Iguacu Falls - Argentine side.

The Iguacu Falls are just one part of a substantial national park that extends across the border to incorporate land in both Argentina and Brazil. It is protecting Atlantic rain forest, which harbours a prodigious diversity of life. Visiting the Falls is not just about one of the world´s most spectacular arrays of cascades, it is an excursion into luxurious forest with plants, insects and vertebrate animals to delight any nature lover.

In fact, I´m going to start off with what I think is my all time best bird photograph, rather than a view of the falling water. This is a plush-crested jay. Even with the maximum magnification that my little camera can manage I had to get pretty close to capture this shot. The blue feathers are, if anything, even more vivid when you meet the real bird than they are in this photograph.

There is a Sheraton Hotel right in the park, but the plebs are accommodated well away from the protected area in Puerto Iguacu. Hostel Iguacu Falls is handy to the bus station and the day I arrived it put on a barbecue. There was more meat than we could eat and somehow my bottle of red wine was empty by the time I turned in rather late. Unsurprisingly, I was not up terribly early the next morning.

Buses leave for the park every half hour. I just missed one, so it was after 10 o´clock when I finally handed over my 40 pesos (Argentina uses the $ symbol to denote pesos. I find this most confusing) and started my tour.

Butterflies were everywhere. The only place I have seen more lepidoptera is by the creek in the jungle near Puerto Maldonado. And these were nearly all large, colourful butterflies. They bounced and fluttered through the air, alighted for a moment on a flower and then danced away.

Because of this reluctance to stay still they were virtually impossible to photograph. This half-in-shadow portrait is the best I could get.

There were plenty of birds, too, from the sombrely dressed thrushes to the blue suited swallow tanager (tick).

A visit to the Falls is not for the unfit. Although there is a little train to help you, the important parts of the park are accessible only to pedestrians. Not all the paths will accommodate wheelchairs. Following the recommended route, I walked along the Green Trail. At one point there is a sign warning of dangerous animals. It is just possible that you might meet a jaguar in the early morning, but I suspect the sign is intended more to scare the public into staying on the footpaths.

I was going to scorn the little train, especially when I saw the length of the queue, but I was amazed when the train took all the waiting sightseers in one go, so I finished my very late breakfast and caught the next one.

At the end of the tracks the groups surged off along the walkways behind their guides. They take the visitor over long, thin bridges built from island to island across the river above the falls. On some of the islands there are benches and a family pausing for a snack had attracted the attention of a group of plush-crested jays (tick). There were at least a dozen birds clustering in the branches and on the handrails looking for crumbs, scraps or a handout.

Eventually I dragged myself away from the jays and finished the walk to the Garganta del Diablo or Devil´s Throat. Here the spectator is at the lip of the biggest single waterfall. Professional photographers with stepladders were busy shepherding groups into position and shooing away independent sightseers who might spoil the picture. Eventually they completed their work and the rest of us were able to get near the mass of water pouring over the lip.

Strangers enthusiastically swapped cameras and took photos of the camera owner with the waterfall in the background. As you can see, I should have adjusted the exposure setting before handing over my camera. That´s me in front of the cascade, honest.

Although impressive, this cataract is not as big as the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara. Those who know Niagara will now that there are essentially two falls, each with a single drop. At Iguacu there are dozens of separate falls which, for the most part, reach the bottom in two stages.

Looking along the top of the Falls from the Devil´s Throat lookout.

As you can see, the river reaches the lip along a series of channels









A slightly better photo. I took this one myself using my left hand and cunningly managed to omit the tell-tale left arm and include the waterfalls in the background.

The Falls are famous amongst birders for the swifts that hunt for flying insects in the spray and then dart behind the cascades to roost and even build their nests. I could see them clearly from the lip of the Devil´s Throat, hawking through the mist below me.

Eventually I remembered that there was much more to explore and set off back along the walkway. I saw fish in the river, sheltering in an eddy to avoid taking a one-way trip downstream over the falls. The jays were not the only birds. I watched cormorants and a large heron fishing confidently.

The river above the cataracts is peppered with islands that separate the stream into many channels.

At the end of the walkway was an optional extra - a trip in a rubber boat through the islands above the Falls. There would be, I was promised, lots of wildlife to enjoy.

Our skipper at the oars. If he dropped them there was no emergency propulsion that I could see. But of course they were secure in the rowlocks.

There was a delay while money changed hands and further passengers were recruited, and them we were off. The current was much more modest than I expected after watching the waters rushing over the lip of the Falls, and the oars were applied to get us moving downstream.
A cormorant on a dead branch drew oohs from the other passengers. Had they been walking around with their eyes closed? It cunningly allowed us to get close enough that even I got my camera out and then dived mockingly into the water.

We were taken to within about 100m of the drop. Ahead of us, perched evenly on a line of rocks with almost mathematical exactness, a platoon of cormorants waited for lunch barely 30m from the falls.

Our course was diverted down a side channel. It was very picturesque, but the promised wildlife stayed away. The skipper was moved to apologise for the inconsiderate absence of anything interesting to watch.

A kingfisher did flash its colours at us as it raced to some urgent appointment elsewhere and then, when we were amost tying up at the little wharf that marked journey´s end, the skipper said, "Look, toucans!" OK, he said it in Spanish, but everyone understood. For several agonising seconds I was certain that I was the only one on board who could not see the toucans, but then one of them flapped to the next branch and two birds came into focus.

I particularly wanted to see toco toucans on this trip because they are spectacular birds and because I remember the Guinness advertisements of my childhood that featured toucans. I can report that in reality the beak is even more colourful than the Guinness artists rendered it. HUGE TICK.

The moustachioed skipper backwatered until both birds had flown away and then our waterborne adventure was over.

The next portion of the park I headed for was the "Lower Trail", but not before a bite of lunch. A large bite for preference, since I had missed breakfast. I had just got my molars around the end of a french bread sandwich when I saw some friends. Jane Tait and Sally Nutbeem are stalwarts of the Wessex Witches, one of the Golden Oldies hockey teams. Calling out was not a practical option with my mouth full of sandwich so I rushed out of the cafe and mutely hugged them both in greeting.

It was not terribly startling to find other Golden Oldies at the Falls. Most of the players would have taken the chance to see a bit of Argentina and Iguacu Falls 3 days before the festival began probably appeared on several itineraries.

Once Jane and Sally had got over the shock we sat down and caught up on each other´s news while other Witches came into the cafe for an ice cream.

The lower trail, as its name suggests, gives a different perspective on the falls. And it allows the visitor to see cascades that are not visible from the Devil´s Throat platforms.

A particularly sheer fall named after an Italian, whose name began with B. It´s on the tip of my tongue.

It also gives access to the boat across to Isla San Martin, which is included in the admission fee, and the boats that take thrill-seekers to the base of the falls, which is quite a lot extra.

The lower trail is very shaded, and thus ideal conditions for impatiens sp., more commonly known as "busy lizzie". This bush must have covered at least a square metre of ground.

I followed the trail, stopping often to take yet more photographs, until I arrived at the boarding point for the Isla San Martin boat. Naturally, it was on the island side of the channel.

Patience was rewarded by the boat returning and refusing to let me board. I had just missed the last sailing. Curses and naughty words!

I associate lizards with sunny, warm habitats, but there was a large population of these jokers dodging in and out of the rocks.

However, there was more of the Lower Trail and all of the Upper Trail yet to explore.

There are so many cascades that it is difficult to maintain the enthusiasm. I confess that I was getting to the stage where the waterfalls were almost ho-hum. Luckily there was more wildlife to distract me.

A toucan was perched high on a bare branch. They are such colourful birds that it was still a joy to observe this one sitting there and occasionally opening its beak. I passed my binoculars around for the benefit of those not so thoughtfully prepared for toucan-watching.

Excitement amongst a group of schoolchildren proved to be due to the appearance of a group of capuchin monkeys.

Signs around the park warn against feeding the animals, and they must work becasue no-one was offering tidbits and, even more surprisingly, the monkeys were not begging for handouts.

They were assiduously working through a group of trees for fruits and any yummy leaves. I had a good view of one that had a taste for the growing point of a palm tree. He or she demonstrated a well-practiced technique for pushing apart the central leaves so that the delectable centre could be bitten off.

OK, one last picture of falling water before leaving the park.

Time was indeed running out so I joined the crowd making its way to the exit.

Around the open space, where the souvenir craft stalls offer carvings of toucans in a variety of bright but imaginary colours, the grass is mown short. This highly modified habitat is favoured by the wild guinea pigs. Unlike the popular pets, these are all the same, dark brown colour. They are also noticeably smaller than the domesticated animals.

There were still things to see. I thought these flowers deserved to be recorded.

Visitors to the park are informed that they should get their tickets stamped and thus qualify for half-price admission the following day. I had missed one wildlife trail and the island so it made sense to get the stamp. If I chose not to return nothing would be lost, but if I came back I would be 20 pesos better off.

The buses follow a rigid half-hourly schedule. No extra buses are put on for the closing time rush. And the bus came later than the scheduled time, so I had to wait more than 20 minutes despite timing my appearance at the bus stop well.

Optimistically I showed the driver my ticket from the morning. But no, it was not a return ticket. By charging 4 pesos each way the monopolist bus company must be making a killing. That´s expensive bus travel, even in Argentina.

Dinner that evening was with Jane and Sally. The other Wessex Witches timidly stayed in their hotel´s restaurant, whereas we marched boldly down the road and selected a restaurant 50m away. This meal also featured quantities of Argentinian wine and once again I slept well and late.

Day 2 started off with thunderstorms and heavy rain. Luckily the rain eased a bit as I sipped my breakfast coffee, so I donned my red waterproof and steeled myself to pay another 4 pesos each way on the bus.

By the time I arrived at the park the weather had moderated to showers. I gratefully claimed my discounted admission and went in. The guinea pigs were out on the short grass again, as was this very large iguana.

To complete my visit I wanted to walk the Sendero Macuco, a nature trail, and visit Isla Grande San Martin.

Unfortunately, I chose the same moment to arrive at the trail head as a school party of 40 teenagers. I don´t know about you, but I would not rate 40 teenagers as my companions of choice when out to enjoy the wildlife. So I pretended to study my field guide as they filed onto the trail with one of the teachers explaining sternly that absolute silence was required. Optimist.

Since I turned my binoculars on anything that rustled in the leaves the school party was soon well ahead and could be forgotten. As is so often the case, the heard-but-not-seen bird was much the most common.

Despite my slow progress I actually caught up with a group. This appeared to be a guided birdwatching party. They all had good binoculars and the leader had what looked like a huge, fur-covered microphone. My theory is that it was a device sensitive to the direction of sound and thus able to point precisely at a hidden, singing bird.

However, they did not need technology to see the group of toucans uttering their harsh calls in a dead tree. There were three of them. I suspect two swains were croaking their desire to the same maid.

Shortly after I left the toucans I caught up with the birders again. The leader was saying, "That´s another olivaceous woodcreeper." I followed the line of his binoculars and a dark bird flew away. It was the right size for a woodcreeper, but it could have been almost anything from the glimpse I got. Can I tick olivaceous woodcreeper? I decided that, in all conscience, I could not.

The rain became heavier and more frequent. Seeing details of the birds got harder in the gloom but I squelched on. There´s a waterfall along the trail. As though I needed to see another waterfall. In fact I almost fell over it. The path took me to the top of the fall, where a stream quietly made its way to the edge of a rock and then dropped away.

At the base of the waterfall was a nice pool and around it were 40 teenagers in wet swimsuits. On a sunny day it would have been a lovely spot for a swim and a picnic.

The path continued down and the rain got harder. Near the bottom I met the school party, now in anoraks, on its way back. Despite the rain they were chattering cheerfully. The rain got harder still and I was grateful for a big overhang where 4 other damp trampers were already sheltering. This, I thought, is as far as I go.

When the skies dried up a little I broke my vow just to go on 10 metres and look at the waterfall from the bottom. And then I really did start back. The climb to the top of the fall was certainly nuddy, but it was not as slippery and difficult as I expected.

Back along the trail who did I meet but Jane and Sally once again. They weren´t pursuing me (I should be so lucky) but had the same idea that there could be interesting things to see along the path. And once again the other Witches were following on behind.

There were still bird calls sounding, but it seemed that I wasn´t going to see anything without a furry microphone to help me until I heard a call behind me and turned. After a couple of seconds a bird flew over the trail and perched on a branch above the path. It was facing the other way, but the metallic green back was enough to tell me it was a trogon. Non-birders will not understand the excitement of this. Quetzals are possibly the most dazzling birds of all, and trogons are related to, and something like, a small quetzal.

I almost stopped breathing in my determination to be silent and move to where I could see what kind of trogon it was. It was absorbed in delivering a 4-note song, waiting and singing again. I saw the essential colours even before I saw the bird front on, but eventually I got right in front of a black-throated trogon. The male I could see had a glossy green head, upper breast and back, black face and throat, and golden yellow belly. To see pictures, click here. MEGATICK.

I´m not sure what the few other tourists thought of the tall man staring raptly at a bird. I offered them my binoculars anyway, so that they could see the glowing colours properly. I think I floated back to the main part of the park.

I marched straight to the Lower Trail and the boat to Isla Grande San Martin. Despite its name it´s not a very large island. Once you get to the top of the cliff the paths to the lookout points are not long. Climbing the cliff, despite the steps to help, was hard work. The rock is steep and high.

The first lookout gave a great view of the Devil´s Throat from out in front and lower down. It also allowed a panorama of other cascades and the river below the falls on the Argentine side.

On my way to the upriver end of the island I spotted a black vulture in a tree. I had been aware that there were always a few in the sky above the park, but this was a close-up view.

And then there were two more, and then more. At the end of the path you could hardly see the waterfalls for black vultures perched on rocks and in trees in every direction. There must have been well over a hundred in sight. What did they all feed on? Tourists who miss the last boat back?

Well that wasn´t going to be on this particular day. Back across the island I marched and carefully descended the cliff path to the little beach where the boat delivered and collected.

For those who came prepared the beachette was a popular swimming spot. But I had neither towel nor time for a bathe.

I had booked an "ecological tour" for 4 o´clock. I had to wait for the ferry, cross the river and climb back up the Lower Trail to get to the departure point.

These guys were organised. Everyone wore a safari-suit type uniform. One jeep was for Spanish-speakers and one for those who preferred a commentary in English. Interestingly, the commentary for both vehicles was given by the same individual. Roberto gave us his spiel in English as he drove. Then he stopped at a place that nicely illustrated what he had been talking about. The other jeep pulled up behind us and Roberto walked back and delivered the story all over again but in Spanish.

At an information stop.

The material included little I didn´t know already about forest ecology. I think all of it could be found in NZ. However, it was interesting to learn that they have the same problems with introduced animals and plants.

At least we had a dry tour. The showers had finally stopped. But there was still a lot of cloud and the light was not good. The pictures I took along the trail were consequently rather dark.

This photo of new growth isn´t too bad.

I thought to ask the guide what the vultures fed on. He started by giving me a lecture on the general habits of vultures. "No, what do the vultures in this park feed on?" "Some scientists did a census once. There are a thousand in the park." "And what do these 1,000 birds feed on?" "There are a lot of road kills." And that´s the best I could get. I´m not sure that incautious raccoons are a sufficient and reliable diet but I have no other theory to offer.

This picture of a moth discovered under a leaf came out really well. This amazing insect had a wingspan of fully 15cm (6 inches) and obligingly stayed put despite the whole group from both jeeps poking their cameras up close to get a photo. Yes, it was alive because it turned around at one stage. How dare you suggest that it was a set-up.

You can tell it is a moth rather than a butterfly by the shape of the antennae.

On the drive back, our guide proudly showed off his only example of - a tree fern.

Ruta Uno - complete and illustrated

Yes, Route No.1 translates as Ruta Uno, not Ruta Una. I don`t understand why, but it does.

I have Jenny Spencer, my ex Peace Corps advisor, to thank for setting off down Ruta Uno. I didn`t get to all the places you suggested, Jenny, but to enough to make the trip more than worthwhile.

To make sure of getting off in the right place I was smart enough to select a bus with a large "Vaguaron" sign in the destination window. Only it didn`t finish its trip there, and I had to hop off smartly when I realised the bus was leaving Vaguaron.

Well, it`s not a big town, so I shouldered my pack and marched back towards the centre. Jenny had invited me to enjoy the view from the nearby hill (hills and views therefrom are rare and precious in Paraguay). I looked at the hill and decided that it was too much like hard work to climb with my big pack so I took a photo instead. Here it is.

The main attraction is a colonial church, with a museum for dessert. Only I had not noticed an old church from the bus. Hmm. After a few blocks I asked for directions and turned off the paved road. Two blocks later I still hadn`t seen any sign of the church, but I was being invited to purchase a bite to eat at a tiny cafe. As it was lunch time I agreed that this was a good idea. And where was the church? Oh, it`s two blocks that way.

Lunch finished, a young man invited me to sit in a cooler spot and have a chat. Joel was a journalist, and certainly managed to communicate well with this foreigner. Mostly he was interested in life in NZ and the opportunities to work there. I did my best, but had to refer him to the nearest embassy for detailed information. He was also interested in why someone would come all the way from NZ to visit a church in Vaguaron. A pretty reasonable question.

He assured me that my packs would be safe in the comedor, told me to wait and popped off on his motor bike to deliver his wife and their fairly new baby somewhere. He returned in 10 minutes and it was my turn to be the pillion pasenger.

Joel solved the problem of the hill by finding safe storage for my pack and taking me to the base of the hill. Together we scrambled up and so, Jenny, I did get to admire the view. He also pointed out a roof that, he promised me, belonged to the church.

At the top of the hill.

The South of Paraguay is much greener than the Chaco. There is more obviously farmed land, although there are plenty of patches of bush. Part of the hill had recently burned and Joel bemoaned the terrible number of fires raging in Paraguay. I gather that the Russians have promised to send a fire-fighting plane.

Back down in the village, we motored past the church. One of the reasons I had missed it from the bus was that I had been looking for a conventional stone church with a bell tower. This was a wooden structure and the bell tower was merely a lattice not as high as the main building. We passed on to the museum, located in the house of Dr Francia, Paraguay`s first post-independence dictator. Dr Francia was not a pleasant person. The museum was closed anyway.

The church seemed to be open, so I asked to dismount and see inside. From the moment I produced my camera it became apparent that Joel`s claim to work in television was no idle boast. He had an excellent command of camera angles and the importance of the position of the sun.

There was a nominal charge to enter the church. I have seldom felt I got such good value from visiting a building. Normally I get bored very quickly, but this was different somehow. The walls and supporting pillars were decorated with subdued, natural colours. S. American churches have tended to the garish. There were helpful information boards. They were printed on clear plastic, but Joel and the church guardian found a folder to place behind the plastic and allow me to photograph the information. One day I will copy them into an Internet translation engine and find out what they say.

Despite its modest size, Vaguaron has a one-way system and I now understand the wanderings of the buses. I bid a very fond farewell to Joel, reclaimed my big pack and set off to wait where the buses run. Bursting with local information I successfully hailed the direct bus to Ybycui.

I had a lot of strife with this place name. My final understanding is that it is pronounced Ee-bee-kwee. My attempts to master this have caused much hilarity amongst the locals. The bus took me to the village where, my guide book promised me, there was a hotel with a restaurant. My plan was to alight at the plaza, which is normally the community centre. Ybycui fooled me. It has no plaza. This is virtually unique in South America. However, I spotted the hotel and hopped off before the bus could carry me off to unknown parts.

I thought that if I didn´t photograph the hotel´s name no-one would believe me.

There were no lights on, and only one door half open. However my "Hola" produced a senorita from the equally unlit back rooms. Yes, they had a room. I chose the economico as the austere streak in me will always do. I was shown a perfectly acceptable room and the two bathrooms shared by the money-saving guests. I was also shown how to unlock and relock the front door when I wanted to go out or come back in.

The room rate I got was a steal. There was a working air conditioning unit in my room and since I appeared to be the only guest I had two private bathrooms!

Half an hour later I sallied forth to explore. The hotel was now fully locked and it was apparent that the restaurant would not be serving dinner that night. In lieu of a plaza Ybycui has a very long main street. My search for an Internet cafe was unsuccessful, and I drew an equal blank in my quest for a restaurant. I bought precautionary supplies from the supermarket, including a litre of cold beer.

I did find hot food for sale. A small establishment with no signage was barbecuing asaditos (something like kebabs) and hamburgers on the pavement. I suppose 2 hamburgers and a litre of beer is at least plenty of calories.

The next morning brought two unexpected events. The first was a power cut and the second was rain. Thunder rumbled and the rain came straight down. It certainly cooled the air. It didn`t matter that I had no air conditioning or fan.

The restaurant door was half open again. Yes, of course I could have breakfast. And by some miracle water was heated for my coffee before the electricity returned. When would the bus leave for the national park? "10 o`clock, but it won`t run because of the weather. Well, it might."

It didn`t. But by the time I gave up on the bus the rain had eased and I had a plan. I would hitch-hike to the park. I double checked the route and set off. Paraguay has a reputation of being an easy country to hitch-hike in and my experience backs that to the hilt. At least half the vehicles that passed indicated that they were shortly turning aside, which strongly suggested that they would have given a lift if they were going my way. And in less than 10 minutes I had a lift.

It`s a long time since I hitched a ride in the back of a ute and, with the breeze playing around me, I had fresh air all the way to the park.

Admission was a nominal 5,000 Gs ($1.30). First I visited the historical site of Paraguay`s first ironworks. It was based on iron deposits in the neighbourhood. The English language information was both informative and entertaining. The translation was not of the highest standard. For example, the Spanish word cañon can mean both canyon and cannon. You will be uplifted to know that this factory manufactured many canyons. There was no coal available for the high temperatures necessary, so the Paraguayans made "coal from trees". I presume they meant charcoal. It must have been charcoal burning on a huge scale.

The restored part of the ironworks.

The works were sponsored by dictator Carlos Antonio Lopez. He certainly had his darker side, but he did many constructive things for Paraguay. His blind spot was his son, who was mentioned in a previous post. Lopez Jnr initiated the war of the Triple Alliance in which the ironworks was an early casualty, destroyed by alliance troops.

While I lined up my first photo I made the acquaintance of Paraguay`s equivalent to sandflies. Who had forgotten to apply his insect repellent? That remedied, I was off to enjoy the natural history of the park. From the museum to the recreational area was an hour`s walk through the bush. Unlike the Chaco, cactuses were rare and most trees lacked spines. Birds sang in the treetops and, for the most part, stayed hidden. Plump doves foraged on the trail, but usually I only saw cinnamon brown wings as they fluttered out of sight. There were a few butterflies, but of disappointingly dingy colours.

At the recreational area was the first of the waterfalls the park is famous for. They were indeed pleasing to the eye. Something like Whangarei Falls, but barely half the height. Remember that Paraguay is generally very flat and has few waterfalls. The area beside the falls was equipped with a picnic table, which I spread out my lunch on. How thoughtful of the park authorities. It had not rained for some time so I risked taking off my waterproof.

The peace was dashed by the arrival of a high-spirited school party. They greeted me gaily and laughed at their inability to make me understand. Across the river I was quizzed by an anxious teacher. Had I seen three girls? He did not seem relieved that I had seen three girls earlier walking the track toward the museum.

In a grassy area I did see birds. Lots of red-rumped caciques, flashing their bright behinds as they flew and cackled from tree to tree. The visitor centre was a disappointment. It was firmly locked and looked as though it had been for some time.

A photogenic ant.

My worst case plan for returning to the village was to walk, but I still had time to follow the trail to another waterfall. Here the butterflies were more numerous and much more colouful. I even saw a couple of big blue and black morpho butterflies.

The Salta Guarani waterfall was quite a bit higher and well worth the walk.

Proof that I was there.

It was 4 or 5 km back to the park entrance. Optimistically I enquired of the ranger if there might be an afternoon bus. "Walk 4km along the road to (something I didn´t understand) and there will be a bus from there." It was encouraging but after the morning disappointment I wasn´t going to rely on it.

Striding along the highway it dawned on me how incredibly lucky I had been to get a lift all the way to the park, which is the end of the road. However, there were farms so there must be some other traffic. And the school party had a bus waiting to take them back to their homes.

I got a short lift quite quickly and then walked a long time with no passing traffic. I saw nothing that remotely resembled a bus or a place a bus would turn round. A farmer going the other way in a cart drawn by two cattle engaged me in pleasant conversation. He had a brother living in California. Of the 5,000 ha park, 1,000 ha had burned. Today´s rain was very welcome. He, too, promised public transport. There would be a micro at 5 o´clock.

My worst case solution was to walk all the way to Ybycui village so I kept on tramping. Eventually I did get a lift. Once again I travelled in the cargo section of a ute. And a small bus did pass us going towards the park. If I had needed it the afternoon bus was running.

In the evening I dined on asaditos and beer for a change.

I had visited a tiny part of the whole park. The very best waterfall, Salta Cristal, is approached from La Colmena, a settlement famous for being populated by the descendants of Japanese immigrants. Paraguay is a country of many surprises. But getting to La Colmena by public transport was too time consuming.

It was still two buses to get to my next destination on Ruta Uno, San Juan Bautista. It calls itself a ciudad (city) but that´s stretching it. Large village is more like it. I arrived at lunch time, so I first visited a comedor near the bus stop for a barbecued meat meal. When I asked for directions to a hotel or similar I was escorted round to the back and shown a nice little room. It was expensive, but it did feature a modern air conditioning unit and a private bathroom. And I had no evidence yet that there was any alternative, so I took it.

After settling in I sauntered along the main road checking out the birds and taking photos when I realised that across the street was a military installation. Not a good place to be seen using binoculars and a camera! I changed direction and found the plaza, where I watched a nice bird with blue wings and ate ice cream while soaking up the tranquilo atmosphere.

In the night the modern air conditioning unit dripped on me. The pipe for discarding moisture must have been blocked.

Jenny´s most urgent recommendation was a village a little way off Ruta Uno called Santa Maria de Fe. It was a lovely, laid back place. Plus there were monkeys in the plaza. And for anyone planning a trip to Paraguay I echo this endorsement. It is charming. I did remember the women´s collective, Jenny, but the only place I saw with "co-operativa" on the wall was closed.

The plaza is well wooded. At the time I arrived it was monkey-less but a large flock of monk parakeets was noisily building large, untidy nests. At times their shrill gossip was almost deafening. The park keeper (pictured) saw me sitting there and came over for a chat. Communication was limited because I had great trouble understanding his accent, but he companionably shared his terere.

I mentioned the monkeys and he got straight to his feet. He took a few bananas from a bag beside his wheelbarrow and beckoned me to follow. Behind the museum in what looked like private garden he whistled at the trees. And monkeys came to investigate. I had imagined something small like squirrel monkeys or even tamarins but these were big animals. What I took to be the dominant male was all black, while the others were off-white with black faces. They were at least the size of howler monkeys. The older members of the troupe had a thick fringe of fur round their faces, like hillbilly beards. If anyone knows what species they were, please leave a comment or send an email.

My impromptu guide held out a banana and the black male came down and cautiously took it. Who had left his camera behind in the plaza? Silly Bill.

This noble park tender then showed me two wild bees´ nests in the plaza before resuming his duties. The more accessible one he had assued me was populated by bees that did not sting, so I took some photos. Fortunately he was right, because several got in my hair.

Stingless bees at the entrance to their nest.

After absorbing more of the tranquilo atmosphere of this remarkable village I moved on. I would have eaten there, but everywhere was closed, including the comedor. One passing villager said there were buses at 1 and 2 pm. Another said 12:30 and 1:00. In fact, a bus came at about 12:45 and took me into San Ignacio, where I got a very nice lunch of vori vori, a typical Paraguayan dish.

There were flat sections of Ruta Uno, but mostly there was enough irregularity in the land to generate widely spaced contours. The farms passed by the bus window to Encarnacion. Properly this is the end of the highway, but I have counted my visit to Trinidad as part of my Ruta Uno trip.

The chosen day started with rain. Heavy, we mean serious business rain backed up by deep no-nonsense rumbles of thunder. It was like that in Ybycui. It will clear up. And indeed the intensity waned so I hardly got my jacket damp as I jogged over the road to the bus station. But it didn´t stop.

I quickly found a bus to Trinidad. I do not refer, of course, to the Caribbean island, but to Santissima Trinidad del Parana, one of the many Jesuit settlements in the province now called Misiones. I think it was the wrong bus. It was a bus that did not want to get out of the garage that morning. Maybe it didn´t like the rain, but it sulked. It found traffic jams in the town and stopped for ages for no reason. Once out on the open road it grumbled along at a crawl. It was due to go all the way to Ciudad del Este and seemed determined to turn a 4-5 hour journey into an overnighter. It took over 70 minutes to travel the 35km to Trinidad and I pity the passengers going all the way to Ciudad del Este.

The Jesuits set up scores of settlements on either side of the Parana River. They brought Christianity (of course) and significant economic development to the indigenous people. They also organised an army that put an end to slave raids from Brazil. In particular they virtually controlled the yerba trade. This plant is the basis for Paraguay´s tereré and Argentina´s mate, so it is consumed in great quantities. Eventually the Jesuits became so powerful that the Spanish king - Carlos V I think - evicted them from S. America.

The settlements are called reducciones (don´t rely on that spelling) and are now all in ruins. It was a few hundred metres from the bus stop to the site and, whilst the rain had almost stopped, it was unnaturally dark; almost to the level of moonlight. The sequence was classic. There was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a very loud clap of thunder. A few very large, fat raindrops heralded a downpour of impressive dimensions. I wriggled into my waterproof in record time and skeltered to the entrance where the ticket office offered shelter.

For quite a long time the custodian and I gazed in gloomy silence at the rain as the paths became streams. Eventually the rate of the downpour eased enough that I decided to resume my role as tourist and I walked out onto the grass. Miraculously, the ground had absorbed most of the water and my boots hardly squelched at all.

The walls and floors were of stone and brick, so the dimensions of the buildings are very clear. There are no roofs left, so I guess they were built of timber, possibly with some kind of thatch. Stone buildings for the indian workers and their families would have been luxury compared to the indigenous style of residence.

At some stage the original church and cemetry were replaced by new ones, but the "primitive" church is about as well preserved as the newer one.

The bell tower of the first church.

The rain continued to vary in force, with one burst of quite torrential precipitation. Luckily I was near the section where the archaeologists have roofed in a section of cloister and was able to take cover.

There were lovely white flowers growing in the grass. They were fairly delicate and had been badly battered by the rain. I took photos of a couple, but they weren´t focussed correctly.

I was most surprised that visitors were permitted to descend into the crypt. There is nothing there now. I do not understand is how it wasn´t flooded, because the entrance is open to the elements and plenty of rain was able to flow down the steps.

I´m not sure if visitors are supposed to climb to the upper level, but the chain was down and there was no-one watching. This is the altar end of the new church.

In all, I wandered around the site for an hour and a half. I didn´t see a soul. The custodian kept dry in his office and no other tourists braved the weather.

There is another site in nearby Jesus, but my enthusiasm for Jesuit ruins was amply satisfied. Besides, the buses to Jesus run hourly, and waiting for up to 60 minutes, even in a bus shelter, did not appeal.

The bus back to Encarnacion was an optimistic, can-do sort of bus. Water sprayed busily from its wheels as it completed the return journey in three quarters of an hour.

And that really was the end of Ruta Uno, because I crossed the river into Argentina the next morning.

En la selva - Part 3 Gaitana River

For this trip we had a different guide, Rafael. Like Victor he had had a lot of experience guiding in the jungle. However, he misidentified a couple of birds, which seems odd. Maybe he just got the English names mixed up.

Once again we were loaded into a long boat canoe. We headed upstream and Rafael kept an eye out for caiman. However, the exciting wildlife was higher up. Rafael was explaining that a tall, grassy plant was not sugar cane, but closely related, when a small face peeked out between the stems. It was a squirrel monkey and once we looked in the right places there were scores of them, moving through to the fruiting trees just along the river bank.

The boatman reduced engine revs so that we could watch until our necks were sore. Finally, however, we had to move on. We were on our way to fish for pirañas.

Once we turned out of the main river into the Gaitana River the banks were much closer and wildlife was easier to spot. There were glossy kingfishers in several sizes, blue morpho butterflies, unidentified birds and the call of the unseen ´wolf-whistle bird´. This avian, which Rafael said was small, brown and very difficult to spot, duets with its mate. The female gives a soft call and then the male responds with a two-tone blast that is the perfect wolf-whistle. No spotty human male could produce such perfect notes.

At a river fork Rafael insisted on taking the smaller channel. I don´t think the boatman was keen, but our guide had a special fishing spot that he wanted us to have the benefit of.

The long boat was difficult to manoevre in the narrow waterway. There were many fallen branches and tree trunks that obstructed the channel. See the example in the picture.

But who cares, because we saw red howler monkeys from this creek. They live in family groups, but I only saw two. They were ambling confidently from tree to tree. They are large monkeys and clearly sport red fur.

Round one corner the debris in the river was too much. The boat grounded on at least two submerged tree trunks. With the aid of the emergency paddle Rafael eased us back into deeper water while the boatman struggled to manoevre his monster drive shaft to a position where it could assist.

Back in deeper water Rafael sternly ordered the boatman to have another go - with maximum revs this time. So the clearly doubtful engineer gunned engine and aimed at the narrow opening, under which we knew there were obstacles. Rafael almost lifted us over the submerged wood and somehow we made it through.

Rafael now concentrated hard on picking the best channel from his perch in the bows, and that is why he missed seeing the otter. We knew there were otters in the region, and we also knew that they are rare and not terribly often seen. It was either Mary or Gabriella who saw it first, and I think all the tourists got a glimpse before it saw us and dived from the bank into the river. It was sandy brown, which Rafael said meant that it was a young animal. The adults, who can reach 2 metres long, are black. The name in Spanish is "lobo del rio", which means "river wolf".

After more tight corners and scrapes, Rafael admitted that the river was too low to get to his favourite fishing hole. Nevr mind. We dropped back to a bend in the river and dropped our kidney-baited hooks into the water.

Jungle-style fishing poles.

Pirañas are bloodthirsty devourers of anything that smells of blood, right? No, actually. Most of the 30-40 species are vegetarian and maybe we should have tried broccoli for bait. There were a few alleged nibbles, but no real bites.

When we got tired of this we turned around and headed for the swimming hole. Swimming in a piraña-infested river? Yep. Rafael insisted that it was perfectly safe and that he would be the first in.

Back in the main Gaitana River channel at a broad bend there is a liana that makes for perfect Tarzan swings out over the water. True to his word, Rafael demonstrated its properties before we cautiously donned our togs and followed him. The bank was very slippery and we could have made a great mud slide. Several of us slithered around anyway, to the amusement of those still in the boat.

After we had jumped from the bank, Rafael demonstrated the even better take off from a horizontal branch. The branch was a bit moist, too, but with care no-one came to harm. The river was only about 20 metres wide, but I could not touch bottom except when very close to the bank.

When we were about ready to pack up, Gabriella decided to go ashore. Like everyone else, she slipped on the bank. Having muddy clothes made up her mind. She would do the liana swing. So I was no longer the oldest swimmer - and Gabriella did her jumps fully clothed.

Happy with our water games we set off back to the lodge. There were some showers but they were warm and I sat in the boat in my togs rather than pull dry clothes over a wet body.

Back in the main river there was a noticeable wind, and the temperature wasn´t so tropical. The rain got stronger and ahead we could see a real downpour coming towards us. What we didn´t see was the icy blast that came with the downpour. The rain really stung as it lashed my skin and I hurried to pull my waterproof out of my day pack.

The last 15 to 20 minutes of the journey were most unpleasant. The Amazon basin is one place where I did not expect to be blasted by cold, horizontal rain.

Back at the lodge we found that the rain had been forced through the insect screens into the cabins. Luckily for Jaimy and me, it only affected the hammock space, not the bedroom. Others, particularly near the river, were not so lucky.

We had experienced a rare, but not unknown, phenomenon of cold air coming down from the Andes into the river basin. The lodge was caught unawares and had no sensible response. For a while, even the generator seemed to be affected by the weather. In Caiman cabin, Jaimy used both spare blankets that night while I used my sleeping bag inside the bed; not a tactic I expect to employ again in the tropics.

En la selva - Part 2 The Lost Lake

Day two started with a varied, help-yourself breakfast, but not one that could compare with the Mario´s special offerings on the Salkantay Trek.

We were all encouraged to take snacks to ward off the possibility of starvation before lunch time, and the lodge provided handy plastic bags to facilitate this. Bananas and oranges were available at every meal for dessert or snacks, and the breakfast buffet added popcorn and banana chips to the help-yourself menu.

Unlike the banana chips available in a NZ supermarket, these were really banana chippies or crisps, made by frying very thinly sliced pieces of banana. They were tasty and very more-ish. It would have been easy to over indulge.

This morning Victor was going to take us to visit the Lost Lake. Just who lost it and how it was rediscovered was never explained. What was explained was that it was a 5 km trek to get there. Mary let us all know she was suffering from an injured knee and, assured of sympathy, decided to come with us.

We started with a short canoe trip downstream from the lodge and scrambled up the bank to the start of the track.

It was pleasantly warm. Not at all oppressively hot as we had feared. Victor carried a machete, and occasionally hacked at some sapling or branch that he decided was an impediment to progress. From time to time he stopped and described a tree to us, giving names in various languages and the uses to which the local people put this particular species.

Victor explaining the benefit of supporting roots to a tree growing in the shallow jungle soil.

We did not go at a great pace. We had come to see the jungle and, for once, I was not the only or the greatest delinquent when there were insects, flowers or fungi to distract the wanderer in the woods. And really the jungle is simply woodland. It was not impenetrable at all, not by a country mile.

But many creatures did live there. Most of them are small and inoffensive, though we did take care not to step on a column of army ants. I had previously been told that there are huge, solitary ants in the Peruvian jungle, and I am delighted to confirm that the tale was true. The poor beast must have been quite exhausted by the time I stopped pursuing it in a futile attempt to get a photo.

Victor located this leaf-shaped frog with deceptive ease. Maybe he had put it there in readiness for the discovery. It looks very dead leaf-ish even on this contrasting green leaf.

Not only is it very hard to see on a log or dead leaf, if it is discovered by a potential predator it puffs itself up and displayes these remarkable false eyes, hoping the bird or whatever will decide it is too big to eat.

The demonstration did not appear to hurt it. Victor put it carefully back in the undergrowth, where it wriggled once and then resumed its imitation of dried foliage.

These stems are bearing the colourful seeds of a palm tree.

There are many types of fungi in the jungle. These bracket fugi were particularly conspicuous.

Because mushrooms and toadstools do not run away I took several pictures but will save your sensibilit¡es (for now).

In this picture Victor is gently poking a thin stick into a hole in the ground. He promised us that it was a tarantula´s nest. He was eventually proved correct whe first a baby and then the mother emerged.

Fully grown tarantulas are BIG and HAIRY spiders and their appearance did not please everybody. Victor reassured us that a tarantula bite is not fatal, but the symptoms did not sound very pleasant so no-one tried to pick her up.

The final 700m to the lake were over a rather rickety boardwalk. At one point we had to stand still on one side while another group made their cautious way past.

At the lake we boarded a boat which Victor paddled very quietly round. Long, thin boats don´t turn easily, so Victor several times had to switch ends. He did this by walking confidently along the gunwhale in his gumboots. I wouldn´t care to try it myself.

The lake supported a very healthy plant population. Small turtles had hauled themselves out here and there to sun themselves and small caiman lurked with only the tops of their heads above water. There´s one in this photo just to the right of the centre of the picture.

When the river rises in the rainy season the lake becomes connected to the main river. It thus becomes accessible to fish, turtles, caiman and other water dwellers. Victor promised us that we were seeing the baby caiman and that their mother was also a resident of the lake. He proved it, too, finally locating the mother´s head in the shadows under some waterlogged roots. If the youngster in the photo is going on one-and-a-half metres to the tip of his submerged tail the mother must have easily been four metres. Anyone want a swim?

In one of his books Gerald Durrell observed that the most common animal life seen by the jungle pedestrian is the butterflies that flutter and dance across the path. My impression is exactly the same.

Most of them settle too briefly to be photographed but this specimen, sadly one of the less colourful ones, decided to alight on my hand. There he worked his proboscis vigorously. I don´t know what nourishment or treasure he was hoping to find.

Our paddle round the lake completed, we retraced our steps over the 700m boardwalk. Near the end was a lookout, carefully constructed by the lodge as a spiral staircase round one of the big, forest canopy trees.

We were only allowed to ascend four at a time. Those left on the ground took the opportunity to have a reat and eat their banana crisp snacks.

I had to use this time to summon up some courage. The steps were wooden and, although they looked strong enough, they didn´t inspire me with confidence. There was also a rope that snaked round the trunk of the tree and a carefully constructed rope ´bannister´ on the outside.

As you can see, when my turn came I made it to the top. I didn´t enjoy the climb but in truth it wasn´t so bad.

Looking out over the top of the forest was a very pleasant alternative view. There were many trees to admire of various types but they contained remarkably little animal life. There was an occasional butterfly and, briefly, a swallow. I had just decided to go down when a large, chestnut-brown bird landed in a neighbouring tree.

It has a enormous tail and seemed unsure wether it was a bird or a monkey because it mainly ran along branches or leaped between them. Only occasionally would it actually fly. I wondered if it were a hoatzin, beause I knew they are weak flyers. However, I was pretty sure a hoatzin had a crest, which this bird lacked.

Back on the ground Victor couldn´t identify the bird from my vague description, but promised I would see hoatzins at another lake. Back at the lodge I quickly identified it from one of my field guides. It was a squirrel cuckoo. Tick.

Our return to the lodge was by a different route. This took us to a different waterway and another boat. This one was equipped with several paddles, not just one. Victor pointed out that we didn´t have to paddle, but if we didn´t it would be a very long journey and a very late lunch.

The crew was arranged carefully. Jaimy, as the sole representative of the young, male class was positioned in the bow with a paddle. Victor took the stern with another paddle. The rest of us were ranged along the canoe with three paddles to share. I was right at the back, just in front of Victor.

Fruiting palm beside the ´ditch´.

I must say it was very pleasant to be paddled along what was wssentially a 3 km long ditch. There were tiny fish in the water, little brown birds in the undergrowth and countless butterflies on either side. There was something about this waterway that the butterflies could not resist. It was truly no exaggeration to talk of clouds of them. Unfortunately my attemps to photograph them were a disappointment.

I remember my cousin Michael describing a canoe trip in Canada where at one point he was lying back while all the motive power was provided by two bikini-clad young women. This was almost as good. Jaimy and Victor sweated as they paddled continuously. The ladies of the group passed the other paddles around to add their energy to the cause, but the paddles never came my way.

I did remind Sandra that I was willing to take a turn, but she passed sideways to a Japanese girl with all the upper body strength of wet blotting paper. Finally chivalry won out and I almost dragged a paddle back to my bench so that I could do my bit over the last 10 minutes or so.

After disembarking we only had a short walk to the river bank and our motorised canoe back to the lodge.

My Inca Trail

As I lay in my tent on the first night and swallowed 2 Panadol with a slurp of water so cold it almost burned my mouth I reflected: I had got up to visit the toilet tent 3 times, when even the 2 to 3 metres vertical rise over the turf to the primitive facility was a breath sapping effort; I had not stopped shivering until I was wrapped in thermal underwear, an extra pair of pants, 3 pairs of socks, shirt, sweater and jacket all within a good quality sleeping bag; and I had a migraine-style headache. This was not a happy moment.

But it would not be appropriate to describe it as a low point becasue we were camped at 4,200 metres above sea level (masl). Jasper, of the Dutch couple, had calculated that this was 14 times as high as the highest point in Holland. Matt from Cornwall had admitted that it was rougly 3 times as high as Ben Nevis, Britain´s highest peak. It is even higher than every one of NZ´s real mountains. We were seriously high up.

Day One
The day had started with a 6am pick up from my Cusco accommodation. When the party was complete, the minivan carried us and our support crew out of Cusco´s valley and into a countryide of very low tech farming. Early morning pigs quartered the edge of the road looking for anything edible. Suddenly our route took us off the paved road over a terrible track between farmhouses. Surely this wasn´t the way to Mollepata, where we were scheduled to start walking?

Indeed not. We parked and while Mario, the cook, and his daughter/assistant Maria got breakfast ready, Jose, the guide, showed us an Inca site, Tarahuasi, that is still being excavated and restored and is thus not on the regular tourist trails. There were no imposing Imperial Inca walls, but some working water channels and a carved stone with an image interpreted as the moon.

With his back to a grove of eucalyptus trees Jose gave us the first of several history lessons. "Inca" was the title of the leader; the God living. The rest of the population were not called Inca. We do not call the ancient Egyptian peoples "the Pharoes", Jose argued. The leader was the Inca and the people were the Quechua. We should call it the Quechua civilisation. The fact that Jose is of predominatly Quechua blood and speaks Quechua as his first language is merely incidental. We were impressed by the logic and had to correct Jose several times over the next 4 days when he used the common term, Incas, to describe the people who served the Inca.

Behind Jose dozens of birds called and fluttered, despite the eucalyptus being exotic trees from Australia. And for once I had not bothered to carry my binoculars. Curses! But I did manage to remember enough to identify two species later with the help of my field guides.

Breakfast was served with paper napkins on a folding table. The four trekkers and Jose sat on little camp stools. It could have been a picnic at Henley, but I doubt that mate de coca features on Henley table cloths. Drinking ´coca tea´ and chewing coca leaves is a centures old tradition in the Andes and is a boon to those struggling with the altitude. Jose advised that we would need to absorb 20kg of leaves to have a hallucinogenic effect. We wondered whether the few grams in our tea means we could test positive for cocaine. I presume not, or the Peruvian football team would all be suspended.

As the van crawled through the ruts back to the road a lady drove her herd of cattle out to graze on the mountain. One steer (or young bull), one heifer and one calf. How can she make a living from these resources? On the other side of the lane a man was ploughing. It was the first time I had seen a ox-drawn plough except on a TV documentary. I´ve since seen another example - and in over a month I have yet to see a tractor in Peru.

One thing I did see was a ground tyrant. This family of birds was new to me, but the size and upright attitude was unmistakeable. Another tick. Good.

When we did reach Mollepata there was a fiesta in progress. Once again (see Pisac post) a brass band of indifferent quality shambled to the church and disappeared inside. On this occasion the square was being decorated with pavement art, but instead of chalk the colour was provided by chopped vegetable matter. I´m sure the green frame was simply grass clippings.

We now came to our first decision, would we start walking or continue in the van? Jose recommended continuing in the van. We had a hard climb on Day 2 and it made sense to preserve our energy. We felt this was good advice but, as we watched other groups sweating in the sun, we wondered if we had been a bit feeble. Jose pointed out that the cheaper treks did not use minivans but the public bus to Mollepata instead, so they had no option but to walk.

The end of the road was a pleasant area of grass, bushes and streams where we met Rene and his horses. Porters are not used to carry the baggage over theSalkantay route. Long before tourists discovered it, the local farmers had started using horses and mules to carry their produce and in consequence had broken up the steps built by the Incas - sorry, ancient Quechua - for their human and llama beasts of burden.

This was also our lunch stop, and in no time Mario had whipped up a delicious soup (no packets) and a nourishing main course. Despite the choices offered, we all stuck to the infusion of coca leaves to finish the meal.

And now to the real business. We shouldered our day packs and set off. Back in Cusco Wilbert had earnestly coached me in high altitude tramping; take small steps, breathe in through the nose to avoid heat loss, take short rests so that the muscles don´t lose heat and suck coca toffees. Remember it´s not a race. I tried to put all this into practice, but it was hard. Breathing through the nose was the toughest part. My body craved more oxygen and I wanted to suck great draughts into my lungs. Worst of all, I was the slowest. I knew it wasn´t a race but I´m not used to being the slow one on the trail and, irrationally, I felt I was letting the team down.

They say that age is not a factor in altitude sickness, but I´m quite certain it is harder for an older body to adjust to high-altitude activity. My lungs have had 55 years of life at sea level to unlearn. If Sir Edmund Hillary needs oxygen when he visits Nepal these days I guess it´s all right for Bill Heritage to puff and take frequent rests in the Andes. If you want to know, I was fully 30 years older than everyone else on the trail (except Mario, and he has lived all his life at altitude).

For all that, we all completed the climb to the first nominated camp site well inside the time Jose had predicted. He told me several times that I was doing well. "The others are fast." And 5 minutes after I arrived at the site I was fine. Once the effort stops, the body quickly recovers its equilibrium.

Decision no.2. Shall we press on to a higher camp site? It would be colder, but it would mean less of a climb to the pass on Day 2. Here the wisdom of the extra few kilometers in the van was evident. The weather was beautiful today and who knows what it would be like tomorrow. We picked up our packs and moved on.

It wasn´t a long hike, hardly more than climbing around the shoulder of the mountain. Jose had estimated one-and-a-half hours, but Jasper had timed the youngsters at 1 hour. Apparently I was truly not far behind.
And I had overtaken a trekker in another group. At least I wasn´t the slowest on the trail.

The camp site at Salkantay Pampa is at 4,200 masl. I took the picture by holding my arm out and pointing the camera where I hoped it would capture both the sign and my grinning face.

And it did - look!

The warning about the extra cold was, if anything, understated. It was bitterly cold and none of the foreigners was terribly constructive in pitching camp. Jasper and Winnie had one tent, of course. Matt and I had the option of separate tents, but we agreed that sharing would provide a morsel more heat in the tent.

In the dining tent we were presented with hot drinks and freshly popped corn. This, I thought, is sensible. Carb loading before the effort of scaling the pass. What Matt and I didn´t realise was that this was merely a pre-dinner snack. At 8 o´clock on the dot Mario served another 4-star soup, followed by a main of such size and succulence that I felt it was an insult not to finish it. The result was that I ate far too much, even though I could not clear my plate. This no doubt contributed to the miseries during the night.

Day Two

We were roused soon after dawn with a hot cup of mate de coca, and by the time we had packed our sleeping bags direct sun was visible on the upper slopes and the air was warming up. Mario´s breakfast for mountaineers included a yummy Spanish omelette. I know a couple of guys who have climbed Mt Cook. I must ask them if they have been served with a hot breakfast at more than 4,000 masl with mountain caracaras wheeling overhead.

No-one had slept well and we had all heard avalanches rumbling down Mt Salkantay in the night. However, anyone who looked out of their tent in the night was treated to a glorious display of stars in the cloudless sky.

Matt´s thermometer had registered -2 degrees Celcius when we went to bed at 8pm, but +5 degrees in the tent. No-one´s water bottle had actually frozen, but the little lake nearby was covered in ice. A fist sized rock lobbed at the pond just bounced and skidded away. Ice on the trail was at least 5mm thick. Jose estimated that it had probably dropped to -10 during the night.

We hit the trail again. Walk 20 to 30 steps, pause for a few breaths and shuffle on again. Just keep going, little be little and suddenly Jose was talling me that the pass was just 12 seconds away. Yes, there were the others grinning and taking photgraphs. The sign said this was the Salkantay Pass; Jose insisted it was the Humantay Pass. Whatever, all the authorities agree that the saddle between the two mountains is at 4,600 masl, about 13,800 feet.

I added a stone to one of the cairns to thank the apus (mountain spirits) for my safe arrival and took lots of photos.

Me, Jose, Winnie, Jasper and Matt. The picture is badly framed and poorly exposed but it does prove we made it to the top!

Walking down the other side was easy! With the body not doing the hard work of lifting my 90kg against gravity, the need for oxygen was reduced. This was more like it. I still lagged behind, but now it was because I was scanning the puna (high altitude grassland) for birds. Mostly they were little grey birds that would not come close enough to permit observation of identification details.

Jose was amused by my interest in birds and liked to tease that there was a "condor over there". Once he pointed at a "white condor" as a plane flew over.

The lunch site was at Huayracpampa, a large and marshy river flat. It was home to a few pigs and many large plovers that I was able to identify as Andean Lapwings. Tick.

Note that we had only got to the soup course. It is accompanied by warm garlic bread.

The afternoon hike continued downwards and we quickly exchanged the puna for cloud forest. The path was mostly quite narrow and the passage of thousands of ponies had left the trail as a rubble of irregular stones in a treacherous mixture of dust and bedrock. Hiking downhill is easy on oxygen consumption, but it is hard on ankles and knees. Finding secure footholds added significantly to the effort required.

There was disappointingly little visible birdlife. One hummingbird raced past at about the speed of a ´white condor´ and another one was seen as a singing silhouette.

But there were interesting plants. The others all marched straight past sprays of gorgeous yellow and chestnut orchids but Jose called them back as I experimented with the super close up function of my camera.


This is another type of orchid. There were several others rather less spectacular and I won´t bore the non-botanists with their photos. For scale, each ´bell´ is about the size of two peas and only slightly larger than the two-tone variety above.

The end of our trail was Collpapampa, where some beautifully cropped turf was an ideal campsite. The local farmer apparently cultivates this to promote sales of bottled drinks to trekkers. Maybe the tour company also pays for its use.

While Mario worked more magic on his two gas rings we collected dead twigs and branches for a campfire. We had descended to only 2,900 masl - lower than Cusco - and the forest retains some of the day´s warmth. It was comfort indeed to eat our meal by the light of the flames and then to drink coca and yarn until the last of the fuel had been used up.

Day Three
This was to be a relatively short hike, so it was 7 o´clock before Maria called "Buenos dias" and handed round the morning drinks. Everyone had slept soundly and Jose´s enquiry detected no injuries. My right knee has a history of strange pains so I wore a brace on it just in case.

As a concession to the easier terrain Mario only served plain omelettes this morning.

Our hike to La Playa was "Inca level", i.e. up and down. The day was warm and there were plenty of stretches of loose rubble to demand attention. One spot was alive with swifts and swallows to remind us of the importance of mosquito repellent.

We followed the valley of the Santa Teresa River. It looked like ideal torrent duck habitat, but Jose had never seen a duck in the valley and, despite great vigilance, nor have I. However, there were still orchids of different kinds and increasing numbers of butterflies.

There were also more farms, although there was no vehicle access. Everything has to be carried by ponies or humans. The produce includes potatoes, bananas, avocadoes, a large and most delicious variety of passionfruit and coffee. The plots were tiny. No wonder selling a few bottles of water to passing foreigners was considered worthwhile.

La Playa means "The Beach" and refers to banks of boulders beside the river. Peruvians have a sense of humour! (And playa de estacionmento means parking beach, i.e. car park!) The straggling village is the end of the road and actually has a bus service. The campsite was once again delightful, springy turf. The trekkers actually get there before the horses, so we put up the tents while Mario whipped up another Cordon Bleu offering for our late lunch.

We had a free afternoon, so I retired to my tent and tried to enjoy a siesta. Unfortunately someone nearby had a very loud receiver tuned to Radio Misery. Properly the station was Radio Santa Teresa, but it played an endess succession of dreary songs. I came to believe that the singers would finish their 25 stanza wails and then shoot themselves in the studio. Occasionally an announcer would tell us the time with so much excitement that the news of 4:27 was apparently more wonderful than a large, unexpected legacy.

Matt trying to ignore Radio Misery.


Again there were few birds. A couple of hummingbirds were spotted in gardens and flocks of parrots flew high overhead, chattering excitedly to each other.


For his last dinner Mario excelled himself. After the soup five separate dishes were delivered to the table, all of them hot and all of them delicious. How did he do it? Even Maria was smiling. She ususally wore a very solemn expression. This was only her second trek and we suspected that she was not a genuine volunteer. We guessed that she was 15 or 16 and had only been recruited because the schools were closed due to a teachers´strike.

Maria in her usual sombre mood photographed on Day 2.

Day Four

We have a mountain to climb and descend before lunch and an early start is essential. Maria´s morning greeting was accompanied by the sound of rain on the tents. Ugh.

At least there was a nice little hut to eat breakfast in, not the cramped dining tent. And what was this? Pancakes! Mario, I want you to come to New Zealand and open a Peruvian Restaurant.

My waterproof cape is more than 30 years old but it is still waterproof and it goes over everything. We trudge off on the muddy path leaving Mario and Maria to strike the tents and pack up in the rain. They are going to catch the bus (another reason for the early start) and meet us at the hydroelectric power station for lunch.

The trip documentation describes this climb as "hard" but there are two mitigating circumstances. This trail has not been churned up by horses and we are much lower so there is more oxygen. And maybe we are fitter.

Winnie leading the way with Jasper in pursuit.

Matt was not feeling well, so I was not last for a change.

After about an hour the rain petered out. The valleys were full of swirling cloud and birds start to make their presence felt. If there weren´t a real need to make good time this could have been a great birding morning. But we did see parrots just too far away to identify and the large brown birds crashing around in the branches are Andean Guans. Tick. Botanical studies continued with some strange and beautiful plants to admire along the trail.

A fist-sized orchid after the rain. You can see the raindrops.


Jose´s attempt at a group photo at the top of the pass was out of focus, but I can tell you the ridge was strongly reminiscent of NZ bush, with many epiphytes and mosses.

Five minutes of descent brought us to Llaptapata, where a small part of the site has been cleared of bush and restored. Jose explained that the restored rooms have two doorways, which is interpreted as a meeting room or classroom.

A history lesson at Llaptapata. Professor Jose holds forth.

Matt retired to the bushes for a few minutes and returned looking much better.

We had once again made good time so we enjoyed a long break to eat our daily snack of fruit and chocolate bars. Clearly Mario wanted us to finish the trek heavier than when we started. I saw a large bird with a puffed out rufous chest. It should have been easy to identify, but I have not been able to find it in my field guides.

The downhill from Llaptapata to Hidrolectrica is steep and tiring. The track is very variable and constant care is needed.

Once down in the valley I saw my first Peruvian morpho butterflies. They look very similar to the ones I saw in tropical Australia.

The lunch in Hidrolectrica is Mario´s farewell. He and the baggage were going back to Cusco. The trekkers have the choice of walking to Aguas Calientes or taking the train. Correction, Matt has no choice. He is not coming to see Machu Picchu with us and foreigners may not use the local trains so he has to walk 11km to catch his train from Aguas Calientes. Maria went with him to ensure he claimed his ticket and got the right train.

Mario always looked cheerful, even before he received his tip.

The rest of us took the train option. After brief confusion about where we were staying, we checked into a hostal. My room has no furniture except the bed. The ensuite bathroom was equipped with modern hardware, but the shower only delivered cold water. This is not a welcome discovery after four days of hiking.

So, after a cold sponge down, I packed my togs and set off for the local hot pools. By chance, Jose did the same, although I could not have missed the way. It was nothing like the Polynesian Spa in Rotorua, but the water was pleasantly warm and just the thing for a tired body. The pools serve liquor to bathers - in glass containers! Happily, I did not see anyone step on broken glass.

Aguas Calientes exists only for tourists going to Machu Picchu. Much of it is newly built and it is growing, but it is a clip joint. The restaurant dinner provided was significantly inferior in both quantity and quality to what we had enjoyed in the three previous evenings. Three traditional Andean musicians arrived and played loudly next to our table. They were quite good, but we didn´t invite them so we declined their invitation to buy a CD or tip them. I fear we did not make friends there.

And so to bed. We were to rise early again the next morning to visit Machu Picchu.