Peru: Machu Picchu

Yeah, Machu Picchu. Like, whatever.

I was a bit Machu Picchu-ed out before I even left Cusco to go to there. Here in Cusco it's wall-to-wall tour agencies all trying to sell you a variation on the same trip.

After the twenty-eighth time in an afternoon of hearing 'Hey, Machu Picchu. You wanna trek amigo?', you start to wish Hiram Bingham had never found the bloody city in the first place.

But they're just doing their job, and they weren't to know I'd spent four days incapacitated in hospital and therefore had to a) cancel my trek and b) lose a decent whack of money doing so.

Maybe I should have quickly mocked up a T-shirt saying 'Sick Gringo - Already Booked The Train. Muchas Gracias.'

In the event, and from what I've since heard, I'm not totally disheartened by not being able to walk the Inca Trail. My friends James and Sarah - who I met, unsurprisingly (because we bump into each other everywhere), at Machu Picchu - said that it was great, but not the most challenging walk. When I trek, I like to be pushed hard.

So on Monday morning, with a small backpack on my back, I set off on the leisurely way of seeing Peru's most famous attraction.

There were no trains from Cusco to Ollantataymbo so I got the first collectivo taxi of my trip so far. Basically, a collectivo is a taxi that only leaves once full. Everyone pays a small amount, it doesn't stop on the way, and therefore it's a really good way to travel.

We got to Ollanta (for short) after an hour and a half's drive, with some lush green fields and towering mountain views to keep us entertained.

In Ollanta I had a bit of time to kill before my train to Aguas Calientes. I sat in the main square, got continually hassled by a woman wanting change, and watched the rain come down incessantly for a couple of hours. Probably not the most memorable lunchtime I've had in Peru.

For posterity's sake, this is Ollantataymbo:

After eating a stupidly big burger (which my diet allows) I went to board my train. I got the Expedition/Backpacker train, which was still a pretty neat way to travel - despite it being the cheapest of three train options. Comfy seats, everyone at a table, free snacks, windows in the ceiling:

I think all trains should have windows in the ceiling. And in the floor. In fact, trains should just be big see-through test tubes with seats.

The main highlight of the 1.5hr trip, apart from having a leg-to-leg joust with the fat Japanese guy sitting next to (and almost on top of) me, was the river.

For a lot of the time we were hugging the riverbank, and the muddy, swelling water looked nasty. Almost violent. The current was so powerful that at certain points the waves were licking 10-15 feet into the air, and the foamy water was crashing against the rocks. It actually looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster:

We arrived in Aguas Calientes in mid-afternoon...

...where I was met by Edison - the cheery bell-hop from my hostal. A quick walk to the Terrazas De Inca hostal, where I dumped my bag and downed a couple of cups of coca tea, was followed by a trip to the thermal baths at the top of town.

Aguas Calientes (Hot Waters), is known for two things: being the nearest town to Machu Picchu (and some local establishments actually called it Machu Picchu town, which I thought was stretching things a bit) and for having natural hot springs.

At the baths, there were five or six pools. Most were almost empty, but one in the middle was packed.

Testing the water, you could see why. It was the hottest, and therefore the most pleasant (and theraputic). I also reckoned it was the most polluted by other people's flaking blisters, cold sores and other unpleasantries - so I didn't stay long.

They were those springs with murky water, where every now and then something unidentifiable floats past your line of vision. 'Au Natural', I suppose. But give me a chlorined turqouise pool any day.

Afterwards I bought my bus ticket for the morning and then read a few chapters of my book - a Dean Koontz novel about alien abduction. As I sat in my hostel - that contained no other guests - with the sound of the river cascading outside, and with temparatures dropping, the whole scene started to feel a bit eerie.

I snapped out of it by heading to an amazing restaurant in town called Indio Feliz - recommended by all and sundry, and easy to see why. It was a French bistro run by an excellent little team, and with great food. No pics unfortunately, but I have some in my head. A really good meal.

And so, onto the main event...

The first bus to Machu Picchu leaves Aguas Calientes at 5.30am each morning.

I was up at 4.20am to have breakfast (surprisingly laid on, to order, by the hostal) and walk down the road to the bus stop. Thinking, at 5.10am, that I'd be one of the early birds - perhaps joined by 20 or 30 others - I was taken by surprise as I turned the corner and saw about 150 people waiting patiently in line.

No matter though. Bus after bus streamed down the dark road to scoop us up and take us the 20 minutes to the (formerly) lost city of the Incas. We zig-zagged up the mountain, disembarked, joined another big queue for the entrance...

...and 20 minutes later I was in the park.

Now we've all seen pictures of Machu Picchu, so I knew what was coming as I rounded the final corner of the entry walk. But when I actually stepped out and saw the towering peak of Huaynapicchu looming over the intricate stone walls of the city itself, it was a stunning sight:

People stay in Aguas Calientes overnight so they can get those 5.30am buses up to MP and be there before the tour groups arrive from Cusco, and other places. It means you get the site almost to yourself for a couple of hours, plus can watch the sun rise over the adjoining mountains.

It was well worth the early start, seeing the city below change every few minutes according to the weather. From time to time a blanket of cloudy mist swooped over the site:

It was so peaceful - once I managed to edge away from the other chattering tourists - and the air was crisp and refreshing. Perfect.

On the way in, I had been fortunate to get one of the 400 daily passes up to the top of Huaynapicchu - the Sugar Loaf Mountain-esque peak that sits above Machu Picchu.

Nowadays they limit the numbers (200 between 7-8am, 200 between 10-11am) following an accident a few years ago when three girls plunged to their deaths. No-one knew where they had vanished to until their bodies were found at the bottom of Huaynapicchu some three months later.

So the lucky 400 now have to sign in when entering the part of the park that houses Huaynapicchu, and sign out again afterwards.

As I hadn't done the Inca Trail, and was feeling a lot more sprightly after my illness, I was really up for the climb ahead. At the entrance, the signs said 'only for the fit and healthy. Steep climb'. Count me in!

As I was signing in, a poor woman in her forties or fifties squeezed past, out of breath. She'd attempted the first few flights of steps before her lungs and body forced her to turn round. I began to sense this wouldn't be a walk in the park.

What it was was a 45 minute hike up a ridiculously steep mountain, climbing up haphazard steps, moving ever higher into altitude. This is a pic of the guy in front of me up one particularly stretching part:

But despite the steepness, the sweat, the gasping for air, I really enjoyed it. Towards the top there was a little tunnel that you had to clamber through, scraping various parts of your body on the way, and then a final ladder climb to the very top of the mountain:

The views at the summit were awesome. We could see over Machu Picchu as well as the rest of the 360 degree panaroma across the cloud-covered mountains:

After a 15 minute breather at the top I began my descent. At times, the tiny steps struggled to accommodate my size 8s and it wasn't easy going. Here's a couple of pics:

I found myself doing a lot of those arms-outstretched poses. Not sure why. Must stop.

Once at the bottom, pretty exhausted and with legs shaking, I took a slow wander through the ancient city.

Those Incas were a clever bunch. They used proper foundations, had some expert stonemasons and knew how to plan out a city.

Trying to fathom how they constructed this place, on the 'saddle' between two mountains, starts to hurt my head. The time it must have taken, and the vision that went into it, is difficult to comprehend. It's so well preserved.

You see buildings at home built in the last twenty years that are in worse shape than Machu Picchu.

After six hours at the site, I got the bus back to Aguas with James and Sarah, had my first beer for a while and watched some Champions League football. It then started to rain, and rain, and then it bucketed it down like the gates of water hell had been opened above us.

Not owning any waterproof clothing out here, I was soaked to the bone all the way home. It made the final leg - from Ollanta back to Cusco - particularly trying. At the Ollanta train station I boarded a collectivo minibus taxi to Cusco. It was only after I boarded that I noticed the smell. It was a smell of farm. Arable.

I was surrounded by several local women in their customary wide stetson-like hats and striped clothes. These women clearly worked on the land, as there was a stench of animal excretia in the bus. Luckily they got out halfway to Cusco, and my nostrils could start to function normally again.

And that, in a nutshell, was my whirlwind 48hrs to Machu Picchu. Perhaps not as memorable as had I done the trek, but really memorable all the same.

There are a few things in the world that I've always wanted to see with my own eyes, and that astonishing Inca city was one of them. Job done.

Since then, I've spent my time in Cusco preparing for my departure from Peru.

I went and bought my bus ticket to Copacabana (the Bolivian town, rather than the Brazilian beach) and bought myself another pair of trainers as my Nikes were beginning to smell like a pair of dead rats.

This morning I hiked to a place called Sacsayhuaman in the north of the city. Unfortunately I'd mis-read my guidebook, and rather than the Inca ruins being free to visit, they cost about 15 quid. I turned on my heel and walked back down to town.

All I wanted was a good panaromic view of Cusco. I spoke to someone who said it was possible to walk up to the Blanco Christo without incurring a charge (a rarity in Cusco), so I took another steep climb up there. At times I was battling with thorn bushes on muddy paths, but I finally made it to the top:

So I only have a few hours left before my nightbus to Puno, and then I will take another bus over the border to Copacabana in the morning.

My few weeks in Peru have been great. From the chillout zone of Mancora, to the astonishing sand dunes of Huacachina. An amazing hike in the Colca Canyon, to an unforgettable day at Machu Picchu.

It's a great country and I could have spent several more weeks here, but Bolivia calls.

Here are a few more pictures:

Peru: Cusco (2)

What a brilliant day I've just had.

Things have perked up considerably since my last post. Gone are the four hospital walls that I was becoming too accustomed to seeing, gone is the bland food, the needle in my arm.

I had a new doctor in my last 24 hours at the O2 Medical Network, Dr Wendy, who could speak some English (hurrah!) and was a lot more thorough and clear with me than the other male doctor.

Despite my stomach still doing backflips on a regular basis, the fever, headache and nauseousness had gone. Wendy deemed it fit to discharge me yesterday afternoon - armed with a suitcase of drugs, strict instructions on diet for the next week and four bottles of something called Electrolight:

I have to drink it all the time, even in my sleep (he lied). It stops me dehydrating, apparently, so I'm happy with that. Unfortunately it tastes like it contains the combined sugar content of a sweet shop.

So I bade my farewell to the sweet nurses who had looked after me...

blame the crap picture on the male nurse who took it

...and was given a final lift in the ambulance to my new home:

The Hospedaje Royal Frankenstein was made for the word 'quirky'. It got excellent reviews on TripAdvisor, and in my Footprint guide, so I didn't have any bones (or bolts?) about picking it.

Run by a friendly duo - German Ludwig and his Peruvian wife - The Frankenstein is just what I needed after a few days 'inside'. It is the opposite of a big, lively hostel - so loved by many backpackers - in that it feels like a home that you're a guest in.

I splashed out (15 whole pounds a night) for a private room with private bathroom. I needed a bathroom to myself for obvious reasons...

It has the all-important Wifi, a small kitchen, a nice lounge area, and even an iguana:

Ludwig lights a fire each night for guests and is always on hand to answer the most mundane questions about Cusco, like 'where's a good pizza restaurant?'

The pizza I had last night was great. I'm not allowed vegetables or fruit or dairy, so I was a bit naughty with the tomato and mozarella topping, but what am I supposed to do? Eat bread rolls for a week?

It was a tiny little place called Pizza Carlo, given excellent marks by all reviewers on TripAdvisor. Much as I wanted asparagus, or mushrooms, or onion, I followed Doctor Wendy's advice and went for a meat topping. So I kind of stuck to the dietary agreement.

Today I got up and walked the couple of blocks to the Plaza de Armas. I then spotted these guys:

It turns out that Sunday is a big parade day in Cusco, where various local groups march through the town square with banners. Showing off, I suppose (I didn't see any other reason for the local bank clerks to be there, placards in hand, suited up).

This Sunday was slightly different in that it was a military parade as well. There were lots of dignitaries, all in their Sunday best, and hundreds of locals packed out on the steps below the cathedral to watch the procession.

All sorts of army personnel were there: snipers, parachute regiments, these sand-camouflaged Ewoks:

There were also several army bands, playing the usual triumphant songs - as well as the Peruvian national anthem (which I'm getting to know by heart).

I got my picture with a scary-looking sergeant (or major. Or colonel. Or something) with a blackened face:

I was going to enter into discussion with him about Peru's military history, but I didn't really fancy spending longer than I needed to in his company.

In front of the cathedral there was a real Pomp and Ceremony moment as various army guys frogmarched to the flagpoles and raised two flags: one was the Peruvian national flag and the other looked similar to the universal flag for gay peace.

Maybe it was. Peru does feel quite progressive.

I spent a good couple of hours watching the military precision of this event, which didn't seem to have much of a reason for being, except for the local people to show thanks to - and pride in - their servicemen. All good stuff.

I had a date in the early afternoon, so couldn't hang about. My date was with Cienciano, the local football team, who were playing Union Comercio. I went to the Cienciano HQ in town and bought a ticket for 10 soles (just over two quid).

For my previous games in South America I'd chosen the slightly more expensive seats on the halfway line. This time I wanted to be in with the real fans, so chose a spot behind the goal.

Ticket in hand, I was just about to leave and go to the ground, when I heard more music and saw a dance troupe arriving at the church next door.

There were women in intricately-designed outfits, boys wearing big circular 'things', and several of the creatures from Where The Wild Things Are:

After they'd finished their strange little dance, an even stranger one took place. A man with a huge nose, accompanied by a few men with bizarre masks, performed something similar to Morris dancing. But without the sticks.

No, don't ask me why.

Going from a military procession, to strange dancers, to a football match - all in the space of a few hours - is surely what travelling and seeing the world is all about. It's rarely dull out here.

I got to the stadium with about 20 minutes left of the reserve fixture:

I'm realising this is the norm in South America - the reserves playing before the main teams. It's a good idea as it gets some people in early (spending money) and if you're up for watching 180 minutes of football, you get a decent bang for your buck.

I was lucky to see the game's only two goals, one a penalty for Union:

Cienciano equalised soon after.

Following a brief break, during which I ate a bit of street meat that I carefully watched being (thoroughly) cooked, the main event took place.

With two minutes to go before kick-off, the Cienciano hardcore supporters entered the stadium to the sound of their drums, trumpets, tubas and cymbals. It was brilliantly choreographed and they took up their place on the banked terrace behind the goal (which had been left completely empty by the knowledgable locals).

A few of them scattered like mice to the front of the stand, scaling the high fence to put their massive flags and banners on display:

And then the game began.

If you follow this blog, you'll know I haven't had much luck with seeing goals in South America. In fact, just before kick-off I texted my mate Phil, saying 'if this finishes 0-0, I think I'll shoot myself'.

And what happened? Less than two minutes on the clock and a comedy own goal, right in front of me, gave Cienciano the lead. The hoodoo had gone!

Not long after, up the other end, a weaving run from the opposition striker took him into the box and he rifled the ball home high into the net. One-all and we'd barely begun. A good day was getting better and better.

Before half-time, Cienciano struck again - this time a brilliant volley from the edge of the box. It was end-to-end stuff (as the cliche goes) and the crowd - about 25,000 I'd say (including zero away fans) - were loving it.

With Cienciano on top, they had a chance to put the game out of reach. They won a penalty and their lanky No.9 stood up to take it.

This guy was the captain, but all game I saw him berate his team-mates for no apparent reason, and he kept being guilty of giving the ball away, missing the target, etc.

I took a video of what happened next: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26607248@N08/5587002489/

Justice done, perhaps?

By the way, I can't seem to automatically enable videos to open in a new window so you'll just have to right-click and Open In A New Window/Tab. Apologies.

It proved to be the game's turning point, as in the second half Union got the wind in their sails (possibly after a sail being shoved up their arse by their manager in the break).

They were clearly in the ascendency when they got a free kick on the edge of the box. I got a video of the ensuing goal: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26607248@N08/5587066573/

Nice finish.

After that, the most noteworthy thing was the weather. I had got quite badly sunburnt in my first couple of hours in the stadium, seeing as the sun was beating down and there was nowhere to escape from it.

With 15 minutes left it started to rain, and then it poured, and then there was a deluge. And then it got even worse, but I've run out of rain words so you'll have to ask Michael Fish about how heavy this rain was.

Suddenly it was the turn of budding entrepreneurs to have their minute in the sun rain. Several men appeared out of nowhere selling ponchos for 50p a go.

I reckon they probably sold over 15,000 of the things in about 10 minutes. No joke. Every stand suddenly turned into a collage of pinks, blues, yellows and purples. (Mine was transparent).

Clever guys.

The match was mercifully brought to its conclusion by the referee, and we scampered out of the open terrace, literally wading in puddles as we went. Here's the bunfight for the safety, and dry, of the space under the stadium:

After a couple of dud nil-nils it was great to see a game with lots of incident and goals in a fantastic stadium, sat right behind the best football band I've heard in a while. The quality of football was far better than that served up by Allianza Lima too, and they're top of the league. Strange.

I got back, stuck my sodden clothes in front of the heater for a couple of hours and sorted out my stuff for tomorrow. I'm off on a two-day trip to see Machu Picchu, one of South America's - if not the world's - must-see places. Can't wait.

Here's a few more snaps:

Taking the pet for a walk

Parade at the Plaza de Armas

In the ground, getting burnt

Cienciano flag

Frank

Peru: Cusco (1)

Travel insurance. My best purchase of the year so far.

I find myself once again in a hospital bed, laptop on lap, big needle in arm, a concoction of unidentified drugs coursing through my veins.

After 33 years without spending a night in hospital (as far as I can recall), the parasites have attacked me again - the second time in three months. The inside of my body probably looks like something out of an (early) James Cameron film*.

I arrived in Cusco early on Monday after an altitude-affected overnight bus from Arequipa. As we climbed ever higher above sea level, my breaths became harder and harder to take.

I'm a light sleeper on the best of nights, but when it feels like a small man (or woman. I'm not sexist) is sitting on your shoulder and pinching your oesophagus a couple of times a minute, sleep takes second priority to staying alive.

That's obviously being over-dramatic, but despite going on several ski trips as a teenager, and other trips to high altitude (such as the visit to the 5,000m+ high Cotopaxi volcano last month), I can't ever recall shortage of breath like I've had in Cusco.

Because my final day in Arequipa was spent in bed, I hadn't booked any accommodation in Cusco. At the bus station at 6.30am I was met by a cluster of men and women thrusting laminated pictures of their bedrooms in my face.

Rather than a strange Peruvian mating game, this was the hoteliers' way of conducting business. I pushed past them, took a breather in the loo, came out, sat down, and was soon approached by an old guy who could speak English.

He had a private room with private bathroom for the princely sum of 30 soles a night (about 7 quid). I said yes, he said let's go and we went.

It turned out he was just the taxi-driving middle man. We got to the un-named guesthouse, hidden behind a big wooden door just a couple of blocks from the Plaza des Armas, and met the owner.

I saw the room - fine - and the owner then asked for 45 soles a night. Now I'm not tight (usually), and can afford 10 pounds a night, even when promised 7, but at 8am after a sleepless night I wasn't in the mood to negotiate.

I explained that Taxi Man and I had agreed a price. It was a gentleman's agreement (involving the all-important firm handshake) and, with it being low season, 30 soles was fair.

He backed down to 40, then 35, then refused to budge. At this point I was past caring, but was probably feeling (a bit too?) defiant. I picked up my bag and was heading out the door before he agreed to the (agreed) price of 30 soles.

Blimey, it was like a negotiating stand-off on The Apprentice. And all over 3 quid.

Hey ho.

After a short sleep I took a walk through the centre of the city. It's a very attractive place. Little cobbled alleyways, big red-brick churches and evidence of Inca history everywhere you look.

That evening I met up with James and Sarah (again), plus Andy (who I'd previously met in Medellin and Mancora) and some other folks staying in their hostel.

It was to be a momentous evening: The Evening We Ate Guinea Pig For The First Time.

We went to a restaurant that Andy had found online, and who specialised in Cuy. On the menu were two choices: Cuy al horno (roast guinea pig) and Cuy al friend (a misspelt fried guinea pig).

We plumped for the roast, and some 45 minutes and several drinks later, these badboys arrived:

The presentation style was just as well, as I always insist my roasted animal wears a tomato hat and chews on a fat orange chilli.

We spent several minutes capturing this historic moment on camera. It would never be repeated. We were the guinea pigs in our own lives, trying this curious Peruvian delicacy for the first time.

I don't apologise for any of these pictures. Others were taking far worse:

Chewy.

And the taste? Similar to chicken, but slightly gamier (if that's a word). Not much meat on them though, so I was glad of the potato and empañada side dishes.

As it was a night for first times, and an experience I was unlikely to repeat, I joined Andy in the true and proper cuy tradition: the eating of the brain.

One is supposed to suck the brain out of the dismembered head and chew on its spongy form. Luckily, being the friend that he is, Andy managed to break open the skull with his fingers and presented us both with a piece of the finest guinea pig brain in Cusco.

In my current state, running to the toilet every 30 minutes, I probably shouldn't try and recall the taste. But this blog won't write itself and I want to record all the good and bad bits of my travels.

Chewing on the brain of a dead rodent safely falls into the latter category.

It was white, mushy, and tasted like something you'd find at the back of the fridge in a wet grocery bag. After getting home from a two-week holiday.

So, following our own I'm A Celebrity-esque brain trial, I reckon we deserved a good night out. The owner of the restaurant had a deal going with the club across the road and we were given loads of free drinks tokens, plus free entry, to a fun nightspot.

We danced to salsa, and then to the usual South American favourites (Black Eyed Peas, Los Lobos, and songs that you hear EVERYWHERE but I have no idea who they're by). It was a good night:

My first climbing-on-the-bar act of the trip so far. Had to be done.

The next day I woke up with a hellish hangover but made it outside in time for lunch. In hindsight I wish I hadn't.

After moving hostels to be with friends, I went to one of the numerous local restaurants you find all over South America, where they have a set menu (Menu Del Dia) featuring a starter and a main - plus a juice.

The one I chose was busy with locals. A good sign, no?

I was given a soup that contained just about every ingredient from the kitchen (corn with cabbage and a bit of brown meat, Sir?). It was just about passable, as these Menu Del Dia soups usually are.

For the main course it was a lump of pesto spaghetti with a chicken drumstick. A decent, if unusual, combo.

The pasta was ok, and the chicken was too. Until I delved slightly further in towards the bone and pink meat started appearing. Hungry, hungover, and trusting the locals (all of who were eating the same dishes), I plowed on.

A couple of hours later I had the runs. A couple of hours after that I had a fever. A short time later, a headache.

The exact same symptoms as I had in Gorkana and then Hampi, in India. That time it was Salmonella, this time I feared something similar.

After an afternoon, and a long, sweaty night in bed, I knew better this time than to try and sit this thing out. In India I waited a week, getting worse by the day, and ended up spending six days in hospital.

This time, I went straight to the hostel reception and they phoned a doctor. He arrived and we went by ambulance to the clinic.

The clinic didn't appear to be the most upmarket place, tucked down a side street near the grotty bus station - but it was recommended by the hostel and the staff seemed friendly enough. And besides, at that stage there was little alternative.

I was ushered into a tiny, windowless room. The bed had the previous occupant's hair on the pillow and sheet, so I declined to go under the covers. I had several initial visits from various nurses and a doctor who looked barely twenty.

With my poor Spanish and their poor English, conversating was a bit of a struggle, but I was happy to undergo all the tests they wanted to perform and be put on a drip.

After several hours, and feeling more and more like I was in a prison, they came in and told me that I was moving upstairs. Hurrah! Anything would be preferable to a 2m x 3m box, with an adjoining toilet that didn't have a toilet seat...

The upstairs room is almost palatial by comparison. A large semi-circular layout with a big plasma TV, a decent bed, a laptop, and yes - a toilet seat on the toilet! Praise the lord for he bringeth comfort.

It actually turns out that I was in a holding bay/observation room downstairs yesterday, and the kind nurses apologised for keeping me there for so long.

In other exciting clinic news, my drip was moved from my left arm:

To my right arm today:

This morning, as the nurse failed to locate a vein for the third time, each time skewering me with intense pain, I felt like grabbing the needle and doing the job myself.

In India they had no problem locating a little blue channel in my hand. Here, they keep complaining I have too much hair around my wrist area (the best place to insert a drip) and that my veins are porqueño (ie, small).

I must make a note to check out the wrists, and veins, of the local Peruvian men.

Apart from that, the nurses are nice enough - but seem taken aback when you ask for anything. Yesterday I hadn't had anything to eat for a few hours - and when you're shitting out your insides twice an hour you need to keep eating and drinking.

I asked for a coca tea (as the altitude is still affecting my breathing) and something to eat. They seemed flustered by this request and came back with the coca tea and two small pieces of bread:

I asked for something to go on the bread, and they returned 10 minutes later with a thimble-full of jam.

As I was tactically spreading the inch of jam across the bread surface with the teaspoon (no knife or butter), I began to wonder why I didn't go to my first-choice, 'highly recommended' clinic in my guidebook.

But no matter. Yesterday was another day, and up here is better. I even got the jam delivered WITH my bread this morning.

The diagnosis, according to my Spanish-worded medical report...

...is DESHIDRATACION MODERADA, GASTROENTEROCOLITIS AGUDA Y PARASITOSIS. Which in English means moderate dehydration, acute gastroenterocolitis and parasitosis.

Pleasant.

This morning I was allowed out, and driven back into central Cusco to do a couple of errands. Firstly, I had to cancel my trek to Machu Picchu as the doctor said I would probably still be having stomach 'issues' until Sunday.

I didn't fancy a 6 hour hike uphill in constant need of a crap, so the trek had to go. A shame, but these things happen.

I went to the agent, needle sticking out my arm and doctor's certificate in hand, and explained I wanted to cancel. She looked at me like I'd just spat in her face.

I explained the reasons, and asked what her refund policy was. After an audible sigh, she moaned that she had already had to pay the government for my entry fee (true) and an additional 'tax' (possibly true). She then said another person on the trek had pulled out, and had paid a lot more than me - and wouldn't be getting any of it back (surely false).

At this stage I felt like pulling the needle out of my arm and stabbing her in the eye with it. Luckily, that remained just a thought in my fatigued mind.

I stood my ground, got some cash back (but not all) and still have an entry to Machu Picchu if I can make it there by Tuesday.

After that lack of sympathy, I had a much friendlier welcome at my hostel who let me off last night's dorm room charge even though I had left all my stuff in the room, on the bed etc.

And that's about that. I am currently sitting up in my bed, listening to Grandaddy on my iPhone speaker and watching Colombian football on ESPN. On the mend, I reckon.

Oh, and there's a welder outside my window creating a firework display of sparks - all of which are landing on sheets of polystyrene that join onto the wall of my room.

Gotta love the Peruvian Health and Safety.

As for the rest of Cusco, including pictures, I'll need to put that in the next post (assuming no welding-induced fire happens in the meantime) - as I haven't really 'done' the city yet, nor taken any pictures of it.

Until then, here's a pic for the family album:

* I'm thinking Aliens, rather than Rambo: First Blood Part II