It’s up there in the top 10 treks in the world, if not the top five. I knew I wanted to do it; knew I had to do it. And I knew that thousands had done it already.
And that was the catch. I wanted to feel as if I had done more than just “appear” for four days on Peru’s sacred Inca Trail, sweating, wheezing and blowing my way along the path like a birthing heifer, all bloodshot eyes, heavy sighs and a wildly swinging tongue searching for moisture in the oxygen-thin air.
I would not be milked this way. I would not be another fast food product for those whose gullets were already greased, thanks to Machu Picchu, Peru’s tourism cash cow.
I wanted to feel that when I got to that Sun Gate, when I got my first glimpse of this something which fascinates laymen and archaeologists worldwide, I wanted to feel as if my triumphant glow would emanate from this sacred place to the valleys below with the voices of angels in my ears, that my satisfaction was not only in being there, but how I got there. Because that’s what traveling is all about, right?
You go somewhere fascinating and beautiful, talk to people, make friends; they are glad you came, you are glad you went. Obviously, somewhere along the line someone makes some money, but everyone does well out of it – the locals, the environment and you, for the experience. No one resents your being there, and you don’t feel it either, and the local people look forward to your return or the next tourist to appear with their vim and stories.
It didn’t feel that way initially around Peru’s greatest treasure. Inca Trail opportunities were everywhere. A taxi driver in Lima knew someone who could get me on a trek: a child selling postcards in Cuzco’s picturesque Plaza de Armas knew a man who could get me there. Rogue sellers emerge from stands of sombreros, ponchos and blankets to offer you a trail in every town. It felt seedy somewhat, lurking in dark and sweaty offices as helpful staff, totally unprompted, tell you how they offer the cheapest price in Cuzco but that their porters are well paid. I was quoted prices from $130 to $600, something to satisfy the most hard-up backpacker or cash-rich guest. I stuck with my mid-range eco-tour. I could have halved the cost of my trip.
Loading up
I posed for a group photo at Kilometer 88 with genuine excitement and trepidation with what lay ahead: the orchids, the ruins and the potential problems with the altitude. And with trekking comes the chance to really chew over a problem.
Something was bugging me about the porters. Not them individually, but their status. Some groups had fewer porters than people, amazing considering a porter is only meant to carry 20 kg. (about 44 lbs.). Other groups, like mine, had more porters than people. I watched small barrel-chested locals load themselves up like mighty leaf-cutter ants, improbable weights balancing on their backs and compounding the pounding on their flip-flop-covered feet.
Within minutes of starting off, I was sweating and ponderous, hating the few items I had to carry myself in a day bag. About half an hour from the start, our porters came springing past with cheery “Holas!” and “Buenos dias!” Later still on that first day, more porters came past. These were drenched in the sweat of hard work, unwilling or unable to proffer good cheer to the tourists they passed. I recognized the camp they came from.
Wages
I had done some research in Cuzco about Inca Trails. Porters are supposed to be paid 140 soles for their four days’ work, about $20, and carry 20 kg. Most get paid between 40 and 70 soles, carry much heavier packs sneaked through the check points and rely on tips to make up the shortfall in wages. Porters sign wage slips which say they have been paid 100 or more soles. Many of these are faked. The porter is happy because he has work and doesn’t want to rock the boat, and his employer is always happy that his employee is happy.
My porter was being paid 100 soles. This is the highest wage of any porter on the Inca Trail. I asked the organizer why it was still less than the minimum. He said: “A school teacher in Peru gets paid the equivalent of about $200 per month and has trained for five years to become professional. A porter, if he departs four times a month receives just a little less than this if you include his tips. Most porters are seasonal workers and have no formal qualifications. For just 16 days work per month they receive wages similar to a teacher. Extra money rarely finds its way back to the families. Although it is sad to say, much gets spent on alcohol.
“Another problem is that many of the cheaper porters are farmers. May to September is winter and they do not need to be farming, so the Inca Trail supplements their income. Porters who live in Cuzco really need this work, but need higher wages to survive in a city. Companies know this and use it to save even more money by driving the wages as low as they will go.”
This went around my head as I enjoyed a game of cards with a beer bought at the first campsite, Huayllabamba. I had some spare money and I bought alcohol and shared a rum with the porters.
Cold
Getting ready to settle down under the stars under the gaze of the snow-capped Veronica (5,860 meters – 19,225 feet), breath fogging in front of my beard, I noticed our dining tent had birthed a floor and the porters snuggling into their sleeping bags. Agreeing with them that it was “frio,” I wandered around the campsite to see other porters sleeping under thin blankets in the open air.
The next morning everyone was up early for the greatest challenge – the dead woman’s pass. Some 4,200 meters above sea level (13,780 feet) – the hardest day for all.
Still, their packs would be lighter today, two meals having been consumed. I could see some porters carrying their rubbish away. Others had seemingly managed to get away without creating any rubbish thus far. Tour groups save money by dumping rubbish and paying badly. You can see the evidence of it. Every February Machu Picchu is closed, for cleaning.
There was not much chance to ponder all this clearly up dead woman’s pass. Initially walking through a lovely fairy-tale wooded trail, I emerged onto a fairly bleak pass at the distant end of which was the summit, sandwiched between two mountains. Stopping had its virtues, allowing astounding retrospective views of Veronica and the surrounding range. No attitude sickness but a slow and breathless ascent, one of the hardest I have ever done. Got to the mist-covered top, allowed the sweat to dry and then down all the way on knee-shattering drops to Pacamayo, campsite two.
This is a good place for socializing. The euphoria most people feel at having got this far makes them open up, yet there is no beer tent, preventing rowdiness and encouraging a real honesty in people. Two Danes bemoaned having paid $20 more for the Trail than another team member and so would not be giving a tip. Some Americans were going to tip well, because they could. Others were concerned about the porters.
Having fed the tourists, the porters started moving around camps and not just for social activity. For some, it was for food. It turned out that some groups, again to save weight to save the number of porters needed, don’t pack food for porters. They rely on handouts from companies who believe that hardworking humans should be fed once every four days or so.
Entrepreneur
One of our porters, Marco, was a 23-year-old tourism student. He had done about 12 Inca Trails in the last six months to help see him through a three-year university course. When he graduates, he will be leading the tourists, not carrying for them.
But he also told me about some of the conditions for other porters, the older ones, with bad backs, unable to work any more, unable to farm, without a hope of decent medical help and no insurance policies to fall back on. These porters had seen the possibility of making money, and yes, some had been greedy and some had blown all the money. And now they were left with nothing but old age and poverty.
For the night, this freezing campsite saw many porters sleep in floorless dining tents, wind ripping underneath to penetrate the thin blankets. I assumed they didn’t carry heavier ones because they had enough on their backs.
Top tips
On morning three, our porters were as cheery as ever despite the insistent rain. Other porters in less glamorous camps seemed agitated. I was starting to get annoyed at the other tourists moaning at the expense of their trip and how it’s wrong to expect to tip a porter because it is not done in their country. Tipping is part of the culture here, so tip please, even before thinking about poor wages and working conditions.
I would like to say I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the cloud forest approaching Machu Picchu, but it rained so heavily I saw nothing except grey and water. This inclement weather induced even more consumer whining from groups, which I must admit was now officially grating me after Marco’s revelations. I really tried to resist getting on the moral high horse, but it was impossible. Some 50% of the profit from our group’s Inca Trail money goes to community projects, giving clothing, school items, food and help to the poorest towns and villages surrounding the cash-rich Cuzco. I had donated some clothing for distribution as well. This was a good thing I felt, socialism in a free market economy which was, I was feeling more and more, chewing up the local people and bringing in a very selfish breed of tourist.
Thirsty work
Dripping wet, we made it to the relative luxury of the third campsite, with its hot showers, bar, restaurant and views of the Urubamba below. The porters’ job was nearly over, the trekkers had nearly made it and the relief was palpable. I notice that those that were complaining the most about the cost of the trip and their having to tip had worked up a real thirst in doing so and were first in the bar to buy a beer for 5 soles. A few hours later and they have spent what the porters have earned in four days. A few hours more and they sang songs of joy thanks to their costly beer.
Don’t get me wrong – I was in there drinking and toasting and singing as well. But without wishing to feel smug, I felt really proud of everything I had done so far. I had walked a hard trail successfully: I had talked to lots of porters and people: I had made friends: I had seen wonderful things; and I felt I would be leaving a positive footprint behind me, my dollars working for others. I had worked hard for my dollars as the porters worked hard for their soles. We all deserved what we were getting. I felt a certain anger towards those tourists that didn’t seem to be getting it, or giving it, and sympathy for their porters that would just see another group of rich people use their cheap labor for their own ends. Maybe that’s just the world and it’s just me, a droning leftie.
Birthday joy
But it was with a high heart and skip in my step that I got to Machu Picchu and never saw my porters again. They had been excellent. Machu Picchu day was my birthday and they had baked me a cake – 28 years-old and my first cake for a decade, with my name on it. It was cooked on a clean-burning stove, butane based. This trek really did care what was happening to the place it operated in.
I was genuinely touched, in the same spiritual way I was touched when I saw Machu Picchu for the first time. It was a privilege to be there. The sun shone on everyone and it was more than I had dreamed of. Before I knew it I was on the train from Aguas Calientes to Cuzco.
The truth is you could have bought the $150 or the $600 package and still felt the same way along the trail, seen the same things and left enlightened. Understandably, many people will feel that payment for the Trail is enough – it gives local employment and the porters are cheery enough as well as wiry, strong and tough.
I was glad that our porters were well paid, warm, dry and well-fed. My dollars would help Cuzco’s poor. I had had a great time. For me, it was better to know more about what is really happening in Peru, to be an eco-tourist of sorts, and to feel that I hadn’t stood on people to get to where I was.
