That's right people, Man Abroad just got some MORE back on that waspish, old lady wench of the night; Mother Nature. A three day trek to Machu Picchu you say? Can't be
that hard? Well, if you take away, I dunno... the
fucking oxygen it might be a bit hard arsehole! Walking uphill with no breathable air is quite the kick to the gooch but it takes more than a lack of Atomic Number 8 to stop this one man Trudging Horse. And to Machu Picchu I trekked. Another trouncing by yours truly in a seemingly never ending clash between a Bearded Mortal Man Hero and his Possibly Bearded Immortal Hag Nemesis.
But let's take it back a notch or two shall we.
I landed, unceremoniously, in Cusco, Peru after a horror 16 hour transit, including 7 hours wandering Lima Airport being hit on by scabby ticket rippers (
Hello what's your name? Where do you come from? DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!?). I went to the hostel and awaited the arrival of my AMERCIAN teammates from Santiago, Rich and Britmo, with whom I would trek. Originally we had a day to discover the old Incan city of
Cusco before an early start the next day. But due to colossal retardation on behalf of our tour 'operators' we had to wear their inconceivable stupidity and leave a day later.
So we walked around, saw some churches n' houses n' shit and admired the impressive Incan architecture that's underneath the
also impressive colonial architecture.
But more importantly we sampled the local Peruvian culinary delights. I had been told the food here was nice, but in my esteemed opinion it machine gun shits
rainbows on what I have found in Chile and Argentina (with the exception of Argentinian steak and my Chilean Grandma's food of course).
That's right! I ATE one man. Can't remember what the dish was called but who cares, it was LLAMA. The sauce was 'aight, and it was good, but as chewy as a boiled camels nutbag.
Ok.
Business Time. Let me introduce the Trekking Team and their profiles. Of course, there's ME, then Rich of Texas and Britmo of Tennessee.
And we didn't trek alone, oh no. We had a GUIDE, some MAN SERVANTS and BEASTS OF BURDEN. I didn't have a photo of them all together, or even a decent one of the horse like creatures (looked kinda like midget horses that had rolled out of a trash can and then were beaten with sticks), so I had to recreate the scene for you.
First stop was some town called
Huarocondo where we were supposed to go inside
this church,
Iglesia de las 12 cruces, BUT it was locked and the the dude who was supposed to let us in was apparently comatose drunk in his house and couldn't be budged. So we just LOOKED at it from the outside.
The highlight of this little stop over was hands down pants the Street Dog Orgy that took place metres away from us. Have a fucking LOOK at them. Within seconds there were at least another three circling like bonerfied land sharks looking for a way in...
Then to top it off the dude finished and tried to bail but couldn't because his Doggy Donger was stuck in her Canine Cooch. So she lay down as he loomed awkwardly above her, just watching village life pass them by until time to un-dock (and we didn't stay long enough to witness that).
First day's trek was all fair enough 'n that. Ascending 'n stuff. And we spent the first night in a small four family village that housed the regional school called
Chillipahua.
And these little mute bush rats hung around staring like they didn't have eyelids. I eventually got the older girl to talk a little and discovered that they were only three of THIRTEEN FUCKING CHILDREN. Can you imagine the shape of their mother? Carrying her uterus around in a backpack I imagine, the poor old dear. And that little fella in the middle IS the dirtiest child on planet Earth. With at least 8 weeks of snot, food and dirt bonded to his face, he'd run around squealing like a girl piglet with a FULL set of dirt and goat shit smeared arse cheeks on parade.
As you can see we were pampered Peruvian Man Servant Style, the cook cooked and the other dude served. They even put up our fucking tents! And for food cooked on the march off the back of a donkey is was pretty damn good.
That's the poor Slave Men preparing our food as we shuffle along behind them.
Breakfast was always a treat. I didn't read the label before using this on my unnecessarily sweet Peruvian bread. That's right, they served us
Fanny Jam. They'll jar anything over here! And to be honest I grew to like it, a lot sweeter than I would have thought (but I bet they add that in). That's one factory visit I
never want to see.
This is, apparently, one of the deadliest plants in the world. Our guide, Oscar, told us (while we were half a fucking metre away from it) that just to touch it, not break the skin or viciously rub it in an open wound, but to GRAZE it is certain death within hours. And that one time a pack horse got on its back for some rub time on top of one, stood up and died minutes later. A little disconcerting I'll agree and I walked with arms clutched to my chest for the rest of the trip. HOWEVER, one has to bear in mind Oscar's history for telling facts through his arse. For example, he once told us, with UTTER conviction and sincerity, that there are these weird
Men of the Mountains that come down and get the village women pregnant at night while they sleep unknowingly. Or how about THIS explanation Oscar; all the women are dirty skanks and their husbands are fucking retarded?
Getting higher and each step is like a Capcom certified Shoryu-ken to the chest. Panting like a recently kicked in the stomach dog with a head that feels like there's a one armed ex-marine midget finger banging a Christmas ham in there.
So the, ahem, Men, even dabbled with a little oxi-help. Which was slightly helpful for minute, in a kind of soft pat on the back kind of way;
There, doesn't that feel better? I still can't breathe you fucker, so NO that
doesn't feel better.
That's our campsite on the second night. A little exposed you say? That's what I fucking thought too. But thank Van Halen there was no real wind problems that night (outside the tents). That being the case of the matter as it is, this night was nut-crunchingly cold. I once again slept in all my clothes in a hired sleeping bag that was promised by some donkey boner back in
Cusco to be more that appropriate for my situation. After two hours lying and dying in my own tent I asked Rich and Britmo if I could bust a move over to their tent and steal their body heat. They kindly obliged and gave me a space
millimetres from a collection of trekking shoes and socks that would strip the very beard off Moses from the OTHER side of the Red Sea. I didn't give a damn, however, as being mildly warm was more important to me than sleep, altitude nausea, or eye melting acidic odours.
Moments later it was morning and this is what the ground looked like outside. No, that's NOT icing sugar on that cow turd amigos, that's fucking ICE.
Then there was Rich's constant tormentor;
Sweater Dog. Easily the most skittish and highly strung animal I have ever met. You taking care of business behind a rock? Sweater Dog'll get ya and REALLY mess things up. It's not even a real sweater, more like a collection of dozens of sweaters haphazardly put together like only a tenterhooked canine could.
Welcome. My name is Rich and I am the Poster Boy for Altitude Sickness. Sure I could crush you with my bare Man 'Leg of Lamb' Arms, but at
sea level. Rich definitely got stiffed with the short straw there. Be that as it might have unfortunately been, the one amusing aspect of his terrible illness was his Altitiude Sickness Derived Old Man Bladder Syndrome. Let's have a wander down memory lane with some classic Urinating Highlights...
The man didn't even drink anything! It was like his bladder was conducting some strange form of alchemy whereby it converted pure altitude nausea into water just so Rich could piss it out. Remarkable.
Altitude sickness is anything but predictable. One minute you're as barren as an Immodium pumped camel and the next minute your fire-hosing THROUGH your trekking pants like a Japanese, high-powered anti-Greenpeace water canon.
Then seconds later I was ready, and empty, for our last vistastic lunch.
Third night we hit up our hostel, after a text book Peruvian public transport arse reaming, to
Agua Calientes. The hostel was called
Gringo Bill's would you believe and it was NICE. The obviously in-family done artwork was interesting in a There Goes My Breakfast kind of way. I can only assume that that old, long haired dude in the middle is Gringo Bill. But as to WHAT he is doing with his gringo wang on the head of that statue, I'll never know (or ask). And yes, that was MY bed you can see perilously close.
And HERE it is. Ol' Machu Picchu itself. Impressive to say the least. Remove 50,000 tourists, half the llamas and leave one guide for safety's sake and you might even call it
spiritual.
Those Incan geezers knew how to carve rocks, THAT'S for sure. You can't build masterpieces like that anymore, you know, with minimum wage and 'democracy' and all that. The views that they had from every vantage point were
unbelievable.
I won't bother explaining the story of Machu Picchu because; (1) I can't be fucked, (2) You can Wikipedia it and (C) What I heard from our Spanish speaking guide would most likely prove an 'unreliable' source.
Look at that fucking rock work man!
Then there is
Wayna Picchu, a pointy mountain that has a killer view of Machu Picchu that's a good 45 minute hike straight upwards, except look at all the other fuckers in the way.
That's Rich and Britmo and some time travelling Brazilian ghetto pimp hovering MID AIR next to them. The things you see traveling!
Here's an un-peopled view. That zig zag gear is the road up and yes, of course it's only one lane wide with hundreds of buses coming up and down at the same time all day. Apparently what you see of Macchu Picchu there ain't all of it, just what they have uncovered so far. And if I am not mistaken, which well might be or not be the case, right down the bottom left where you can see some uncovered terraces is ALSO part of Machu Picchu! Go you mighty Incans!
Then, in a twist of idiocy, our 'guide' suggested we we go have a quick look at the
Great Cave on the other side because not many people go to see it. Newsflash arse bag! That's because it's a hideous one hour hike resembling a vertical drop to see a
Great Cave that is barely a
Mild Fucking Nook in the wall. Then to add feces to the fire it was at least another goddamn hour to walk back around the side. High-fives to that butt maestro!
Now I know all you lads out there are thinking;
I wish I could take my girl to Machu Picchu, wouldn't that be ace? Yes it would be ace, loser, but you probably can't can you? But you CAN do the next best thing. Send her a Man Abroad Patented Incan Style Series Post Card to show that you kinda love her. For a moderately moderate price you can impress your woman with inklings of possible genuine affection. Get in fast brothers, because they're sure to sell like Hat Cakes.
And to end this Mighty Post, here are a few Peruvian Classics to get you all hot under the collar.
Hairless Peruvian Dogs. Sorry,
can't touch that, have a fucking look at it! With that scandalous haircut and
all those tits, I didn't know WHERE to look!
The all important Coca leaf. The Irish have Guinness, the French have croissants, the Greeks have an island of lesbians and the Peruvians have Coca leaves. Have as tea or chew it like tobacco and store it up against your gums. I, as you can see, prefer to double team it. The tea is mild and lovely and the leaves taste like compost but you get over that as the bitterness sets in. Like a mild stimulant, it's good for a bit of energy, hunger suppressant (whatever you'd need that for—fatty!), altitude sickness and MORE. And, as far as I have experienced, has no hellish licorice arse side effects like Mate in Argentina.
I ate my four course French/Peruvian lunch staring at this and wondering. Wondering just exactly what is it and what is going on. That dude has one of either two things happening; (1) He's got a diabolical growth on his back and an impressive schlong shaped bed, or, (2) That thing growing out of his back actually IS his SECOND massive johnson that he uses AS a bed! Either way, hat's of amigo.
And finally, how about we finish this entry with a nice hot cuppa of everyone's favourite tea flavour;
Hornimans Anis. It's tangy as hell, but you'll love it!
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