Forget Paddington: Peru comes properly to life on a trip with Belmond

En vogue right now due to Paddington, Peru is best seen by train, especially a Belmond train, writes Alexandra Pereira, who went on a pilgrimage in memory of her late friend

A ruby-red Gothic typeface on the front of a bus adjacent to mine glows against the cornflower blue skies overhead as we creep into Cusco centre. None of the public buses match. Nothing here is matching. The famous, garish, neon-flecked woollen textiles, the building facades, the loose beauty of everything in sight versus the strange tightness in my chest. I’m succumbing to altitude sickness but I don’t quite know it yet.

I’m in Peru to celebrate a few things, and none of them have anything to do with a jovial bear who’s en vogue right now. It’s the 25 year anniversary of travel titan Belmond’s presence. Having germinated in the 1970s, they’re a group whose residences and trains span from Sicily to Iguazu Falls and many places far and wide in-between, but most renowned, most whispered about and lauded, are their Peruvian voyages and properties in sacred destinations. To be here and share my adventures is an immense privilege. To be here at all is too; a close friend of mine died here in Cusco some 15 years ago. I’m also here to celebrate her.

Fresh off the short flight from Lima – on which I’m seated between a sculpted, contoured Brazilian influencer and her young assistant, who pass ginormous altitude pills over me, which I soon wished I’d pilfered – I check into the 117-room Monasterio, the eerie-elegant 16th century priestly stay a coin’s toss from the main square. My four-poster feels haunted, shutters onto the courtyard opening to reveal a spit roasting hog, a weaver and loom, and staff scurrying about preparing for the Inti Raymi celebrations.

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A handful of international guests are here for the weekend’s birthday festivities, which coincide with the ancient Incan holy ceremony of the Sun God. As winter solstice is nigh, Peruvians the nation over honour the potency of the sun. Rites and rituals include sacrifices, dancing, and costumes.

Strangers are heady with the sudden altitude, having gone from the coastal capital’s 161m above sea level to Cusco’s astonishing 3,399m. Next door from the monastery is the 55-roomed Palacio Nazarenas, another Belmond spot where the cocktails are flowing (note; muna tea is cleverer than martinis when acclimatising – I learned the hard way). The pool is cobalt blue and the vibe is good. Adored chef Pia Leon heads up the kitchen at the restaurant and we enjoy a lunch of trout and flowers and other lively fresh things that don’t rely on meat and stodge.

Woozy and tired, I’m gassed to discover the bedrooms at each hotel have oxygen-rich air pumped in, with extra oxygen tanks available. During one particularly challenging hour, I am even blessed by a visit from guest relations manager Edson, who came from a family of shamans – although does not claim to be one himself – and performed a light, contact-free cleansing ritual on my temples, throwing my sickness into the corner of the room. I attend the evening party, opting for an early night in preparation for my pilgrimage to Machu Picchu to honour my late friend. She never made it there, caught up in a bike accident somewhere in the Sacred Valley.

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I’m on the train. I’m plagued with morbid anxieties after a sleepless night but am nonetheless excited for my UNESCO day (Belmond has a deftness for pairing historical properties alongside World Heritage sites across the world).

They even send a doctor onboard with us to help the altitude weaklings. The moment we climb down towards the lower Sacred Valley to Aguas Calientes I feel much better. I promised myself I wouldn’t harp on about Machu Picchu given how many have trodden its landscape before me.
Aboard the Hiram Bingham train – all brass and leather and flickering technicolour tableaux whizzing by – my senses return and I revel in the sharp fragrance of ceviche in citrus marinade tiger’s milk and pisco sours in ceramic goblets.

A mother and baby dance to the live band at the rear observation deck car. Everyone is introducing themselves and singing and dancing as we meander through cliffs, thundering waterfalls, sleepy farms with curious cows, climbers, workers, ancient streams, and dusty towns.

Once we reach the 15th century citadel itself we join the extended gaggle of global tourists heading up for their Wonder of the World moment, 2,430m above sea level and nestled deep within a rainforest.

Being a Hiram Bingham passenger also gets you a private tour with a local guide, who regales us with stories of this lost city of temples and villages.

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Perhaps dealt an encouraging hand from the altitude and the onboard buzz, I felt the presence of my friend who was bound for this place, this strange green and grey puzzle of life gone by.
The next day, back in Cusco, I’m leaning out of Japanese-Peruvian restaurant Limo’s town square-facing window with a former Miss Peru. After sharing her herbal tonic with me, we snack on nikkei and await the spectacle before us.

Peruvian fusion

Fusion cuisine is one of Peru’s greatest offerings. A large swathe of 19th century Japanese immigrants to South America took advantage of the rugged coastline along the capital and created sushi with Latin accents; citrus and aji chilli laced fish tacos; ceviche and giant corn chirashi bowls; sashimi-adjacent tiradito.

Suddenly, drums roll and scores of robed, painted and crowned characters fill the square below in an altogether bonkers sequence that draws gasps and glee from the thousands of onlookers.

Families are out in their hundreds, babies cloaked in sturdy sun hats under umbrellas as the fierce winter solstice sun burns down. People are dressed as pilgrims and courtspeople and animals, all worshipping the incoming Inti Raymi sun god.

The god – I wonder what the auditions look like to play God each year – is carried up to a high throne. Later, huffing on some tasty oxygen in my room, I flick on the TV to see other cities across Peru celebrating him with their chosen casting. He is different everywhere, commanding, handsome, serious. His queen is equally stern and awesome. It is a marvellous sight.

Coming down from Cusco, I honour the terrain that has been so impressively blessed before my eyes and take a couple of days quietly exploring the Sacred Valley’s expanse.
There’s the salt mine of Maras, which look like giant slabs of brie, where women dressed in traditional Andrean pollera dress of layer-cake skirts and top hats sell salt, chocolate and ponchos. Then there’s the massive, plunging, amphitheatre-like agricultural terracing of the Incan ruins of Moray.

Before flying home I quietly meditate on everything that’s happened at perhaps the most spirited and sensual of all Belmond’s residences. My thoughts turn once more to my friend: the thought of her staying here for eternity is strangely comforting.

Visit Peru yourself

To book this trip go to Belmond.com/south-america/peru