The Best Way to See Peru Is by Luxury Train — How to Plan Your Trip

Over the wail of the train’s brakes, a guitarist burst into song, his voice clear and mellow. The beat of a drum brought a group of Ecuadorian passengers to their feet, hips curving, shoulders spinning, belted ponchos flaring. Deftly twisting between two women in fedora hats, a waiter handed me a pisco sour. I turned to lean over the railing of the observation car, feeling the sun warm my cheeks as it strobed through passing eucalyptus trees. Behind us, the tracks shrank in the distance. A woman and child waved as they walked through the dust that billowed in our wake, bemused at the sight of this party train clacking through a village flanked by cornfields.

I was on board the Hiram Bingham, a Belmond Train, which winds northwest from the city of Cuzco, through the Sacred Valley and down toward Machu Picchu — a 47-mile journey that’s impossible by road. Named after the explorer who rediscovered the lost Inca citadel in 1911, the train was now rocking through the greater Cuzco region, and the band was picking up pace. 

Though I’ve written three books on railways around the world, my adventures had never brought me to South America. The continent lacks a contiguous network, making it difficult to plan ambitious journeys by rail. Now, unable to resist the highland wildlife, and the might of the Andes mountains, I’d decided to explore Peru in style. I began with a one-day round-trip on the Hiram Bingham, followed by two nights aboard the Andean Explorer, another Belmond Train, which would take me from Cuzco up to the lofty shores of Lake Titicaca, before finishing in Arequipa.

Picking my way between the dancers, I swayed back through the string of 1920s-style carriages to my seat, nervous at the sight of crystal glassware trembling on linen tablecloths. An hour into the journey, canyon walls appeared on either side of the tracks and prickly pears with egglike fruits began to loom beneath my window. 

I looked around at the carriage’s polished wooden walls, brass fixtures, and tiny table lamps. Behind me, a group of Italians plowed through cocktails, bemoaning their country’s political situation. Some passengers read quietly in corners, stopping to glance up at the snow sparkling on Mount Nevado Verónica, while others side-eyed a Brazilian influencer perfecting her pout for the camera.

During a lunch of silky-soft pork belly, quinoa, and creamed choclo corn — all products of the Sacred Valley — we passed into jungle. The sun became hotter, and Spanish moss stroked the roof of the train. As I scoured the scenery, I was reminded of the unique access train travel offers into other people’s private lives. I saw a mother drying tiny undershirts on a line; a child on a makeshift swing; a laborer soothing his donkey. Small shrines appeared on rocks, with flowers arranged in empty bottles. Who had placed them there, and what had they wished for? 

As lunch was cleared away and champagne coupes were refilled, I realized I was in danger of dozing off. Wobbling back to the observation car, I found a fellow passenger standing at the railing, her eyes closed, her chin raised toward the light. I learned that she was Diana Evans, a novelist from the U.K. “I needed this peace,” she said over the roar of the Urubamba River in the valley below. “I could stand here all day.” 

Three porters appeared on the tracks behind us, carrying bags for Inca-trail trekkers: a sign that we were approaching our destination. Tubular cantuta flowers sailed by at arm’s length, fiery orange bells heralding our arrival in the town of Aguas Calientes, the Hiram Bingham’s final stop and the gateway to Machu Picchu.

On the short bus ride from the town up to the citadel, I realized why this stronghold of the Inca empire had remained hidden from Spanish colonizers for so long — and why Bingham had needed the help of Indigenous Peruvians to find it. Trees grew horizontally from creeper-covered cliffs as a slow, corkscrew route delivered the bus to a shaded plateau. On foot, our group approached the entrance to the UNESCO World Heritage site, edging along in single file. I held my breath. Rock walls closed in, cool to the touch, before we emerged to a sight that felt familiar, yet singular enough to give me goose bumps. 

There was the Lost City of the Incas: the perfectly groomed terraces sloping down toward a valley and a sea of forested hills. Above us, small temples were bathed in bright afternoon light. We toured the grounds with a guide, Fátima Silverio Carbajal, who explained that the story of Machu Picchu continues to unfold. The Incas documented little, leaving it to the Spanish to decipher what they could. Even the name means nothing more intriguing than “Old Mountain” in Quechua, the Inca language. 

Our guide explained that the emperor Pachacuteq built the temple city around 1450, in an attempt to expand his empire. The location was strategic, she said, as it links the Andes with the Amazon jungle; Machu Picchu was likely used as a base for political and religious control. The citadel is thought to have housed a population of around 500 royals, philosophers, astronomers, and climate scientists — all of whom had been involved in designing and organizing the project. It was also where the Incas paid homage to the power of Pachamama, the earth mother. Worshiped as the provider of food and shelter, Pachamama is believed to inhabit the mountains and bring about every natural phenomenon, from causing earthquakes to rustling the leaves on the trees. 

While our guide talked, viscachas — Peruvian chinchillas — scurried atop the walls and a quartet of wild llamas gathered on one of the lawns. The sun began to drop. Shadows lengthened and slid up the walls like specters, and a chill descended on the temples. I had drifted away from the group and now, alone in the silence, I imagined the Incas there, honoring their sun god, Inti. The faint hoot of a train rose up from the valley. I took one last look across at the clouds that hung like halos around the surrounding peaks before turning to make my way back down toward the train. 

At 11,152 feet, Cuzco is at an altitude high enough to trigger headaches, nausea, and shortness of breath. But my second train trip, on the Andean Explorer, was going to go even higher, traveling from Cuzco up to the southeastern city of Puno, on the shore of Lake Titicaca — the highest navigable lake in the world. 

To acclimatize, I spent a couple of nights in Cuzco, where I stayed at two Belmond hotels: Monasterio and Palacio Nazarenas. These sit side by side on Plazoleta de las Nazarenas, a Spanish-colonial square abuzz with market stalls, where elderly women bottle-fed baby alpacas as a treat for curious tourists. I wandered the cobblestoned streets slowly, feeling the thinness of the air in my lungs. I petted dogs in tiny ponchos, thumbed woven bracelets, and watched the theater of shoppers haggling for blankets, throws, and belts. Each was patterned and dyed with the natural colors of the Andes: red made from cochineal, orange from lime salt, and yellow from the q’olle flower. I marveled at what I thought were Pride flags hanging from windows, but learned that they were, in fact, Inca flags — the rainbow a reminder that we all come from the earth and return to it. The spirit of Pachamama guiding us at every turn.

After two days in Cuzco, on a bright but chilly morning, I boarded the Andean Explorer before it rumbled out of Wanchaq station. At first, the train ran parallel with the traffic on a main road, so close to fruit and vegetable vendors that I could see the purple potatoes in their sacks. But within an hour we had shaken off the city and were rolling past the Inca ruins of Tipón. Their stairlike andenes, or terraces, were built to create microclimates that enabled the Incas to experiment with hybrid cereals and crops — one reason why Peru today produces more than 3,000 varieties of potato. An ancient irrigation system is still in use and a stream of water ran alongside the train, twinkling as it caught the midday sun. 

As I made my way to the dining car, the soft tones of a quena, the traditional flute of the Andes, played over the train’s speakers. Waiters placed napkins on our laps, stepping neatly around one another in the close confines of the carriage. I speared lime-soaked ceviche made with cubes of corvina, a buttery fish, mellowed by the sweetness of local corn. The smack of ají, a red chile, set off the freshness of each flavor. 

I glanced around at the wall hangings, woven on looms, and the soft, comfortable leather seats. Over the past 14 years I’ve ridden on a handful of luxury trains around the world and had recently traveled from Venice to Paris on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, another Belmond Train. For all the tuxedos, Prosecco, and lacquered walls on that journey, I’d felt alone, as each party dined in its self-contained space. 

But there was something about the Andean Explorer that made me feel instantly at home. Maybe it was because the train was only at half capacity, but over the course of our two-day journey, all the passengers bonded like a family, slouching against bright cushions and playing dominoes over pisco sours. I swapped stories across the aisle with Johann and Margarita Espiritu, a Filipino couple celebrating their silver wedding anniversary; later, in the bar, I discussed Scottish whisky distilleries with a large party of Indian retirees from Missouri, who take a big trip together every year.

At dusk the clouds turned pink and the peaks of the Vilcanota mountain range softened, as if dusted with cocoa. Lights from villages flickered on in the folds of the slopes and the last of the orange sun reflected in streams running beside the train, making the ground look alive with tiny fires.

During dinner my en-suite cabin had been transformed into a low-lit, cozy bedroom. The duvet was folded back, slippers had been placed by the bed, and a hot-water bottle with a knitted cover nestled against the pillows. I turned in early, in preparation for our dawn arrival at Lake Titicaca. Switching off the light, I lifted the blind and saw that we were out of the mountains and crawling through the city of Juliaca. I’d often wondered how scenic a night train could really be, given that it would pass through darkness. During daylight hours, I had been spoiled by the glorious vision of valleys and roaring rivers, townships scattered across hilltops, and alpacas skipping through grass. Now I had to work to scour the scene outside my window, squinting as I spied Catholic altars in a family home, smokers in a doorway, a chef hosing pans in an alley. Each sight was a tiny reward.

At 5 a.m. I woke with a start and pulled up the blind to reveal a violet sky. The train had stopped overnight at Puno station so we could have an uninterrupted night’s sleep. I could feel the carriage rocking as passengers disembarked to watch the sunrise. I wrapped an alpaca blanket over my pajamas and hopped down onto the platform, shivering as I walked the length of the train to the edge of Lake Titicaca, which shimmered like molten metal. Shuffling around and sipping muña tea, the passengers murmured to one another, but suddenly fell silent when the sunrise created an explosion of light on the horizon, which was reflected in the stillness of the water. 

We were now at 12,500 feet. The altitude made my arms feel heavy and my temples tight, but the view and the Andean mint tea soon soothed my symptoms. As the sky lightened, the sound of traffic rose in the distance, and I turned to board the train for breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent on boat excursions across the lake to the Uros and Taquile islands. The Uros are small floating islands made from compacted reeds, built and inhabited by the members of the Indigenous Uros community. Being on one of them felt a little like sitting on a bale of hay in the middle of a small barnyard. Around the edge was a ring of small cottages, in which six families lived. I looked around the tiny island and asked where the children were. At school, I was told, on a separate island nearby. 

Another short boat ride took us to Taquile, a large island with a community of around 2,200, most of whom are weavers. While other Andean Explorer passengers shopped for woven gloves, hats, and shawls, I wandered down to where the clear water of the lake lapped the sand, then clambered up to the highest vantage point above the beach. The water sparkled as if strewn with diamonds. I could have been on the Mediterranean, but as I looked into the distance, I saw the ripple of the Bolivian Andes and remembered I was sitting on top of the world.

That night I lay in the grass on a hill overlooking Lake Saracocha, where the train had stopped so we could enjoy a full night’s rest. Below me, the train stretched out like a snake in the grass. The wind whispered across the water. I wondered, Could it be the voice of Pachamama, the Incan earth mother? This pocket in the mountains felt like a secret, one that only a journey by rail could reveal. 

The following morning, after another spectacular sunrise, we clattered on toward Arequipa. I returned to my happy place, the observation platform at the tail of the train. With a final pisco sour in hand, I stared down into canyons as we curled along viaducts, spotting vicuña camouflaged against the grass. 

On our descent into the city, the Andean Explorer turned onto a wide arc of track. Rising up in the distance was the majestic El Misti, a dormant volcano with a crater hollowed out by the power of previous explosions. Gradually, the train slowed into the traffic and the crowds of Arequipa. I looked around the carriage. None of the passengers spoke, but many wore sad smiles as we all looked back at the Andes fading into the haze. With them, we all knew, went the spirit of Pachamama. 

Hiram Bingham, a Belmond Train

Travel the 47 miles from Cuzco to Machu Picchu and back again in one luxurious day. Tickets include lunch and dinner on the train and tea at Sanctuary Lodge, a Belmond Hotel, Machu Picchu, plus entrance to the site and a guided tour.

Andean Explorer, a Belmond Train 

Over the course of two days and two nights, this glamorous sleeper service goes from Cuzco to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, before ending in the city of Arequipa. The bunk-bed cabins all have en suite bathrooms.

Monasterio, a Belmond Hotel, Cusco 

Immerse yourself in the culture of Cuzco at this hotel set in a former monastery. Though just steps from busy Plazoleta de las Nazarenas, the cloistered courtyard is an oasis.

Palacio Nazarenas, a Belmond Hotel, Cusco 

Set in a 17th-century nunnery next door to Monasterio, this property offers in-suite oxygen enrichment to help guests acclimatize.

A version of this story first appeared in the November 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “A Ticket To the Top of the World.”