Two hours by coach along a mountain pass. Sitting outdoors at a cafe by an offshoot of the Urubamba river. A shaky, late night train journey. Running through an empty marketplace in the dark and down the railway tracks. A tour briefing, tickets handed over. One short night in a hotel with water on one side and rails on the other. A 4am start, queueing down the high street of a small town in the dark with hundreds of other foreigners to the land. Boarding the third bus to arrive, sitting separately and crammed in with tourists holding their breath. A 20 minute ride up, 400 metres higher above the sea, round hairpin bends as the light slowly started to emerge behind the mountains. At the top, through the gates, down a stone path seen so many times on screens, awaiting the view you know lies at the end of it.
This was our journey to Machu Picchu.