Sold down the river

A maniac guide turns a gentle paddle into a lung-busting ordeal, writes Rob McFarland.

'More power, more power," Orlando screams from the back of the raft. "That's easy for you to say, mate," I think to myself as I plunge my oar back into the icy water. "You're not paddling."

We make it through the swirling rapids to some calmer water on the other side and I double up over my paddle and gulp in lungfuls of oxygen-deprived air.

White-water rafting at 3000 metres is hard work. To be honest, doing anything at 3000 metres is hard work. At this altitude a flight of stairs can reduce you to a gasping wreck, so a white-water rafting trip might not seem the ideal way to spend an afternoon. But it's one of the best ways of taking in the majestic scenery around Cusco, a region in Peru that's famous for its soaring tree-covered mountains and ancient Inca ruins.

Unfortunately, only one other person in Cusco felt the same way, so there are just the two of us on today's tour. Which would be fine if we were in a kayak. But we're in an eight-person raft. And our guide – a sinewy local by the name of Orlando – is a maniac.

There were ominous clues right from the start. When we arrive at the launching point and unload the raft, it becomes apparent Orlando has forgotten the pump. (This actually takes quite a while to ascertain because he speaks very little English and we eventually get there via a lengthy game of charades. A book? A film? One syllable? Rhymes with hump?)

So we wait with the raft while he goes off to get one. An hour passes and we start to speculate that perhaps pumps have been banned in Peru and he's been forced to drive to Bolivia.

Ninety minutes later, he returns and begins inflating the raft with a hand pump. The process takes almost an hour. At the time I felt quite sorry for him, but if I'd known what was to come later I would have taken great delight in crouching next to him, screaming "more power, more power".

We launch into the murky-brown, fast-flowing waters of the Urubamba River and start paddling. Well, the other guy and I start paddling. Orlando is steering because he needs to conserve his energy so he can continuously scream "more power, more power" like a US drill sergeant.

After 20 minutes I honestly think I'm going to die. I'm so breathless, I'm dizzy. Every time we stop paddling for so much as a nanosecond, Orlando roars at us to start again.

Just when I think I'm going to throw up if I take another stroke, we round a corner and the river widens. The water is calmer and Orlando indicates that we can put down our paddles. I lie gasping on the side of the raft as we drift downstream and gaze up at the mist-engulfed mountains all around.

Just visible is Ollantaytambo, an Inca settlement constructed in the 15th century. To build these incredible mountain-top citadels, the Incas moved blocks of stone, weighing about 70 tonnes, over huge distances and testing terrain. Historians are still baffled as to how they managed it, but in my mind it's clear: one of Orlando's ancestors must have been in charge.