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Salkantay Mountain
We finally learned how to upload photos! Sometimes two people who experience the same thing will have totally different reactions to it. Like if I were allergic to peanut butter and Peter was not, a PB&J sandwich would mean death for me and a delicious snack for Peter. That is how I view the five days we had on the Salkantay Trail. It was like a death march for me and a stroll in the park for Peter.
Which is why we're doing two separate blog entries on the same trail so you can decide for yourself whether, as I believe, convincing your spouse to hike the trail warrants divorce or some Kobe-like offering of jewelry.
The Salkantay Trail Day 1
Billed as the “easy” day. “A little uphill in the morning but then flat,” says Jaime, our guide.
4:30 a.m. Pick up from hotel in Cusco. Then, a three hour drive to the start of the trail, during which our minivan is stopped by the police for no apparent reason. It couldn’t have been that our nine passenger minivan was converted into a 12 person bus, with the cook sitting on our guide’s knee, because they don’t care about that stuff in
Peru. After agreeing to pay for the policeman’s breakfast, we continue on our way.
7:30 a.m. Breakfast at the local tourist “restaurant”. We get a good look in the kitchen where guinea pigs, the local delicacy, are running around the dirt floor unaware of their impending doom. None of us have guinea pig for breakfast, thus saving them for another day.
9 a.m. Start of trek. We quickly learn that “a little uphill” in Peruvian speak means something less than a 90 degree incline but more than 45 degrees. We climb several hundred meters that morning.
9:30 a.m. Huffing and puffing. Does this hill ever end?
10 a.m. Did Peter take out an insurance policy on me? Is that why he wants to kill me?
11 a.m. I. AM. IN. HELL.
12 p.m. Why does God hate me?
1 p.m. Lunch. No guinea pig.
2 p.m. In English, flat means flat. In Peruvian Spanish, flat means a gradual incline worthy of the hill stages in the Tour de France. Our group accuses Jaime of lying when he said the rest of the trail was supposed to be flat. Jaime appears confused by
Us on a Peruvian "bus".
Bus, in Peru, means the back of a sheep truck. the accusations. Jaime is often confused. I am considering homicide-suicide. Peter races ahead, aware of the danger to his person. If only I weren’t so exhausted…I begin fantasizing about a rich, obese second husband who would never dream of doing something like this.
3 p.m. Jaime, seeing the murderous look on my face, says, “Do you want a taxi?” Don’t mess with my head, boy. I will kill you with my bare hands. We are in the middle of nowhere and the emergency horse you promised did not show up.
3:02 p.m. A 1986 white Toyota Corolla station wagon magically appears around the corner. There is barely enough room on the trail for the car.
3:02:10 p.m. I am in the car. Jaime has negotiated a fare of 10 soles (=$3) for me and the assistant guide to get a ride to the campsite. I jauntily wave to Peter as we drive past. Peter looks relieved that his life has been spared.
3:05 p.m. The taxi picks up 3 other Peruvians. There are 4 of us in the back seat now. I am squashed between the door and a wall of b.o. The smell in the car is the second worst I have experienced (the worst was in Malaysia where we were treated to the taxi driver’s particular
eau de vie of unwashed b.o. and 2-day old curry). I am happy.
3:25 p.m. The taxi drops us off about a mile from our campsite.
4 p.m. The assistant guide and I arrive at the campsite. It is in someone’s backyard up against the side of a snow-capped mountain range. It is beautiful and freezing cold. I help the porters pitch the tents because to stop moving would mean hypothermia.
5 p.m. The rest of the group and Peter amble up to the campsite. I have put on my thermals and am now wearing all of my clothes. It is still very cold.
7 p.m. Dinner. Still no guinea pig.
8 p.m. We go to bed. I am wearing a wool cap, thermals rated for arctic temperatures, and a fleece jacket inside the sleeping bag. I wake up in the middle of the night shivering. Peter sleeps on peacefully. Bastard.
Days 2-5 are much the same. We wake up absurdly early, to hike 4-6 hours before lunch and then continue for another few hours in the afternoon. I pray for a miracle taxi, to no avail. I was so tired that it was really hard to even enjoy the scenery. Which is not as spectacular as Peter will lead you to believe.
Which is all to make the case for some serious "I'm sorry" jewelry.
Of course, Machu Picchu was amazing. I didn't even mind the hour-long, nearly vertical climb up HuaynaPicchu (the sheer mountain in the background of all the Machu Picchu postcards). But we could have just taken the train to Machu Picchu rather than suffered through the Salkantay Trail.
That's all I'm saying.
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Hoa Hoang
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Dinh, your entry was so funny. Your images are so vivid I felt I took part in your painful hikes. BTW, I am really impressed with all the hiking you and Peter have done. I bet you're super buff. The pictures are cool. Now I can see some of the things you describe and can travel vicariously through you and Peter. The multiple mentions of guinea pigs as the national delicacy made me curious: are you guys going to try some?