d ever be, we set off down Death Road. Proceeding steadily at first, we quickly built confidence in the bikes handling on the gravely and rocky terrain, controlling the speed by constantly riding the brakes. The first section had a few steep drops but was quite wide and it was easy to maintain a comfortable distance from the sheer drops to our left. At several points we stopped so that we could take photos, take on water and snacks and give Nate a chance to brief us on upcoming sections which may catch out the unprepared.

About a quarter of the way down we stopped by San Pedro waterfall. If you’ve ever seen pictures of Death Road, chances are this is the where it was taken. The waterfall is about 40-50 meters wide and cascades over the top of the road which is nestled in to the cliff along a crescent-shaped curve. The final few meters of the waterfall drop straight down on to the road in a way that cannot be avoided when cycling through. The stretch of the road after the waterfall is relatively flat, but also featured the narrowest and windiest section of the road, with sheer cliffs overhead on one side and unguarded drops of near 600m on the other. Doing this on a mountain bike was unnerving enough but to think that Trucks and Busses used to drive along here (and sometimes still do) is just mind-boggling. The numerous crosses lining the road-side testament to those less fortunate souls that have passed along this route.

As we descended further down the mountain the temperature quickly rose so the numerous encounters with waterfalls and streams posed little concern. The road also widened out a little and Katy and I continued to get more confident in the handling of the bikes. In a refreshing change from the Salkantay Trek, we found ourselves routinely at the front of the pack following Nate down and waiting for the others to catch up at our various stopping points. With the adrenaline pumping and the wind rushing past us, not to mention the perfect weather, we were now thoroughly enjoy ourselves. The confidence got the better of me at one point though; carrying too much speed off the exit of a left-hand hairpin I drifted out wide from the flattened dirt groves left by passing vehicles and onto a patch of larger stones and rocks. Before I could slow down enough to get the bike under control the front wheel bounced out from under me and tipped me on to my side. The fall left me with a nice gash square in the centre of my left shin and a broken pair of sunglasses, but otherwise I was OK and able to carry on after a quick dusting off.

Shortly thereafter we came across the landslide Nate had mentioned earlier, in the process of being cleared by a JCB. The mangled terrain could only be traversed on foot pushing our bikes over the rocks and through the thick mud that we quickly realised we stood no chance of avoiding getting covered it. On the far side of the landslide an ambulance waited for a rider from another group who had had an off much worse than mine and had to be carried down by one of the guides. Good thing we have our travel insurance documents with us.

From here on out the road was much flatter and smoother and the edges much more forgiving. This was to the great relief of our group all of who were, to some extent, really struggling with the constant vibrations and riding the brakes that came with the steeper, more rocky sections. We were still descending quite rapidly, and the terrain went from black and grey rock to brown and red dirt and dried mud. Following another short stop, we encountered a second landslide near a stream which ran across the road. We were left with no choice but to wade through the ankle high mud, before then wading in to the knee-high stream which proceeded to clean us off quite nicely. After crossing this Nate assured us that we’d cleared the last of the mud and water, and were now home free with only a couple of Kilometres to go until we reached the end of the tour; La Senda Verde animal sanctuary near Yolosa, deep in the valley at the bottom of Death Road. Just as we entered Yolosa we came across another thick, muddy landslide. So much for the last of the mud eh, Nate? To be fair, this landslide had apparently only happened a few hours earlier, so he can’t have reasonably been expected to know about it, but we had to cover ourselves in mud again regardless.

The late-afternoon’s sun was really belting down on us now and the 38 km bike ride we had just completed had really taken its toll. Thoroughly exhausted, we wearily made our way in to the animal sanctuary grounds, which entailed crossing a precarious wooden bridge and then walking through a ‘human cage’, a wire mesh tunnel through the middle of the sanctuary surrounded by monkeys, parakeets, deer, capybara and all manner of other native species. We soon reached the sanctuary’s restaurant, a large open-sided wooden structure built around a central kitchen with a buffet counter and an upper terrace looking eastwards (not that a huge amount could be seen through the dense jungle). Waiting for us in the restaurant was a pasta buffet and a glass of the tastiest and most refreshing beer any of us had ever had. A good meal, an ice-cold beer and a refreshing shower later a few of us opted to go for a tour around a part of the sanctuary to see the Spectacled Bears. One of the sanctuary volunteers led us off through the jungle, over a small stream and up to a pair of enclosures constructed on to a steep cliff side filled with trees, shrubs and a small rock pool. Each bear had about a square kilometre of space; an awful lot more appealing as a captive environment than the animal sanctuary we went to outside of Cusco. The volunteer guiding us had brought a tupperware box full of peanuts and the sound of him throwing a few in to the enclosure was enough to bring the bears out of the undergrowth and down to only a few feet away from us.

Bolivian law prevents the sanctuary from re-releasing the animals in their care back in to the wild, but as they are accustomed to humans now, for most of them re-release would be very dangerous as they would not have any compunction about wandering in to Human settlements where they would risk injury, capture or even death. It was great to see the bears in a more natural habitat and the sanctuary has about 800 animals in total, most of which have free-reign over the site (except where it would be dangerous to allow, such as the bears and the Jaguars). We had a long drive ahead of us to get back to La Paz though, so we and headed back over the dodgy bridge to the waiting minibus for our 3 hour drive back.

On the ride home it finally sunk in what the day had taken out of us, arms aching, legs numb and barely able to sit down owing to the effects of the thin, hard saddle. But also, we reflected on an absolutely phenomenal adventure which we both agree had been the most enjoyable thing we’d done since arriving in South America. To cap things off, a giant storm blew in over the valley behind us as we made our way back up the new road, past the entrance to Death Road and through La Combre Pass back to Lap Paz, finally crawling back in to our apartment with its super amazingly comfortable bed at about 10pm.

Thoroughly burned out and very saddle sore, the next day we did nothing but binge watch the Netflix F1 documentary. 1 more night left in La Paz and then we have the pleasure of the night bus to Sucre.

What’s your version of Drunken Baptism? Salkantay Trek Part 2:

4am. It’s dark. I hear chickens. Ok, where am I? Oh yeah, totally authentic steel frame and plywood Andean hut. Bloody hell, just remembered, we hiked over a mountain yesterday. Hmm. Better check the appendages. Arms? Check. Legs? Yep, check, legs are there. Knees bend. Good. They don’t hurt, that’s pleasantly surprising! Toes. OW. Ok, don’t bend those. All in all though, body parts are less achy than I was expecting. Don’t have to be up for a few hours yet, might try and get some more… SHUTTUP CHICKENS!!!! Ok, forget that plan.

5am. Light creeping in from under the sides of the hut. Are those slugs? Yep. Great. Slugs on the ceiling. There’s a flickering light coming from the other side of the hut. A mobile phone! That means Katy is awake. Amoroso will be round with Coca tea soon. Mmmmmmmmm Coca tea. Should probably get up and get dressed. As much as Amoroso is a seasoned professional, a naked hairy Brit at 5am might be a bit much. Ok. Getting up, need to wake up and switch out of first-person narrative mode anyway.

Day 3. Katy and I crawled out of our authentic Andean Hut to be greeted by clear blue sky and the Sun beaming down on the tips of the mountains behind us. Feeling orders of magnitude more human that we had felt the night before we joined the rest of Team White Chocolate, the team name having been near unanimously agreed upon the whilst at the top of Salkantay the day before. Oxygen deprivation is a funny thing. It was reassuring to hear the rest of TWC™ complaining of aches and pains from Day 2’s ordeal and we all looked forward to the ‘considerably less arduous’ day 3.

On paper, Day 3 was to entail a half-day steady downhill trek to our next camp site, the Jungle Domes (whilst this sounds like a zone on the Crystal Maze, it sadly isn’t that exciting), followed by an afternoon excursion to the Hot Springs in Cocalmayo de Santa Teresa. We also said goodbye to Darwin, our horseman at this point. From here on out, everywhere we were headed was accessible by road of train, so the mules (moolees) were no longer required. We set off about 7am, the clear skies and lower altitude making for an almost perfect morning. We left our campsite via a back path taking us down a short drop to the river running around the campsite, crossing the raging torrents on a reassuringly solid wooden bridge.

Up the other side we joined a dirt road which, by the standards of terrain we’d be used to over the last few days, was like joining a motorway. We followed this road for about 40 minutes as it meandered down the valley, all of us in good spirits and chatting away, soaking in the views of the mountains around us. Near the low point of the valley we broke off from the road and followed a path down across the river where it was joined by a tributary, the swirling waters making for a great scene. Over the bridge and up in to the jungle on the other side, we continued up for another 20 minutes then down steeply for another 30 minutes. This was now just starting to look like a Peruvian ‘considerably less arduous’. But still, we persevered, and about an hour after leaving the road we found ourselves at a small clearing down near the river.

After a quick pause for some water and to slap on some more sun cream, we continued following the jungle path that roughly followed the bank of the river, only to encounter an another Salkantay trek group (I don’t know there team name, but it certainly wasn’t as awesome as Team White Chocolate^TM). Turns out the path ahead had been blocked by a landslide in the night and so that left us with no choice but to double back on ourselves. Climbing back up the hill with the sun beating down, the previous days exertions began to catch up with us and by the time we got back to the road we’d fallen some way behind. Amoroso, noticeably more anxious about time-keeing than he had been the previous day (we were now 2 hours behind schedule after all) negotiated with a local in a pickup truck to give us and a straggler from another group a lift to the next rendezvous point, a roadside restaurant and shop with a covered structure on the cliff-side of the road.

From here, we had a clear view of a huge landslide blocking the road ahead. Apparently this one had happened several weeks ago and was the reason for our diversion to the jungle path on the other side of the river in the first place. Once the rest of TWC^tmhad caught up (Come on guys, we’re waiting here!) Amoroso stated in no uncertain terms that we were not crossing that landslide. The locals had created a small footpath across the landslide, but it was barely the width of a microwave and very unstable looking (you make think that a strange analogy, but the AirBnB I’m sitting in right now is fairly baron and devoid of familiar small objects approximately the width of the path in question for comparative use). The alternative route we’d be taking involved using a rope-drawn cable car to get across the valley, each crossing taking 2 people at a time. With 3 or 4 trek groups queuing to get across, this was going to take some time. Wanting us to get a head start on the rest of the group, Amoroso sent us over first, instructing us to continue along the path towards another small clearing with a couple of houses in it.

The heat of the day increasing and the blisters on our feet worsening, we trudged along the path. Stiff upper lip and all that. Fortunately, this section was relatively flat, although we had to take the odd detour through the undergrowth where the path had been washed away by the river. An hour later, after another trip through a waterfall for an involuntary foot bath we found ourselves at the clearing Amoroso described (We hoped) and waited for the rest of TWC to catch up, keeping ourselves entertained by playing with a puppy in the meantime. 15 minutes later TWC was reunited and we continued along the path, now a good 3 hours behind schedule.

The Path continued to wind its way through the jungle, up and down, zig-zagging side to side, crossing more streams until we arrived at an elevated section with a clear view downstream. About a quarter of a mile ahead we could see a wooden suspicion bridge. ‘That’s where we are crossing back’ Amoroso said. Before we could make it to the bridge however, we had to traverse another landslide that had taken out the footpath, smothering it in rocks and fallen trees. This was easily the most unnerving part of the trek so far, edging across the churned-up landscape trying to find the rocks that didn’t wobble when you stepped on them and holding on to hiking poles for dear life. Once we reached the bridge our bodies and minds were really starting to feel the strain of this considerably less arduous day and the sight of the steep climb on the other side of it was just too much. Marley, because she’s awesome (and seemingly some sort of superwoman), ran ahead to grab some blister treatment packs for us from Brandon’s bag before returning with the news that, with the impeccable timing usually reserved for the arrival of good guys in action films, at the top of the climb a minibus was waiting to take us on to the jungle domes. According to Amoroso we were still the best part of 3 hours trek away from the Jungle domes and we wouldn’t have reached there much before 5pm, without having stopped for lunch and having long exhausted our food and water supplies.

About 2:30 we finally made it to the Jungle domes and to our awaiting lunch. A quick turnaround in the domes, which look something like Dalek head sunk in to the ground, and we were back on the minibus headed to the hot springs about an hour up the road. After the ‘considerably less arduous day’ we had just had, the hot springs were absolute heaven and we spent well over an hour letting the warm waters soothe our aching joints and muscles. There are 4 springs in all, with the hottest at about 47/48C and each subsequent pool a few degrees cooler. Between the 3^rd and 4^th pools were a set of outlet pipes which poured water on to a stone bunch, wide enough to allow about 6 people to sit on them and shower (bathing suits on, of course, or rather ‘nuse clothe of bathes’ as per the rules). The site was exceptionally pleasant, set on to a gentle hill with a sheer cliff forming the back wall against which the pools were built. Around the pools were flagstone pathways and flower beds with 2 sets of loungers under painted steel awnings and just the right number of security guards to be reassuring rather than unsettling. The hot spring were frequented by a varied mix of locals and travellers of all ages, including a trio from Bournemouth who were doing Salkantay with a different tour company and who’s guide had made them cross the landslide we had taken the cable car to avoid. Seems we made the right call opting for one of the more expensive tours.

Muscles and joint soothed and spirits lifted, we all convened in the make-shift bar area to enjoy a very well-deserved beer whilst Amoroso regaled us with stories of life in Peru and the underhanded behaviour of tour companies he’s worked for in the past. Our drive back was upbeat, owing in no small part to the alcohol coursing through everyone’s systems. Now that we were all that bit more familiar and at ease with each other, we began sharing stories of drunken antics from our teenage years, leading Jo to ask the question ‘So [in England] what’s your equivalent of Drunken Baptism?’ To my mind, this is the finest question every asked by anyone, of anyone, in the history of the English Language. The high spiritedness would not last however; dinner that night was marred by a bitter division in TWC over whether or not Nicholas Cage was conventionally attractive. Before going to bed, Katy and I decided to take Amoroso up on an offer he made to us earlier in the day for a shortcut the following day that would cut the day in half and see us skip a 750m climb and descent to the ruins of Llactapata.

As Day 4 dawned, whilst we wiped ourselves clean of the condensation that had dripped on to us during the night, we quickly concluded that we had made the right decision. Despite the wonders of the hot springs and Marley’s blister packs, we were still very much worse for wear and so were relieved to be facing only a 10km steady incline rather than a 12k steep ascent and descent; and then a 10km steady incline. Waving goodbye to the rest of TWC for now we were left at the Jungle Domes for a few hours before being tagged on to the private tour of a strange Mexican couple and their guide Geordie. We boarded the minibus with Geordie, the strange Mexicans and the crew of porters transferring our belongings and set off down the winding, single trac dirt road for about 20 minutes before grinding to a halt. Up ahead a group of 30 or so locals were running ropes up and down into the undergrowth just of out view and a JCB was parked diagonally across the road. All of the Peruvians on our minibus promptly jumped out leaving just ourselves and the strange Mexicans completely clueless as to what was happening. Shortly thereafter the police showed up and amongst a sea of Peruvians gesticulating, shouting and pulling on ropes what was transpiring ahead just became even more unclear. 15 minutes or so after we’d stopped and the issue apparently being unresolved, everyone simply shrugged, dropped what they were doing and went back to their vehicles to carry on about their day. As we started moving again and passed the scene of the commotion, we looked down the bank to see a minibus about 40-50 foot below. From what we could understand from the conversations being had by the Peruvians, it had gone over the edge the night before. As to why they suddenly decided recovering it was a waste of time? No idea. Survivors? Not a clue. Katy and I looked at each other, gulped, then checked that our seats and seatbelts were firmly attached and stopped looking out of the valley-side window.

A couple of hours passed, and we arrived at Hydroelectrica, so named because it has a hydroelectric power station (see, Spanish is easy!) From here we walked along the railway line that follows the Urubamba river upstream around Machu Picchu Mountain, giving us our first tantalising views of the citadel. Our destination was a 3 hour walk away, the small town of Aguas Calientes. So named because there is hot water (I suppose any langue is easy when the place names are so unimaginative). For perhaps the first time in the whole of our time doing the Salkantay trek we weren’t the slowest ones as the strange Mexicans routinely dropped behind causing Geordie, Katy and I to stop and wait for them. Not that we were complaining.

As we approached Aquas Calientes we dropped down from the railway line to join the road by the entrance to Machu Picchu. Aguas Calientes is only accessible by train or on foot, the roads here are a closed system which basically entails the zig-zagging road up to the citadel and the short bridge connecting to the road in to Aguas Calientes. How did the buses get there in the first place you might wonder? Nobody knows! But given how expensive it is (£20 each for a round trip) to use them, I assume the were flown in on gold-plated Chinooks.

Aguas Calientes itself is a tourist town. Pure and simple. Its sole reason to exist is as a base for Tourists heading up to Machu Picchu. That said, it’s not too unpleasant of a town. Sure, it’s overpriced and excessively westernised, but it’s nicely laid out, it’s very clean and the central boulevard dissected by a small river crashing down to join the Urubamba at the bottom is flanked with statues, small parks and buildings with lavish facades, which get steadily less lavish the further up the hill you go. A train line also runs straight down the middle of the main restaurant street, making for a pretty novel place to have dinner and empty the content of your bank account. Katy says it’s quite like a typical alpine ski resort town.

Our short-cut had brought us to Agua Calientes a good 4/5 hours ahead of the rest of TWC. Our bags had also yet to arrive, due about the same time. In the meantime, then, we most full use of the shower and amenities at our surprisingly nice hostel, before having a good long afternoon nap. The rest of TWC caught up with us at about 5:30 looking very battered and tired, but with a small Labrador cross they had christened Lola in tow, who had followed them all the way from near Llactapata. Lola became the honorary 12^th member of TWC as she joined us for dinner that night, hiding under the table as we ate. Heartbreakingly she then followed us back to the hostel, but this was where we had to part ways and leave her to get acquainted with her new home town. I imagine there’s worse places to be a dog, although Amoroso informed us that any dogs that wander up to Machu Picchu get rounded up and put to sleep . He may have been pulling our legs, but his deadpan matter-of-fact delivery of this information made it very difficult to tell.

But I digress. I don’t want to talk about the local canines so much that I lose sight of what we had achieved over the the course of the trek, and what was still to come. After 4 days of hiking and sweating and bleeding and using language Grandma most certainly would not approve of, we were here! Machu Picchu was only 1 sleep away.

A very short sleep it would transpire. In order to make the entrance of Machu Picchu at 6am to allow us to see the sunrise from the Citidel, we would need to get to the bus stop in Aguas Calientes at about 4:30am to beat the queues. Assembling in the hostel lobby with our crew of cranky caffeine craving North Americans we set off for the bus stop and a place selling coffee at this ungodly hour. Luckily for us an enterprising local had recognised the demand for caffeine filed liquids at this time in the morning and we able to top up before jumping on the bus. Tyler, Julian Madeline and Machine Webb the unstoppable (who, the previous day, had walked so far ahead of the rest of the group that he’d overshot the lunch spot) decided to make the climb rather than take the bus, so we rendezvoused with them in the queue at the entrance.

With the dawn mist hanging in the valleys and the sun just beginning to break over the horizon, we awaited the opening of the gates. Dead on 6am we were in and Amoroso lead us quickly up a steep staircase to the west through a bank of trees, allowing us tantalising glimpses of the Citadel, up close for the first time. Doubling back along a set of agricultural terraces, we came to a large artificial plateau by the guard house – one of a handful of the buildings around the site that had been fully restored to aid in visualising Machu Picchu during its heyday. This vantage point gave us our first uninterrupted view across the whole site, a view which left everyone in silent awe. The dawn mist had now condensed in to thin, patchy clouds which hung over the ruins and clung to the steep slopes of Huayna Pichu mountain behind. The sun was now creeping over the mountains to the east and illuminating the top of Huayna Pichu, as well as the snow-caps of the mountains in distance to the west. Behind and to the sides of the ruins a ring of mountains covered in lush green vegetation formed a natural amphitheatre, but on an epic scale, and the patchy clouds drifted serenely between them all helping to provide a sense of the sheer scale of the vista.

It was one of the most perfect scenes Imaginable, accentuated by the weather which, with the clear air, sunshine and sporadic clouds drifting gracefully over the ruins, could not have been better. We could all have spent hours standing there watching the scene slowly change throughout the day, it was really that stunning. After a good 15 minutes of snapping photos and soaking up the views, Amoroso led us up to a slightly smaller level populated by a spittoon* of Llama’s to give us a short history of Machu Picchu. Machu Picchu is in fact the name of the large mountain to the south of the Citadel, with the ruins straddling the wide ridge of land connecting Machu Pichu Mountain to Huayna Picchu. The name Machu Picchu is used for the ruins as the original name, as well as the Citidels original purpose are, sadly, lost to History. During the Spanish conquest, it is believed that Machu Picchu served as one of the final hideouts for the remaining Inca’s. In an attempt to hide it from the Spanish whilst retreating they torched the city and allowed the jungle to overtake the ruins. Archaeologists point to the high concentration of ash found in the soil at the site to support this theory. Whatever the truth of what happened or why the Citadel was abandoned, the attempts to hide it worked as the ruins laid undiscovered to the outside world until the early 20^th Century, known only to a few local farming families. After their rediscovery, the quickly became a site of archaeological significance and then later a tourist attraction. In 2007, Machu Picchu was names one of the New 7 Wonders of the world, a source of great pride for Peru.

*Yes, that’s right, I googled ‘collective noun for Llama’s but sadly they don’t have a word more interesting than ‘Herd’. Lamenting this, some random internet user on a forum I stumbled across proposed the word ‘Spittoon’ for Llamas, Alpacas and Vicuñas and I rather like it so have chosen to adopt it here.

After our brief history lesson, it was time to bid Amoroso a very fond fair well as we had a mountain to climb (quite literally). As part of our entry ticket we also had access to Machu Picchu mountain, but the entry window was only open between 7am and 8am. Owing to the narrow, winding and at times precarious path upwards, there are a limited number of entrances spread throughout the day. On the wall of the control booth was a sign stating that a trip to the top should take about an hour and a half. Given our current physical state that was optimistic. The climb, with several stops for water, sun cream, a quick snack and to catch our breath took the best part of two and a half hours. The path mostly consisted of original Inca steps and stonework, many of which were worn, uneven and at times very steep. Furthermore, the climb was on the East side of the mountain, putting us squarely in the sights of the now fully risen sun and the heated air currents rising out of the valley below. About three quarters of the way up we bumped in to Julian and Madeline on their way back down, who uttered those fateful words ‘you’re nearly their’. As they had an early train to catch this was our final goodbye to them, which is probably a good thing, as we were still about 50 minutes from the top and we would have needed to have words later! Nicholas Cage level words!!!

We finally finished the 650m ascent at about 11am, thoroughly exhausted from what was, In my opinion, the toughest climb that we had done during the whole trek. Although that probably would have been true of whatever the last thing we did happened to be. The climb was worth it however, the view from the top was absolutely incredible. The mountain top allowed for a 360-degree view of the surrounding landscape with Salkantay visible to the south, the great sprawling extent of the Andes to the east and west and Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu to the north, which we were now steeply looking down upon. Katy was particularly inspired by the view from the top, so much so that she asked me to marry her. I’m sure it would have made for a somewhat different blog if I had said no, not to mention a very awkward descent back down the mountain, so it’s a good thing I suppose that I agreed. In all seriousness though, it was a wonderful, if slightly surreal, moment and I don’t think there could have been any combination of moment, person and location that would have been more perfect.

The descent was, as has been established on previous occasions, worse that the ascent and not helped by the grinning giddiness of our recent change of relationship status (If only we still had Facebook). By the time we finished hammering our knees and ankles down 2600 or so steps we’d exhausted our water, our snacks and most of all our legs and we set at the edge of Machu Picchu bathing in the sunshine just happy to have the weight off our feet and watching a storm roll over the mountains in the background. We’d hoped to explore some more of the ruins, but we were just too wiped by this point and, annoyingly, there are no shops, cafes or toilets within the Machu Picchu complex, meaning you have to leave to use the facilities just outside the gate. For a while, we simply sat and enjoyed the moment though. We were weary, battered, bruised and burned out, but we’d done it, we’d trekked Salkantay and climbed Machu Picchu. There was something eerily poetic about the sight before us, Machu Picchu is glowing sunshine, the golden rocks glistening and the vibrant green vegetation neatly segmenting the site, with the dark clouds, flashes of lightning and sounds of thunder rolling around the mountains. Our thirst and exhaustion got the better of us and we begrudgingly left, boarding the bus back down to Aguas Calientes mere seconds before the storm rolled in our direction and the heavens opened.

I take it as a sign that the Gods approved of our decision. Thanks Gods. Thods.

P.S. Tyler and Webb aren’t a couple, they are friends travelling together. See guys, told you I’d get to that 😊