This article was written by National Geographic Traveler (UK).
Holding aloft pair of dried coca leaves, the dancers paused, the drums beating faster and exploded into the song. “Yeah! Yeah! They play melody on Quena (Andese flute), and passengers gather and squint their eyes with smoke from the burning offerings on the platform at Poloi station. Colored with vegetable dyes. The welcoming theatre skirt hops from one foot to the other to flare, setting the tone for the next four hours: a journey filled with music, colours and indigenous Quechua culture.
From the Cusco district in southeastern Peru to the town of Aguascalianz in the hills of the ancient Inca Citadel in Machu Picchu, we are here to ride the gorgeous Hiram Bingham run by the Belmond Train. Named after an American explorer who rediscovered the ruins in 1911, the train service was launched along the route in 2003 and took a 47-mile journey that is impossible to do on the road.
The costumes of indigenous quechuan dancers are traditionally dyed with vegetable-derived pigments. Photo by Colin Hughes
Find the traditional Piscoesa on the board's menu, a brandy-based cocktail loved by Peruvian and Chilean cuisine. Photo by Colin Hughes
As the smoke clears, I can see Hiram Bingham's refined body trimmed with blue and gold, glowing in the morning light. Tied back cream curtains frame windows and can make Art Deco table lamps and crystal glasses laid out for lunch. With champagne in hand, I boarded the boat. The sun floods the carriage and blows away smooth wooden walls of satin and brass hair follicles. A group of Ecuadorian friends spread their ponchos in their upholstered armchairs, and towards the back of the train, they can already hear tambourine bangs and shakes. On my way through the bar carriage, I notice that the train is already moving, and a giant agave plant spikes like a parting.
Leaning against the railing in the outdoor section of the observation car, I watch the carriage line look at the snake in the distance behind us, chatting with a Peruvian writer named Hugo Flores. Nearly 11,155 feet above sea level in Cusco, I feel evil pressure on the temple from altitude. Passengers are encouraged to avoid alcohol, stay hydrated and drink drinks to alleviate symptoms. “Cocatee is fine,” says Hugo. “But Munyati is better. It's Andean mint, which slowly gives you a sense of health, not a sudden shock from Cocati.
Instead of 10am, there is a full-scale party in the observation vehicle, with half of the passengers dancing to Labamba. A much-extroverted stand in the open section, Breeze, content to brace the Pisco sour and hit one foot with Pisco. The tart-burning, dangerous drinking Peruvian cocktail is one of the best I've tasted, but Hugo's advice is to switch to munyati and help you clear the advanced effects right away I understand.
On the way to Machu Picchu, gentle hills and dry bushes line the path. Photo by Colin Hughes
Eucalyptus trees line the trucks, casting slim shadows on the ditched fields. There, the cows wield their tails and the farmers look up and sway with waves shaking. Squeezing the town of half-build brick houses, the train took us close enough to see us showing us a chicken with legs in the air and painting a motion shaft parked in an alley. I'll go. As we approach the town of Orantitambo, the Urubamba River rushes towards us through the rocks, fighting the fallen trees. Back at my seat for lunch, I find a table covered in a bowl of food to share: tukpi (a sauce made from fermented cassava root) and sliver of pork belly. I touched the Andean potatoes with ajichili. Chocolo puree (corn from a large ship growing in the sacred valleys around it).
In the final 30 minutes, the prediction peaks as we pass under the canopy, and Urubamba roams down. The spiny pear pads rise to the slope, the creepers sway from the branches, and the invisible birds are called between the leaves. It's quiet on the observation car. The people at the party moved to the bar and fell in their seats after lunch, leaving me and one other passenger in the air, closing her eyes in the breeze. We think we took a breath into our surroundings sooner than we found a bag on their backs, the three porters walking across the truck behind us. We are approaching our destination. Pink cantuna flowers pass by the railing. With the cries of the brakes we pull into the station and hissed and stopped. From £477, one way.
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