As the afternoon drew on, the Titicaca Train slowed down as it passed through the city of Juliaca.

I have spent much of my working life around urban planners. Many of these are architects and like to wear black polo neck sweaters and shroud themselves in a mist of obscure terminology. They love words like ‘arcology’, ‘conurbation’, ‘ekistics’ and ‘strollology’.

When people invariably ask what these words mean, they like to repeat the offending term with a francophone inflexion and an air of supreme condescension.

Urban planners do not much like ordinary people. Still, they accept their existence on the premise that without them, there would be no urban areas to plan. Ordinary people do not particularly like urban planners either. This becomes manifest at social get-togethers, where planners often are left to themselves.

While urban planners like to think of themselves as artists and cities as their canvases, more often than not, the town under planning preceded the planner by several centuries. By the time the urban planner arrived, the only art that remained was to make the best of a bad situation. That, however, can be a quite useful skill.

Juliaca, a city famed for its illicit trade and high crime rates, had enough of a bad situation to have profited from the services of any number of urban planners.

It is estimated that billions worth (USD) of smuggled cocaine and gold comes through here annually and that 60% of the residents, directly or indirectly, are involved in the trade. Still, most of them lead impoverished lives.

Crime pays – but for most involved, not very much.

The only remaining vacant land in Juliaca was the rail track. This was, however, only required when there was a train around, which wasn’t very often.

Juliaca’s inhabitants, therefore, had decided that this was a suitable location for an open-air market. The track was lined with stalls, and the swills between the rails were used for fruit, vegetable and raw meat displays.

As the train passed through the city, stalls were temporarily dismantled only to be reassembled after the last car had passed.

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.

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…