Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (29 page)

Erasing “I’ve Never Been to Me” from my mind, I relaxed back in my seat and tried to enjoy the first leg of my journey. I was flying Upper Class to Miami, where I would catch a connecting flight to Lima, then another on to Cusco, where I would spend two days acclimatising to the high altitude before setting off on my trek. Fortunately, I didn’t recognise any of the crew on board the Miami flight; I wasn’t in the mood for work gossip. This was
my
time. Time to return to me.

My journey to Cusco was relatively straightforward. I managed to get my two connecting flights on standby at the bargain price of twenty dollars each, and there were no delays or traumas. The flight into Cusco was stunning – the plane appeared to skim the tawny peaks of the Andes, which seemed to take on personalities
of their own. I could see faces emerging in the numerous crevices and hollows: a bearded laughing man, a forlorn seal with brooding craters for eyes.

The altitude hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane. My head was spinning; I was dehydrated and breathless, and my stomach felt decidedly queasy. It felt similar to a hangover – and I hadn’t even been drinking. I thought I was going to keel over after hauling my relatively small thirty-kilo rucksack off the carousel; every physical movement exhausted me. I lumbered through the terminal and outside to the taxi rank, feeling like a centenarian attempting an ironman triathlon. I climbed into the nearest taxi – a dilapidated brown Mercedes with a hanging exhaust pipe – showed the driver the name of my B&B in my trusty
Lonely Planet
and slumped back against the sweaty, ripped leather.

The taxi driver, a cheery guy with a Spanish accent and burly black moustache, talked non-stop. “What you do in Peru?” he asked, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.

“I’m going trekking in the Andes – walking the Inca trail,” I said.

“Ah, I have friend, good friend, who do tours. I put you in touch.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m already booked up,” I said. “Can you recommend anything else to do in Cusco?”

I couldn’t get a word in edgeways after I asked him this. He was offering to hook me up with friends all over Cusco: a friend who would take me on a tour of the Inca ruins; another pal who would take me to visit a traditional family in Chichubamba; and he knew all the owners of Gringo Alley’s bars and restaurants. When we pulled up outside my B&B, he insisted I wait while he jotted down his contacts’ details. “Everything you need is here,”
he said, passing the piece of paper over his seat. I thanked him and slipped the list between the pages of my
Lonely Planet
.

“You might want to get this car serviced,” I joked when he got my rucksack out of the boot. He was ages trying to open the boot, pushing the car up and down, exhaust knocking the pavement, until it finally sprang open.

He winked, his bushy moustache rising at one side. “I have friend.”

Compared to the five-star hotels I was used to staying in, the Hostal Incawasi was very basic, but comfortable. Considering it was only costing me twenty dollars a night and was situated on the main square, Plaza de Armas, it was a complete bargain. The receptionist showed me around and kindly made me a cup of coca-leaf tea to ease my altitude sickness, which worked a treat. After two cups I was almost back to my normal self again – and rather giggly.

I spent my first afternoon and evening in Cusco resting in my room, reading up on the Inca trail and indulging in a spot of meditation. It was nice to just sit in a quiet room for once and think of nothing – to clear my head of all thoughts of men and work.

The following day, feeling rejuvenated, I went along Gringo Alley and booked a white-water rafting excursion on the Urubamba River, which was a brilliant laugh. I also met two lovely Dutch guys, Rick and Max, and I ended up going out with them in Cusco after the excursion. We went for dinner at a charming hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Chez Maggy, down Gringo Alley, where Max ordered the national dish of Peru,
cuy
… otherwise known as deep-fried or roasted guinea pig.

He tried to convince me to order it too. “It’s delicious,” he said. “It tastes a bit like bacon.”

I’m not a fussy eater and certainly not adverse to sampling
new and unusual dishes, but guinea pig? I couldn’t do it. “I’ll stick to pizza today,” I said. “I’m still acclimatising and my stomach’s been a bit iffy.”

Max’s guinea pig was served up whole, sprawled over a mountain of potatoes with a wedge of orange stuffed in its mouth and a herb-garnished tomato resting on its head like a party hat. Its leaping pose made it look as though it had jumped into the oil of its own accord.

I woke early the next morning, my stomach fluttering with nervous excitement. I downed another cup of coca tea, ate a humungous breakfast and made my way to the meeting point in Cusco. From there we boarded a coach to the starting point of the Inca trail in the village of Mollepata. There were about twenty of us on the tour, including a Norwegian girl called Kristen, who spoke with a lovely sing-song accent and gasped every time she said
“Ja”
, meaning “Yes”. She was tall with fifties-movie-star black hair, spoke near-perfect English and had a brilliant sense of humour. As soon as I got chatting to her on the way to the starting point, I knew she’d be my friend for the trek.

I gasped when I stepped off the coach and saw the view before me. The mountains were so vast, and embroidered with green forests stretching up to pale blue peaks engulfed in hazy clouds. Although the air was thin, it felt remarkably fresh and invigorating. The atmosphere was still and silent, except for the distant harmony of singing birds. It was like stepping into a dream landscape.

We stopped at a nearby farming area called Marco Casa, at the start of the trail. There was a little market stall where we could buy coca leaves for the trek, and I stocked up – I was growing fond of the stuff. We met up with the
arrieros
(wranglers) and their mules and horses, who would carry our gear during the trip.
One of our guides, Mike, outlined the first leg of our trek, which would take us on a gentle hike into the Cordillera Vilcabamba: above the green river valley, we hiked steadily along the plateau, where we would camp beneath the icy peaks of the Vilcabamba range ready for our 6am start the next morning. “Go at your own pace,” Mike warned. “The altitude here is just over 12,000 feet. If you feel faint or need to rest, just shout. Welcome to the Inca trail.”

We filed slowly along the well-worn path, dust pluming up over our hefty boots. I was on my way.

Although the first day of the trek was not overly strenuous, it was long and flat, as we headed alongside the mountain range to our base camp. I chatted to Kristen along the way – when we could find the breath. I discovered she was a teacher from Oslo and had been with her boyfriend, Anders, for five years. Like me, she was taking some time out from work to do something she’d always dreamed of doing.

“Did your boyfriend not fancy coming?” I asked her.

“No, he has to work. To be honest, I think he’s pleased to have some peace and quiet.”

As we continued along the narrow paths, Mike stopped to point out an Inca ruins site, which reminded me of crumbly, chunky biscuits, and some of the flora and fauna. There were pink and white orchids blooming out of the slopes and we also saw an angel’s trumpet plant, its flowers resembling upside-down trumpets and, according to Mike, containing hallucinogenic toxins. The paths were extremely narrow and crumbling, and you really had to watch your step.

The next night we set up camp in a cloud forest near the town of Soraypampa, where we met two American lads, Sam and Ted, whom we nicknamed the Whisky Twins – because all they did
was drink whisky. They had decided to trek the Inca trail alone, as opposed to joining an organised tour. They weren’t really twins, but they did have similar chiselled features, Californian tans and beach-buff bodies. They stayed for dinner with us at camp that night, swigging whisky and recounting tales of forgetting their crampons and trying to scale glaciers while half-cut. They were mad. Good fun, but completely bonkers.

I got along with everyone on our tour. They were all really down to earth and genuine. We had a good laugh – the funniest moments at the camp coming every time someone needed to go to the loo, which meant hovering over a hole in the ground enclosed with a few sheets of tarpaulin, while holding a torch in one hand and loo roll in the other.

On the second day I had an accident. It happened towards the end of the day, as we hiked down a glacier towards our base camp. I was feeling weary and my feet were slipping on the moss. In the distance I could see the porters unpacking our gear from the donkeys’ backs, and I began to think about food, rest and pulling off my pinching boots. My concentration slipped … and so did I. My right foot twisted and I fell to the ground, landing on my back with my right leg bent beneath me. I had to hobble down to the camp resting on Kristen’s shoulder.

Determined to carry on – I hadn’t come all this way for nothing – I bandaged my swollen, sprained ankle and carried on hiking the following day. I couldn’t see Lara Croft turning down a mission due to a swollen ankle, so it was onwards and upwards for me. A lovely Scottish couple, Stuart and Jude, kindly lent me their hiking sticks, which was a huge help. They were really sweet: just married and on a year’s holiday exploring the world.

I hobbled along on my two crutches and I seemed to be doing fine – until it came to crossing a steep waterfall ravine. The only
way to cross the gorge was to walk across two tree trunks pushed together. I handed my sticks to Kristen and let her and the others go first, watching them stroll effortlessly across the tree trunks. But when it came to my turn, I froze. I stood at the edge of the ravine and looked down – there was at least a 250-foot drop, and the waterfall was cascading from about the same height above the makeshift bridge. I’d never suffered from vertigo in my life, yet this was making me feel physically sick. I stood there for at least ten minutes, contemplating the logs, which were no wider than three feet placed together, while the rest of the group shouted from the other side for me to make the crossing. The incessant roar of the tumbling water added to my fear. But I had no choice – I had to get to the other side. Taking a deep breath I knelt down and crawled onto the logs on all fours. After a few tentative movements I froze again. My heart was skipping beats, my knees trembling, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the moist wood separating me from the rocks below. The rest of the group were chanting, “Come on Mandy, you can do it,” and, “Don’t look down – keep on crawling.” I felt like such an idiot.
Bang goes my Lara Croft moment
, I thought. The chants continued, “Go Mandy, go Mandy – you can do it.”

I had to do it; I couldn’t keep everyone waiting any longer. So I started crawling again, slowly, edging forwards inch by inch. “I can do this,” I said out loud. My fellow trekkers began to cheer and clap. I could see the finishing line. I was almost there. I blew out my cheeks, counted to five, then crawled, without stopping, to the end of the logs, where I was helped back onto my feet and into a group hug.

We had a further scare later that day. We were hiking up a mountain path with a sheer drop on the right-hand side when a group of Peruvians dressed in colourful ponchos came running
up towards us, hollering in Quechua, and pushed us into the bushes that hugged the left-hand side of the path. I thought they were going to attack us – we couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Seconds later, a bull steamed past us and veered into the bushes further along the path. The Peruvians had effectively saved our lives; if the bull had charged into us we probably would have fallen over the edge. We thanked them in Spanish and continued on our way.

By day seven – the final day of hiking – I was exhausted. We’d been getting up at 5.30am and walking for twelve hours every day. My ankle was still killing me and I’d developed huge purple sun blisters on my bottom lip, forehead and across my shoulders – due to the changing climates through the mountains. Our last trek took us into Machu Picchu, the mysterious “Lost City of the Incas”. The golden ruins were stunning: bathed in sunlight and folded in clouds. Some people in our group sobbed at the sight, but for me it felt a bit too touristy. There was a snack bar by the gates to the ruins and the Machu Picchu Sanctuary Lodge (where we could use a proper toilet for the first time in days), and scores of tourists taking photographs, including the Whisky Twins. After the tour of the ruins, I broke away from the group, found a quiet spot near the edge of the mountain and meditated for a while. It was blissful, and I finally experienced my moment of inner peace: I opened my eyes to see a butterfly landing on my muddy hiking boot – I paused for a moment, everything went silent, and I had tunnel vision, focusing only on him in his worry-free little life. Then I sighed as he fluttered off, and I became aware of everything else around me again.

Back in Cusco, we celebrated our Inca trail triumph with a night out at Mama Africa nightclub. It was heaving with tourists dancing on tables to cheesy Euro pop hits. The Whisky Twins
were there, and Ted tried to snog me on the dance floor, but I pushed him away – I couldn’t kiss him with that huge blister on my mouth, no matter how handsome he was.

Despite spraining my ankle and my two near-death experiences, I thoroughly enjoyed my trek through the Andes. I’d made some great friends – people I’m still in touch with today – and discovered a lot about myself. I hadn’t thought about Hugo once over the last few weeks, and I was filled with positive energy that I never knew existed in me.

My next stop was Lake Titicaca. I took the night bus there. It was a relaxing journey, as the bus had seats that reclined into flat beds. I spent a day in Lake Titicaca, where I then booked a trip to La Paz, Bolivia, at the tourist information centre. And from there, things took a turn for the worse.

I’d paid fifty US dollars for my bus ticket to Bolivia, only to be told when I boarded the bus that there were no spare seats available. I was then forced to spend the six-hour journey perched on a box in the aisle at the front of the bus. It was so humiliating. I subsequently discovered, after speaking to a New Zealand couple sitting above me in their comfy seats, that the bus tickets only cost ten dollars. The woman in the tourist information centre had ripped me off big time.