In the distance, Machu Picchu, shrouded by clouds came into view for a brief moment. The Argentinians cried with relief, the Spaniard lit a victory cigarette and the Italian cried, “Mama mia”. After walking more than 50km in four days we finished the secret royal route used by Incan nobles centuries before.

No one knows, however, what specific purpose Machu Picchu served. Speculation leads to a religious or ceremonial site. For many centuries, “The lost city of The Incas” lay undisturbed, reclaimed by the forest until an American historian stumbled across them in 1911.

Cuzco, once the capital of the Incan empire and the oldest continuously inhabited city in South America, lies at an altitude of almost 332m and is home to 300,000 people, mostly descended from the Incas. After the conquistadors arrived, Incan temples were torn down and their foundations used to build wealthy colonial homes and the two impressive cathedrals that dominate the Plaza de Armas.

Tourism for the surrounding sites and administration for the Andes are the main industries. Nightclubs blast out Madonna and Chinese restaurants serve “Duck with a fantasy”. All the descendants of the once proud Incas are left with, is selling trinkets, carrying heavy loads for tourists up steep mountains or begging. The Inca trail or trails, begins about 20km from Cuzco amongst Indian villages of mud huts. It is, however, only a small part of a 8000km network stretching from northern Ecuador to central Chile.

We had been warned of the difficulties — the cold and the thin air of the high altitudes — climbing straight up slippery steps where a miss-step is a fall of more than 2000m. We were also mistaken in thinking that walking during the summer months would be the best time of year. Summer means rain but the forests are lush, plants are in full bloom, mountains are green and the rivers are raging.

On our first morning we were greeted by blue sky and not a cloud in sight. Green succulent grass, white capped mountains and occasional smoke from Andean villages pierced the clean mountain air. As we strode through villages, women with thick flowing dresses were getting ready for market. Slung over their shoulders were a few of the 50 varieties of potatoes grown here. Children played in the cold mud with Llama wool clothing to keep them warm. Travelling alone on the route is not advisable as there are occasional hold-ups. Even leaving a pair of boots outside your tent invites unwelcome guests. In the bad old days, the Shining Path had orders to execute foreigners found on the trail.

The fun began at the 77km mark, the entrance to the official trail. Already, the sky had turned overcast. We huffed and puffed as we climbed the high steps. From on high we looked down on Llactapata, described as a minor ruin, and its impressive towers that kept hostile forces at bay. The river that a few hours ago we had stood next to was now just a thick vein below. Terraced crops ran up the mountainside leading to where the nobles and priests lived in impressive stone houses. Workers made do with mud huts next to the river.

We pressed on to the first campsite in a Huayllabamba hamlet, consisting of two houses. A portly Indian woman allowed hikers to camp on a hill in her back yard, more a mud bath than a campsite. Our porters had arrived an hour before us and dinner was ready. Throughout the trip, our porters, dressed scantily in a pair of shorts, tee shirts and sandals, carried 50kg loads on their backs. We were always overtaken half an hour after we had left and welcomed by lunch or a warm tent when we arrived. How did they do it? Coca, condemned in the western world, is a part of the Andean social fabric. It cures altitude sickness and is an energiser. It makes a wretched life, bearable. Coca leaves and tea are freely available in the markets.

To my horror I lent back and discovered I’d left my day pack by a farmhouse while photographing a group of children with a llama. Down I went with our guide Pidal to collect the pack. In the darkness, with only a waterfall breaking the silence, we climbed down to the farmhouse. Of course nobody had seen it until $US5 was offered. While returning, I discovered Pidal was a student and I received an education in income disparities — $US5 a day for porters and $US10 for guides are standard rates. Our agent, who also owned the agency, had explained that $US70 for the trip did not allow her to make enough profit.

The pouring rain found a way into our tent through a hole above our feet making it impossible to sleep. In Santiago, we thought it would be clever to buy a double sleeping bag — less to carry and more space in our pack. Instead we both suffered from a wet sleeping bag and had to wake the other if one of us wanted to turn over. A gloomy overcast morning greeted us on the second and most gruelling day. Straight up all day until we reached, “The Dead Women’s Pass” at 4200m, the highest point of the trail and too high for habitation. The raging brown river and hamlets we had passed less than 24 hours previously were either thin lines or dots. It’s hard to imagine Francisco Pizzaro and his Spanish calvary, dressed in full medieval armour, riding through this tough terrain and defeating the most powerful empire in South America.

Another mud bath and more sheets of rain while we camped in full view of the horizontal trail leading into the clouds made the third night all the more torturous. By morning our mud bath had become a mud soup and at 6am we woke to an angry wall of cloud. Clouds add to the mysticism of the Incas. Only the trail in front was visible, everything below was a mystery. We passed watch towers that also acted as resting points for the nobles. Messengers who took long would have their hearts cut out of their live bodies.

A 4am wake up was needed for us to reach the sun gate by sunrise. Here you can view Machu Picchu for the first time, only a mere hours walk until you are amongst the ruins. The gods decided to be generous — sunshine broke through. Only llamas stood in the way, and they were content just to lick Argentinian boys.

One of the main advantages of walking the trail is having Machu Picchu to yourself for an hour, before the hordes of tourist buses wind their way up the mountain road. Strikingly, none of the temples or noble homes had doors, sun dials told priests what time of the day or year it was and irrigation channels ran down the sides of the streets. Construction consisted of simply fitting stones together. But there was one last Andean experience, the local train. We waited all day until a heavily listing Pullman car with no seats or room to breathe arrived. Finally, the lights of Cuzco were visible.