So they saved the prettiest till last.   The internet there wasn’t good enough for downloading photos so I’ve had to wait to write the last exciting instalment at the airport.   Luckily we got here 5 hours early so it gives me something to do rather than fret about the flight.  

A 4 hour journey on the coast road flanked by the sea on one side and the jungle clad mountains in the other.   Paraty is the cutest little chocolate box town you’ve ever seen.   It started as a prosperous colonial port funded by gold and slavery, so not quite so cute when you think about it.   When the gold went the town declined and the centre has stayed pretty much the same as it was back then.   Colonial houses with tall wooden doors and large windows all painted in bright colours.   Cobbled streets decked with bunting and fairy lights with high pavements to allow the tide in .   By cobbles I mean bloody great boulders like stepping stones.  All the tourists stagger round like they’re drunk and I didn’t see one woman in high heels, not one.   Nearer the harbour you notice 1000s of little holes between the cobbles, and each little hole has a little crab in it, with one huge claw.  Relatively speaking that is.

The bad news is that Tim has a cold.   😱😱😱

I had it last week but clearly it has mutated into the male form and he was suffering.   So after a wander round and a drink at the harbour, Tim took to his bed and I sat in the square.   Not many tourists, almost no English, in fact hardly anyone speaks English and my Portuguese is rubbish.   Kids playing basketball, young couples smooching, families wandering about, the occasional vendor, and music everywhere.   And fireworks.   Every 10 mins there’s an almighty explosion and I’m the only one who seems to notice.   Even the dogs aren’t bothered.   It’s festival time for Spirito Sanctu and it’s the norm apparently.   

So, at 6 O’bleeding’clock the next morning there is crash.   FIreworks!   And all the church bells ringing!  Talk about a rude awakening.   Then just as we were trying to work out what the hell was going on, a brass band started.   A brass band and fireworks at 6am.  That’s new.   At that point we started giggling hysterically it seemed so bizarre, but that soon stopped when the whole party of French people inhabiting the rest of the hotel left their rooms simultaneously at 6.30.   What sounded like 50 cases being trundled down the wooden colonial floors while hey all chatted happily.   I don’t like mornings.  

Anyway, despite the lack of sleep we got ourselves to the pier for our boat trip.   There are 100s of boats of all shapes and sizes, many painted in pretty ice cream and primary colours.   We were on the Neptune lll which was fairly large but there were only 10 of us.   We spent 5 hours motoring from bay to bay, snorkelling and swimming.  Absolutely beautiful.   It’s like a mix of Thailand and the Italian lakes.

Marcelo, the onboard host come photographer took some very cheesy snaps of us on the beach, but as our waterproof camera decided it was hydrophobic we were glad nonetheless.   And how clever were we to coordinate our swimwear?!

More later.  May not finish till we get home but shopping calls…..

We had our first day without anything planned so decided to have a day on the beach.   With all the different places we’ve been to and not that much time in each one, it feels like your wasting time doing “nothing”, but in Rio it felt like the right thing to do.   It’s winter here so we haven’t seen a whole lot of sun, in fact I think it’s hotter in the UK right now, but at 28 degrees it’s definitely warm enough for us even though the Brazilians complain that it’s cold.   No wonder, as in summer it’s over 40 and 80% humidity.   No wonder they live on the beach.  

I thought I’d get a chance to read my book but there’s too much people watching to do.  Copacobana is like a mini city all in itself.   Every third person is trying to sell you something.   The usual bikinis, hats, sunglasses and wraps as well as food of all sorts, freshly grilled prawns, men trundling metal carts with boiling pots of corn, biscuits, crisps and ice cream, and trays of the ubiquitous cocktail caipirinha in all varieties.   Then there’s hair braids, tattoos and hammocks and marijuana.   

In a different world we’d be coming home stoned and tatted up, but we settled for a cocktail and a Jesus beach towel for me and a fake Brazil football shirt for Tim.   Apparently there’s a player called Naymar?

The sea is cold and the currents too dangerous for swimming  anyway.  Lots of surfers though and paddlers.  I was the only woman in a one piece.   Young girls wear bigger bikinis but the women my age wear the teeny thongs up their butt cheeks.   And the men love their budgie smugglers.   The arse is the thing here.   No one is topless.  

Lunch at the hotel pool and then a short walk to Ipanema.   Apparently Cocacabana is the tourist beach, Ipanema the posh one.   Both have their charms but Ipanema comes into its own at sunset.   The waves crash so high that the spray forms a mist that gives it an ethereal air.   

Towards sunset people gather at the rocks to watch.   Tradition has it that you have a glass of champagne and applaud as the sun sets.    No champagne to be seen but plenty of beer and caipirinhas as everyone watched the surfers in monochrome against the misty reddening sky.   Stunning.  No wonder that tanned and lovely tall girl kept walking up Ipanema beach every day.   

We were told that Ronaldinho has recently paid £30 million for a 2 bed flat overlooking the beach.  I must have misheard.  That doesn’t sound right.  

We walked home through a park which was full of people dressed in shiny gypsy outfits, not unlike Daisy’s Esmarelda phase.   Music, food and lots of tents with people queuing for tarot card readings.   Also a star spangled cave where they were lighting candles and laying baskets of fruit and flowers.  Not a clue what was going on.   

After last night’s meat fest , Tim was all for having a bowl of pasta but ended up going for the traditional dish of feijoada.  Black beans, rice, baked flour, oranges, cassava and meat.   When I say meat, it’s a whole pot of whatever meat they have.  No idea what was in it but the possibilities ranged from steak to pigs ears.   South Americans do not do small portions.  

Then a small bar hoping to hear some music.   It was a tiny place, the musicians inside and audience on their street.   If you wanted a drink you helped yourself from the fridge and let the owner know.   Holding court outside he looks like an elderly Orson Wells and sounds like Spike the dog.   Several guitarists played while a woman sang a very gentle bossa nova, so low key it was like there was no audience.  Instead of clapping after songs they clicked their fingers.   A man stood holding political signs and then the owner made a very passionate speech.   My Portuguese is rubbish so not a clue what he was saying, but he said Brazil and “my country” over and over and there was something about not having a coup and the crowd were wholeheartedly agreeing with him.  Teresa May should take some tips.   Get a cool bossa nova vibe going on Teresa….

Our last night in Rio, Paraty next for our final stop in this wonderful journey.   No goodbyes, we will definitely be back one day.  

Tim read something on the Plane from BA that said Rio is the the most beautiful city in the world.   Yeh, yeh, they all say that.   Whatever.   We arrived in the evening.  Another colonial city in the dark, with an admittedly impressive beachfront at our hotel and when we woke up to this we were enchanted of course.  It is beautiful without a doubt.   But the most beautiful?

So, new city, new guide, etc.   Marcel, a very cool and erudite guy took us on a casual tourist trail.   The train to Christ the Redeemer, the modern cathedral (when I say modern, it’s the same age as me, but in cathedral years that’s positively at the toddler phase), then to Sugar Loaf mountain.   The first view of the statue, even shrouded in cloud, literally takes your breath away.  It’s so vast, looking up at it makes you giddy.  You can’t get it in pictures.  And the demeanour of his face is somewhere between enchanting and knowing.   It’s no wonder believers often cry when they see it.   Powerful stuff.  

The views are amazing, but with the low cloud, Marcel was keen for us to go to Sugar Loaf (or Sugar Lump, as Tim keeeps calling it) as its lower so the views are clearer.    But there’s a problem.  The cable car going over a sheer drop of 700 metres.  We were going to the cathedral first so I had time to worry about that later.  

Yet another cathedral.  Nothing could beat Cusco clearly but we were keeping Marcel happy, and when we pulled up outside a 60s concrete teepee we weren’t over excited.  But appearances are deceptive.   This city could inspire more religion in me than a 1000 Sister Mary-Charles’s and all her dogma could ever achieve.   The cathedral is a simple 4-sided pyramid structure modern strips of stain glass on each side and a cross of light at the peak.   Reminiscent of the pantheon.   A plain altar, wooden benches, a simple suspended wooden cross,  a deconstruction of catholic grandeur that makes it as transfixing as any grand European cathedral, without the bling that for me, only serves to remind one of the hypocracy of these buildings.   

And then on to Sugar Loaf.  A drive through busy streets, modern apartments and crumbling Spanish colonial grand houses, graffiti on every spare space.

So we get to Sugar Loaf.  I hate cable cars.  But I’ve managed 9 flights in the last 3 weeks.   Seriously, get over it.   But it’s a tiny little wire carrying a big car between 2 mountains…….

Of course, it was fine.   I didn’t look down and channelled the Carpenters, singing “I’m on top of the world” as we glided upwards.   And how glad am I that I conquered that stupid fear.   Just stunning.   We took photos then sat at a bar with Marcel chatting – politics of course – in the sunshine until we reluctantly took the cars back down again.   

Back home, we sat on Copacobana beach in front of our hotel with a caipirinha and did some wave watching.  

Dinner was at a Brazilian place near the Copacabana Palace.   An all you can eat buffet with various cuts of meat being brought to your table and carved for you.   You can eat until you explode.   I went into panic mode as soon as we arrived with all the choice and managed some salad and a couple of of slices of lamb and beef.   Tim was in heaven.  As well as his starter plate of oysters, sashimi and salad, with a side of onion rings and garlic bread, he had – big breath – chicken hearts, lamb ribs, pork ribs, beef ribs, Angus steak, baby beef, filet mignon, sirloin, rib eye, and chorizo sausage.    And then some cheese, because apparently cheese is just the thing after you’ve eaten lots of meat.   I was wondering if a wafer thin mint might be applicable at that point.  

Just before the meat sweats set in….

We waddled back down the beach.   Even at that time it’s busy.   Joggers and cyclists, volley ball teams and lithe young men and boys playing football on the beach with a casual dexterity and ball skills that you could only see in South America, groups of slightly overweight women doing boot camp and boxing, muscle bound hunks performing solitary routines on rings and bars, singers crooning Portuguese songs and badly pronounced Ed Sheeran ballards, pedlars selling everything from handbags to cocaine, with the regular sound drop of the crashing waves, the white froth visible every now and then as they raise to 10 feet or more.   

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We’ve only been here for 24 hours and I’ve not seen that much of the world, and I know that there are huge problems with poverty here, but so far I’m agreeing with that article Tim read in the plane.   Rio de Janeiro is the most beautiful city in the world.   

Another godforsaken early start, this time on Tim’s birthday.   54!   Not the most exciting of birthdays as most as spent at the airport or flying, but we managed a glass of something sparkling as we left Lima.   

Where would you find the Andes?   At the end of your sleevies……

We landed in Buenos Aires in the evening.   Met by our guide Jonathan.  I’m not sure why they feel we need a guide and a driver to get us from the airport to the hotel. It it certainly makes things easy I guess.  Our hotel is in Palermo, pretty cobbled streets and fairy lights, cool bars and restaurants and small independent clothes shops.  

We thought Cusco was cold…..Buenos Aires is like the arctic!   I was expecting winter, but not this.   Thank goodness I invested in the llama hoodie, gloves and Cusco hat!   The people here dress so stylishly that I look like a steak and kidney pudding on a plate of sushi in comparison, but needs must.   

We went out for steak, what else, which was very nice,  but as the restaurant was full we had to sit outside.   They gave us blankets.  I must have had 15 layers on by then!

In the morning Jonathan met us and we did the city tour.  Various parks and a million statues of generals and presidents.  

 Our knowledge of Argentinian history is even worse than Peruvian.   The Peruvian is fascinating, whilst the Argentinian is a long list of leaders who screwed up the economy in their own special way and It seems that most of the money was spent on statues of themselves.   The main square is an indelible reminder of the political problems, particularly the “disappearance” of 10s of thousands of young people in the 80s.  The government still denies the extent of this but every Thursday a group of mothers march silently in the square outside the “pink house”,  their symbol a white headscarf.   500 babies were born in captivity and given up for adoption, so now there is a grandmothers group too.   They have found over a 100 of these now grown children but are still searching for the rest.   

There’s a big shiny flower in one park.  Very popular.   

A cathedral.   Not a patch on Cusco, but grand enough, and they now have their own pope!  

Then the cemetary at Recoleta.  Mind blowing.   Streets and streets of marble and statues adorning little houses holding coffins.   The rich and important people in Buenos Aires clearly like to leave their remnants languishing in opulence.   

Buenos Aires is familiar.   Someone took colonial Spain, 19th Century Paris, 20th century Barcelona and threw in a touch of New York for luck.   It’s a very cool modern city.   

The sun came out on day 2 and we went for a tango lesson.  Tim did pretty well and by the end we had a pretty good routine going.   There’s a video but luckily I can’t get it to upload.

The the market at San Telmo.   Such a change from Peru and Cuba.  Much lest touristy, antiques, crafts, weird and interesting stuff and live music on every corner.   

After another steak dinner we headed for a community centre to try out our newly learnt tango talent.   Disaster.  Tim couldn’t remember anything beyond the first 3 steps so we bumbled around feebly trying not to bump into anyone.   I don’t think we’ll be making the Strictly finals this year.   

So, on to Rio for the last part of our trip!   One of the nicest airport views we’ve had.  

Buenos Aires.

19 days, 8 flights, 11 hotels.   2 flights and 2 hotels left to go.   

Loving our trip and hotel living is mostly pleasant, but some of it is tiring.   Living out of a suitcase is tricky, particularly for someone with my organisation skills.   I’m not even bothering to unpack any more.  Tim of course, has everything sorted in military fashion and a strict pants and socks rotation.   Spot the difference.   And how comes he has a case twice the size of mine?

With a week to go, thoughts are returning to home.   I’m looking forward to having a cup of proper tea, getting clean clothes out of my own messy wardrobe, watching rubbish TV and, of course, seeing you all again.   

We got up at stupid o’clock to get our train from Ollantaytambo (try saying that after a couple of pisco sours), and poor Willington must have got up at a sparrow’s crack to make the journey from Cusco.   A very pleasant and scenic journey meandering through the valley following the river Urubamba until we got to Machu Picchu village, a town that seems to serve no purpose other than as a stop gap for hikers and us tourists.  

We boarded our bus and headed up the mountain via a series of rather stomach churning bends.   My advice, don’t look down!

The view from the bus.

And there we were.  At last.   Crowds of tourists, big queues, and so much beaurocracy just to get in, but when you go through the barriers and climb a few feet then turn the corner, there it is in all it’s glory!

Willington gave us the tour and a run down of the history etc.   No one is exactly sure what it’s purpose is but the popular theory is that it was a summer palace, a holiday pad so to speak, with added spiritual value due to the alignment of various points with the sun at the solstices.  There is a temple, various upmarket houses for the nobles, lesser quality dwellings for the servants, workshops and what is thought to be the school house.   Certain children were scouted for their high intelligence, taken from their families and educated and lived here.   If there was some kind of disaster such as an earthquake or El Niño, a group of the children would be taken high up to the glacier.  Some would die on the journey,  but one of the survivors, i.e. the strongest, would be offered as a sacrifice to the gods.   This seems cruel to us but apparently it was an honour to be even selected to be taken to the school.  Having a child who was sacrificed was an even greater honour because he or she was now living with the gods.   Obviously, children are no longer sacrificed, no matter how bad the weather, but animals still are killed as offerings, particularly during festivities.   The country is 90% catholic but they still use shamans regularly to do cleansing rituals for projects such as building a new house, and to help cure ills.   If someone is suffering from trauma the shaman will bring a guinea pig and rub it over the person to cleanse them.  The animal is then killed and the blood runs black as it has taken the bad spirits away into its blood.   They may also run an egg over the patient’s body and when it is cracked open after the yolk is black and smells putrid.   It sounds odd to us but Willington is pretty convinced of their healing power and appparently you wouldn’t dream of getting building work done without a visit from a shaman first.  It will even be written into the contract before anyone will continue.   

After we said our last goodbye to Willington we stayed for the afternoon.   The queues for the buses at lunchtime can be over an hour as everyone needs to get back for their trains so the site is relatively peaceful after that.  

We wandered around and then started the climb to the Sun gate.

  We only got about half way up because Tim was sweating and puffing like a sweaty puffy thing and we didn’t have time to do it unless we ran up.   Even half way up the views are pretty awesome – not a word I use often or lightly.

We climbed back down, had a bit of llama fun and finished our day with a pisco sour at the mirador.

The hotel Sumaq, where we were staying, is at the foot of the mountains overlooking the river.   Beautiful and loud.   And a bit smelly.   

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A casual morning the next day and then our train back and onwards to Cusco again for our last night in Peru.  Randomly one of the train staff appeared dressed as a devil half way through the journey and did some dancing.   Then there was an alpaca-themed fashion show.  You don’t get that on Chiltern railways.   

The drive showed more stunning views.  

Our hotel for the night was an old Inca foundation with a colonial hat on.   Very atmospheric and slightly disconcerting ambience.    Tim was feeling the altitude again and we had an early start so just wandered around, bought some more llamas and said farewell to Cusco.   

Good bye Peru, you have been wonderful.   

Willington and our driver picked us up early and Tim was looking forward to going downhill.  But first we had to go even higher out of Cusco, passing the suburban makeshift houses perched perilously on the mountainside, then out into to the countryside with the imperious glacier topped mountains looking down on us as we headed towards them.   Rough country roads, villagers working the fields by hand, and the occasional brass band appearing out of nowhere with a decorated donkey.  Obviously.  It’s Monday morning so why wouldn’t you dress up your donkey and bring it out with a fanfare?

We eventually reached Moray, where the Incas built an ingenious system of terraces in order to modify their seed crops in different altitudes.  So they moved the potatoes, which grow best at altitude, down each season, and the corn, which is better lower down, was moved up.  An early form of genetic manipulation.   And of course,  being the Incas, they did it in style.  

Then to the Salineras at Maras.  A system of shallow pools fed by a salty mountain spring.   The Incas realised they could produce salt by evaporation and the pools are still producing that very trendy pink salt today.  

From here we could see the Sacred Valley, our next stop.
Down we went, but then up again, now to Pisac.   More terracing and Inca remains and the most wonderful mountain views.   

Inka packed lunch!

A guinea pig house within a dwelling.  They weren’t pets and still aren’t.  They run around the home in the way chickens might in a farmhouse.   

Tim and Willington.

Looking at the cliffs opposite the settlement you can see thousands of small holes.  This is where they put the mummified bodies of their dead.   They would have been covered over with stone but when the Spanish came they looted the graves for the gold they were buried with.  To add to this disgrace, locals in more recent years have been selling the mummies to tourists.  Who on earth wants to buy a mummy and what would you do with it?  I doubt your average Ikea display cabinet has a niche for preserved human remains.  As we were talking about this Tim said , ah yes, they mummified them in the coital position.  I kicked him.   Willington looked perplexed. He said it again, clearly thinking we hadn’t understood.  “They buried them in the coital position didn’t they?”  No, I said, it was the foetal position.   Quite different.   Willington had given up trying to be polite and was giggling by then.   Ah, the joys of having a dyslexic husband….  What in earth would those mummies look  like?   And they’d never have got them into those tiny holes in the cliffs.   Best not go there!

A sheer cliff with about 8000 holes dug out.  

All these Inca sites keep begging the same questions.   How the hell did they get those huge stones to the top of the mountain?   How did they have the technology to devise such sophisticated water systems?   How did they get the bodies up a vertical cliff to lay them in those holes?  On and on.   

Anyway, enough of questions.   We got to our latest hotel, The Tambo del Inca in Urubamba, and it was so beautiful and peaceful we collapsed into a little bubble of luxury for the evening and chose not to go far the next day.   We wandered around the little town which has a nice square and local market and is mostly populated by strange tuk tuk drivers buzzing round the streets.   After dinner that night we walked through the square and were greeted by a gang of teenagers practicing their dance routine for the upcoming festivities in June.   I wish we could be here then.   Willington says it’s a crazy time, but it sounds like a lot of fun as long as you can dodge the fireworks!

There’s a child in there somewhere!

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Early bed for the main event tomorrow.   Machu Picchu!

With a free day we headed for the local covered market.  Dia del Madre.  Mother’s Day and it’s a big deal.  Flowers and hearts everywhere.  More like Valentine’s Day.

There was the usual tourist llama stuff but mostly it was for locals buying food and clothes.  These people do colour big style.  The Cusco flag is a rainbow but 7 colours just aren’t enough.  Nothing matches and it’s just brilliant.

Aisles of fruit, bread, cheese then enough seeds, nuts and quinoa to keep any foodie happy.   One aisle just of fruit juice.  Anything you want blended for about £1.50.  We went for the safe options.  Orange juice and egg?   Not sure about that.  Then the hot food aisles selling chicken soup and various stews with crowds of families sat for Mother’s Day lunch.   It reminded me of the Singapore hawkers markets.  Then the meat.   Dried alpaca in huge flat yellowish sheets, the usual pork and chicken etc, and then the bits we don’t see at home.   Pig heads and testicles, cows noses , alpaca trotters, a whole aisle of tripe.  The smell was pretty overwhelming.

Outside was more chaotic, every inch of pavement taken with plastic sheets laden with whatever produce, loudspeakers proclaiming their mandarins were the cheapest, fireworks randomly going off, cars ploughing through the crowds blaring their horns to let you know to get off the street, but you can’t because the pavement is full of fruit and veg, then a random religious parade with a brass band.

Tim’s altitude sickness returned in the afternoon.  We will be going lower tomorrow to the Sacred Valley.  He can’t wait although he’s loved it here too but he’s suffering.  I am completely in love with this place.  I had been led to believe it was a tourist watering hole on the way to Machu Pichu and it couldn’t be further from the truth.  Yes, the city thrives on tourism and every other shop is selling you a hiking trip or pony trek, but it’s beautiful and vibrant and you can feel the history in every stone.  Admittedly I have bought a llama hoodie, gloves and hat (it’s f*****g freezing at night) and you are all getting llama key rings as souvenirs (they are sold by really cute kids….), but there is so much more to this place.  The llamas are cute though, especially the baby ones with hats.  

Llama hoody – not cold at all!

I have to admit I knew pitifully little about Peru before we came.  There’s Paddington of course, they eat guinea pig, and it must be deep and dark because there are bits that are deepest and darkest.  All I knew about the Incas was that they worshipped the sun and the Spanish nicked all their gold.  So in preparation, Tim and I read a couple of books, Turn Right at Manchu Pichu and The Last Days of the Incas.  You know how much I love the Spanish, but god those guys were bastards.  The Incas weren’t exactly as cute as a baby llama either.  Sacrificing children because the weather’s not holding up or having all your servants slaughtered when you die to look after you in the next world, doesn’t give them mother Teresa status.  They were an amazing race.  The architecture and engineering is mind boggling considering the limitations of the age.  And not just technically brilliant, but beautiful to look at as well.  

Anyway, new city new guide, Willington.  First he took us even higher out of Cusco.  Getting our breath was still a struggle but much easier now.  First stop was Saqsaywaman, a fortress and ceremonial ground overlooking Cusco lying in the bowl of the mountains, the umbiglo, or belly button.   

Then to Pukapukara and Tambomachay.

We then headed back into town where Willington gave us a walking tour of the historic centre. It has been really worth having a guide.  He knows everything about everything it seems, and a very pleasant person to spend time with.   

When the Spanish did their conquering they demolished all the Inca sacred sites, took the gold and silver, then built their own churches on the Inca foundations, using the precious metals to create some of the most ornate and over the top altar pieces you will ever see.  It’s stunning but leaves a bit of a sour taste.   As karma would have it, a huge earthquake hit in 1950, demolishing the colonial buildings, but leaving the Inca foundations, built for strength, intact.   

As we reached the square there was a cacophony of music and chatter of people.   A procession of children and young people was in progress, all dancing in the most colourful and sparkling outfits you can imagine.   Willington had no idea what it was for.  Apparently they are always doing parades at the drop of a stovepipe hat, with the month of June being non-stop partying to celebrate the foundation of Cusco.   Peruvians love to dress up and party, that much is clear and they dont do it subtly.   

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It’s a 35 minute flight from Puerto Maldonda to Cusco which is at 11,000 feet.  Basically you’re flying uphill.  Within 5 minutes of disembarking I was struggling to breath.  They were handing out coca leaves to chew at the baggage carousel.  Thanks, but an oxygen tank would be more useful and definitely less leaf like.   We were prepared and had drunk our body weight in bottled water but the dehydration took hold within minutes.  Tim was fine though.  What we weren’t prepared for was the cold.  After the blazing heat of Cuba and humidity of the Amazon it came as a shock.  It’s hot in the afternoon but goes to 4 degrees in the evening and morning.   It explained why the hotel has a fire pit and sells puffa jackets rather than bathrobes.  

 

After a rest at our hotel we headed to The Plaza de Armas for dinner.  A beautiful colonial square with the cathedral dominating the view.  The old town is in the bowl of the valley and the mountain surrounds it.  In the dark with the pinpoint lights of the houses scattering the slopes like fat Christmas trees looking down on you.  

We were careful to eat light, not much alcohol, lots of water, walk slowly etc, but by the time we got back Tim was suffering with altitude sickness, puffing and panting, bad tempered and at times disorientated.  I was a bit worried, but with the now novel ability to use the internet I googled the symptoms and was reassured that as he wasn’t yet gurgling in his chest or frothing at the mouth with pink bubbles, he’d survive.  Our nice Australian friends had given us some medication for altitude sickness and he took that and was thankfully alive in the morning.  I woke with a headache that would have felled 15 llamas but nothing that a good dose of neurofen couldn’t deal with.   Thank goodness, as we had the whole history of the Incas to deal with that morning.  Onwards and upwards. Literally.