Ruined

Don’t be alarmed. In this case, “ruined” is just a crazily clever reference to the fact that I’ve seen more Incan ruins in the past 3 days than in my entire life before that, and not any sort of trip description. Actually, things are going really well — we’re finally out of Cuzco, to a smaller, quieter town a few hours closer to Machu Picchu called Ollantaytambo (affectionately known by me as Ollanta, mostly because I have trouble pronouncing the full name. We got here last night — left Cuzco in bus around 5:30, and then switched in Urubamba to a tiny colectivo. That part was a bit uncomfortable — partly because the road was kind of bumpy, and partly because they managed to squeeze 24 people (we counted) into a van that was approximately the size of our family minivan.

We were in Cuzco a fairly long time, maybe even a little too long, all things considered. But on the bright side, we did manage to have a couple of adventures before we left. John went paragliding, I went horseback riding (okay… that was NOT an adventure, it was actually incredibly boring. But oh well). But the most amusing little adventure, believe it or not, was actually part of my efforts to book our train to Machu Picchu.

I headed to the tourist office on Monday morning to try to figure out the best way to do the trip, and after waiting in line for foooorever, I finally got to ask my questions about train schedules, train prices, and English-speaking tour guides. The girl (she was maybe a little older than I am) answered everything pretty well but seemed a little bored… but as I was about to leave, she motioned me in closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially. Did I want her to recommend someone who could help me out with the planning and (almost whispering) cut me a really good deal on the Machu Picchu package? Yes?

When I nodded, she pulled out a small piece of notepaper and scribbled down a number. She was speaking so quietly that I had a little trouble understanding her
–Call this number and ask for Nacho. Tell him what you told me, that you want to go to Machu Picchu by train. He’ll make all the arrangements…
–Um… I’d kind of like to talk to this guy in person, doesn’t he have a regular office?
–(pause)… Call him and tell him that you want to meet with him. You can say that you’ll meet him on the Plaza de Armas, in 20 minutes. Describe what you look like (pause, as she sized me up)… tall, long hair, American, long-sleeved black shirt…
–So, he doesn’t have an office?
–You can meet him by the fountain in the center of the Plaza. Tell him that. Call him and tell him to meet you in 20 minutes. You’ll know him because he’ll be carrying a black notebook that says Agenda on it. Here’s the number.
–Aaaaah… thank you… very much…
–(speaking at a normal volume) You’re very welcome. Have a nice trip. And… remember… (lowering her voice again and looking sideways at the other desks) You didn’t hear any of this from me.

I wandered outside, still a little confused. But I decided that I might as well call the number. Although as I waited at the Plaza de Armas, being accosted by postcard sellers and scanning the faces of everyone who walked by, I was torn between feeling incredibly silly and incredibly nervous, because I seemed to have either stumbled on government secrets or gotten stuck in a bizarre spy novel.

The sequel was, of course, much less exciting than the build-up (sequels are like that, I guess). The guy who eventually came up with his black Agenda was a normal, middle-aged, Peruvian travel agent. Very nice, very helpful, and I’m still not quite sure what the point was of the secrecy and the rendezvous point, because he did have a normal office after all. I was half-relieved and half-disappointed that he didn’t enlist my aid on a secret mission. But he did manage to get us train tickets from here to MP for a decent deal, and he took care of the lodging and tour guide arrangements for MP and Aguas Calientes. And I got one-half of a good story to tell…