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It was the second time I’d seen the armadillo, but this time it was covered in confetti.
As I stood and pondered why there was a dead armadillo chained up outside a Cuzco internet café, a toothless man popped up next to the animal and cheerfully informed me it was the armadillo’s birthday, hence the confetti, while cackling madly.

It seemed despite being a tourist Mecca Cuzco was not without its idiosyncrasies, I couldn’t decide if I loved or loathed the place. After all the little Andean towns it was strangely comforting to see so many tourists marred only by the fact that all of them were clad in ‘activity’ trousers teamed with llama wool hats and large cameras.
The Plaza de Armas was a mob of relentless restaurant, massage and tour hustlers. But I had decided to avoid a tour and take the train to Machu Picchu in peace and without a guide, so I thought, but it seems the Bert Howie’s of Paul’s day are still around and have grown in number. The tour group surrounding me on the 4.15pm Vistadome were all already sporting Machu Picchu sun hats, one had some sort of Peruvian instrument in a hippie bag and several wore utility jackets.

The Urubamba valley was immense, its high peaks, left undisturbed by the world until Hiram Bingham’s discovery of Machu Picchu in 1911, towered over the river and train tracks at the bottom of the valley. I didn’t want to like the ‘Vistadome’ train, named thus for its windows in the ceiling, I wanted to prefer the locals trains I had travelled on, but I had to admit that I rather enjoyed being able to see the peaks of the mountains as the train rattled along the tracks.

The Japanese couple beside me relaxed and put on their slippers as their mulleted tour guide bleated on about the difficulties of the Inca trail and how taking the train was ‘easy peasy, lemon squeezey, Japanesey.’ Not very politically correct considering his audience.
I felt strangely alienated from these wealthy tourists and they in turn seemed not to know what to make of me, so left me alone.
Perhaps they took me for a ‘freebooting backpacker’ just like the ones Paul encountered in the seventies. The breed still exists but they now seem to spend any extra pennys they find on cheap, potentially dangerous adventure sports. I’d seen many of them busing into towns, white-water rafting, trekking and then busing out without even a glance at the local community or culture.

I felt alienated from these travellers also, with no inclination for adventure sports or buses if I could avoid them. I felt like a strange observer neither in one camp or another.
This feeling reminded me of Paul’s comment: “ I had neither a tourist badge or a rucksack. I trod a narrow implausible line between the two…” (although I do actually have a rucksack and often wonder how Paul managed this journey with a suitcase.)

The tinny pan pipe music on the train suddenly changed to an upbeat dance song and it was announced that we were to be subjected to an alpaca fashion show, unfortunately not including alpacas themselves, just embarrassed train staff in rather nasty jumpers parading up and down the carriages. As we neared Machu Picchu I wasn’t sure who felt more embarrassed, me or them.

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