(Peru)…It’s been 10 years since I visited Peru. Will I ever get back, is the question? Perhaps this is one of the conundrums of a traveller. Do you consistently tick off new, exciting destinations, or return to a favourite spot to relive its magic? And this is a notable question, since I meet many people who go to the same place every year without fail. I have never understood the appeal of a timeshare, notwithstanding the nightmare of being offered free golfing weekends as you spend too many hours with a teenage salesperson desperate to remain in Torremolinos, rather than Tottenham or Tranmere. Or do a little of both. I was glad I went to Peru and its most-famous attraction, Machu Picchu, in the late ‘90s, as nowadays it seems increasingly difficult to reach. I reached it by train from Cusco, after first travelling on a longer stretch of rail from Puno, near Lake Titicaca.
The train to Machu Picchu leaves the Estación San Pedro (as opposed to the Puno train, which comes into the Estación Wanchac), which we reached after walking down the wonderfully named Street of the Deserted People, known hereabouts as Calle Desamparados. For the first 60 minutes of the four-hour journey, the train gets no farther than a mile from Cusco. This is because, due to the steepness of the hills around this beautiful city (it’s higher in altitude than is Machu Picchu, which surprises many people), the train has to perform a complicated pattern of switchbacks, puffing so far up the slope, only to then slide back down for a few minutes before building up another head of steam and moving a little distance higher than it did when it came to its first halt. Finally, the train moved forwards and in no other direction, chugging past mile after mile of trackside slums. 
The first main stop is the town of Ollytantambo, which is where travellers alight to either catch a bus to other towns between there and Machu Picchu, or to the Sacred Valley along the Urubamba River, which flows into Aguas Calientes, the small town at the foot of the famous monument. I will not deal too much with Machu Picchu, which is rightly written about in flowing purple prose, but concentrate instead on Aguas Calientes. This is a town that seemingly comes from a novel by Gabriel García Márquez, a ramshackle affair with no main street. Its principal thoroughfare really is the train line, which is paralleled by two raised walkways lined with equally ramshackle shops, although one of them did have Internet connection. (Those of you who shrug your shoulders at this revelation probably are under 25 and do not realise that in 1998 finding an Internet café in Peru was not so far removed from Francisco Pizarro believing he could find El Dorado in the same country in the 16th century.)
A walk along the rail (except for a couple of times a day, there is no danger, and the trains move so slowly in this, the last stop, anyway, that there really is no danger at any time) leads to a small square with a statue of the first ruler of the Kingdom of Cusco, one Manco Cápac (in Quechua, Manqo Qhapaq which means “splendid foundation”), who, among other achievements, is said to be the Incan ruler who abolished human sacrifice. The killjoy! Seemingly annoyed at this puritan act, no one bothered with him during the days I was there, the whole town being far more interested in that new god, the TV set, which was turned up loud enough so that the proprietor of the food shack across the square could hear it while in a back room amid noisy cooking apparatus. 
This town of approximately 3,000 people really does have an amazing setting, teetering on the edge of the swiftly moving Urubamba River and against the side of steep, verdant cliffs (see photo). It is up one of these cliffs that the Peruvian government keeps threatening to construct a funicular, which would disappoint both those of us who believe that travel should not be too easy all the time (yes, I know, Westerners like me have the luxury of requesting such ecologically sensitive things such as that) and the Hello Boys, Peruvian youngsters who run down the hillside in a direct line to continually intercept the tourist buses negotiating the 14 hairpin bends down from Machu Picchu, each time saying “hello” and hopefully collecting tips at the bottom of the descent. A paved street went up the other side of Aguas Calientes, essentially to give access to the rustic spa waters that give the place its name in Spanish, “warm waters.”
It was up this street, as I paused, that I saw the wonderful and motley parade seen in the corresponding photograph. Who is the man with the bandaged face? What could he be representing? So I asked. The reply was that the procession was to ward off earthquakes, which do happen here. In Cusco, there is every Easter a procession in honor of El Señor de los Temblores, The Lord of Earthquakes, which celebrates a painting from the 17th century that supposedly saved the city from disaster. Perhaps the wrapped man survived an earth tremor? But then again I was here in September? The spa itself is an outdoor affair and was struggling to come back to life following a recent landslide. I have heard that now, 10 years later, things are much better. Seven years ago another Incan ruin farther up the valley was discovered—Qoriwayrachina, which is Quechua for “where wind was used to refine gold,” while just two weeks ago, reports circulated that Machu Picchu was not in fact discovered in 1911 by Yale scientist Hiram Bingham but 40 years previously, by a German businessman (looter?) named Augusto Berns.
The argument goes that he did not boast about his claim, as he wanted the site of his ill-gotten treasure to remain a secret, while Bingham was under no such compulsion.
The same argument has been used before: The Basque fishermen wanted their secret of discovering rich cod fisheries off the coast of North America kept a secret, while Columbus couldn’t wait to announce his find, even though he was, if all truth be told, completely lost searching for Japan.
I was lucky enough to stay in a hotel that was then called the Machu Picchu Pueblo, which in my estimation was a wonder not too far below that of Machu Pichu itself. It had its own spur line, albeit 100 metres or less, into which pulled special tourist trains of well-off daytrippers.
Today the hotel is the Inkaterra Machu Picchu (www.inkaterra.com/en/machu-picchu), but I suspect it is none the worse for wear. Its beautiful rainforest grounds contain more than 375 species of orchid, a love of one of its earliest managers, and gorgeous places to dwell and watch local farmers and wildlife.

(Peru/Colombia)...It very much looks as though this year's holiday plans will be to go to South American. I like it there very much. Two small settlements in South America I enjoyed tremendously. The first is in Peru and is called Lampa. I went there as I made what is not the world’s worst travel mistake, but still one that incapacitated me somewhat: Flying directly from the sea level of Lima to the approximate height of 13,000 feet of Juliaca, an hour by bus from Lake Titicaca. Breathing was a problem, and a slight headache did not leave me for all my first day there.
The flight was on Aero Continente, via Arequipa, and I swear the craft was equipped with car sea belts. The other passengers all appeared to be the stoic Andean of cliché, all bowler hats and a lack of emotion. Walking down the steps at Juliaca’s Aeropuerto Internacional Inca Manco Cápac, named after the founder of the Incan dynasty and with the longest runway, apparently, in Peru (probably something to do with the thin air), llamas nudged up. I wanted to visit one of the islands in Lake Titicaca, but I was told there were 600 steps from the boat dock to the island’s village, and that was too much, I felt.
So, I went back to Juliaca and then took a bus to Lampa, named the La Ciudad Rosa, the rose-coloured city. The rickety bus left when full, and the tarmac ran out after one kilometer. Dust storms turned out to be buses coming in the opposite direction; two buses had broken down. Lampa appeared thin and wide on the horizon between a range of dun-coloured hills. Nothing looked red. A central square featured a dry garden, a church and a shop selling stationery, while narrow streets went off in all directions, one leading to a barbershop with no door but only a window for entry. Looking for a bus back to Juliaca, I saw only buses going to a festival. It was full of school children and parents, and the roofs were cluttered with furniture, cooking utensils and boxes of food.
I found out that the festival was in a place called Tucini. I asked where it was and received shrugs. Enough people seemed eager for me to go, so in I went. My bus rattled along a road that I did not see when I entered the town, and we slowly drove over rivulets and up hills. After 40 minutes, we reached Tucini, high on the Altiplano. It consists only of a large stone barn and some livestock pens, and a thin river between two steep slopes on which sat hundreds and hundreds of Incan people, those same bowler hats and stern gazes. It was wonderful. I took photos and smelled the smells of cooking.
Young children were the first to smile. I could not speak Spanish in 1998, so my conversation was returned in smiles, but I felt — hopefully not arrogantly — that I was somewhere where Westerners had not trod. I have since looked for Tucini, and the name was written down for me on a piece of paper, on several maps and have not found it. The second town is in Colombia and called Villa de Leyva. It remains little known due to Colombia’s sad recent history (improving now, though), but if this nation was less dangerous to travel in, it would be on every single itinerary. It is the perfect colonial town, with the country's largest square, and enough wealthy Bogatanos to keep things interesting and well kept.
The square’s only feature is a small fountain in the middle, while around its edges are two- and three-storey houses and a church past which children automatically cross themselves, even when running. I stayed in a cottage I rented about a kilometre along another dusty lane. The cottage overlooked rolling farmland and the occasional cow, as well as a house called La Casa del Alemán, the House of the German. I could not find out why, but my active imagination decided it was because it had to have been a former residence of Carlos Lehder, a ruthless member of Pablo Escobar’s Medellín cartel, who was of German origin.
Supposedly, the grander of Villa de Leyva’s homes were owned by narcoterrorists, but they had long gone, replaced by the richer residents of Bogotá, Colombia’s capital, 150 kilometres to the southwest.
The only odd episode I saw there was on the way in, at around 9 p.m., when an army unit stopped me. Before they had time to talk, a car in the distance stopped, turned its lights off and started reversing at speed. The soldiers, all very young, instantly forgot about me and sped off in pursuit. I went to hear Mass one morning for the novelty value, and when it had finished — the hidden, chanting, singing nuns proved magnificently atmospheric — a line of horses were railed outside for rent. I am not a horseman, but I took one to see a site called El Infiernito, which contains a series of monoliths shaped like phalluses. The ticket collector seemed very surprised to see a visitor.