The End

Words cannot describe how incredible this year has been and how much it has changed me. There have been difficult times, but I know that I’ve become a stronger and, ultimately, a happier person. I’ve been to Germany, Thailand, Russia, Spain and Peru, and with each new adventure, I’ve confronted new challenges, but I’ve also had some life-changing, unforgettable experiences and met some really amazing people. I feel like I’ve just scratched the surface of what the world has to offer, and it’s made me want to push the boundaries and explore ever further.

I lost two grandparents this year, and this has been the toughest part of all. A year  ago today, my Gramps died of cancer, and tomorrow I’ll be saying goodbye to my Grandpa, who passed away two weeks ago after suffering a heart attack. My blog was always read to my Gramps at his bedside, and my Grandpa was always my most devoted reader; I never dreamt I’d have to say goodbye to him before I came to the end. I can only hope that, were they alive today, they’d be proud of all that I’ve done. I’m going to do all I can to keep doing them proud and to live the life they always wanted me to have: full of adventure, love and passion.

12th September: I’m Coming Home

The journey home was exhausting. I woke up at 6am, left the house with Doris at 7, and got dropped off by Rafael at 7.30. The queue to check in was the worst I’ve ever seen; it snaked around the entire airport and it took me nearly an hour to get to the front. When it finally came round to my turn, I sent my suitcase away and was about to rush to Departures when a security guard stopped me. He told me to come with him and there was nothing I could do but obey.

All the way into the back room, I was trying to find out what was going on, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. My passport and all my belongings were taken from me without a word and I was instructed to stand by and watch while everything was searched - including the suitcase I’d just seen go onto the conveyor belt.

I tried to suppress the feeling of panic that was beginning to take over my body, racking my brain for anything that could possibly have aroused their suspicion about my luggage. The man checking my hold luggage spoke quickly and in a barely decipherable mumble; it was lucky I spoke good Spanish, or I don’t know what I would have done. I answered every question as honestly as I could, even telling him about the presents I had in my suitcase from my Peruvian family, even though I knew they were completely safe.

After what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, my belongings were thrown back into my cases and I was given back my passport and sent on my way. I was never told why I was stopped, but I can only think it has something to do with the two English girls my age who got stopped a few weeks ago for drug smuggling and are now locked up in Peruvian prison. Whatever the reason, it was terrifying and I never want to  have to go through it again.

Once released from the back room, I had to rush to get through to the gate on time, queuing at migration and again for the usual hand luggage security checks. By the time I got on the plane, I was exhausted.

Typically for me, I made another friend on the plane journey to Madrid, a really cool artsy, kind-of-emo girl a few years older than me called Inés. I knew I’d like her as soon as I saw her board the plane in her knitted jumper, teal biker boots and purple trilby. She’d been born in Lima and had lived in Spain for a few years, then gone back to Lima, and was now moving back to Barcelona again to live with her parents and finish her degree. She’d been studying as a journalist in Lima but seemed to be pretty talented at art and photography, too, and was going back to Barcelona to study restaurant management. The bad thing was that she was leaving behind her friends and her girlfriend who was clearly perfect for her. She had a letter and some pictures of her girlfriend in an envelope, which she was keen to show me.

We spent a lot of the journey chatting to each other and showing each other photos, when we weren’t trying (and failing) to sleep or making our own interpretations of the awful film they’d put on, watching it without sound. When we finally landed in Madrid at 4.30am (10.30pm for us), we exchanged names and said we’d stay in touch.

I then had another three hours to wait for my connecting flight to London. Luckily, there were no delays this time and I got straight through. I even arrived at Gatwick early and got on an earlier train to Reading; unfortunately I couldn’t change my ticket from Reading to Birmingham, but I spent the hour sitting in a little cafe run by a lovely local woman. When I reached Birmingham, I jumped straight on the connecting train to Wolverhampton and was there at 2.45. Ten minutes later, my mum was pulling up in the Audi I’d always moaned about, but had never been so glad to see. I ran into my mum’s arms and suddenly realised how good it was to be home.

10th September: Mistura

I woke up at 6.15 the next morning with my hair still damp from the shower the night before, feeling exhausted and full of cold. I was glad I hadn’t made things worse by going out.

The same couldn’t be said for Alex; when it got to 6.45 and there was still no sign of her, I went into her room to wake her. To say she looked a mess was an understatement: her hair and make-up was all over the place, she was bleary-eyed and, to finish off the look, completely covered in UV paint. I said softly, “Alex, what happened to you?” She said she’d had some mosquito bites, so I’m not sure she fully knew what was going on.

There was no sign whatsoever of Eleanor. Matt was the only one composed and ready to go, but since his flight was later than ours, he said he would wait for the other two. In the meantime, I helped Elise shove all her things into her bags and grabbed us a taxi to the airport.

When we’d checked in and had breakfast, there was still no sign of the other three. Finally we saw them enter the airport, only to be turned away from the check-in and disappear from sight. There was nothing Elise and I could do but go through to the gate and hope the others were ok, because if we missed this flight, we’d miss our flights back to the UK, too.

Eventually, with five minutes to boarding, we spotted the others across the hall. They’d had to wait for Eleanor, who’d left at 6 to go to the market, and then when they’d finally arrived at the airport, Alex had been refused entry onto the plane until she sobered up and got rid of the paint. Apparently it had been an amazing night, but poor Alex was definitely feeling the effects of it now.

When the plane landed at 10.15, I had to rush to retrieve my bag and make my way to the entrance to meet Doris, who was picking me up. Doris is a friend of my Pily, my Peruvian mamá, who had asked her to look after me whilst the family were away in Mexico. Doris was a lovely, tiny Peruvian lady, about fifty years old. We phoned Rafael and he arrived within fifteen minutes to pick us up and drop us off at the house.

Once Doris had let us into the house, opening all the various doors and locks and turning off the alarm, I freshened up and grabbed some breakfast (once I’d convinced Doris that I could actually do it myself). Then she walked me to Plaza San Miguel, where I needed to find presents for my Peruvian family.

A couple of hours later, I’d accomplished my mission and was on my way to Mistura, an international food festival held in Lima every year, in Rafael’s taxi once again. It’s been quite handy having my own personal taxi driver, I have to say. Anyway, when we pulled up at Mistura at around 3.30, it was already packed, despite apparently being the quietest day of the festival. 

I thought it might be quite lonely on my own, but within moments of entering, I stopped to ask someone to take a picture of me and ended up tagging along with him and his family. His name was Eche and he was from Sweden but had moved to Peru eight years ago and now had a wife and two young daughters, who he was with that day. He was fascinated to learn all about me and my travels, and had a fair amount of stories to tell himself. The whole family, including their friend Ronnie, was lovely and pretended I was one of them so I could stay with them in the family queue for the aquarium.

The aquarium was, according to Peru’s president, the main attraction of the festival - and it was pretty impressive. The amount of work and investment that’s gone into it is amazing; it’s a proper building with tanks, interactive features and videos. It’s not surprising, then, that we had to wait over an hour to get in. The visit was short, as it was only a small building, but it was interesting to see it from the inside, as well as to observe the purpose of the construction - which was to raise awareness about caring for sea life.

As we were leaving the aquarium, we were offered a free photograph, which would be sent to our email addresses, so I asked Eche if he would have one with me. We had two taken - one for him and one for me, as a memory of one another. He’d already taken a short clip of me on the family camcorder. He gave me his email address and told me to stay in touch, before I said I should probably go off on my own so he could spend the rest of the day with his family.

Once I began to explore the rest of the festival, I realised how incredibly huge it was. It was divided into sections, the food split up into: Amazonian; Andean; anticuchos (grilled skewered meat); ceviche; dishes from Lima; chifa and nikkei (Peruvian versions of Chinese and Japanese food); grill; sandwiches; dishes from the South; dishes from the North; and desserts. There were also tavernas and bars, as well as the Gran Mercado (market), and the Mundos (worlds) of bread, quinoa and coffee. To top it all off, there was an exhibition on chocolate and a huge conference hall hosting talks from South American chefs.

It took me ages to choose which meals to try, especially since being a vegetarian severely complicated matters. I eventually settled for an Amazonian dish called rumo juane or juane de yuca, made from mashed yuca and an expensive fish called paiche (which lives in the Amazonian rivers) all served in a bijao leaf. It was good, and I was glad I’d tried something new.

After that I decided to go for a dessert I knew I loved: mazamorra (made from purple corn) and arroz zambito (like rice pudding with cinnamon). By this time it was nearly 7pm and I thought I’d better call Doris, since she wanted to know an hour in advance when I’d be back at the flat so she could get back in time to let me in.

Since there were far more people waiting for taxis outside the festival than cars to accommodate them, I decided to follow the steady flow of people walking up the steep hill to central Miraflores. On my way to catch a taxi I stopped to take photos and got chatted up by a policeman (classic Peru).

I got back to the apartment building only to discover that Doris was going to be another half-hour, but luckily a kind woman let me into the building, where I was able to pass the time looking through the photographs of the last few days. When Doris finally arrived, I rushed upstairs to pack and write all my ‘thank you’ notes to my Peruvian family to accompany the presents I was leaving for them on the kitchen table. Before I knew it, my last day in Peru was over.

9th September: Machu Picchu

The mornings are just getting earlier and earlier. This time, we were unceremoniously snatched from our sleep at 4 o’clock in the morning, to be ready to leave the hostel half an hour later.

We had no choice but to force our bodies to wake up as we began the walk to the first Machu Picchu checkpoint, which we had to be at before 5.30. It was still pitch-black at this stage and we were determined to make it to the top before sunrise, and before the rest of the tourists started arriving in their droves.

The ascent, even sharing backpacks and swapping every now and again, was exhausting. Alex and I took the lead, with poor Elise quickly falling behind. The trouble was finding a balance between waiting for her to catch up and take rests while making sure we didn’t reach the top too late. Thankfully, the spectacular views we were rewarded with made the gruelling trek up the hundreds upon hundreds of steep stone steps almost bearable. As we reached the upper stages, dawn was slowly breaking over Huayna Picchu and the surrounding mountains, offering us a stunning panorama over the whole valley.

When, after several rests for water, food, stripping down of layers and recuperation of breath, the top finally came into view, we put our favourite motivational tunes on Alex’s iPod: Quiero Casarme Contigo and Vivir Mi Vida. The feeling of achievement when we crested the hill was incredible; it felt like hours had passed, though it had barely been fifty minutes. We’d seen several tourist buses go past at the various landing stages (“Bus wankers”) and felt like we’d truly deserved our spot in the queue. We even took a picture of us looking bedraggled and exhausted at the back of the line.

After we’d got through the check point with our tickets, it was another short climb to the Machu Picchu ruins themselves. Being one of the first groups to enter the site, we were fortunate enough to see the ruins before they became overrun with crowds: the view was spectacular. There aren’t words to describe the feeling of gazing over the mountainside upon the ancient Inca ruins. It was truly overwhelming - and the knowledge that we had climbed up there made it all the more magical.

At 7am we had a private tour with our group, led by our guide, Amoroso. We were able to descend right into the ruins and observe all the inner workings of the place, with much-needed explanations of the previous purpose of what little remains. We also got the opportunity to get up close and personal with the resident llamas.

After the tour, which went on until around 9.30, Alex and I dropped off our rucksack at the cloakroom ready to ascend the even steeper mountain of Huayna Picchu, 360m above the Machu Picchu site. While Machu Picchu literally translates as ‘old mountain’, Huayna Picchu is its ‘young’ twin, and was apparently the residence of high priests and virgins. A small group would reputedly walk to Machu Picchu every morning to signal the coming of the new day - a whole lot of effort for something which seems inherently obvious, if you ask me. At the top of the mountain is the Temple of the Moon and the Great Cavern.

Only 400 people are admitted onto the Huayna Picchu site each day, and Eleanor, Alex, Matt and I had been lucky enough to secure these tickets. Elise hadn’t managed to get a ticket, but since her struggle up the first mountain, I think she was quite glad. However, the climb up Huayna Picchu didn’t feel nearly as gruelling as the climb to Machu Picchu itself - possibly because it was shorter, or maybe because we didn’t have our rucksack, or, most likely, because we weren’t rushing to get to the top and took our time instead, stopping for rests and to take photographs. We actually spent most of the ascent in fits of uncontrollable laughter; I’m not sure whether we suddenly all became hilarious people or whether the altitude was just getting to our heads. The mountain itself did actually provide quite a lot of the entertainment in the form of tiny caves we had to crawl through on our hands and knees, which would certainly have been a challenge for a slightly-fatter-than-average person.

We’d just about exhausted all the photographic opportunities at every angle at the top of the mountain, and were beginning our descent, singing The Circle of Life, when we bumped into a Brazilian guy trying to take a selfie. I offered to take the picture for him, which got us talking, and he soon turned out to be pretty cool, as well as pretty attractive - and he spoke perfect English, which was a winner. He said he’d heard us singing The Lion King and, presumably because he realised what a cool bunch of people we were, decided to tag along with us.

He said he had an English name, Newton (I wondered out loud what his Portuguese one was - as if there hadn’t been enough blonde jokes the past few days). We chatted for a while at the foot of the mountain before going our separate ways. Only half an hour later we bumped into him again, and again half an hour after that on our way to the Inca Bridge.

After taking in some last sites at the Inca Bridge, which was another tough uphill walk away, we decided we should start heading back. We were just on our way to the exit, when who should we bump into but the German guy (the one who’d rushed off to the disco on Saturday). Alex and I were polite but soon made our excuses to escape.

The steep descent took us just as long as the ascent had that morning - probably because by this time, we’d been walking for nearly twelve hours, and the steps were so steep that we had to take them slowly to avoid falling over or damaging our knees. We had several false alarms, thinking we’d reached the bottom, before the bridge finally came into sight.

By 5pm we’d collected our bags from the hostel and were sitting down for a three-course meal, with nachos and drinks, all for S/.15. We were just tucking into our food when who should turn up, but Newton! It seemed like some kind of weird twist of fate, so he took our Facebook details so we could stay in touch. Not only that, but on our way to the train station, we were walking past the hostel when we heard someone calling us: it was Simo, the Israeli guy! Since he’d been on the four-day tour, his trek had finally caught up with ours! 

By the time we finally got on the train at 6.45, we were exhausted and I could feel an illness coming on. We’d spotted the German guy yet again as we were boarding the train and had bets on that we’d end up next to him - thankfully, we were in luck and he didn’t even see us. I’ve never seen such a sorry-looking group of passengers in my life; the whole train was full of smelly, dirty, exhausted travellers. In the short hour-and-a-half journey to Ollantaytambo, I fell into such a deep sleep that it was difficult to come round at the end of the line.

When we got off the train, we were expecting to see our tour bus already waiting, and we were getting quite concerned when fifteen minutes went by without any sign of any Loki representative. Finally, we saw someone approaching with a Loki placard and we set off on our way.

I didn’t sleep at all during the bumpy, windy journey through the mountains, and by the time we reached the drop-off point in Cusco, I was feeling awful. We’d been planning to go to Loki to meet the Australians for drinks, but I didn’t think I could face it.

We got back to the hostel to find Elise already in her pyjamas; she’d been violently sick all the way home and was feeling even worse than the rest of us. Knowing the hectic few days I’d got ahead of me, I decided not to risk making myself seriously ill and skipped the night out (taking the sensible option for once) to make sure I finish my stay in Peru on a high.

8th September: How Not to do a Zip-Wire

The next morning was painful. I don’t know why it was so bad because I don’t think I drank an unreasonable amount and I remembered to have plenty of water when I got in. At any rate, when Amoroso woke us up at the obscene hour of 9 o’clock, I was not happy. It was hot outside, too; the sun came blazing through the open door. To make matters worse, it was one of those really queasy hangovers and before I knew it, I was vomiting, very ungracefully, into the cardboard box I found behind the door. 

Now, as anyone who has ever had a hangover will know, doing strenuous physical activity with said hangover is the worst feeling in the world. So, as you can imagine, that morning’s zip wire adventure was not ideal. I ate what I could of the chocolate and banana pancake at breakfast before dragging myself to the zip wire briefing and making myself feel even more sick by watching videos of what I was about to do.

A short minibus ride into the mountains took us to the highest zip wires in South America, where we all lined up in the searing heat to wait for our turn. There were five in total, and as word had got round by now about my cardboard box incident, everyone cheered every time I made it to the other side without throwing up. Kurt, one of the Australians, unfortunately didn’t fare so well and ended up vomiting in the bushes while waiting to go on. 

I somehow managed to have fun doing it, even though it was touch and go at times. Since we’d got there late, the wind was already strong, meaning we all kept stopping before the end and had to hoist ourselves to the other side or be rescued by an impatient member of staff. The final wire was the biggest challenge - there was little chance of stopping, but we were allowed to freestyle on our position. Not wanting to miss out, I wanted to have a go at zip-wiring upside down like most of the others (quite a challenge when you feel as sick as I did). I’m pleased to say I managed it and was glad I tried it.

Just when I thought I’d got over the final obstacle, I was presented with a massive, wooden, rickety rope bridge, which we were expected to cross. Too dazed to protest, I was clipped haplessly to the bridge and told to go on my way; it was terrifying. Kurt and I were the last two to go, and were encouraging each other through it. The worst part was that, not only did you have to look down into the abyss below to watch your feet, but you had to unclip your safety harness from the bridge every time you came across one of the intervening metal frames, and all the while the bridge was shaking so much I felt like I could fall off at any time.

Finally we all made it across the bridge alive, and the last group of us had to jump in the van to join the others at Hidroelectrica for lunch. During the short bus ride, Kurt was sick several times, both out the window and all over his T-shirt, and Alex had a massive vomit scare that made us officially the Chunder Bus. Somehow I got the impression this was not the way one was meant to see the Sacred Valley.

After lunch we had a three-hour walk to Aguas Calientes along the train tracks of the famous Hiram Bingham train. Thankfully, by this stage I was feeling a bit more human, but even so, the long walk in the heat of the afternoon with all our bags was a challenge. It was lucky we had the Australians to keep us amused.

When we finally arrived at the town of Aguas Calientes, anyone would have thought we were a group of Muslim pilgrims arriving at Mecca, such was our elation. We were just sitting on the wall getting our next briefing when who should run up and hug me but Olga, the Dutch lady from the jungle! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Arriving at the hostel was even better; we had private rooms and hot showers! In a state of bliss, we unpacked our things and made straight for the hot springs, which were just ten minute’s walk (up a steep hill) up the road. No one could believe their luck; the hot springs cost only S/.10 per person and they were amazing. Apparently the best way to get the most of the medicinal properties of the water is to switch between the warm springs and the freezing cold showers - which I bravely did twice.

After an amazingly hot shower back at the hostel, we were escorted to dinner where we were given an actual menu to choose from. It was then that we found out that, on most nights, the Australian lads went out for a second dinner - not surprising, really, when you think how much weed they smoke; they must have the munchies all the time. Bizarrely, we were waiting for our dinners to arrive when one of the guys caught a moth and ate it whole, just like that. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

After dinner, we all bought supplies for the next day, and when we got back to the hostel, a couple of the Australian guys were eating pizza and doing the worst job of packing I think I’ve ever seen. We were all sharing bags in twos, and considering these two were planning on running to the top of Machu Picchu to be the first ones there, they’d packed an obscene amount of food, as well as six litres of water. The backpack weighed nearly as much as I did.

Eventually, they managed to cut the weight down to a reasonable amount and we sat and chatted for a while before deciding we should probably get some sleep. I was just getting into bed when I realised I needed to hang up my bra, which I’d washed since it had inexplicably turned a bizarre greeny-red colour, so Alex and I called them in to take advantage of their tallness and get them to hang it up on the curtain rail. The weird thing was, it wasn’t weird at all.

7th September: Beginning the Inka Jungle Trek

Waking up at 5.25 today, only to find that the hot shower I’d been waiting for was in fact freezing cold, was not a good start. Knowing I’d be roughing it for a few days, I didn’t want to start the trek feeling disgusting so settled for washing my body and hair as well as I could over the sink with lukewarm water.

An hour later, we were on the road, the five of us (as Matt was part of our little VolunTeach group, too) at the back of the old minibus, surrounded by other half-asleep passengers from around the world. I soon forgot my tiredness as we climbed higher into the mountains and its spectacular scenery. It would have been too much of a shame to sleep through the journey and miss such incredible views. We also passed the city and archeological site of Ollantaytambo, which used to be the royal estate of the Inca Emperor Pachacuti.

Unfortunately, the altitude was already taking its toll on poor Matt, and we weren’t long into the winding journey before he was being sick out the window: not a very good start. A two-hour bus ride took us to the upper part of Abra Málaga, at about 4,200m above sea level. From there, we were to begin our decent into the valley on bike - but first, we had to put on all the protective equipment: helmets, knee-pads and even body protectors. It was lucky we had Simo the Israeli guy there, or I would have got myself in a complete muddle. It was at this point that (for some reason which probably seemed logical at the time), I started to nickname him Barbie, a name which, unfortunately for him, stuck for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for me, my ditsy behaviour got me the nickname Blondie.

The bike ride, being predominately downhill, was great fun and required virtually no physical exertion - my idea of a perfect trip. The only slight challenge (and I use the term loosely), was the strip ominously named the Gringo Killer, since several tourists have been killed there. It was really very simple; all we had to do was change gear when going  down towards the streams, in order to cycle successfully up the other side; the rest of the group loudly shouted “Change!” to remind me.

As we descended deep into the valley, the temperature got hotter and hotter until it was almost unbearable to be in my joggers and thick jumper, let alone with all the protective gear on top, especially as we were constantly racing each other. When we eventually made it to the bottom, where our minibus was waiting, we all stripped off and put on layers of insect repellent and suncream; we had cycled into a completely different climate.

Whilst we were eating our three-course lunch (which was, along with the next day’s meals and the final day’s breakfast, included in the tour price) the sky became ominously overcast. Only Eleanor, Alex, Elise and I were doing the rafting, and by the time we’d changed into our shorts and T-shirts, the storm had begun. We’d already paid for our rafting and we weren’t about to be put off by a bit of rain, so we jumped into the car that was waiting for us and went on our way.

As we reached the rafting centre, the rain became torrential and I wondered what on earth we’d let ourselves in for. Glancing down at the river, I noticed apprehensively that the white water rapids had grown even stronger; at the very least, we were going to get drenched, and at the worst, we were going to seriously injure ourselves.

The guy giving us our equipment didn’t help matters; he’d clearly had enough of English tourists and wasn’t in the least bit helpful or even slightly friendly. We were all crowded into a tiny, cold little room and it was clear he’d rather be anywhere else than here, trying to explain rafting techniques to some English girls. He soon perked up, though, when we inadvertently did something to make his day. We asked what clothes we should wear, and when he said that all our clothes would probably get drenched, all four of us, without a second thought, spontaneously took our tops off. The astonished guy didn’t know where to look.

We all borrowed waterproof jackets that went over our heads and fastened with velcro at the neck, as well as helmets, life jackets and oars. A short minibus ride took us down to the river, where we were introduced to some poor guy who would be rowing with us, and the instructor. We abandoned our impractical shoes (from daps, to walking boots, to my dolly shoes) at the shore and waded through the cold water onto the raft. Eleanor thought this would be a good opportunity to ask if anyone had ever died doing this; the instructor just nodded gravely and said, “Yes, there were two deaths here last year.” Good grief.

Our initial efforts were an absolute disaster: Elise had never rafted before and Eleanor just got confused, so both of them, to the instructor’s dismay, ended up rowing in the wrong direction. I’m not surprised he was horrified, to be honest; he’s probably never had anyone actually get confused between rowing forwards and backwards before (it was quite funny though). 

As we were approaching our first set of big rapids, he told us vehemently how important it was for us to paddle ‘for our lives’ as otherwise we would flip over - more than a little worrying to hear. Before we knew it, the rapids were upon us - and it was amazing. When we got through to the calmer water on the other side, he asked us to make a team name. I jokingly suggested ‘Team Georgie’; Alex scoffed and told me to dream on. The instructor took this to be our suggestion and before we knew it, we were Team Dream On. 

The next hour went really fast, the best rapids being a set we spiralled through like a whirlpool and another we crested as though surfing. We even got off the raft in the middle to have  a swim in the river; we were so wet by this stage we thought we might as well. By the end of it we were working really well as a team, and Alex had won the heart of the instructor by being a ‘skilled rafter’ as well as ‘very beautiful’.

In the minibus on the way back to the centre, the driver put on some remixes of English songs redone in Spanish, which we got so excited about he turned up full-blast. On the off-chance, we asked if he had our favourite song, Quiero Casarme Contigo, on the CD - and he did! Alex’s new biggest fan insisted we play it on repeat the rest of the way. 

When we got back to the rafting centre there was just time for some quick photos and a change of clothes before we had to grab our stuff and jump into the back of a minibus full of impatient Peruvians. Then we had a forty-minute drive through the mountains, along precarious cliff-top tracks which barely had room for one vehicle.

By some miracle, we didn’t fall off the cliff and arrived at the hostel to find Matt surrounded by a massive crowd of Australians, all in their twenties, who were part of the four-day trek, and whose group we’d now be joining. After running upstairs to freshen up with a cold shower (and without a towel, too), I came down half-an-hour later to get to know everyone. They seemed like a friendly and crazy bunch of people.

After a few drinks on the street, we were led down the road to a small restaurant by our new guide, a native from the area whose name was Amoroso, and served another three-course meal. A few of the Australians had already started on the weed before dinner was over, and by the time we were finished everyone was up for a big night (well, as big as would be possible in this sleepy mountain town).

Alex, Eleanor, Matt and I shared a vodka and Sprite and sat chatting and meeting new people all evening. At around 11 we met a German guy who was, in his very German way, worried about getting to the disco on time - despite the fact that we would probably be the only people in there.

Anyway, a little while later, we were all ready to leave, and headed for the single club in the town, which we filled. There were literally only a handful of people apart from us, but it didn’t matter; I had a great night dancing salsa with a couple of natives and a guy I met from our tour who was from Chesire. We were the last ones left in the club when it closed not long after 1am.

6th September: Return to Cusco

I must have been woken up at 7am this morning as scheduled, but it was 7.10 before I actually came round, and to the sounds of a slightly frustrated Spanish voice telling me to hurry up and get ready.

An hour later, the Dutch people, Luis, Emma and I were all at reception ready to leave. The boat ride back to Puerto Maldonado lasted two hours since we were travelling against the current. From there, we were picked up by the EcoAmazonia minibus and taken to the small company office to pick up our tickets and fill in some questionnaires before our final drop-off at the airport.

The airport was the tiniest I’d ever seen - even smaller than the one in Koh Samui, Thailand, where I flew into almost this time last year. There was only one cafe, so after we’d checked in our bags, Luis, Emma and I went for a drink before going through the single security conveyor belt to the two flight gates on the other side.

We were split up during the flight, but when we arrived at Cusco we found each other again and collected our bags together. When I rang Edgar, my cusqueño taxi driver friend, he said he wasn’t working that day, meaning I’d have to catch one of the really expensive airport taxis. Thankfully, Emma and Luis were being met by their tour company and suggested I came with them. Their tour rep happened to be one of the loveliest I’ve  ever met, and said they could drop me just a few metres from my hostel, no problem.

I was dropped at the traffic lights and only had time for a hasty goodbye; luckily, I’d already exchanged details with Luis and Emma, who had suggested meeting up that night for dinner or drinks. After checking in at Milhouse and finding out that my friends from VolunTeach, Alex, Eleanor and Elise, wouldn’t be back from their walking tour for a while, I made my way on foot to Loki Hostel. We’re doing the Inka Jungle Trek with them tomorrow, so the final balance had to be paid by 5.30 today.

Walking up the massive hill to the hostel in the afternoon heat, completely out of breath from the altitude, was a challenge. I was glad to get it over with, though - now I could enjoy the rest of the afternoon without worrying about it. Job done, I walked to the cathedral, which is the focal point of the beautiful Plaza de Armas. It was S/.12 to enter, with a free audio guide in Spanish, and it was definitely worth the visit. Not only does this magnificent building feature a spectacular sixteenth-century exterior and interior, but it is also home to more than 400 works of the famous Cusco school of art.

Visiting the cathedral took me nearly two hours, since, typically, I had a million and one phone calls during it (thankfully my phone was on silent). Most were from Eleanor, who was by this time stressing about the payment details for the trek, but one was from little Nicole, my Peruvian sister, who’d phoned to see how I was, bless her.

When I came out, the warmth of the afternoon was already giving way to an evening chill, so I fetched my llama jumper from the hostel and dropped off all my valuables before walking down the hill to the handicrafts market. I’d expected to be able to buy all sorts of souvenirs there, but when my friends rang me at 6.30, I’d only bought a few things - including a very touristy Machu Picchu cap which I hoped, being so embarrassing,  would at least protect my face from the sun on our trek.

I met the others at the main square, and we walked down one of the side streets to find something to eat. We struck lucky and found a restaurant offering a three-course meal and drink for S/.15 (less than £4). We were even able to try traditional Cusco cuisine; two of them even had roast alpaca. 

We had to rush to be back at Loki in time for the trek briefing. The tour guide was already there with Matt, another VolunTeach volunteer I hadn’t met but had spoken to online. Opposite them was an Israeli guy in his late twenties, who seemed a lot more Western than Israeli in the way he dressed, looked and acted. He seemed like he’d be up for a laugh, at any rate.

After the briefing, the girls and I went back to Milhouse, where we packed our bags ready for the morning and made the most of the two-for-one cocktails that were being put on during the Peru-Uruguay football game. While we were sitting outside, an Austrian girl  who Alex had met the day before came up to us (Alex is German, though she tries to forget it) and started chatting to us in German. I asked if she was German and, when she asked me if I was, I was pretty pleased.

With a very early start the next day, we weren’t out of bed long and decided to get a good night’s sleep before beginning our trek.