Cold floors, lofty mountains and revolting Bolivians

The blue and gold steam train heaves its way along the
track, rickety racketing as we progress to Aguas
Calientes, the village of Machu Picchu.

Getting up at 5 O Clock was no picnic. The freezing
morning air stabbed at my lungs as I pealed back the
thick, woolen blankets on my bed and set barefoot onto
the cold and shiney floor.

Dancing from one foot to another in the dark, I
fumbled for the ligth switch. I scooped up my
belongings and set out into the slowly awakening
street, walking labordly with my pack on my back,
breathing constraindly in the thin air.

Cusco is not as high as Lake Titicaca where, at nearly
4,000 metres above sea level, the lack of oxygen makes
your head spin and your heart flutter as your lungs
scrounge for air, but even so any exersion, such as
walking quickly or heavy lifting, and you can really
feel the strain.

Machu Picchu was worth all the never ending hours in
the bus; the discomfort; even the flue that has
gripped hold of me. When we arrived at 6am, the ruins
were shrowded in mist but you could feel the presence
of something amazing; a whisper on the air; an
invading sense of wonder.

As we struggled up the opposite mountain, Hyana
Picchu, the mist began to clear and we could, for the
first time, get our first real glimpse of the lost
city of the Inkas. Tears sprang to my eyes as the
magnitude of its beauty and the realisation of a dream
completed flooded in.

The path to the top was slippery; partly paved with
narrow and treacherous steps; partly stark mountain
side with nothing but a shakey rope keeping you from
plunging into an endless abyss of white fog and
striking green plants. I have to confess to somewhat
losing my composure on the way down, as the path
seemed to zig zag in front of my eyes and my mind
played images in front of me of tumbling into
infinity.

The next day, sadly, my hilarious and interesting gay
travelling companion, Sky, left for Chile and I set
off to Bolivia, only to be told that the Bolivians
were revolting (in the protesting sense of the word)
and that the border with Peru was closed.

I´m not getting a lot of love with border crossings
this trip. Do I wait for the Bolivians to calm down
and forge my way on to La Paz and a flight home from
there... or do I head back to Chile? I have to confess
to feeling somewhat weary after nearly 100 hours on a
bus. What can i say? I guess I´m just not as young as
I used to be!