Now that I am between books I took some time this week to rejuvenate my web page. I am the first to admit that I have no idea when it comes to technology so I shun it as much as I am able. But now that I have a half a dozen titles to my name, hoping that readers will stumble across my back catalogue by accident seems less likely. I will probably make some more changes in the coming weeks but for now I think it works. What do you think?
In other news, I have located an elusive video I made years ago. Not so much a video more a series of photos set to music. Why would I bore you with my home movies do you ask? Well, my fourth novel, Patagonian Affair, was set in South America and followed the travels of our hero as he walks the land of the Inca. While some may scream “self insert” I prefer the term “research.” Why spend my time reading up on far away places when I’ve already been there. Anyway, it is just a bit of fun and I’ve included a chapter from the book below for those that wish to compare fact with fiction. Enjoy
Don’t forget that hard copies of my books are available from Booxies and POP Canberra.
The Doctor Recommends – Redemption
While some of you may have heard of the Critical Drinker others may not. The Drinker is a laconic Scotsman who runs a little YouTube channel that makes light of all things movies in the 21st century. His sarcastic tone and affected drunken slur have shielded him from the Thought Police and his channel grows Hollywood dies. But he has a real name, Will Jordan and Will Jordan writes books. Action thrillers don’t you know and quite a few of them. His first, Redemption tells the tale of a daring rescue of an enigmatic female antagonist from a Siberian gaol and the ensuing gun toting high-jinx. From what I know of the world of soldiers he take few liberties with reality and it is that grounding that makes these books believable and fun. If you are looking for a thriller where shit regularly gets blown up I definitely recommend Will Jordan’s Redemption.
Patagonian Affair
Cuzco to Machu Picchu – May 2003
While it was worthwhile visiting all the sites in Cuzco, we had come to there for one reason alone; to walk the Inca Trail. But our guides knew better than to just let us loose on a mountain path and built a couple days of altitude acclimatisation into our schedule.
One morning, we all piled into a bus and headed into the Sacred Valley. The Valley, jammed packed with farms, Incan ruins, and llamas, provided the local food supply for Cuzco. The only camelids we’d seen until then were being led around by women wearing colourful clothes and posing for profit, but now llamas and their kin seemed to be everywhere.
We stopped at a llama farm to be briefed on their various species of the animal and to take photos of each other being spat at. This was, of course, very fascinating and we completed the lesson, with a cup of a purple corn juice that was unexpectedly refreshing.
We also spent some time at the ruins of Pisac and Ollantaytambo, which were impressive. The best thing about Incan ruins was that the Peruvians were making the most of their culture. Most sites we saw had some restoration work going on, which meant that they were only going to get better preserved and more accessible into the future.
We stayed the night at a farm in Ollantaytambo. The next morning, we cut our pack’s weight down to five kilograms and handed them over to the porters so we could start hiking the Inca Trail. Because of its popularity, the trail was well regulated those days, which seemed to be a good thing. Not only was the trail limited to two hundred hikers per day, our guide told us that the five kilo limit had been brought in because porters used to carry as much as fifty to sixty kilos day after day. They carry twenty-five now, but pick up that weight at the gym next time you tell me if you think that is light.
We set off from KM 82, which sits at 2800m above sea level and, which was a twenty-minute drive down dusty roads from Ollantaytambo. From there, you either had to catch the train or walk to Machu Picchu. As we got off our bus, the locals tried to sell us walking sticks with knitted handles, knitted water bottle carriers, and neckerchiefs. We were camelback and stick ready, so I opted for the two-dollar kerchief to complete my ensemble. I let the little lady pick one that matched my eyes, which had her and her friends in stitches.
We could have also bought water there for the outrageous sum of two-dollars for two litres. They stamped our passports then; we crossed the river of no return via a rickety old suspension bridge and started walking. Day one was pretty easy and flat most of the way to the village of Wayllabama at 2980m. We camped in a local family’s backyard and then watched our two fellow hikers, a couple of newlyweds from England, first suffer from food poisoning, beriberi or some other gawd awful tropical disease and collapse from the effects of altitude. One second the wife was up then, in less than thirty seconds, she had her head in her hands, then she was clinging to the table for support and lastly a gibbering, dribbling mess on the floor of the tent. Both Boris and I cocoa tea-d up at that point because if there is anything that will keep you awake at night, it’s fear of illness miles from any help.
From Wayllabama, the next morning, we had to go… up. As we had camped in the same place as other groups, we now encountered foreigners in annoying numbers for the first time. But as I always said; if there are two things in life which I cannot stand, it is people who are intolerant of other people’s cultures and the Dutch.
I say it in jest, but there was a group of Dutch hikers who had an annoying knack of walking straight into my shot each time I had lined up a perfect photo. Not only that, but they would then just stand there looking at the scenery, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Perhaps I was angry because I came from a sparsely populated country where we value our space. Or maybe it is because everyone in Holland is an arsehole.
We had all day to clear the high pass and then descend to our campsite on the far side. The first part up was mostly on dirt tracks, which were not too difficult. The rest stop signalled the last village on the trail at 3300m and five-hundred percent inflation on water and chocolate bars. That Snickers, which cost one dollar back in Lima, was now worth five and people bought them by the bushel. I, of course, used the old Indian trick of drinking the sap of the lava-lava tree and hitting myself about the face with birch twigs to stimulate my auto-anaerobic immune response. But actually, I had been to the supermarket in Lima days earlier and was now wantonly lighting cigars with ten-dollar bills which were lit from Snickers bars just to annoy both the locals and my fellow hikers.
“Oh, I can’t eat all these lollies! They are too sugary. I suppose I’ll just throw them over this cliff so they never hurt anyone again.”
The next stage was beautiful, a rainforest of sorts, sunny but also on a classic Inca path comprised mostly large, uneven stone steps. Not that a dirt track would have been easier at that incline. Steps were now necessary to keep going up and have any hope of keeping some momentum. As we climbed, breathing became more difficult, so every ten steps would I have to stop for about twenty seconds to catch my breath and hope the sound of the pounding of my heart would subside.
When we at last broke out of the forest, we were in a high meadow at about 3700m, which was the last stop. The rest of the way was on a dirt track to the pass that was now clearly in view. We cracked on after a quick break, having left our guide and the slow English couple long ago, and hoped to make the top a few kilometres away in about an hour.
I can tell you now that sometimes in life, just putting one foot in front of the other is too much to ask. As the trail continued up, we were stopping more often and even the hardy porters were breaking down to the left and the right of the path. I kept glancing up to see how far I had to go, but every half-dozen steps I needed to stop.
Finally, we got to the last ten metres, the cold air from the pass above pouring down upon us and chilling us despite our excursions. I kept telling myself it would be over in a moment, just a couple of steps more. It took three more attempts to climb the last stair to the “Dead Women’s Pass” at 4200m.
At the top, we paused only for a swig from my hip flask, a celebratory cigar and to put on all the warm clothing we had. Although the climb wasn’t sheer, when we looked back down the valley, we could barely make out the village at the bottom where we started that morning. We got a sense of how far we had climbed and vertigo.
The downhill to our campsite should have been easy, but the huge and uneven Incan stone steps, my wobbly legs and a growing feeling that I was just about to keel over were taking their toll. The porters loved it and charged downhill in their basic footwear-sandals and crappie tennis shoes-while the trekkers gingerly poked their way down wearing expensive boots and using hi-tech walking sticks. I later learned the secret to the porters’ reckless speed, and it saved me from being stuck behind the enormous packs of other hikers in the days to come.
By the time we reached our campsite 600m below, just over an hour later, I was spent. I curled up in the bushes hoping no one would poke me with a stick in the mistaken belief I was a pile of discarded adventure-wear. Several cups of purple corn juice and Snicker’s bar revived me and I stood in gratitude that we weren’t in the groups who had to ascend the next pass that day to make it to their campsite over the next ridge.
We had to climb that 4000m pass the next morning, and it was a good thing we had fresh batteries. The climb reminded me of the Stairs of Cirith Ungol with its steep steps and sheer drop offs. At every twist in the path, I expected to come across a goblin army, a Tibetan monastery or Nazi redoubt.
After the flat out slog so far, there were now plenty of ruins to pause at and explore with the help of our guide. After lunch, the trail flattened out and wound its way around the top of a ridge line with plenty of tunnels, bridges and rainforests.
We eventually made it to the last pass of Puyupatamarca at 3600m, which stood on a narrow ridge, allowing us to look at two perilous drop offs on either side without taking more than one step either way. On one side was Aguas Calientes, the tourist town which served Machu Picchu, clearly visible below at 2000m. The next day we’d be there, but between me and a hot shower were 3000 steps down, a bunch of tourists talking up what amazing phone coverage they had and one more stamp in my passport.
The penultimate ruin at Puyupatamarca was a last chance for a few groups to bunch up and cause a minor trekker jam at what the guides loved to call the Gringo Killing Stairs. All the guides hung back at this point and with all the porters gone, it was just a bunch of tourists slowly and cautiously plodded down what seemed to be a never-ending series of large and uneven steps.
The safest way of doing that was with a walking pole set on high to act as a third leg, and while it was safer, it was slow. Even more so for those typically older Europeans who universally favoured using two poles. The two polers were the worst offenders for getting in other people’s way and causing frustration and accidents, much like a convoy of grey bandits towing their caravans to the Canberra south coast at Christmas time.
I’d noticed the day before that going with a pole was the slow option and wondered how the porters had gotten down so quick without one. The trick, I discovered, was not to aim for the safest or nearest stone step but to look for the flattest one which was less likely to cause me to slip. As long as I could get a heel on it, I could go down faster than the people who were twisting and turning, looking for purchase on the ball of their feet. With that discovery, I opened up my Inca Trail express way. In no time at all, I’d cleared the pack and walked alone through the rainforest on a smooth track in silence.
When I finally hit camp in Winyawanya, after passing another impressive, and this time empty, ruined city, I was burned out. It was all I could to do to make to the briefing for the next day. A 4 am rise which would allow us to pass the last check point at five thirty. After that, it was an easy one-hour walk to the Sun Gate and Machu Picchu. Everyone was running on adrenaline at that point and other than the two stick bastards holding everybody up, the walk was uneventful.
The last hurdle was a short but steep set of stairs which had some people climbing up with their hands and knees to reach the Sun Gate and gaze down at the city with the first rays of the morning sun. After you’ve been to Stone Henge and wondered if it was a model or the Taj Mahal and smelt that town, you get used to disappointment. At 6:30 am all I could see from the Sun Gate was….cloud. But I could sense there was something amazing just about to happen before my very eyes.
We walked down from the Sun Gate for about fifteen minutes and then it appeared. Machu Picchu; gigantic, picturesque, and empty. The sound of the first buses coming up the hill packed with day trippers in high heels and makeup couldn’t ruin this moment. Once again, that honour would go to the Dutch.
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