Chapter Sixteen

DAY three arrived very cold and crisp. Today was our short day so we did not get up till 7am, and after breakfast, we set off on the trail at 8am. Todays trek, although at 10 kms is shorter than yesterday´s 16 kms, is just as chanllenging as yesterday´s, involving, as it does, the descent of what seemed like thousands of steps. We treked till 3pm and arrived at Winay Huayna our campsite for the night at just 2680 meters or 8,792 ft above sea level. A far cry from 4,200 m or 13,779 feet above sea we reached at the top of Dead Woman´s Pass yesterday. It makes me feel good that I can climb to nearly 14,000 feet without oxygen, thanks to the prudent acclimatisation we took for several weeks before attempting the famous Machu Picchu trek.

When we arrived at the campsite my toes were sore and as soon as lunch was over I sat in my tent with a basin of water which I put my feet into for about 20 mins. We were free to rest till 5 pm. Some of the others went to sleep but I just ¨chilled out¨ in a basin of water.


At 5 pm we were escorted by our guide to an Inca site about a 7 minutes walk from our campsite. It was the largest we had seen on the trail and was described by our guide as a mini Machu Picchu. Laid out in similar fashion to the real Machu Picchu, it was a beautiful place and well worth the visit even though at the time I found it difficult to move myself once I had settled into my tent for a rest earlier that afternoon.


At our campsite, we could avail of the luxury of a hot shower, at a cost of 5 soles, (about 1.25 euro). Some people did. Each person was allowed a max of 10 mins to get undressed, washed and dried. Only 2 showers were available, one for men and the other for the women. When I looked at the queue, I thought better of it because there were 20 women waiting and with each one allowed 10 minutes I would be waiting for over 3 hours for a shower. It would also be dark and cold by then. Rain was threatening to come and the rumbling of thunder could be clearly heard in the distance. I preferred to stick my feet in the basin of water instead and ´baby-wiped´ the rest of my body.


Each evening at dinner we were given details of the next days events. This evening we were informed that we were to be at the Sun Gate to see the sun rise the following morning. We would be woken at 3.45am and would be leaving our campsite at 4.30am. The sun would rise at the Sun Gate at 6.30am. With this in mind we all headed off to bed at 9.30 pm


During the night the threatened rain came and with it the promised thunder and lightening. Its ferocity kept most of us awake for the rest of the night. It did not bother me, I was very snug in my sleeping bag and the sound of the rain on the tent was lovely. I felt secure inside the canvas. By the time our porters woke up our team with a basin of hot water to wash with and our hot cup of tea, I was already half packed up and almost ready for breakfast. I was excited as well as emotional. This was a very important day for me. I could not but help think of Tony whose dream this had been but who was missing the thrill of what I was about to experience and witness.

The Gods, it seemed, were crying in their heaven.It was a wet, wet morning and like the others I was compelled to dress in my rain gear. Like the porters, guide and others on my trek, I also used my head lamp, worn on the head like a miner´s lamp, to light up the way ahead.


No one was really in form for a big breakfast, but I guess the chef knew this, for he had baked us a cake. This was a special cake, made with all of us in mind. One of the girls did not eat sugar, so when the cake was baked, a section of it was made without icing. In my case, a section was inscribed....if that´s the word....with a shamrock. It was nice for someone to think I was special and to go to this much trouble for me and at a height of a mile and a half into the sky!


We set off on our last day on this difficult adventure at 4.30am in the rain and the dark. Our fourth day´s hiking would take us down 1,100 feet and across the a distance of 5 kms over uneven and difficult pathway. We set off at a very fast pace - our objective to reach the Inka Sun Gate before the Sun arose. It would be such a pity to get to the sun Gate late and miss the early rays of the sun illuminate our pre-Columban lost city in the Andes.


My muscles ached, my toes were sore, my shoes and trouser ends were filthy and all my joints groaned. But I persisted and with a mixture of determination and an unwillingness to seccumb to whatever nature might throw at me, I went on with some pride and a little enthusism, happy that I was achieving this important target in my life. I was achieving a dream, one that had been Tony´s to begin with, but which turned out to be mine to complete.


But these Inkas were shrewd people. They did not make penetration of their mountain top fortress easy. Incidentally, it was so remote and inaccessible that the Spanish although they conquered the rest of Peru never discovered this citadel in the sky. It was only discovered by an American academic in the 1920s with the help of a local farmer who lived in the valley thousands of feet below . It was as if nature had covered this place with trees and shrubs. It had lain undiscovered for almost 500 years. And I was now about to trod on this sacred and hallowed ground.

But not before one last shock was in store. For just after a bend in the mountain path, my mouth almost dropped when I saw what was in front of me! STEPS ! An almost 100% vertical wall of steps. Upwards. About 50 - 60 steps. One false move, one missed step, one miscalculation and I would truly be resting in pain, but more likely resting in peace! I tried not think of the consequences.

So, "right," I thought ! The only way for me to conquer this final challenge is on "all fours," undignifed though it might look. I didn´t care who was watching, or how I might look. I took a deep breath; did not look up or down, but just went for it. I dared not look around or stop for fear of falling. I simply kept going.

Exhausted, I scrambled over the top, glad not to be last in our group to overcome this final obstacle. I was surprised and delighted when other people in other groups who had reached the top applauded me on my arrival there. Everyone, it seemed, encouraged everyone else. We in turn encouraged and applauded the other treckers coming after us and overcoming this final gravity-defying challenge.

It was now 6 am and our target was to reach the Sun Gate in thirty minutes time before sun-up. By now the rain had ceased. But................... to my disapointment and dismay, I did not see the sun at all. Yes, the sun had risen that morning as normal and we did arrive on time to see it ......... but the mountains were covered with cloud and mist. It was worse than a dark, grey, winter´s afternoon. Some people cried with disappointment. Others barely held back the tears. Our hard and fast final trek through the mountains that moring seemed to have been in vain. But not totally.

On we pushed, this time to reach Machu Picchu proper. I knew or guessed Tony would be waiting here for me with his porter/guide. He had never been far from my mind and I was now going to meet up with him again, or so I had hoped, because I had no idea whether he had made if off the mountain and if so, what condition he was in.

If things had gone well for him, I knew he would be coming by bus to Machu Picchu. A fleet of Mercedes buses bring tourists from the town of Aguas Calientes (´Warm Waters´in Spanish) and he would be waiting for me when I reached my final destination. And this is precisely what happened.

It was Amanda, one of my group, who spotted Tony´s porter first. Tony was nowhere to be seen. I wondered what was wrong. I went down to where Javier and the porter were standing and asked what was wrong. There is nothing wrong, he the told me.......just that Tony is outside the gate. and cannot get in because I have his ticket and is waiting for it ! We all went out and met Tony and everyone in the group gave Tony a warm welcome back as if he had never been away these past two and a half days. But I gave him the warmest welcome of all. Together, we officially all entered Macchu Pichu as a group the way we had started off.

Tony writes: I was glad to be re-united with Trish and the rest of the group, but came so close to not making it. AS you know, I decided to turn back after two hours on the second day of the trek. My reasons for doing so have already been given by Trish; my concern about delaying and hindering other members of my group by virtue of my slow pace, and therefore placing their safety in jeopardy, and secondly, I reckoned it was beter to be a live grandfather to Rachael and Gareth´s pending child than to be a dead or otherwise hero on the mountain. It was not without some discussion with myself that I reached this decision, but in the end it was clear cut - there was no decent option open to me but to turn back.

That, however, was only the start of more trouble. The journey back would mean re-tracing that morning´s two-hour two kms journey and then re-retracing the 14 kms covered on Day-1, a total distance of around 16 kms. A porter, Ramon, was secunded to travel with me for I did not remember my way in these mountains and his duty was to make sure I got down safely, as least as far as Kilometer 82, our starting point.

But through a mix-up or over-sight, the journey had to be undertaken without food and with only three small bottles of liquid between us. Both Ramon and I had been walking since 5.3o am that morning. We stopped for five or ten minute rests when I required a ´breather´ but resumed for fear that the day might not be long enough for us to reach the safety of our starting point. Eventually, around 2 p.m. I told Ramon I was exhausted and doubted if I could complete the journey.

He asked me to rest and continued along the trail, until he found a farm-house, where he hired a horse to take me and my backpack the rest of the journey. The horse had a saddle but no bridle. I was simply expected to hold on to his mane for security. The old lady who had brought us the horse volunteed to walk in front with a rope tied around the horse´s head. But it was useless. Never having ridden a horse before and fearful of the fall to the ground, never mind the sheer drop-offs at the side of the trail pathway, I panicked and had to dismount almost immediately.

But the horse had now been hired. It could not be un-hired. So I decided that the backpacks Ramon and I were carrying should instead by carried by the horse while we walked in front at our own pace. The toothless old lady who owned the horse walked patiently behind. On and on we trudged, up mountain, down trail, until at last we reached a drinks station, where I purchased soft drinks for Ramon, the woman and myself.

At we neared Kilometer 82, we realised the porter and myself would never make our destination to Aguas Caliintes. So we dispensed with the horse´s services. The old lady quickly mounted the horse, put a rug on the saddle, and turned off for the fastness of her mountain home.

As we waited in the cold at Kilometer 82 Ramon and I were asked by an American to share a cost of a collectivo into Olantaytambo, which we gladly agreed to do. For despite the heat of the day, and our exhaustion, we could barely tolerate the icy cold winds which were now whipping up. The sun had gone down and there was snow on the mountains above. Nothing for it but to pay the 50 Peruvian soles demanded by the mini-bus owner for the exclusive use by us of his vehicle.

Within two kilometers, however, a row broke out. The driver, who was now greedy for more money than the 50 soles we had agreed to pay him, wanted to pick up other passengers to augment this amount. But the American was having none of it. We had a deal, he reminded the driver. Problem was one of the passengers was the driver´s cousin. At first he said he would not pay to take a lift in his cousin´s collectivo, then he agreed to pay twelve and a half soles - his share of the cost- but then changed his mind again and said he would pay nothing. I thought all hell would break out.

Eventtually, the driver agreed to abide by the term of the original deal but it meant having to pass and ignore all his ussual customers on the road. They were not pleased. Greed, however, is not without some moral lessons. I hope he learned it.

That evening Ramon and myself helped outselves to two big meals and some beer in a restaurant in the town of Olantaytambo. A tremendous sence of relief overwhelmed me. I was exhausted but had survived. I was happy to have got down off the mountains, safely. It might not have happened.

Unpacking my rucksack that night, I was astonished to discover it contained chocolate bars, sweets and other energy-giving substances which my porter and I could have done with on the mountain that day, and which Trish had packed for my survival. But I was so distressed with my physical and emotional condition on turning back that I had forgotten their existence. I knocked on Ramon´s door, told him of my stupidity and forgetfulness and shared my ´bounty´with him. He smiled quietly, but I know he was pleased. As if to say:"things happen."

Two days later, I was re-united with Trish on Machu Picchu. We chatted and talked as we made our way round the Inca ruins. My admiration for her was immence. She had achieved what she thought for her was unachievable. We joked that she would have some story to tell our grandchild/grandchildren. And she did it at 53 years ! I nearly fell in love with the woman all over again. She had shown tremendous guts, courage, determination and will-power. Not that I doubted that she had these qualities. But she had been tested and not found wanting in these attributes.

I was proud of her and I hoped her family would be too. She had undertaken and succeded in completing an overwhelmingly difficult challenge, on her own, and one which has defeated much stronger and younger people than her. My admiration for her has grown and grown. She is some woman. And I am glad and very happy to be married to her. I am a lucky man !

After Machu Picchu we relaxed in Cusco. Trish had her hair and nails done in a local hairdresser and we both had a massage. We got back to Lima, met our friends Maria Elena and Gonzalo, said ´Hola ¨to their son, Ivan. But but we were sad to leave two days later for the journey down Peru on what was to be the end of a dramatic finale in this historic country.

Our experiences had changed us. Of that, there was no doubt. I had a new respect for Trish and was in awe of her accomplishments and achievements. She had shown a side to her character that others are seldom called upon to reveal.

And she had not been found wanting.

But another country was calling us south, and time could not be delayed.

Chapter Seventeen

HEADING south and out of Peru our first stop was the city of Ica, a seven-hour bus journey which took us through the city of Pisco, badly damaged in the August, 2007 earthquake in which more than 500 people died and 100,000 were left homeless. More than a year after the disaster, evidence of the quake is still visable in Pisco with piles of rubble on sites where buildings once stood. One of the local Catholic churches in Ica is cl0sed, never again to house worshipers, with its belfry exhibiting fatal life-threatening cracks.

At the bus station in Ica to meet and give us a warm hug was Ronnie Salazar, Gonzala´s brother and after seeing us safely into a local hotel, we all adjourned for a meal and a few beers. Next day Ronnie, a former sports coach, brought us to a local lagoon, artificially built into the surrounding desert landscape and around which tourists and locals are taken, for a price, in monster dune buggies powered by 8-litre engines and capable of carrying 15 or more people. Although all the passengers are strapped in and fixed steel tube-piping is wrapped around the exterior of these vehicles, accidents still happen though most people survive the experience without a scratch. We decided to pass up on the experience.

Next it was on to Araquipa, the city built of white-stone volcanic material . Our travels now took us through mile after mile of dry coastal desert in which nothing grew, except in well watered valleys with snow from the surrounding mountains. Outside the green and lush valleys where every inch of soil is cultivated, little grows. Even cactus has to be artificially cultivated and watered if it is to survive in such a hostile landscape. The desert landscape continues into Chile where is known as the Atacama Desert, the second driest in the world after the McMurdo dry valleys in Antartica. In Chile, this desert is almost 600 miles long.


Trish and I now joined three young American women who were planning to cross over into Chile. Together, all five of us hired this man driving an old American Ford Mercury six-seater limousine to carry us from Tacna in southern Peru to Arica in northern Chile and to help negotiate all the exit and entry paperwork requirements at both Border posts. We (Trish and I) paid 40 per cent of the cost (40 Peruvian soles or less than 10 Euros) for the 60 km drive during which he drove at what seemed like speeds of up to 80 mph which for such an old vehicle seemed like its limit. We were now in our sixth South American country and our last before flying out to New Zeland at the start of November.

Next day, we went sunbathing on the beach in Arica and discussed what we might be doing in a year´s time. Our chat was a long one - there were so many possibilities ! Next we travelled on to a city with a great name.....Antofagasta. And all the time the weather is wonderful, dry, bright and not a hint of rain on this northern coast of Chile which is fringed by the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Andes to the east. The real purpose of tis trip down the north coast of Chile was to get to the capital, Santiago, from where we planned to fly to Auckland.

But first, I had to visit the coastal city of Valparaiso to follow a dream which has possessed my spirit and imagination for almost half a century. A poem by Padraig de Brun included the lines:


"A ship arrived from Valparaiso,


"Dropped its anchor in the bay........",


and a young teenage boy in Colaiste Criost Ri college in Cork became forever hooked on the romance and the far-away possibilities this name conjured up in his fantasies and imagination.

The poem itself was forgotten as was its author, but the mystery of this far-away place about which little was known in those pre-Internet and television days remained, to be explored in the mind in due course through the world of books, little imagining that one day I would walk its city streets and breath in the history of this historic port. The poem which died a death in my boyish mind now assumed a signifiance it did not have half a century earlier. Such is the power of words. One word. Valparaiso.

This cental Chilean city played an important role in the second half of the 19th century when it became the stop-over and provisioning port for ships travelling between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans through the Straits of Magellan. But the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914 soon changed this and dealt a near fatal blow to this thriving trade. Now, however, the city has been rescued from obscurity by being dessignated a World Heritage site in 2003. It is also the home of the Chilean Parliament which was moved there in the late 1980s during the final years of the Pinochet military dictatorship, the blood-staind walls of the original parliament building in Santiago being too much of a powerful reminder and symbol of the temporary death of democracy in this country.

Trish and I went to the National Parliament building in Valparaiso and were given a conducted tour of the building by its Public Relations Manager. A massive mural in the lobby contained the words of Irishman Bernardo O´Higgins, a hero in Chilean history, and the primary author of that country´s independnce from Spain in 1817. He was, incidentally, the son of a Sligoman, Ambrosio O´Higggins who enrolled in the Spanish Army, and who had an affair with but never married a Chilean beauty.

The previous day, a Sunday, we visited a street antiques and second-hand fair which is held on one side of the Plaza O´Higgins in the city. In reality, it is like a flea market. Only one item excited me. Carelessly thrown up on a piece of furniture was an old British children´s story book. I looked at the title. "Gollywogg and the Auto Go Kart." Immediately, I realised its significance. "Golly" was now a word that was political taboo in Britain, and "Wogg" was a description that could lead one into the criminal courts.

But the book itself was what attracted our attention. It was a first edition, dated 1901 and inside the cover was a dedication to a little girl dated January, 1902. The book was 106 years old and for sale for 12,000 Chilean pesoes or about 14 Euros, just over Ten Pounds Sterling ! Trish immedately fell in love with the book and checked to see all its pages were still there. They were. All sixty six of them. A Finnish young lady who was attending the stall on behalf of its Chilean owners clearly had no knowledge of its significance and its collectability-value in Britain. She neither knew the author or the place "Gollywogg" once had in the British psyche.

But to be certain, we had to check things properly. So straight into an Internet cafe across the road from the market. And there it was, a similar copy of the book that was available to us for over Ten British Pounds was for sale on the Internet at Two Hundred and Seventy Five British Pounds, not including post and packaging ! We couldn´t believe our eyes.

Back across the road, this time up to the stall-holder. She could not sell it for less than 10,000 Chilean pesoes, she told me. I told her she had a deal. And immediately Trish and I became the new owners of a highly collectable and valuable British children´s storybook in, above all places, Valparaiso in Chile. We went to sleep that night overjoyed with a sense of discovery that had turned tourists into street-side discoverers !

Next day, we went by metro train to a sister city called Vina del Mar and after lunch lay on the beach. The following day we visited a National Park up in the foothills of the Andes. Wouldn´t you think we had done enough mountain and hill climbing by now ?

But our time in South America was coming to an end. Another country and another Continent were calling.

We were due to meet our South African friends and travel with them on one of the longest air journeys in the world. It is 13 hours non-stop in the air from Santiago to Auckland, all of it over the Pacific Ocean ! Even now, before take-off, we are already looking forward to getting our feet on the ground, and being with good friends there.

We can´t wait!

Chapter Fifteen

LEAVING Puno we travelled to Cusco in preparation for our Inka Trail trek and visit to the famous Machu Picchu mountain-top site. We arrived in the city of Cusco five days before we were due to venture into the mountains and travel along the rough path and follow in the footsteps of the famous and mighty Incas. Cusco is a city full of Inca history and lovely stone buildings around many squares. Tony and I enjoyed being in the city once described as The Navel (or the centre) of the World !

The great morning arrived for our adventure, we were collected by coach at 4.30am (yes, AM !) and brought to the start of our trail. We met our guide and porters. Our group was a small one of only 6 English-speaking co-trekers. The other 4 participants were all from the UK. We were a group of 3 women and 3 men. We had eleven porters to look after us. They carried all our gear as well at all the tents, sleeping bags, and matresses, for us as well as for themselves. They also carried the dining and cooking tents, kitchen equipment, delph, pots and pans, and food for all for four days for all 18 people.

We started our trek at about 8 a.m. and set off up the mountains, travelling along the banks of the Urubamba river, which Peruvians believe is the source of the mightly Amazon river. To help us on our journey, we hired two hiking sticks each, as advised by our mountain travel company,Llama Path.

On the way our guide, Javier, pointed out various small Inca sites of interest and their importance. By the way, the mountain trek is 45 kms, or around 30 miles in distance. It winds up, down and around mountains, climbs over three high difficult peaks. Around us are the snowy peaks of other Andes mountains though thankfully we will not have to plough through any snow or ice. Weather is warm during the day, like a good Irish Summer´s Day, but cold at night like an Irish November night.

The views all around are stunning. The first two days are very difficult and the last two although they involve shorter journeys involve descending thousands of steps, with sheep drop-offs the sides, should you make a mistake, fall and tumble out of sight !

The Inca Trail is open all year round escept during February (the rainy season) when repairs to the track are undertaken. The Peruvian Government places a maximum limit
of 250 visitors per day on the Trail and this is rigidly adhered to. As you know, it has been Tony´s dream for many decades to complete this trek. It was one of the main routes in the Andes Inca kingdom which stretched from Columbia down to Chile and was criss-crossed from from West to East with similar pathways. The Incas did not have horses, so messages were carried by long distance runners in the form of a relay. They were tremendous people.....those who actually made and maintained these pathways through the mountains stretching over thousands of miles and those whose job it was to carry messages, a sort of postal service throughout the empire. Not to mention the men and women who lived throughout the year at such high altitudes, at up to 14,000 feet high, often in total cloud cover and sunshine, but always with plentiful supply of foods, water and sunshine (above the clouds).


During the morning of the first day, rain decided to greet us. We had to stop and put on our waterproofs. Tony and I both have rainproof jackets and leggings. The rain made the walking a bit more difficult as the ground was now a bit more slippery and dangerous. We treked for about 6 hours until we arrived at our camp site for lunch. We were very impressed with our lunch on the mountain as we were served in a dining tent with all the trimming of table cloth and servettes etc. Lunch was lovely hot chicken soup, home-made by our chef, Cirilo. Our main course consisted of rice with vegatables, pasta with pesto, trout, and lots of vegatables, choice of tea, coffee, cocoa tea or hot chocolate.

After our lavish lunch, we continued our journey up the mountains, higher and higher, now getting more difficult but not realising that the worst was still to come.

By the time we arrived at our first over-night campsite, we were tired and hungry. It was 6pm and gettting dark. Tony was last in. He made the last 20 minutes or so in the dark. I think he was at the end of his tether. But he made it! It had been a long, arduous and challenging 14 kms (about 10 miles).

We were greeted by our porters who applauded us in and encouraged us all the way. They had arrived much earlier than us, despite having to clean up after the lunch, to pack up all the cooking gear, dining and cooking tents, and carrying their very large backpacks of 25 kilos each. As each of us arrived in camp we were presented with a warm drink of chicha, which is a corn drink for energy, a basin of hot water, soap and towel so we could freshen up for our ´happy´ hour of hot drinks, popcorn and biscuits, to restore lost energy. This was before a lavish dinner later that evening.

This latter meal was presented in style. We had advocado salad starters, hot thick vegetable soup (again, homemade) and for main course we had potato, rice with veg, pasta with creamy sauce, chicken AND beef, followed by desert of strawberry and hot chocolate. By 9 pm we were all ready for our beds in our tents. The tents were four-man tents but only occupied by 2 people.

Next morning we were woken up with a choice of hot tea, coffee, hot chocolate or coca tea. I always chose the coca tea which is intended to help with the effects of altitude; I am not sure how this works, but I had no altitude problems. Again our breakfast was lavish and energy-giving. We had hot porridge, omlette with ham and cheese, toast and jam. By 6.30 a.m. we were on the trek again, climbing on rough terraine and inching higher into the sky. We were each given a packed snack of eneryg-giving food, banana, and a cholate nut bar to be eaten en route. There was no rain this morning and the forecast was good. Our target for today was a distance of 16 kms (about 10.7 miles). This may not seem much on the flat but when travelled over steep and rough landscape, high altitude, sometimes wet weather, and over 10 hours or so, it represents a tough assignment, even for fit, young and healthy people.

On this second day, we had two very high passes to climb over, which meant having to climb up and then down, and up again and down again before arriving at our campsite for the night. As I said we left our campsite at 6.30am and the climb was steep and difficult.

Unfortunately, for Tony, the task proved too much. By 8 a.m., after two hours on the trek, he was stil lagging in last of the group. He approached me and said he did not think he could complete that day´s march. He was bunched. Even before the toughest and most arduous section of the trek. For a number of reasons, he said, he was choosing to abandon his attempt to follow in the footsteps of the Incas en route to Machu Pichu. It was too much for him. He knew if he continued he would be putting the safety of his fellow trekers at risk. And this, he was not prepared to do. He spoke of Captain Scott and his fatal Antartic trip and said that piece of history held a lesson for him - it was not right for him (Tony) to jeopardise the health and safety of others as well as that of himself in order to fulfill or achieve an objective or a dream that was now looking extremely difficult if not imposible for him to achieve.

Tony told me he was acutely conscious of becoming a granddad early in the New Year and did not want to become a dead hero, or miss out on the experience of holding and loving his first grandson or granddaughter, simply for the sake of completing the trek. There was only one decision to make. And he had to make it. I did not influence him in any way. Only he alone could decide.

After a serious discussions lasting 20 minutes, Tony decided to return to base camp at a place known as Kilometer 82. But he would not travel alone. One of the porters was seconded to travel with him. It would mean a round journey of 30 kms in two days. He was, he said, deciding to do so for the overall safety of the team, for his own sake and also for the prospect of our unborn grandchild. This was more important to him than risking everything and trying to finish the course. We informed our guide, Javier, and he arranged for a porter to return with Tony. At first I thought of returning with Tony but Javier, our mountain guide, would not allow this as he said the porter, Ramon, would take good care of him. Once I was convinced Tony would be ok, I continued with the trek.

Now continuing with the trek, and rejoining the others, I was very sad to be doing so on my own, knowing that I would be continuing with what essentially had been a childhood ambition for Tony and which he now was unable to fulfill. Life can be full of cruel ironies !

There was nothing but for me to plough straight ahead or, more accuarately, straight up !
My next target was the climb up to "Dead Womans Pass", at a height of 14,500 feet. As I approached the summit, headache and dizzyness set in. The climb was difficult, rough and slow. With each step, I knew Tony had taken the right decision to return. On route I met up with a lovely lady from southern California, Andrea, who chatted with me. When she asked me who I was with, I explained to her that my husband, Tony, had to return as the trek had proven too much for him. I became upset and the tears flowed. But she gave me a great big hug and adopted me in my sorrow.

Because we were delayed so long, organising Tony´s return, I became separated from my group and was now travelling separately, though I did manage to keep pace with Andrea. The group guide, Javier, was nearby but kept a distance from me so as not to put me under pressure to speed up. He was fitter and quicker than I, but still allowed me to travel at my own pace. He frequently asked if I was ok, and when assured that I was, would go and leave me in peace which I was greatful for.

Eventually, I arrived at the summit of Dead Womans Pass. My group had arrived before me, and they could see me come in alone along the track. They took a break there and set off about 15 mins before I arrived up. On my arrival my guide was there to greet me and congratulate me for getting there. I had a snack and took a rest for about 10 mins before I told him I was ready to resume, this time back down the other side of the mountain, down to where I knew lunch was waiting. My group was now about 25 mins ahead of me and I wanted to catch them before they finished their lunch. I did not want to be on the mountain without my group for the second half of the day. It could be lonely up there, especially when alone with one´s thoughts, but I was determined not to let my group slip away from me in the afternoon.

Within minutes, the downward descent had begun, down what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of steps, all constructed by the Incas and their friends, steps of different widths, depths, shapes and sizes. Some were shallow,and some were high and wide. Some were wet and slippery, some dry and dusty. Every step had to be watched carefully and taken individually. There was no point in looking two or even three steps ahead. Such a lapse in concentration would almost certainly result in a slip or fall. My two walking sticks became my best friends. They supported me on each step. Without their assistance, I shudder to think how I could have accomplished these steps and this trek.

All around the views were wonderful. The scenery was fantastic. I never have and expect never will experience such a mixture of both fear and thrills. It was frightening to witness such sheer drop-offs at the edge of the path and satisfying to know that here I was, nearly three miles into the sky, surrounded by grandeur and spendour, snow-capped mountains as my nearby companions, all around me cool, crisp unpolluted air and above me, the clear cloudless sky.

But I was also conscious of and worried about Tony, whose wish it had been to be with me to see it all. It was, after all, his dream............... and I was living it !

Tough enough, as it was, I was very glad to be doing it and, eventually, arrived at the campsite for lunch to the welcome applause of the porters and my fellow trekers. I was very upset to arrive alone, without Tony.

Gemma, a lovely 26 year old primary teacher in Britain, and one of my fellow-trekers, approached and hugged me, told me how difficult it must have been for me to have continued on my own without Tony, congratulated me for doing so and for catching up with the group. She had only arrived in camp 5 mins before me. Though hungry, it was difficult to consume my lunch that day. The food would not go down easily. Exhaustation and upset got in the way.

Together our 5-person team started off after lunch. I was glad to be back in the group. Our guide pointed out that the surrounding mountain sides was populated by bears, of a type smaller than their better known cousins in north America, but still dangerous enough when confronted. Their shyness, however, made this a less likely prospect but I was glad we were travelling in numbers and that I was not alone on the track.

Our wilderness journey took us higher and higher. My feet began to hurt. I did not wear boots though many people did. Instead, I wore air-cushioned walking shoes. On reflection, now, I chose the wrong footware - I should have worn much sturdier and proper trecking shoes with two layers of socks inside. That afternoon´s climb though not as high as the morning´s was just as difficult. We were more tired now and every effort was a trial of strength and character. It was not easily undertaken, and only acccomplished with great effort and gritty determination. Sometimes, I felt I was not up to it. But I simply took it one step at a time and through sheer perseverance kept going. Four of the group, including myself, stayed together but the super-fit Amanda, a 42-year old accupuncturist from the Isle of Wight and who had completed a jungle survival course, raced off ahead to reach campside first that evening, doing so even ahead of the porters !

We eventually arrived at our campsiste half an hour after dark, absolutely exhausted. It has been one of the most difficult days of my life. But I had survived. A quite sense of achievement consoled me. But I could not help but reflect on Tony´s unachieved dream......and how I was achieving it!

After a welcome clean-up, and a hearty dinner, I was amazed but very pleased to see wine produced at the end of the meal. To say that I relished the taste of the vino that evening would be to make the under-statement of the century !

Satiated with alcohol and warm-food, I retired to my sleepingbag that night exhausted.......but with a certain element of satisfaction. I had got halfway, and survived the most difficult section of the trek. I was not going to give up.

Day three and day four to follow......

Chapter Fourteen

PUNO is the biggest city on the shoreline of Lake Titicaca. The lake itself which measures 3,200 square miles, reaches a depth of over 900 feet in parts, and at 12,500 feet claims to be the highest navigable lake in the world. Sixty per cent of the lake´s waters are in Peru and the remaining 40 percent in Bolivia. The border between the two countries runs through the lake and Peruvian coastguard vessels regularly patrol the lake to prevent the smuggling of both people and contrabrand.



Trish and I took a two day trip to visit three islands on the Lake. In all, there are about 40 inhabited reed-islands in this lake, which more resembles an inland sea, than a lake. She was as excited as I as we made our way, courtesy of a 20 or so person modern cruiser to the world famous floating Uros islands. These are islands made of reeds on which descendants of the Uros Indians and Aymara people live in some degree of comfort despite the seemingly impossible task of doing so.



The islands consist of floating surfaces of reeds about one meter thick on top of which families have built their homes also made of reeds. We went to one island and met Maria, a pregnant 20 year woman who brought us to her home and showed us her colourful costumes and the bedroom she shared with Percy, that´s right, her husband. Her baby, she told us, would be born on the island and go to school at one of the primary schools in the islands.



There are no toilets on the islands. People simply relieve themselves into the lake and this, we understand, is causing pollution problems. The women, all dark skinned wear colourful costumes from neck to feet on top of which are perched Derby-type hats. Shopping is done in Puno, an hour away by boat, and many island homes have energy to power radio, television, mobile telephones and the internet, courtesy of solar panels placed on their roofs.



Like the islands off the Irish coast, teenage children are educated on the ¨mainland". Men and women make their living from craftwork which they sell to boatloads of tourists who arrive at the islands every day. The men also fish, and some have small trout farms attached to their island homes. Children are well educated and two little girls we met, both under 6 years, could recite nursery rhymes in six languages.



It´s difficult to describe the feeling of walking on their floating islands, except to say it is akin to standing or stepping on a rubber water bed. Trish said it was more like the feeling of bouncing on a trampoline.



The top reeds gradually sink as the bottom ones become water-logged and the surface, therefore, has to be regularly topped up with a fresh surface coating of reeds.These tortora reeds are the only building materials at the islanders´ disposal. They use them for building their islands, their homes, their canoe-like boats and even chew the interior of freshly cut ones - they say to them they are akin to bananas, but Trish and I who both tasted and tested this claim, beg to differ. Cooking is done on hot stones placed on the reed surfaces.



Trish and I took a half an hour ride on a reed boat in the lake. It may surprise some people to know these boats are now filled with tightly capped plastic bottles in order to maintain their buoyancy and extend their lake life. Floating the recycling concept has not gone amiss here !



After saying goodbye to Maria and purchasing some of her handcrafts, our cruiser made for the second island, Amantani, where we stayed with a lovely family, Mario who was 46 years old and Sylvia, a year younger, the parents of three children, one of whom was unfortunately killed in a road accident in Lima. The eldest son lived in the Peruvian capital and the youngest, a girl of just 7 years of age, resides with Sylvia´s grandfather who is aged 92 and deaf, and lives a short distance away.



As is customary we brought gifts of food to the family, including rice, cheese, flavourings, chocolate, pencils, pens, sweets, bisccuits, a nail clippers and a pencil sharpener. Sylvia spoke Aymara but had some Spanish while her husband, a small subsistence farmer with several fields of potatoes, a donkey and six sheep, was fluent in Spanish, coming as he did not from any of the other islands, but from a place in the Andes Mountains called Sicuani - a place with special resonances for Trish and I.



For, as it turned out, it was here that Des Kelleher, our Spanish teacher, ministered as a Catholic priest for over 20 years. Known as Padre Albino to his parishioners, perhaps on account of his white skin, it turned out that Mario who has two brothers still living in Sicuani, remembered Des and recalled his ministering in the community. What a co-incidence, and what a stroke of luck ! Imagine ! Travelling thousands of miles to a new Continent, visiting a lake two and half miles high in the sky, going to an island where Aymara and not Spanish was the language of communication and finding a family who knew an Irish man who both Trish and I also had the pleasure of knowing !



In the public house Trish and I once owned, The Woodpecker in Ashford, Co Wicklow, we had a picture-poster on one of the walls, saying:"There are no strangers here......only friends who´ve never met! " Nothing was more apt to describe our relationship with our island hosts. We heard later that Mario and Sylvia who only once before accepted foreigners into their home were pleased with the Irish couple (Trish and I) they had been allocated.



There was laughter and jokes and stories around the table and Trish took out her electronic disctionary whenever we were struck for a word in Spanish.



That evening all the island visitors and their island hosts went down to the main Plaza to make sure that all was harmony and undestanding. Our guide to the islands asked everyone if there was any problems with food or communication, and when we said we were very fortunate to be guests at the island´s best restaurant - Sylvia´s kitchen - there was widespread laughter, and Sylvia blushed at the tribute to her cooking skills. Mario was proud that his wife had been singled out for her expertise.



That evening we returned home, had a three course dinner , after which Sylvia called Trish and asked her to try on one of her traditional island costumes. which included two skirts, an inner and outer one, a blouse, a colourful crios-type belt and a large black, decorated shawl , typical of the type the island women wear. I also was kitted out in a poncho and a knitted long-eared hat.



We were being dressed up for a purpose..........we and the other island visitors and their host families were off to a special function.....to a dance in a small island hall where the four-man orchestra played the pan pies, flute and drum. Sylvia was my dance partner for the night and Mario Trish´s. And what a night it was was as we danced non-stop for nearly three hours to traditional Andean music, with not a drop of alcohol in sight, and with the island men and women laughing at our feeble attempts to accompany the music.



Between dances, Sylvia chatted to the other women about us. Outside the hall, rain fell and there was thunder and lightening, "fuego en cielo" or, in English, "Fire in the Sky,"as Mario called it. Just after midnight, the dance over, we all made our way home in the drizzle, laughing and joking in broken-Spanish. Our bedroom was warm, dry and candle-lit.



The whole house was candle lit for although the island had been wired for electricity and street lights were in place in the main plaza, the decision had not yet been made to "turn it on."



Next morning after a hearty breakfast, we said goodbye to our host family. There were warm hugs, exchanges of addresses, and a recognition that despite the cultural and language differences, a warm bond had been forged and a good friendship kindled. Mario in his Sunday best accompanied us to the pier and saw us safety aboard our cruiser. It was with some regret we were leaving a lovely, humble, hospitable family who welcomed us into their home and treated us, not as stangers, but as "old friends who had never met." Nothing more could have been asked for. The pleasure was on both sides.



Our final port of call was the island of Taquile, this time a rock-solid island with a 500-step climb to the top where the only meals and drinks were available. But we were lucky. The day we called, the 1,200 or so islanders who live on this steep rocky outcrop were playing host to a group of dignatories and VIPs from the mainland. Bands played, speeches were made, processions were held and the island men and women displayed their artistic and craft skills.



Here, apart from subsistence farming, the men do not fish - instead, they knit from dawn to dusk while the women spin and weave. A strict division of labour applies. Men can been seem walking their island´s mountain paths with four or five kneedles in their hands quite unashamedly knitting their latest creation for sale in the markets in Puno or to visiting tourists like us.



There were no roads, and therefore no cars, motocarros or motor bikes on this island. Every yard travelled is by foot.



Our next step, however, was to complete our lake tour and return to Puno, from where our journey would bring us to Cusco, which the Incas had as their capital before its destruction by the Spanish in 1532.



This was going to be a critical part of our South American journey.



And we were surprised at the turn of events......... when they did come.

Chapter Thirteen

AFTER spending our rest-time in an old-fashioned hotel, operated by an even more old-fashioned couple, it was up early to catch a bus for the 20-hour bus journey to the Bolivian capital, La Paz which, incidentally, is the highest capital city in the world at 3,660 meters or 11,350 feet above sea level.

Our bus was a primitive one, of indeterminate age, with narrow well-worn seats, and full to capacity. One lady passenger carried a box on board which contained a small, beautiful puppy, who never once complained to its owner or other passengers about the conditions on board or the lengthly journey he was being forced to endure! Again, we were the only white people or tourists on board. That did not trouble us.

Not once have we ever encountered hostility or any hint of racism. Most of the time those who were our fellow-passengers were shy, quiet, gentle, and poor. But sometimes, it has to be said, their standards of cleanliness or hygiene did not measure up to what we in more developed nations might consider acceptable. Be that as it may, they were always polite to us and each other, with never a trace of unruly or aggressive behaviour which is more than can be said of public transport passengers in much more developed nations.

Before we began our journey, we first had lunch in a nearby Bolivian cafeteria frequented by the locals. It was an experience. The main course was chicken with pasta. Trish says she saw the cook use her fingers to lift the the pasta out of a saucepan onto the lunch plates. Starter was a chicken soup which my wife described as akin to supping greasy lukewarm water.

Our bus was full for the 5 p.m. start. First stop was around midnight which passengers used to purchase food from street sellers. We declined the opportunity. But we did avail of the toilet facilities, known as Banos, for which one Boliviano or around 10 cents is charged. These toilets were in a small building at the side of a street, purposefully built for passengers on buses passing through the town whose name at this stage escapes us.

On journey resumption, passengers settled down with their blankets, coats,hats and gloves and prepared for the night ahead. Needless to say, there was no heating on the bus. But cold, cold air from the high alti plano on which we were driving crept through every crack, crevice and panel on this decrepit old bus we had the dubious pleasure of travelling in.

Despite our heavy fleece jackets, we shivered and shook from the cold. We stuffed our hands into our pockets to minimise heat loss. But it was little comfort. We were in what was virtually a travelling coldroom about which we had no prior knowledge but for which other passengers had made elaborate preparations.

The journey through the night was non-stop. The sheer cold prevented any attempt at sleep but other passengers managed to doze intermitantly. Well wrapt babies and young children had no difficulty with the constant motion of the bus.

With every window closed the air on board grew fetid. Trish believed that, from the smell, some of the passengers urinated into plastic bottles from which the top had been cut off.

Two bottles of water which Trish carried on board to avoid the possibility of dehydration got colder and colder. We were torn between satiating our thirst and making our bodies even colder by drinking it, or not doing so and risking other consequences. Not even two hours after sunrise had our liquids lost their frigidity.

Throughout the journey, our drivers had as one of our friends is prone to say, "given it the gun" and we arrived in La Paz two hours ahead of time, much to our relief. It was the first time in any journey we had taken in South America that we had arrived ahead of or even on schedule.

We could not believe we had arrived. But because all other passengers disembarked before us, we figured we must, after all, have arrived at our final destination. An elderly taxi driver approached us and offered his services. To be sure, I asked him: "Aqui, La Paz ?" to which the man replied: "Si, Senor".

First impressions were ones of shock. We were in city that lay in a valley surrounded on all sides with hills on which every scrap of land was used to house the less affluent citizens of this city of 1.4 million inhabitants. For once, the poor had the best views, with the rich living in the bottom of the bowl and the poor physically, though not financially, looking down upon them. It was the reverse of what one has come to expect for, generally, it is the rich who occupy the best high-rise sites and the poor the bottom of the trough.

Our hotel room on the sixth floor gave us a great view of this city. At night the inhabited hills around us shone like Christmas trees. But beautiful though it was to look at, we had heard and been warned of the dangers that confronted strangers venturing into these neighborhoods alone and at night. We forewent the experience. But we did go to many of the street markets, bargained and purchased from the locals. We each got T-shirts that cost the equivalent of 2 Euros each. No attempt was made to rip us off by either the traders, taxi drivers or shop keepers- they were just glad to have our business.

Despite this, we daily and nightly heard the sounds of gun shots ring around the hills of the city. It was not clear to us where lay the source of such firing. Several hours seldom passed without such sounds. It was certainly different to go to sleep at night to the echoes of gun shot.

We were told beforehand to expect sights that might shock us. But the only surprise that greeted us was the sight of a woman squatting in the street, over a metal kerbside shore and peeing to her heart's content, oblivious of all those around her. It did not bother her.......so why should it bother us and others. In any case, men frequently relieved themselves publicly in urban and other environments in this continent.

Each morning we had breakfast in the penthouse of our hotel which gave us a 360 degree view of the city. In the distance, snow covered mountains peeped their heads over the surrounding sun-bathed city hills as if to remind us of the tough, sub-zero landscape that lay beyond our warm 'bowl'.

In all, we spent three days in the Rosario area of this city. But soon it was time to move on, this time to a small sleepy town called Copacabana on the shores of Lake Titicaca, and not to be confused with the area of Rio de Janeiro bearing a similar name. Instead of taking a bus, we took a Nissan Urvan-type vehicle with our luggage and that of our fellow passengers, piled onto the roof.

Inside, 14 passengers and the driver, 15 in all, were crammed into this vehicle which is similar to a Toyota Hiace. The driver was a madman, driving around bends on the wrong side and testing the tyres of our vehicle and gravity to the limits. It was another miracle that we and our fellow passengers survived this suicidal pilot! The whole trip,over a time frame of about four hours, cost us seventeen Bolivianos each, the equivalent of around one Euro and 70 cents. But the unscrupulous madman charged us the equivalent of around 2 Euros to deliver us to our hotel in Copacabana, at the end of our trip, a distance of about 200 meters from our final terminus!

Here in this lakeside resort, we sunbathed and chilled out, and bought some presents. Even though we sun-tanned by day, we shivered at night with the cold. One dare not go out without being wrapt in a warm jacket.

Our next task was to say 'goodbye' to Bolivia with its life-threatening roads and dreadful buses, and to renew our acquaintance with Peru in the form of a handshake with the city of Puno (population of around 150,000) on Titicaca's shoreline.

We were back in Peru, a second time in our journey around South America, and looking for new experiences. We didn't have to wait for long.

More next chapter.