It feels cliché to say “there are no words to describe Machu Picchu.” As a writer, that phrase — “no words” — leaves an even harsher sting.
Between Cusco and Machu Picchu — a 76-mile route that only took the Incas four days to travel on foot — Mom and I took a bus to one stop in the Sacred Valley, where we caught the train and another bus to finally reach the entrance gates. Because it’s not only about the destination, but also the journey, here’s notes from our trail.
Mom and I started our six-day trip to Peru a bit unsteadily. Severe symptoms instantly set in upon arrival in Cusco; the altitudes were dizzying. The tension of mother and daughter traveling together had set in days ago; the attitudes were unraveling. We skipped most of the tourist-ready highlights and instead spent our days talking to the locals. In just days, I fell in love with the tender-heated Peruvian people and their rich culture.
I was hesitant to visit a desert after living in Nevada my entire life, but the Elqui Valley is unmatched with its surprisingly fertile soil. We took a (very) full day tour that winded through several of the valley’s tiny towns to an observatory where the sky sparkled like I’ve never seen before.
Without fail, Chile’s local buses lack any semblance of an announcement or signal as to where the vehicle is stopping. So I finally asked the bus driver if we were in Coquimbo and he rushed us off at the next stop, saying we were about to pass the downtown’s center. The bus drove away to expose a poor, run-down residential neighborhood where we were standing on a random corner.
My mom arrived in Santiago after traveling overnight for nearly 20 hours. Wanting to waste no time, she eagerly agreed to take an overnight bus the same day to visit the northern coast of Chile. (You can see where I get my adventurous spirit!) So after sleeping on planes, buses and in terminals for two consecutive nights, Mom joined me for a long — luckily, relaxing — weekend in La Serena.
