The Straight Story

David Lynch aficionados will understand the reference to his film of the same name. Having made many films with twisted, arty plots, full of mystery and intrigue, and having become famous for leaving his audience still trying to work out what happened after the final credits had finished rolling, he made what he called The Straight Story, which was a simple, straight forward...story.

This is my 'straight blog'. Sometimes there are no deep reflections or comparisons to be made. Sometimes, like today, its just, well, a really nice day.

We walk into town and take a 'collectivo', similar to a 'micro' in Bolivia, to Moray, a famous archeological site, where the Incas were believed to have cultivated plants requiring many different soils, altitudes and temperatures - all on the same site, through an ingenious system of terraced planters, set into a natural 'bowl' in the earth.

Even the journey is beautiful, snow capped mountains in the distance, surrounded by green hills and tiny villages. Llamas and sheep cross the road, driven by shepherds with sticks. There are no dogs or whistles, and barely any need for a swishing of the stick. Donkeys pass, loaded so totally with hay that they look like walking haystacks. A small boy tries to ride a rather disgruntled looking sheep. Our driver points out the highest mountains.

"That is Veronica," he says, "that is Chica."

When we arrive at Moray we need to take a taxi from the dropping point to the actual Moray site. We ate considering walking but luckily we bump into another couple of female travellers, and one of those brilliantly forthright girls who simply take charge, sort everything out, and allow everyone else to tag along in their brightly efficient, perfectly confident wake. She is all this without any accompanying arrogance and so we are all happy to do everything she tells us. She negotiates us a cheap taxi ride from here to Moray, then from Moray to the Salineras de Maras (salt pools - also a clever Inca design), and back to the start. We cram into the taxi, four into the back and one lucky person, in the front and rumble our way along what M and I now see, would have been a hot and arduous road to walk on.

Moray is stunning. The terraced grass is supported by perfectly preserved incan stone walls, with steps at intervals made of longer stones set at right angles, to help the incan farmer to move between terraces. The preservation is impressive, as is the original idea, but the green hills to one side, snow covered, sharp looking mountains to the other, and occasional conch call in the distance (probably less romantic than it sounds and being used by a tour guide to summon his entourage), add to its beauty.

We squeeze ourselves back into our taxi and are driven to the Salineras de Moras. These, as I have said above, are small pools of very salty water, the salty water being provided by nature, in this case, streams of warm, natural salt solution from the mountain, and the pools being cleverly dug by the Incas in small square shallow indentations, similarly terraced, down the mountainside, being fed by small 'moats' to channel the water. Once in the pools of course the water begins to evaporate and the salt can be scooped out into seives, dried and harvested. It's ingenious.

It's also stunning - and rather fun. Stunning because the relative silence, ability to lose yourself among the pools and away from other tourists, and sound of trickling water is tranquil and calming. Also because from the top of the mountain, pausing to look down at the Salineras, we can see the glinting blue stream in the bottom of the valley, the bright white of the crusted salt around the lip of each pool and the green and white mountains surrounding, towering over the tiny, llama bespotted village in the bottom.

Fun, because the way you get around once you reach the Salineras, is to balance precariously on the narrow lip between each one. There are a few narrow escapes but, unlike some of our adventures in Toro Toro, the worst that could happen is that one of us might get a rather salty foot.

We load ourselves back into our taxi, now with the addition of a seventh person riding in the boot, are dropped at the main bus stop and cram ourselves into the main bus that serves Moray and Cusco. It's standing g room only, women with babies half falling out of slings balance carefully, people sleep, wedge themselves half on seats and wobble precariously with the bus as it wends its way back to Cusco.

We finish the day with an enormous vegan meal in our favourite (so far) eating stall, and a glass of wine in front of the fire in our bungalow with our amazing host Mary, who discusses materialism, spirituality and whether European children are spoilt with us until all our eyes are closing and we bid Mary goodnight and fall into bed.

It's just a perfect day. And, if I am going to go down the rather cheesy route of quoting rather cheesy pop songs (which it appears I am), I am glad I spent it with the people I did.