Salous' talk lasted twenty minutes. As guides go, he was one of the best. His English was remarkable and the depth of knowledge he recalled at will was staggering. A rumour had spread around the camp that Salous had a soft spot for Mark, but that's all it was - a rumour. However, yesterday, Neil and I were chatting with him at a water stop, and he kept touching my calves and telling me what beautiful blond skin I had. Then he started to run his fingers through the golden hair on my legs, spinning me a similar tale. That too did not concern me in the slightest. A few years ago I was on the beach in Brazil when I was approached by men, women and children of all ages, who were curious about the white man's skin. They just wanted to touch - it was not a cause for concern.

The last leg of the day's trek drove us through more indeterminable terrain. We progressed through wide sandy paths, narrow ridges and boulder strewn fields, until reaching an elevated swamp which was tonight's camp-site. The porters arrived ahead of time and pitched the tents in long grass, encircled by muddy expanses. Some of the tents nestled precariously on a twenty degree incline, situated close to open cesspits which had been dug to house travellers' waste. Around the tents the porters had dug narrow drainage channels, an ominous sign; more rain was expected. But rain would be no surprise. We had camped at 3,700 metres and were surrounded on three sides by snow-capped mountains. The wind was rising and the clouds down in the gullies whipped around like dirty cream. Then as a finale, the clouds gathered, accumulated, and precipitated heavily over the verdant forest below.

An orange sign a few yards from our tent indicated the presence of deer. The absence of wildlife was unusual, so far we had only seen domestic farm animals in the village compound. To the left of the tents, down in a hollow was a tiny green lagoon. Its waters looked serene, inviting almost in the decreasing temperature. I wandered down to investigate but my effort was wasted - the lagoon was home to a million midges. I returned quickly to the smoky camp-fire, one of the best protections available against those horribly persistent creatures. But as the night fell and the dry wind dropped, the lagoon became a looking-glass of the star-lit sky.

The food on the trek was arguably the best we had tasted in South America. The porters worked diligently with small primus stoves to create tasty and nutritious dishes. Located in a dingy cave, Salous barked out his orders and the boys obeyed him to the letter. Tonight's taste-bud explosion was vegetable soup, followed by runny sweet potatoes, a chunky mixed salad and spicy chicken of a finger-licking nature. A great happiness existed between Salous and his team, there was a deep respect which had to be admired.

After dinner, I went straight to bed. The physical and emotional burdens of the day had taken their toll. It had only just turned eight o' clock, but the guys who had struggled most during the day were huddled around the fire. Then Rosy made an astonishing admission. You could hear a pin drop as she reported her reasons for steadfastly labouring two hours behind everybody else. In a voice of innocence and surprise, she said "I'm not as fit as I ought to be and then there's the altitude to consider too....."

In an adjacent tent, Ruthie was singing in a low child-like voice, what sounded like a nursery rhyme. It reminded me of my infancy in Manchester. The lawless roads of Moss Side with their drugs barons, pimps and illegal clubs. I tried to recall a soothing memory, something to help me sleep. But sharing a tent on the edge of a Peruvian mountain, remote, desolate, and surrounded by the dangers of the encircling elements, I realised that quite probably, I was more comfortable and safer in the tent.

I woke up just before two o' clock to hear the distinctive sounds of quadrupeds mooching around the camp-site. Deer are shy creatures so I felt no reason for concern. I only hoped that José's snoring had not disturbed them too much. However, my opinion was not so generous at first light when I discovered that the camp was covered in deer faeces and most of the tents' guide ropes had been nosed out of the swampy earth. Our tent was in danger of collapsing, or being washed away by the incessant rain.

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After breakfast, Salous gave us a two minute pep-talk and congratulated our efforts the previous day. His sense of humour held great appeal and even I was beginning to enjoy his ironic approbation. "The last two days have been quite different," he continued, "The first, trudging through the eucalyptus forest followed by yesterday's long hot ascent. The eucalyptus trees were imported from Australia and have played a major part in Peru's reforestation. They are ideal for our climate, capable of growing up to a hundred metres in height. Alas, we have no koalas. Yesterday's long ascent was an exercise of endurance and a memorable achievement for you all - a day I know that will live with you for ever...."

Today's trek was a comfortable downhill affair, but I noticed a growing reluctance among the masses to get a move on. I set off alone, heading for more Inca ruins. But instead of taking the rocky trail up to the limestone walls, I continued downhill until I came across a stone promontory overlooking the valley. I wanted to write up my notes while they were still fresh in mind. I passed a good hour alone, probably the first privacy I had had since leaving my living room six weeks ago.

The sun came high and hard over my right shoulder as I began to scribble. In the opposite direction were the ruins and I could see the group assembling for Salous' discourse. With the aid of my binoculars, I saw the group sitting on the low walls with their backs turned towards me. There was Ian with his grey T-shirt and its broad red letters and Ruthie in her green J&B number, wearing a distinctive yellow cap, set at a jaunty angle. Salous gave an animated performance, and even from this distance he seemed slightly on edge. But last night, I was reliably informed that Salous had ordered his porters to make a bed of long marsh grass for he and Mark to while away the Inca hours. I can not imagine that Mark reciprocated this kindest of gestures, but all the same, what an interesting situation.

As I scribbled away, I received more than my fair share of local interest. At one point I was joined by a legion of jet black butterflies that were friendly but meddlesome. Two of them landed on the pages of my journal, perhaps they too had heard Salous' story and were hoping for confirmation. Later, I was visited by two wrens; tiny, delicate things of disproportionate beauty to their size, and finally, a pair of yellow-hooded blackbirds. During those solitary passages of time, I felt close to nature and was somehow liberated from the turmoil of truck and tent politics. It was like a happiness I had never encountered. But then the beauty of the moment was destroyed. From the undergrowth, I recognised muted voices, followed by cackles of laughter. Martin and Melanie with Rosy and Mark emerged from the coppice and the morning's magical spell was irreparably broken.

Their arrival was my signal to leave, so I placed my journal in its plastic bag and positioned it in the centre of my pack. It took a matter of moments to catch up with Martin and Melanie and a matter of minutes to leave them behind. But then unexpectedly, I sensed somebody at my back, somebody with short, striding steps making a surreptitious move from behind. It was of course, that dark horse Salous, bounding down the greasy staircase in a desperate rush to catch up with his porter chums. He called me a naughty boy, patted me on the bottom, and firing on all cylinders disappeared off down the narrow track.

The Sacred River Urubamba

We lunched at another high spot of 3,700 metres where I gave my boots a cursory glance. They seemed to be holding up OK under the strain. However, my ankles were crimson and swollen where midges had bitten through my socks. As the group reassembled on the summit, we parked our rucksacks and began to play the popular word game. Soon after, porters from another group arrived and mischievously dumped their gear next to ours. It was a provocative act considering we had arrived first, but we had no choice other than to remove our gear or stand sentry over it throughout the meal. K2 laid out his cape on the marshy grass and we positioned our rucksacks next to each other, using them as a windbreak. We lay face down on the cape playing the word game. The porters must have thought we were crazy. Certainly, I was, I had no time for the silly game.

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The afternoon trek was a meandering downhill plod. Salous said the next camp would be easy to find as our tents would be pitched in the compound of the only orange-tiled roofs in the valley, and soon in the distance they became visible. Now, with the end of the trek in sight I suffered my first trembles of stomach-ache and had to pay two emergency visits. Unfortunately, the trail was narrow and steeply inclined, so business options were scarce and the timing critical. It would be an embarrassment to be caught squatting over the edge of the Inca Trail, trousers down in a blustery cross-breeze.

In between visits, Tony passed me moving with a comical walk at pace. His buttocks were clenched like the party game where a coin nestles precariously between the victim's two cheeks. Perhaps there were toilet facilities at the camp. Tony prided himself on the fact that throughout our camping exploits in the frozen wastes of Tierra del Fuego and the shimmering sands of the Atacama desert, he had never once squatted behind a bush. For Tony's bowels the options were simple, it was porcelain or nothing.

Before arriving at the camp, I took time out and finished a roll of film. It was the last opportunity to take shots of the Urubamba's slushy brown waters. The mountains were vast and formidable, the jungle dense and impressive. The clouds formed over the lower reaches of the canopy, seemingly sucked in and spat out by the eucalyptus forest, before they settled flat and even in the valley bottom like layered rolls of cotton wool. Tony joined me on a ledge above the compound and we marvelled at the sight of the world's most dramatic scenery. We climbed down together and celebrated with a few beers. A little girl from the cooking-shed sold beer from a grey plastic bucket. Clutching a bottle himself, Salous exited the corrugated-iron construction where he was supervising the evening meal and joined us on the terrace. Resting his arms around our shoulders and drawing us together, he pushed his face close to Tony's and asked him softly, "Do you like the rustic nature of the mountains?"

The Cuzco train stays close to the river

	Somewhat nervously and moving away slightly, Tony gave him his answer, "The mountains are truly magnificent."

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There were no special facilities in the compound, but thank heavens for running water. Of course, there was no tap, only a pipe sticking out of a wall, where fresh water from the mountainside was diverted into a series of guttering pipes. The locals seemed happy with the arrangement. Domestic running water was a new concept on that side of the mountain. The system had been installed the previous year by a group of American students, studying engineering.

The water was cold but soft and my hair succumbed to a rich lather as I washed it under the pipe. Sharon and Martini arrived and after celebratory hugs and kisses they too joined the washing detail. As I dried my hair, I faced them both - one hand grasping my towel, the other holding a beer. Behind them was the ridge where Tony and I had stood some twenty minutes earlier.

As we chatted about the descent, I became aware of small stones falling over to the right of the ridge, first slivers of tumbling gravel followed by rocks. Then a huge boulder which had been underpinned by large rocks began to slither and spin. "Landslide!" I yelled, as the boulder continued its slide down the mountain, gathering pace off the soft white rock, skipping over limestone slabs, before cart-wheeling with a clattering anvil-like clank onto the corrugated-iron roof of the cooking-shed.

The cook's daughter remained rigid, open-mouthed - convulsed in complete shock. Her mother who now ran towards her had escaped the cooking-shed a fraction of a second before the boulder smashed through the roof. Salous and the porters checked inside, but it was empty except for tonight's dinner and a destructive lump of limestone.

The group relaxing

The locals did not seem too worried or surprised, although the porters showed great interest in understanding the flight of the boulder before it obliterated the cooking-shed. Within minutes, they had removed the boulder and had proudly pushed it aside of the cramped walkway for everybody's inspection. The locals brought their hammers and saws and set about correcting the damage. The meal had not been disturbed and its preparation continued regardless of the preceding drama. Sitting beside me, his right hand grasping my left thigh, Salous said, "It was lucky for her that you called landslide when you did. She speaks only Quechua, but over the years I have taught her the word for landslide in twelve different languages."

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The clouds that had tracked us all day began to unload, gently at first and then with vengeance. The temperature had fallen suddenly with the approach of twilight, and the group milled around with distinct impatience as the boulder incident had delayed the pitching of the tents.

Shortly before dinner, Salous announced that the tents were ready on a lower terrace and he stressed the point to be careful. His comment struck me as a little strange until I saw their location. For the second night running, our tents were pitched on a twenty degree slope, but this time Salous had played his joker. The entrance to both mine and Rob's tents were just eighteen inches away from a ten foot drop onto a concrete path, which separated a crumbling cliff face from the high back wall of a house.

The complication of darkness and soggy guide ropes had clearly not come into the tent pitching equation. After a few drinks tonight, we would do well not to kill ourselves on that precipitous slope. But as usual, nobody complained - this was South America after all. The best we could hope for was a night without flash floods or landslides.

The dining room was not quite what everybody had in mind, but the incessant rain and windy squalls, brought the group together under the same roof. Unfortunately, the roof was of the flimsy, leaking sheet-metal variety, and it sheltered only five metres away from its battered cousin, the cooking-shed.

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The standard of the seating was commensurate with the roof, made of porous breeze block with a bottom-wetting guarantee for each diner. However, its dimensions were perfectly adjusted to the group's numbers. Our body heat generated a warm ambience over a meal of soup and spaghetti. Word games, followed by communal Abba songs afforded the evening a fully rounded quality. Then came the punch-line. Salous announced that tomorrow's alarm call was set for four-thirty. The collective groan sent him fleeing from the shack and that was the last we saw of him, until the early hours of the following morning.

In a parallel shack adjacent to the cooking-shed, our noisy antics had aroused the curiosity of its inhabitants. Black, white and gold speckled chickens gabbled noisily as they strutted without purpose, up and down its rank wooden beams. They had seen and heard it all before - wind, rain, foreign songs, the odd landslide - it was just a normal day. We also received a few strange looks from other groups that shared the compound, but we had become accustomed to this notorious recognition. Wherever we assembled we were well received. The people of South America found us impossible to categorise, so they loved us and accepted us instead.

After dinner, the rain stopped and we congregated on the upper terrace and watched the subtle movement of the stars. The full moon wandered silvery across the sky and the distant silhouettes of the mountains looked hard, black and mighty in the moonlight. The clouds were rising in the valley below and the Urubamba flowed gently on towards the Amazon. There was a timeless, mystical tranquillity about the river and its sacred valley. But the timeless, mystical qualities were disturbed by the gregarious nuisance of my excited companions, high on beer and wine. Selfishly, I hoped that they would leave the terrace and return to their precariously pitched tents. I wanted to spend some quality time, alone.

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At four o' clock, the sound of porters up and down the gravel path, clattering pots and pans awakened me. It was still dark and a misty haze swirled down in the valley. As promised, I woke up Sylvia and Ruthie and shone my Magalite into their tent. Ruthie looked beautiful first thing in the morning. She fanned out her wild red hair and rubbed the backs of her knuckles against her eyes which had narrowed into thin weary slits. She moved cautiously and with reluctance as if afraid of the torch light. She yawned again and sprawled herself out across the bed roll. In the half-light her features reminded me of a startled badger.

After being thrown out of the tent for a remark about a startled badger, I trotted down to the baño which was the most amazing contraption. The water from yesterday's washing pipe continued its race down the mountainside into a small, doorless, breeze block construction which faced the valley. On the ground were two parallel concrete slabs set a foot apart, which formed a narrow channel for semi-circular pipe work. All one had to do, was place one's feet on the concrete slabs, squat hopefully above the fast running channel of water, and the next thing you knew your excrement was hurtling furiously towards the Atlantic ocean.

Squatting nervously, I heard footsteps approaching the baño, so I shone my torch on the mud outside and began to sing 'Blue Moon'. I bade Rob a good morning as I passed him a few moments later and like typical English gentlemen we both expressed concern at the weather. After chatting briefly with one of the porters about the candy-floss creations forming over the canopy, I collected my towel from the upper terrace and returned to the tent to start packing. As I approached from the upper terrace, I heard a scuffle and a muted yelp; then the awful sound of a man groaning in the dark. I saw nothing and nobody, but I sensed the groans were coming from beyond the tents. I shone my torch down into the gap between the cliff and the house, and there he was lying motionless on his left side, his right eyebrow dripping with blood. He had fallen ten feet on to the concrete passage, his fleece jacket was covered in mud and gravel. Poor Rob!

I leaped down into the gap beside him. He was lucid but in shock and he made a number of efforts to stand up, which I resisted. I shouted for Salous who was in the cooking-shed supervising breakfast.

A porter arrived cursing in Quechua and I called up to José for my sleeping bag and a fleece jacket to keep Rob warm. Rob complained of pain in his elbow and merciless aches in his lower back. I checked his upper body for breaks, running my fingers along his arms and torso to see if there were any complications. Meanwhile Salous had heard the news and came hurtling down the path. Without thought he threw himself down beside us and expressed every emotion of concern. "It's my fault. It's my fault," he went on. The porter returned and cleaned Rob's eye and elbow while I wiped away the blood from the lacerations on his other hand. All the time, he remained calm and to my relief he listened to me. Had he panicked, I might have had to knock him out like in the movies. On the upper terrace, the group continued their slumber unaware of Rob's predicament.

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Rob was in shock and that cold sensation permeating my lungs made me anxious about moving him. After thirty minutes calming reassurance he had revived slightly and cracked the odd joke, but the pain in his back was spreading. The first sprinkle of morning rain forced his premature removal to the upper terrace. José and I lifted him by the arms and cradled him along the path to the shack where we had dined the night before. José brought a bed roll and I laid it on top of the breeze blocks to form a makeshift bed. I covered Rob in fleeces and served him hot herbal tea. Moments later, Salous fed him cinnamon porridge which seemed to cheer him a little. I was unsure about what I was doing, but nobody else had come forward with any bright ideas.

As first light arrived, the clouds were high and thin and Salous announced that he expected a fine morning's walk. He shrugged his shoulders when questioned about the afternoon's weather. It was five-thirty and most of the group had breakfasted and were packing their rucksacks for the final blitz on Machu Picchu, a two hour trek away. At last, Rob was back on his feet, although his movement was slow, laboured and painful. The main group went ahead while I arranged for the porters to carry Rob's gear. We had agreed to journey this last vital stage together.

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We started off slowly through the rain forest, the wispy clouds still rising in the valley below. The entire forest seemed alive with animals and insects of all sizes and descriptions.

The sun was rising now as were the heat and humidity. The forest and its plants, flowers and trees quivered slightly, covered in a silvery dew. There were large intimidating ants, multi-coloured butterflies and a deluge of boisterous song birds. A flock of green parakeets flew below us, but still high above the canopy of the lower slopes. Our progress was slow, but we still managed to overtake Mark, Vanessa and Rosy who walked at funereal pace. I was surprised by Rob's recovery and the fact that he could walk at all. Once underway, I kept him talking - at first to distract him from the pain and later because of my interest in his life and work as a botanist. Along the track, he stopped a number of times to show me different forms of plants, flowers, mosses and orchids. The travelling experience seemed more enlightening and fulfilling with an expert at hand.

It had already been a long and eventful morning, what with the sickening experience of Rob's fall, followed by the wonders of Peru's rain forest. But the pain and discomfort of the trek suddenly subsided, as there below pale, vanishing clouds stood the eroded contours of archaic terraces. Beneath us lay a royal city which had taken centuries to build and centuries to rediscover - we had arrived at Machu Picchu, the lost citadel of the Incas. In an elevating symphony of birdsong my aches, pains and weariness lifted instantly and were no longer of significance. We sat down on the damp earth and looked down on the glistening stone circles in the flat silver light. It was like being in a fantastic dream.

Machu Picchu in the early morning

	After a few minutes of awe and hesitation, the time came to assist Rob down from the winding staircase of stone. Jolts of pain caused him to shiver. I was aware that his physical and emotional equilibriums were deteriorating quickly. His pride and strength were an inspiration and I felt humbled by the depth of the man's courage.

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When we joined the others Rob was still reeling from pain, but I sensed an immense relief merely in the achievement of being there. Rob could start to unwind and begin the recovery process. Salous invited the group to sit down on a grassy mound where he began his introductory talk about Inca life at Machu Picchu - a fascinating subject, but I was too shattered to absorb its complexities.

The earth's hitching post to the galaxy

The guided tour, although interesting was something of an anti-climax. The group's primary ambition had been concentrated on the task of arrival and that goal had been achieved. We sat against recumbent stones, exhausted and glowing with perspiration, like old soldiers at the end of a long campaign. My body was overcome with stiffness and I tried to shake myself loose before rigor-mortis set in. I wandered over towards an Inca store house, and there was SJ, her leg still in a brace, sitting up against a low stone wall. Her head was carried low in an expression of resignation, while her fingers sifted absently through the gravel. She too was in pain, but she would not burden me with her problems. I joined her, and we sat in silence for a while surveying the smoky grey sky, and remarked upon the storm building over the mountain. Then her face turned red like a setting sun and her eyes became moist with tears.

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In the failing sunlight, we strolled down to the control point to meet Salous and the others. On arrival, he informed us that the road to Aguas Calientes had been blocked at seven points by a massive landslide. As he announced it, the inky sky burst open in a violent storm, and rucksacks rustled as we rummaged inside for our waterproofs. The group dispersed into stone shelters, while other tourists scurried around in outrageously coloured sou'westers searching for cover. We strolled across to the restaurant, where we were thrown out an hour later having drained several expensive cups of coffee. At least during the storm they cancelled the helicopter rides.

Under a wretched sky we waited by the veranda of the restaurant, partially sheltered from the swirling wind and rain. Salous instructed us to be ready at two o' clock as the police were due to reopen the path down after specialists had prescribed a course of high explosive. The descent started as scheduled and the muddy path down was as treacherous as any I had seen. The mountainside wound down through grey limestone with tight hairpin bends of mud and clay. After five minutes exertion, my brow was dripping and the vein in the side of my forehead pulsated wildly. The steam was rising from the forest floor and we remarked that we could all but touch the air we breathed. The twisting and turning path with its slippery outlook was of great bearing. Already Tony had fallen heavily and needed assistance in coming down. Nobody knew how many more casualties the day would claim.

The road below was still closed while they worked at clearing the landslide. From mid-way, however, it was possible to catch a bus to Aguas Calientes and a small party selected this sensible option. Salous led us into a capacious but dimly-lit restaurant which bulged at the seams as travel-weary, soil-stained travellers slumped into their seats and struggled to read the menu in the half-light. After an extended delay where we were beseiged by children selling the usual bric-à-brac, lunch was excellent; the group was keen on rice, fish and chicken, not that there were many alternatives in that extraordinary little town.

From Aguas Calientes, we planned to catch the train back towards Cuzco, and during lunch Salous described the nuances of Peruvian commuter etiquette. First of all, the train had only four carriages, and for reasons of proximity, he would prefer it if we all shared the same one. The second instruction, rather like a referee to a boxer was to protect ourselves at all times, and not to worry too much if we were to injure a fellow journeyman. Thirdly, if and when we got on the train, we should be careful with our belongings as professional thieves make an excellent living, living off the backs of careless tourists.

Main Street Aguas Calientes

A few moments later our group of twenty-three assembled, facing the main street of Aguas Calientes, along with several other tourist groups and locals. Aguas Calientes is like no other. From a distance it looks like a collection of washing lines attached to corrugated-iron shacks. The main street resembles the Wild West with its high pavements separating a fifteen yard trench of mud. Each side has its small bars, restaurants and catch-peso tourist shops. Down the centre run two narrow-gauge railway lines housed on rotting wooden sleepers. A melee of locals and back-packers crossed in between, picking their way through the muddy pools. In the middle, two Indian girls practised their volleyball skills while street sellers called out the day's bargains from colourful street-stands. Everything could be purchased: beads, necklaces and handbags, bananas, apples, and roasted cashew nuts.

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The atmosphere was astonishing - both intense and calamitous, and Salous advised that we stock up with food and drinks for the long journey ahead.

Then just as we began to feel comfortable, all hell broke loose. A shrill blast from the train's whistle sounded the alarm to clear the main street, before the firing train with its yellow and orange carriages, jolted around the bend and trembled to a standstill. If you think the London rush hour is crude, then stand by, because this was pure carnage, as three hundred travellers waged war for one solitary minute.

It became a sea of flailing elbows, rucksacks, legs and faces, all screaming and cursing. That sixty second battle determined the relative comfort of the five hour journey ahead. A seat on a Peruvian train is worth fighting for, and somehow, against the odds, I managed to get one. SJ was not so lucky, she was pushed from the train's steps and twisted her damaged knee again. She would be in bad shape for the remainder of the trip.

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I sat opposite a portly middle-aged couple with two equally portly infants. Geoff stood above me in the gang-way obscuring the view of an extremely pretty woman in her early thirties. She was not a typical Peruana; her dress was modern and stylish, and she looked out of place on this bizarre train. With her sat two intelligent and well behaved children, a young boy and girl. Opposite them was an extraordinary looking woman with bright red hair and a roman nose. She spoke Spanish to the woman with the children, although she too was not typical of the region.

The profusion of feet and bags on the floor prevented me from sitting upright in my seat. The trunk of my body was straight, but my legs were twisted at an awkward angle pointing towards the gang-way. I felt cold and dirty, my clothes were covered in mud which preserved a crusty, cardboard quality. I wanted to shave and wash my hair in warm soapy water. I longed to brush my teeth and soak myself in a long hot bath. I wanted to wear clothes that smelt of lavender and not of a musty mountainside. I had a profound desire to feel human again.

Despite feelings of self-disgust, the journey through the Urubamba valley was most pleasant. We passed a collection of bedraggled villages set high on the stony landscape. On the distant hilltops sat solitary shacks, momentarily visible and then disappearing, engulfed in a veil of cloud. As the train strained towards Cuzco, I became less comfortable and I felt stiffer as my muscles locked in the penetrating cold of the carriage. Sleep was out of the question. My body showed all the signs of exhaustion, but my mind was racing with memories of the Inca Trail, and now with the beauty of the woman sitting across the gang-way.

Quite accidently, I made eye contact with the red-headed woman a number of times, and her eyes responded warmly to mine. Time passed at a leisurely pace before she asked me about the trip, and in affected Spanish, I gave her the details.

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She was in her early fifties and was gripping a cardboard box filled to the brim with vegetables. She had been shopping with her daughter, Maricela, the pretty woman with the children. I had spoken with Maricela briefly when two Americans barged down the carriage and deposited themselves in the gang-way next to Geoff. Their arrival created a measure of rucksack reorganisation, and Maricela had unsuccessfully tried to position my rucksack under her seat, but my sleeping mat extension had created an obstruction which defeated her. Then one of the Americans assumed a preposterous proximity where his bottom was pushed full into my face. Not only was it uncomfortable, it had destroyed my conversation with Maricela's mother.After two minutes I could bear it no longer. I tapped Geoff on the shoulder and offered him my seat. He had been standing for three hours without complaint in that crowded carriage, he deserved a well earned rest.

I was now standing above Maricela who within moments of my positional change had initiated a friendly conversation. She introduced me to her daughter Pierena, and to my astonishment, her brother, Heyner, who was at least twenty years her junior.

I formally introduced myself by shaking hands with the elders, but Pierena would settle for nothing less than a kiss. They received me con mucho gusto and complimented me on my Spanish. Maricela's mother intervened whenever the conversation showed signs of drying up and Heyner too was not disinclined to interrupt whenever he required information. All four were extraordinarily kind towards me, despite my crinkly condition. They seemed acutely interested in my visit to Cuzco and curious as to when exactly I planned to leave. But there the discussion ended - the train pulled into Ollantaytambo and Salous with his usual authority ordered the group to disembark.

With reluctance I pulled my rucksack from beneath Maricela's seat and recited my well rehearsed farewell speech in Spanish. For the last time, I shook hands with them and suddenly regretted the time I had squandered earlier in the journey.

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Leaving the train was almost as dangerous as getting on. The darkness had descended and the platform at Ollantaytambo extended only twenty metres into the pitch black night. The train had halted prematurely and the carriage now loitered some thirty metres from the rickety platform. There was a drop of four feet to the ground, so I tossed my rucksack to the dusty earth and climbed down from the carriage steps. Rob tossed me his rucksack which I dumped aside a barbed-wire fence. He still had back pains and complained of muscular stiffness throughout his body, which came as no surprise to those who had witnessed his valiant efforts. We waited for the others in a clearing by the side of the track and I noticed Maricela's mother waving enthusiastically to me from inside the carriage. I waved back to her and smiled, wishing I was still on the train with them, and not returning to hotel Cahuide.

Geoff passed by and congratulated me on my style, but I outstretched my arms and gave him an apologetic glance. There would be no romance from that brief encounter despite my innermost wishes. I had been silly - Maricela had a daughter and a cluster of sparkling rings, but that little optimism and flirtatious energy had granted me a special interest during the journey, and I felt justified in those lonely months of study which had improved my linguistic skills.

The train's whistle screeched out in the darkness and the yellow and orange carriages shuddered slowly away from the clearing. I looked across at the train to make my final gesture of friendship to the close-knit family on board, and there leaning out of the window waving furiously towards me, was Maricela. In a fleeting impulse, I shouted, "Plaza de Armas. Mañana por la tarde."

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"A que hora?" she replied.

"A las dos," I returned, as the train vanished around the bend and into the gloomy night.

For a man of my age, I was uncommonly slow on the uptake. Maricela had asked me a number of times in roundabout ways how long I intended to stay in Cuzco. All the time she was chatting me up and I had behaved like a stupid gringo. But then I wondered if she would meet me in the Plaza de Armas tomorrow or had I set myself up for another embarrassing fall?

The bus journey to Cuzco endured two more hours in an inhospitable cold. The two back seats were like a scene from the Crimea with Rob, Tony and SJ stretched out across their metal framed expanses, covered in rugs and fleeces. Whatever happened now we had to be careful. There were still another ten weeks of the adventure to run, and it would have distressed me unendingly to have lost just one individual from this incomparable selection of personalities.

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