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.
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