The bar was closed, the tabs had been paid, the shock of the accrued expenditure had been digested. My fellow passengers were tired and busied themselves by organizing an impressive array of loose possessions into expensive-looking travel bags.

This meant that the observation car was now empty.

That is, it was empty except for a German with a battle-worn Leica-camera, who was swearing prolifically to himself after checking each exposure. He allowed himself the briefest of interruptions to utter an indistinct ‘hello’, before resuming his snapping – and cursing.

The sky was deep blue, and the horizon was turning yellow. The last light of the day reflected off the top of the rail tracks that curved gently into the distance. This was a good hour to be alive, this was a good hour for photography.

But not for the German.

My journey across the Peruvian altiplano on the Titicaca train continued.

No trip to Peru, I was told, would be complete without experiencing the national dish of Cuy – Guinea Pig. Peruvians preemptively go to great lengths to assure people that the Cuy is NOT a rat. Deliberately misquoting Shakespeare, I venture to say ‘the Peruvians doth protest too much, methinks’.

Anyone who has ever eaten anything ‘exotic’ like dogs or snakes or human flesh, invariably says that it tastes ‘much like chicken’. Cuy is no exception to this rule. Served deep-fried, it does taste like chicken. Only it has a million tiny bones and next to no meat at all.

I had ordered Cuy in a Cusco restaurant and had much preferred it if they would have told me that it was a small, bony chicken. To remove the memory of the deep-fried rat I had just eaten, I ordered another national speciality: a Pisco Sour.

Now that was a different story; here was something I could put my name to. Having completed the first, I proceeded to down three of its siblings until the rat in my stomach was a pleasantly distant memory.

The rear carriage on the Titicaca Train is the bar and observation car. In the afternoon, it was announced that a drink-mixing demonstration would be given here and that they would teach us how to make a proper Pisco Sour.

Thinking that this was something I might want to learn to later be able to show off at a party, I made my way to the rear of the train.

Here I learned that a Pisco Sour consists of:
44 ml (1 1/2 oz) Pisco (Peruvian liquor)
1 Egg white (!)
30 ml (1 oz) Lemon Juice
20 ml (3/4 oz) Simple syrup

As I comprehended ingredient number three, I momentarily experienced tunnel vision. Not only had I eaten deep-fried rat, but I had also washed it down with no less than three raw eggs.

It was good, then, that this carriage doubled as an observation deck where it was possible to get some fresh air.

This is the view I enjoyed while I reevaluated my life-choices over the three previous days.

About midway between Cusco and Puno, the Titicaca train makes a stop at La Raya, the highest point on the route at 4 313 m.a.s.l. 

The scenery was beautiful. It was now as Peruvian as scenery could be. It was Peru, as it is sold by travel magazines. The conifers from the lower altitudes had given way to an open, treeless moor bordered by high mountains on either side.

The train stop consisted of a small, open-air market where low-quality things could be had at high-quality prices. Next to the market stood a small, white chapel with a red tile roof. In front of it all, the blue and yellow train-carriages extended into the distance. It was irresistibly photogenic. I just needed to get a bit further away to frame it. 

My fellow passengers believed in souvenirs over photos. If you returned from a journey without souvenirs, who could say where you had been? Souvenirs were reliable evidence. That much of the ‘evidence’ was manufactured in the People’s Republic of China did not matter.

What little energy I consumed this day, I spent when I heard the whistle indicating the imminent departure of my train. I was at this time about half a kilometre away, busy with my tripod and lenses.

Having been deprived of shopping for most of the day, the other passengers were much refreshed by the souvenir-shopping-therapy. Heavily laden but happy, they had returned to the train unbeknownst to me.

A mixed cocktail of unwelcome questions ran through my mind as I tried to assemble my gear and scramble to catch the train:

• First, who else could I blame for this?
• Second, would it still be worth catching my train, if doing so would break my photo-gear?
• Third, was there any accommodation at La Raya?
• Fourth, would it be possible to get a ticket on the next train?
• Fifth, was there any other transport available?
• Sixth, what would happen to my luggage arriving in Puno without me? Lonely Planet had stated, in no uncertain terms, that things not adequately looked after, quickly found new owners in Puno.

As it happened, none of the questions needed to be answered. I was, however, the last passenger to board.

Travelling by train up the valleys and across the high plain between Cusco and Puno is a slow business. It takes every minute out of ten and a half hours.

It is, however, designed to be a slow business. And to be enjoyed as such.

At the beginning of the journey, people were highly strung and excited about everything that passed by the train windows.

I could hear dirty laundry being described as authentic by my fellow passengers. Later the same adjective was being applied to a short, stout elderly lady having a coughing fit that was second only to the sound of the engine.

Ready with their cameras, tablets and phones, I would guess the passengers in my carriage alone created ~500 Gb of data in the first hour after departure.

While the magnificence of the landscape increased rather than subsided, we gradually became accustomed to the scenery. People laid the cameras aside, and the conversations became more mundane. Soon Sudoku magazines, books and tablets appeared.

While the engine worked its way along the valley, the landscape kept calling for more photos, but we had become deaf.

For a long time, the train followed the Urubamba River. This river had been my companion since I arrived in Ollantaytambo, but today our ways would part.

As it had done in the Sacred Valley, the Urubamba for me evoked images of Alaska rather than of Peru. But now, after having seen it, perhaps forever it shall be the other way around.

I sat and looked at the landscape that was rolling by for a long time. Then I, too, descended into my book.

I had just installed myself in my seat on board the Perurail Titicaca Train in Cusco. My carriage was elegant with wooden panels, white table cloths and plush seating. It exuded an air of elegance long gone from modern travel.

My fellow passengers offered a compelling reminder that this was, after all, modern travel. While old-world travellers dressed to code, today’s lot believe in ‘individuality’, i.e. something like being normal without being average.

Expressing your individuality is hard work, particularly if you do not have one. But this obstacle can be overcome; you can buy one.

Those who trade in this commodity are known collectively as ‘the fashion industry’.

Contrary to all evidence, the fashion industry tells us that a shirt is SO MUCH MORE than a garment. It is an expression of the inner self. Possibly not YOUR inner self – but at least someone’s inner self. Likely that someone is better looking, wealthier, and more famous than you. Buy the brand, and those properties will magically trickle down onto you.

All you have to do is say that you bought whatever it is that you are wearing because it ‘spoke to you’. And voila, you are an individual, just like the rest of us.

I don’t grudge people their ‘individuality’, but I lament the effect it has on my photos. Is it too much to ask to take a single image without a screaming neon-coloured garment in it? On the flip side, I ruined their pictures, as much as they did mine.

And they were a friendly lot.

Many of us had sold a kidney and an eyeball to afford the exorbitant rate of the ticket. Common ground is a good start when individuals come together.

Half an hour into the journey, I took this photo along the Urubamba River. This had all the bearings of becoming a good day.

But then the panflute players arrived. This turned out only to be an intermediate purgatory before descending into the real hell of a fashion show.

A few passengers, such as had had their better judgement clouded by altitude-sickness or romance, made expensive purchases. This proved sufficient for the ordeal to come to an end.

Where was I?

Ah, yes: this had all the bearings of becoming a good day…

Visitors to Cusco will have been offered a day-trip to Mount Vinicunca, popularly known as the ‘Rainbow Mountain’. While technically possible, doing this in one day requires the sacrifice of significant human comfort.

For one, you will have to be ready outside your hotel at 3:30 AM. The only circumstance when it is acceptable to be up at that time is if you haven’t yet gone to bed.

Second, the trip was sold on the premise of a small, intimate group that offered unique access to the guide. Once in the minibus, you will find that the intimacy extends to full lateral body contact with the person next to you. You will also find that the person limit was determined by the capacity of the bus.

Third, it is a significant hike to get to the vantage point where you can take the photo you saw on the wall at the agency. Except, when you are there, it will have twenty social media influencers with selfie-sticks right in front of you. Weather matters – and only the combination of blue sky, sunshine and Photoshop can produce the photos from the brochure.

Fourth, the elevation of the Rainbow Mountain is about 5 200 m.a.s.l. Anyone feeling ‘under the weather’ in Cusco’s is unlikely to feel better up here.

The reasons not to go are many but had I had a day to spare, I would have ignored them all for the chance to go.

Sadly I hadn’t, and therefore didn’t.

Instead, I went to Saqsaywaman, an archaeological site within walking distance of Plaza de Armas in Cusco. Or, in my case, within Uber distance.

The Inca built many impressive structures. Machu Picchu holds a disproportionate place in our consciousness, making it easy to overlook the rest. Saqsaywaman, a massive fortress structure on a hill above Cusco.
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Here, I came across a rock face that, albeit less impressive than the sales photo of Rainbow mountain, nonetheless had a distinctive colour pattern. And that pattern is what I am sharing with you today: the poor planner’s Rainbow Mountain.