On a flight from Lima, Peru to Buenos Aires, I read an article in an airline travel magazine provided free in the sleeve of the seat in front of me. It was from LAN airlines, Chile’s official airline. The author’s name is Vicky Stout. My comments are in italic.
My newly acquired bright orange, woven backpack rests on the polished stone floor while I sip mate de coca, an herbal tea aimed at combating high altitude and thin air. In other words, you bought a backpack from one of the constantly harassing street vendors to throw all your extra trinkets in it that you bought from those same ubiquitous street vendors.
My ride will be here momentarily. I’m excited for the adventure ahead, but reluctant to leave this serence and exquisite place that has been home for a trio of evenings in Cusco, Peru, the magnificent Hotel Monasterio. Built in 1595 on the site of the palace of an Incan king, the breath taking monastary characterized by arches, bloom filled courtyards and rich baroque interiors became a hotel in 1965. Neither the centuries nor the guests have disturbed the peace. The Hotel Monasterio is breath taking especially when the bill is presented to you. There’s just something about staying at a place that charges for a day what a typical Peruvian makes in a month that makes it unappealing to me. We stayed at the Hostal Santa Catalina, clean, great location, staff was great, huge rooms and for about $40 a night.
Oscar, one of the legions of bellmen uniformed in gray wool, flashes his million dollar smile and signals to me. Reuben, from the aptly named Adventure-Life tour is here. It’s a short ride in his van to the Wanchaq Station, a brief preamble to the journey of a lifetime?
The royal blue train known as the Explorador Andino (andean Explorer)wears a stripe of Incan gold and the name PeruRail along its lenght. Passengers present their passports and are escorted into coaches lined with dark wood and dotted with linen laid tables along wide, spotlessly clean windows (perhaps for taking photos). Every passenger has a pricesless commodity, a table with a view. It might not be priceless. It’s $220 per person one way from Cusco to Puno and it takes 11 hours and 50 minutes if it is on time. Check perurail.com for more information
The train lurches forward, then chugs slowly along past city streets where flowers frame ramshackle structures, dogs nap in the sun and children wave. Waiters in crisp white coats deliver china cups filled with hot tea.
Cusco is left behind as we plunge through emerald fields edged by the towering Andes mountains, many of which hide their heads in fluffy, white clouds. The sapphire sky is bright and the shadows are long. The train snakes besides the meandering Huatanay River, neither seems in much of a rush.
On the end of the spectrum from Europe’s raging bullets of speed., this Orient Express run train moves to its own-slower-drummer. At waters’ edge, a flock of sheep stops to drink. A woman in traditional dress, with a napsack of grain on her back, plods along besides them. Fields of corn wave, alpaca graze in a filed of clay, workers squat to shape red tile. The stacks resemble squares on a checkerboard. The long wail of the whistle superceded the soothing clickety-clack as a village comes into sight. Thatch roofs perch atop cottages, dogs race to keep up with the train. A cow, tethered by a rope, raises its head. You’ve got that right. These trains are slow and notorious for not being on time.
Though the journey began on a high note- literally, at Cuso’s 11,500 feet above sea level- we’ve climbed slowly, methodically, even close to the sky. At the very highest point of the route, La Raya, the train stops. We get off in the midst of a small trackside market. We stopped at the same market on our bus ride. Any opportunity to sell a tourist some trinkets will not be missed.
Tables are stacked with tourist goods, woolen scarves, socks, hats and gloves;handmade jewelry;tapestries, woven bags and backpacks, small wind instruments and stuffed white llamas and alpacas. The wind is brisk and cold. Those hats and scarves look even more appealing, and necessary, than in Cusco. Passengers make purchases and take photos of a traditionally dressed woman and her alpaca. Typical tourist stuff. Nothing of real high quality. After awhile you get so tired of these forced stops on tourist trips. How many maybe (“baby”) alpaca hats can you buy?
Cameras and wallets are tucked away when the whistle blows. All aboard and off we go. The moving picture show at the windows-to which most sets of eyes are glued-is interrupted by the waiters who, with a flourish, deliver the first of a three course luncheon.
These consummate professionals are akin to synchronized swimmers. They march in, pause, turn and set a silver domed covered plate at each place. On the unspoken count of three, ciola, the dome is removed, revelaing a picture-perfect first course. But then this is the Orient Express-managed train and that means first class service
The leisurely lunch is followed by more window gazing and photo snapping. Without warning, he airis punctuated by the signature wailing of an Andean wind instrument. At first, it seems distant, then louder before traditionally clad dancers and musicians sweep-in whirling abd twirlinh. They dance their way through the coaches, ending in the observation car, where there are no tables and fewer seats. The dancers kick it up a notch; suddenly, there’s real competition between the scenery and the smiling dancers.
The landscape losses when the smiling dancer in the swishy red skirt takes a partner. He’s Asian, and she must have had some intuition about him, because he is anything but a wallflower. He whirls and twirls with her, as his friends erupt in laughter and applause. Next up a Brit, somewhat reicently. And at last but not least, a German, who blithely falls into step with his partner. With the dancing done, eyes are once again trained on the windows. But before a memory card can be filled, it’s haute couture, runway style. The New York fashion shows have little on this choreographed march of models decked out in alpaca sweaters, hats and scarves. No swimsuits however. Our Asian friend, still aglow from his dabcing success, joins in the runway show, albeit in his own duds. Once again, he’s greated with enthusiatic applause.
The landscape changes from mountains to rolling planes before approaching the edge of our destination, Lake Titicaca, the highest navigavle lake in the world. AS night falls, we pull into Puno. The city’s streets lead to the inky waters of Lake Titicaca, the other marvelous bookend of my adventure, an adventure that has been as much about the journey as the destination. Well, Puno is another adventure. Cusco has great architecture and history. Puno has Lake Titicaca. it is not an attractive city. The streets are narrow. It’s cold since it’s higher than Cusco. It’s wet. It rained every afternoon we were there but Lake Titicaca was worth it. I still think I would recommend the Inka Express bus. It was quicker. We stopped at 3 historic sites. Our guide was great. We also stopped for a wonderful buffet meal half way to Cusco. We saw the same scenery, stopped at the smae market but we didn’t get the fashion show and dancing. All the more reason for taking the bus.
