On our last day in the Machupicchu region, we decided to climb the highest mountain in the immediate area, Machu Picchu mountain. Rising 3,000 meters above sea level, it is a straight climb up from the ruins. The coca leaves are helpful. One up there, the views are phenomenal, and its even quieter than Wayna Picchu, although some Israelis did manage to hike up to the top with a boombox that was playing the Aerosmith 90s hit, Crazy--flashback to middle school. Bz this point, my camera had run out of batteries, but Pedro did take a video of himself sneaking into the ruins, and I will post this when we have a chance to upload it.
After enjoying a few more hours in the ruins that afternoon, we went down to Aguas Calientes for yet another dinner at my new favorite restaurant, The Tree House--why mess with a good thing? I had no idea that seared alpaca loin wrapped in bacon could be so heavenly. And of course another slice of the passionfruit cheesecake--nothing like passionfruit in the states, there are actually several different kinds here, and they are all unbelievable. A glass of wine and a game of chess later (I am getting better at this!!), and my comfortable bed at the awesome Hospedaje Chiraoquirao was well-deserved.
Every morning in Aguas Calientes we would visit the same juice vendor. In Peru, when you develop a relationship with a market vendor he or she is known as your casero (if male) or casera (if female). You are also known as his or her casero/a, and in a manner just short of a blood pact this signifies that you are loyal to that particular vendor. Our casera in Aguas Calientes is named Felicitas. Not only does she serve up the best juice in town, but her cohort Irma makes a mean avocado and egg sandwich. And so for 9 nuevos soles (the equivalent of $3), the two of us would fortify ourselves with sandwiches and fresh carrot and orange juice before heading out for a day of scaling Andean peaks.
Evidently, Felicitas is better at making juice than she is at giving accurate information on local transportation. Despite her assurances that we could buy tickets from Aguas Calientes to the next town over on the train itself, we arrived a few minutes to departure time to find that we actually had to purchase them at a ticket office on the other side of town. Ten minutes later, the entire town of Aguas Calientes saw me racing down the tracks after the departing train, to a symphony of street musicians playing Andean wind pipes. Railroad officials were cheering me on, assuring me that they were calling the conductor and that all I had to do was keep running after the train. The train did eventually squeal to a dusty stop, and I hopped on. After all the excitement, they let Pedro ride in the tourist car with me.
We made it to Santa Teresa by mid-afternoon, and hopped into the most amazing thermal springs for a much-deserved soak after days of hiking around Machupicchu. If you are ever in this part of the world, it is well worth a visit--clean, comfortable, and they even have a cold plunge. That evening, we took a cramped mini-van on a 7 hour night ride from Santa Maria back to Cusco. Coming over the mountains, jostled in the back of the van, I was unable to breathe from the altitude and felt extremely carsick. It was a sleepless ride. (Nick, you can appreciate how much fun I am when I have not had any sleep while traveling.) We rolled into Cusco at 2am and woke up the people at our hotel haunt here, a dank little place with lukewarm showers called the Hostel Jhuno. Moldy sheets have never felt so good.
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