That November holiday

            Thanksgiving has always held a very special place in my heart. It's the one holiday where family and friends can gather in the glee of celebration, eat, drink and be merry, without the pressure of having gifts to buy. It's a form of Christmas that replaces greed with that other favorite...gluttony. Hey, none of us are perfect. The holiday season is really the only time of the year when I wish I owned a large home. I've always imagined celebrating the holidays in the likes of one of my favorite holiday movies, Christmas Vacation. The Griswold's had the right idea, even though things went slightly askew, they were still together through the ups and downs, that come with the holidays and large family gatherings. One day I'd like to have my parents, all of my brothers, their significant others, nieces, nephews and all our dogs and cats fighting under the same roof, spending the entire week of Thanksgiving and Christmas running around the various rooms and hallways of the house without a real care in the world for those two weeks. Unfortunately, that time was not now and my little one bedroom apartment can only hold so many people at once. With my oldest brother awaiting to have his second child any day now and my two youngest brothers tied to work so soon before and after the Thanksgiving holiday, it just wasn't going to be the holiday we have made a tradition of putting together every year, or the one I imagine having one day. This year, it was going to be a quiet little gathering held on the fourth floor of my humble little abode with me, my parents, their overweight Pomeranian, uncle Tony and my territorial cat Gizmo.

            For the last two days before Thanksgiving, I had been cleaning the fur balls that were beginning to follow me like tumbleweeds across the living room whenever I walked past and carefully pulling out the holiday decorations from the jenga stack in my closet, praying it didn't all come tumbling over my head, burring me alive. Last year, I had my tree up before Thanksgiving and enjoyed its festive glow for two glorious months with no one judging my holiday cheer, but I was the only one who got to see it. This year I was going to be able to share it with my family who already knew how much I loved the holidays and would be expecting nothing less than a large tree and lights in every corner. I was excited to do something for my parents this year and give them a break from the responsibility of feeding a large crowd this time around. My mother still sweat over her delicious turkey and stuffing, which she lugged over in the same twelve serving amount, forgetting she was only feeding four of us this year, but I joyfully made the rest of our meal for the holiday. This was also my chance to prove my culinary skills to my father, the thirty-two year veteran cook and my lifelong, home cooking mother of four. Although I spent most of the day in the kitchen, it was such a heartwarming feeling to hear their voices in the other room. While I peeled sweet potatoes and stirred the green bean casserole, their voices floated into the room while the smell of roasting turkey swam through the air like potpourri. I've always loved cooking but I don't really get the chance to do it enough. It's a lot of work for just one person to eat, but when there are other people to feed, it's an opportunity to pull out those recipes I've been dying to try.

            In my little one bedroom apartment, my father, uncle, mother and I sat at the little table topped with a Thanksgiving feast my mother and I slaved over with all our love and strength for this moment. I wanted to freeze time and hold the image of us, of her, as well as she will ever be, and reminisce a little while longer before the meal was finished and the day was over. For over two years my mother has been sword fighting cancer and keeping it at bay with everything she has, but everyday she seems to wither a little more and I try to ignore it because there is nothing I can do. I find myself angry when I see her struggle with the little things sometimes and it takes everything I have not to take it out on the people I love, especially her. However, the anger slips out at times and she ignores my frustration, like I try to ignore her pain. However, her cancer was there, like an unwanted visitor in the room, sitting at the table with us and all I wanted to do was pour hot gravy over its lap and make it run for the hills, but I couldn't. What she struggles with is really only something she would know, because as far as the rest of us are aware, it's only what she chooses for us to see that we do. The world only gets to see her smile and carry on, ignorant to what she really struggles with inside. My father and I, close as we are to her, only get glimpses of her pain when it's more than she can bear and she lets her guard down. I'm just so grateful that my mother has a man like my father by her side. I have never seen a greater love with my own two eyes than that of my parents. They are my daily reminder and testament that true love really does exist. Stories such as The Notebook, had to come from somewhere, and if I had to compare any story to their own, that would be the one. If anyone in the world knew what my mother was thinking, it could only be my father. For as long as they've both been alive, you would always see one beside the other. After meeting as young teenagers in a strange new land, far from everything they had ever known, they found each other from across a room. From that day forward, they have never known the world without one beside the other. Through times of great celebration and great tragedy, they have dealt with each moment, hand and hand and side by side, and my father has been the Noah by her side from day one. When people tell me that love, like in the movies, doesn't exist, I can agree that it might not be that way anymore. However, it does still exist and my parents are the proof that anyone can see. They are the reason I hold out for "the one." If I never find that kind of love in my lifetime, then that's all right. But I just cannot settle for anything less than the kind of love that they share between each other. It's not always chocolates and roses, most of the time it isn't. However, it's what they do when the chocolates and roses are on back order that matter. Their last two years are what have mattered.

            As I sat across that little table with the loves of my life, I thanked God I had the parents that I do. My brothers and I never lacked for a single thing when we were growing up. Our home was always filled with so much laughter, warmth and love. We didn't have fancy things but we appreciated what we had because of that. How grateful was I in that moment that I had another Thanksgiving to celebrate with them together, only God really knew.

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That November Holiday

It's comfort like your favorite sweater, like being wrapped in a blanket, like slipping into a warm bath.

It's the colors, the enchanting glow of lights, sparkling from the corners of your eyes.

It's the anticipation of what is still to come.

It's seeing the faces that never let you down, the people who always welcome you with open arms.

It's the celebration of food that heart, hands and mind band to produce what will be savored by hungry souls, nearly frost bitten by the weathered world around them.

It's like growing backwards, like stepping into a dream. 

It's a crowded couch, a hope, a wonder, a sigh.

It's the one thing you cannot grasp hold of hard enough.

It's too short, a twinkle, precious time that feels the closest to what paradise might be like.

It's like that.

That moment.

That feeling.

That November holiday.

It's like that.

Day seven...Dancing with the devil

            There is always one moment in your life when you're grateful you have two working legs, air in your lungs and a beating heart in your body. After a harrowing bus ride winding through the scanty mountainside roads to the small village of Aguas Calientes, the speeding death trap we were in finally spit us out by the train station down town. I was very grateful for those things then, and I nearly kissed the glorious ground I stepped on in appreciation. While our wide eyed little group stood on the street corner surveying the village like school children on a field trip, our ever so friendly tour guide, Gerson, made one last tempting offer for us to join him at the hot springs, which the village was known for. Twirling his tongue around in his mouth and licking his lips while trying to convince me to rent a suit and join him, only made the ceviche I ate earlier, want to come back up and send me running in the other direction. He ended up going alone and Erica, Alister and I stayed behind to explore the town on our own instead. We had a few hours before the train took us back to Cusco, but Erica and I were in the same boat. Exposing ourselves to Gerson and a flock of others in a bathing suit did not sound very appealing to either of us, and Alister chose to stick with the girls.

            The town reminded me of Cancun in some areas, only without the beaches and a Margaritaville around the corner. It was very modern and touristy, compared to the other parts of Peru that I've seen so far. Restaurants and shops lined the narrow streets and alleyways where stray dogs ran between the children playing by the rushing Urubamba River running down the center of town along the train tracks. The air was warm and windless like a lazy, mid-summer day due to the small town being set deep within a valley, nestled in the arms of the Andes Mountains. It was a pretty setting, but it catered and depended on its tourists, so it was a mask of what Peru was really like. However, it was nice to see a part of Peru that wasn't struggling so much to survive. On a walk down a cobble stone street I spotted a young golden retriever that reminded me of my dog Luke. He passed away two years ago and this little guy was the spitting image of his younger self. Having found a plastic bottle to chew on, he slid his shaggy self down to rest his little paws in the shade when a young boy of about three walked over to the poor pup and rammed his ribs with a swift kick out of nowhere. I was standing in the center of the street waiting for Erica to finish a purchase when I witnessed this disturbing turn of events and the little punk went in for another round of kicking. I couldn't believe my eyes. With three adults in the shops nearby no one stopped this three-year-old child from kicking this helpless dog. I ran over and grabbed the boy’s foot before he made contact with the dog’s ribs again.

"No bueno! No!"

The little boy went on to mumble something about the dog taking something from him and he deserved a kick. I wanted to toss the little heathen in the river but that wouldn't have been too smart, since I was a white foreigner very much out of her domain. The sweet dog just sat there while the boy struggled to kick him one more time and I did the best I could to protect his shaggy body. Erica and Alister were by my side at this point, attempting to veer the boy to stop and change his wicked ways until one of the shopkeepers saw that we were making a fuss over the dog and finally told the boy to get away. Once he was out of sight the pup jumped down from the sidewalk and began to follow me down the street. I rubbed his ears and hoped he would be all right on his own. If I had a space and the authority I would have taken the little guy home with me. It broke my heart to keep walking away while he continued to follow behind, but eventually he found another bottle to chew on, sat himself down on a shady corner of the street and forgot all about us.

            A few hours later we were just plain tired and found ourselves a table to park ourselves while we waited for Gerson to get back. We sat under an awning drinking our Peruvian beer and Pisco sours while the rain began to sprinkle down on tracks beside us. A little while later Gerson showed up, hair moist and eyes a bloodshot around the edges and we finished our round before boarding our train. Either Gerson was extremely tired or he was on something you don't easily find in the States, and he wouldn't admit it, but he was just a little too California laid back and thick on the flirtations then he normally was, after his hot springs experience.

            The Vistadome train was like no other train ride experience I've ever had before then. The train itself looked like an Amtrak on the outside, but the inside was like sitting in the cabin of a jet plane and everything called the attention of all the senses at once. Besides the large picturesque windows on each side of the train, on the far right and left side of the roof were windows that ran from one end of the car to the other and gave everyone a panoramic view of the mountains on either side of the train no matter where you sat. On the speakers overhead, the soft and pleasing sounds of nature filled the air and the sent of fresh clean air sifted through our lungs. The train was so nice and clean I was afraid the sit in the seats and messy it all up. After the passengers were settled, the luxurious locomotive took off and my face was plastered to the window watching the rushing river follow us through the mountains. Beside me was Gerson, who managed to switch seats with another passenger so he could sit next to me, which I wouldn't have minded if he wasn't laying on the flirtations so much, but I was tired and I just wanted sit on the train looking out at the mountains in my thoughts.

            Before the sun had set over the valley of Aguas Calientes, some unexpected entertainment surprised its passengers, in the form of a devil that looked much like the muppet Animal. A man dressed from head to toe danced around the car in time to the beats of house music overhead while passengers clapped their approval. Of course, I was one of those fools clapping like an idiot. However, when the man began to pull random people out of their seats for a dance I sat back down and lowered the octave of my clapping so that I could blend into the background. It didn't work. Sitting halfway down the isle in mid picture snapping, the devil made an appearance by my seat extending his hand out to me for a dance and Gerson pulled me out before I could nod my head in denial a second time. There I was, dancing with the devil on a late night train to Cusco, story of my life. That wasn't the last of our entertainment, however. Before the devil took off for the night, the cabin crew decided to put on a fashion show for the passengers. They walked up and down the center isle, modeled various local trends made of alpaca and other wools of the area while the passengers whistled for the men and cheered for the girls. It was our very own episode of Top Model.

            After the show was over and before I had a chance to escape the train, Gerson asked me if would want to go out on the town with him after dropping Erica and Alister off. He wanted to show me the parts of Cusco that most people don't get to see. If Gerson was someone else, who's intentions were solely to do just that, I would have loved to spend my last night in Cusco through the eyes of a native. However, it was Gerson, and the only thing on his mind was getting in my pants and that was the last place on earth where I wanted him to be. So I tried to be as polite as I could about it and gave him the excuse of being tired, needing rest and a shower. I think the word shower was the only thing that he heard and apparently it was some sort of magical word for him because then the flood gates of his libido came on as thick as molasses and he suddenly didn't understand the meaning of "no." After a few minutes of listening to him plead, I was fed up with hearing myself speak in a language he no longer understood. So, I just pretended to fall asleep in my window seat until the train hissed to a stop. Thank God.

            From the moment we had slid into the van back to our hotels I prayed that I would be the first drop off so I wouldn't have to be left to deal with Gerson alone. With Erica and Alister in our presence Gerson wouldn't have had the courage to put the moves on me again. However, just as we were a block away from my hotel I heard Gerson tell the driver something in regards to dropping the others off first. Crap. I know exactly where this was heading. I've dealt with enough Latin men to know how this was going to go and I was pissed that he was putting me in this position. I really liked Gerson as a friend and he had been an excellent guide throughout our entire journey, up until we left Machu Picchu. Then he became something else entirely. I just don't understand what it is about these guys. You could say "no" a hundred different ways and they just keep on pushing you until a girl either gives in or slams a door in their face. Note to self guys: if a girl really likes you and wants to be pursued, it only takes ONE TIME to ask her out and I promise, she will say yes. If, on the off chance she says "no," then it may either be that she really can't, or she's trying to play a little hard to get. If that's the case, then just ONE MORE try should do it. When I saw that the driver had passed the street going to my hotel, my assumption was confirmed. He was dropping the others off first and I would be trapped in a van with two men I hardly knew. Not only was I pissed, but now I was scared and uncomfortable. Gerson was a small guy and I could probably take him, but if the driver was under his control or in on some kind of kinky sex trade scheme, I was screwed. I didn't call Gerson out then because I didn't want blow things out of proportion if I was just being paranoid, or upset anyone, including Erica and Alister if they were in a hurry to go back to their hotel first. So, I just sat in the back seat, quietly cursing the fuzzy haired troll in front of me and working out in my head how I could get out of this situation.

            The minute Erica and Alister were dropped off and that van door closed shut, my stomach sank and I shriveled myself up as tightly as I could. Legs together, arms crossed and jacket zipped up as high to the neck as it would go. I looked like a pouting five-year-old trying to make herself invisible. Just when the van started to move, Gerson turned around and asked me for the eighth time that night if I would go out on the town with him. For the eighth time I said, "no, I'm tired, I'm disgusting and I have to wake up early tomorrow."

"Tonight's your last night, you should go out. Let me show you Cusco."

"If I had another night, I would definitely (not) take you up on that offer, but it's just not going to work out tonight."

"Come on."

"No."

"Come out with me."

"No."

At this point he placed his hand on my knee and I could feel my whole body stiffen and every nerve ending on high alert, zoned in to where he had positioned his slimy little hand.

"No. I'm sorry."

"Please."

I couldn't even look in his direction anymore. I just kept praying the stupid driver would hurry up because I was about to get nasty and ruin this entire trip. When I didn't answer his last plead he moved his hand towards mine, which was tucked securely under my armpit, and I just tightened up and moved back. I might have hurt his feelings because he turned back around in his seat. However, that didn't last very long because when he saw that we were just down the road from my hotel he turned around and asked me AGAIN.

"No, it's not going to happen."

I had enough. The driver finally stopped the car, came around the van and opened the door. I didn't say a word. I just climbed out from the back seat and jumped out of the van behind Gerson. The bellboy was waiting by the entrance when I said goodbye to the driver and followed him in. With a look back, I saw Gerson was standing the rain, his bag slung over his shoulder, still waiting for me to invite him up. But I just walked away and followed the bellboy to my room. The second he left, I closed and double locked the door behind him. For the next five minutes I stood by the window, peaking through a slit in the curtains hoping Gerson was not going to show up at my door. When I felt the coast was clear, I went about unpacking, still shaking with anger, fear and disappointment. Because of Gerson's sudden temperamental shift, this experience was nearly ruined entirely. I thought that I had gained a friend in Gerson, someone I could keep in touch with, exchange the stories of our lives or even share other adventures in the future. Instead he was someone who just took advantage of my friendly nature and discovered that he was just looking for a one-night stand with a gringa. A wonderful experience was nearly tarnished by his persistent sexual desire to satisfy his libido. Had he pushed any harder, or was an aggressive person, I could see myself not only hating the entire experience of the trip but being turned off by Peru all together. How sad would that have been? It just takes one moment like that to traumatize someone forever. Shame on you Gerson's of the world.

            The next morning I woke up an hour before I had to because I was still afraid Gerson would show up at my door, knowing I had plans with Erica and Alister that morning. I was packed up and checked out well before I needed to be and I decided to grab some coffee and walk around the city for a little while. I had two hours to kill before I had to be at the Inca museum around the corner, but I was glad to be on my own for a little while. It was a beautiful day to wake up to. The morning was cool, the sun was peaking through clouds and it was my two hours alone with Cusco. When I got to the Plaza Del Armas, the locals were bustling round, decorating the area for a festival that could have been Dia de los Muertos (All Souls Day) although it was actually on the 2nd of November, and this was the 4th. At one end of the plaza I came upon an Inca ceremony where a man with bushy long hair, dressed in the traditional Inca uniform, went about a prayer in what I believed was in Quechua. In front of a crowd, of mostly locals and a few tourists up as early as I was, the man stood before us holding a bowl of burning wood above his head chanting a prayer that sounded as though it was in regards to a political concern. He had the demeanor of someone with influence but still seemed approachable. Putting the fire down he picked up three coca leaves, spread them like a fan between his finders and continued to pray and blow against the leaves. He went through this process three more times, to each of the four winds of the earth, and kneeled on all fours, bowing to the ground. At the same time an army of soldiers came marching around the cathedral with their rifles in hand and barrels resting on their shoulders until the front half of the plaza was filled with them. At first I was afraid that I had caught myself in the middle of some sort of political raid but when I saw that the locals were not running for the hills I decided I was safe. It appeared to all be part of the festival and for the protection of the officials who would be making an appearance later.

            Before I knew it, it was five minutes to nine and I made my way to the Inca museum just in time to find Erica and Alister making their way down the narrow street. When we got to the museum, we found that it was closed for the festival and decided to visit the ruins where the Inca made their final stand against the Spanish at a mountaintop overlooking the city. The top looked much farther away than it actually was, but one last adventure sounded so good to me right then and I was feeling so fit after Machu Picchu that I was afraid to let myself go and return to my wimpy, out of shape self if I went more than a day without some sort of exercise. Our legs were still a little sore, but it was nearly no effort at all to get to the top and it was an amazing sight. From the top we could see the entire city resting at the bottom of the valley. Thousands of clay-topped buildings stretched the distance below us and the Plaza Del Armas sat right in the center. From where we were we could hear the echoes of the festival below. It was breathtaking and quite peaceful up there. We walked around the mountaintop admiring the Incas and imagining the war that went on there so many years before our time. Near a large white statue of Jesus overlooking the city, an aboriginal man played his little charango on a stool while we took in the views. He was very sweet and talkative. We took a picture with him before we went back down the mountain for some lunch and Alister bought one of his CD's. I think this was the first time I had ever seen Alister pull out his sols for a souvenir. He wasn't much for material things, from what I could tell, so this was quite an impression that this man made on him. If the charango player only knew.

            With an hour left before I had to get back to the airport, the three of us sat at a little Peruvian spot with a courtyard dining area. The air was still cool but we sat near a beautiful brick fire oven and ate our delicious ceviche and thin crust pizza. We exchanged our contact information before the end of our meals and promised to visit each other between Toronto and New York soon. As much as I hope this happens and make a point to make it so, I doubt it will. Many times we meet wonderful people on our journeys and want to make our experiences last forever, but life manages to get in the way. And before you know it, too much time has passed and you become strangers again. If I had more time and money I would have loved to join Erica and Alister another week traversing the jungles by the Amazon but while they will be there, I will be back in New York, braving the aftermath of hurricane Sandy. Which jungle is more dangerous right now, I don't know.

            I think sometimes about a friend of mine who told me about his own trip to visit Machu Picchu he had planned to do once. He said that when he was seriously considering the journey, someone warned him about the bandits that are known to prey on the tourists that travel the Inca trails. He ended up canceling the trip out of fear and never went. I can't help but feel sorry for him now. To know what he missed out on because he let fear steal him from an experience that, for me, will forever be ingrained in my memory as one of the greatest things I had ever done, is very sad. This trip wasn't a walk on the beach or a day at the spa, but it was never meant to be. This trip was a mission of discovery. To discover not only one of the known wonders of the world, but to discover what I was made of as a human being.  I live in a world of many others, like me, but not me, and I believe it was pure destiny that I came to be in Peru to understand this. Something was calling me to get on that last flight leaving New York City seven days ago and I managed to make it there and back in one piece. To return...a better piece.

Day six...A walk in the clouds

            A few years ago, someone once came to me about a movie they had just watched and said that while they were watching the movie they kept thinking of me. The film was called Into The Wild. In the same week that the film was released on DVD I had heard that statement once again from a different associate and it was then that my interest was sparked. I had never seen the film at the time, or read the book, but I knew that it was based on a true and tragic story about a man who, upon graduating college, abandoned his possessions, donated all of his money to charity and took on a journey to Alaska to live in the wild with nothing more than his wit and the produce of nature around him for survival. Apparently, that wit of his wasn't as astute as he thought, because he died of starvation, all alone in the wilderness of Alaska. However, I suppose it was the similarities of the man's nature that people were seeing in me. I didn't know the whys behind the man's journey and that felt important to know. So one night I ran home with a copy of the film and I watched it. When the film was over I was filled with mixed emotions. I wasn't really well acquainted with the people who made the statements to me. They had no real insight to my inner desires and dilemmas, but their correlation told me that they somehow saw me as an adventurous, free spirit who looked outside the box. It was the greatest complement I could have received. However, it could have also been interpreted to say that I was really just a crazy extremist who didn't know what on earth she doing with her life. But, I've decided that it was actually the former that was implied. Ever since then I began to see myself in the same way they did, although, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that I was letting people down. I really wasn't living up to that image people saw me as and up till then I hadn't really done anything at all that adventurous. If they had only known how much of a homebody I really was most of the time, they would have told me I was more like Homer Simpson instead. It was then that I decided I was going to push a little harder to be that person. I had been dreaming more than I was actually doing and the pressure of time was weighing heavy on those dreams. It was then that I really began to hit the ground running.

            Standing on the edge of a mountainside in the middle of Peru, I can now see that I've finally dived head first into the wild and have lived up to those expectations. I was finally that person they saw in me when I was still dreaming about it and had yet to be aware I was. I like this version of me. I'm the happiest when I'm in my traveling skin. I'm a little bolder, a little sharper, a little more receptive and selfless. It's hard to be those things when you're surrounded by eight million people fighting to be noticed, for a position at a job, an identity, a future, a mate or even a seat on the train everyday. When I'm wandering the globe, meeting new people, learning new things and I have a minute the listen to the voice in me, that's when I'm the happiest.

            On the last leg of our trip, I was struggling to get up at 3:30 in the morning. Not because it was an abominable time to be waking up in the first place, but because this would be the last time I would ever get to do this again with the same group of people. It had rained all night but once we were up, the sky was cloudy but free of falling moisture...for now. Our camp was a dangerous two-meter free fall away from the edge of the mountain and all night I imagined a mudslide wiping me off the side while I slept. The unwanted image was put there last night when Gerson told us a the story of a similar mudslide that happened at this very camp two years ago, which took out two girls and landed a large rock on their guide, killing him instantly. That was the worst thing he could have told us during a rainstorm. I didn't get much of a restful night's sleep after that bedtime story. We were up at stupid o'clock in the morning this time because we were trying to reach the Sun Gate of the Incas for the sunrise. It was supposed to be a spectacular view from the last pass overlooking Machu Picchu. When everyone was up, we started our hike through the dark mountainside like three blind seniors with our walking canes. Our searching eyes dilated to the lack of light, stepping gingerly on our feet desperately trying to keep from putting any more pressure on our aching leg muscles as possible or from stepping into thin air. By some miracle we made it down a winding path to a checkpoint starting us on the trail that would lead us to the gate. A line ran down the path where stamp happy Peruvians whacked passports and kept a running count of the number of hikers entering the final leg of the trail.  Not long after passing the checkpoint, the rain began to pour down over our last change of dry clothes, but before the rain had a chance to soak up any of the water, ponchos of all the colors of the rainbow were over our heads and the mountainside trail was dotted like skittles rolling through an ant farm. Alister got a little confident in his stride and decided to walk briskly ahead of us, as always, mumbling something about the path, when suddenly I hear SWISH, WHACK and look up to see Alister balancing his weight on the mountain, trying to keep himself upright. Oh my God! I think I stopped breathing, convinced he was already halfway down the mountain before I could look up from my position.

"Bah ha ha" I hear Erica burst out. Once I saw that he was still on the mountain my next instinct was to join Erica in a burst of laughter.

"Did you just hear what he said before he slipped?"

"Ah ha ha, n-o."

"'This is a nice path, you could run through this portion', he said. It's too slippy but you go right ahead, I'll be right behind. I told him."

"Ah ha ha!"

Alister's sheepish grin and obvious embarrassment just made us laugh harder. Throughout the entire journey he has been the "master of the trail". No one was going to out hike Alister. Seeing him in this vulnerable state of embarrassment was just so out of character for him and it caught us unaware. We couldn't keep from laughing at him. He was a good sport about it though. Even he found the humor in the whole thing.

            Most of the journey was a constant spiral around steep mountainsides where the clouds literally passed right through us. The sweet thickness ran through our hair and brushed our faces like we were stepping into the sky and walking through a forest of clouds. I imagined myself as Peter Pan going to Neverland with the lost boys by my side. Nothing else mattered here, and life...was only as important as where your next step landed. Pain, pride, hunger, sorrow, work, family and obligations belonged to a different world. Here, it was just you and the clouds.

            A few hundred feet above I could already see the stone threshold of the Sun Gate after a few minutes walk. Impatient to get a look at Machu Picchu for the first time, I picked up my stride until I was at the top panting like a large dog after a long distance run, holding my aching side. This was it. This was what I struggled four days to experience. When I was climbing up to Warmiwanusqa Pass on the second day, clutching the side of the mountain, thinking I was going to rot in the sun on that massive hunk of rock and cursing myself for even thinking I could attempt this journey, this was the moment it was all for. What an unforgettable sweep of natural beauty and human artistry. We were still a two-hour hike from Machu Picchu, but from where we stood, I could see the magical city in one take, one draw of the eye and it was breathtaking. Nothing a person could ever describe in words or try to capture in a picture could ever do it justice. It was clouds puffing around the lush green mountain peaks, a backdrop of twisting gorge and snow capped mountains in the far distance. It was almost unbearable to look at. It was too much beauty to convince me it was real, but it was. Mother nature and mankind erupted in all its creative transcendental ability and gave birth to this place. If I had a flag I would have staked it right in the spot where I stood. Marcy was here. Perched on a narrow ridge between two earthquake fault lines nearly 8,000 feet up on the Andes Mountains of Peru, rested this little city with hundreds of terraces used for farming and draining water from the torrential rain falls. Rain falls that take place somewhere as much as two times more than dreary Seattle, WA would get. This brilliant civilization built a city with mind bending engineering abilities without the use of a written language, iron tools, mortar or a wheel. It was a heaping dish of mind over matter, with a sprinkle of blood sweat and tears really.

            After a two-hour gradual walk down, the amazing race was over. We had finally reached the mystical village that was known as Machu Picchu, together. Our group and those groups, who had challenged, supported and struggled with us from the start. When we stepped in front of the last checkpoint at the entrance of the ancient village, something very strange happened. That feeling that was so euphoric and peaceful just two hours ago, suddenly seemed to vanish. One look at the half dozen tour buses unloading tourists who flooded the line with us, the locals selling ponchos and postcards, and the souvenir stands lining the entrances, my smile dissolved completely. Looking around at Erica, Alister and a few of my fellow hikers who I had never formally met, it was apparent by their stoic faces that they too were feeling my sentiments exactly. It suddenly didn't feel like we were explorers and archaeologists on a grand expedition anymore. As we began to merge with the flowing river of other tourists, that was the very same moment that our four-day journey together ended. We were all changed people after this experience. We realized what we were made of after this and learned something of ourselves and of others along the way. The sudden drop back into civilization was almost a shock to our senses. Here among the sea of new faces, it suddenly seemed to matter that we hadn't showered in four days, our hair was a matted mess on our heads and the large packs on our backs were wet and soiled monstrosities. All the stuff that didn't matter, shouldn't matter, suddenly became very apparently prominent. The fact that all of these people were flocking here on air conditioned, luxury buses with reclining seats, made me want to call out CHEATERS! You don't deserve to see this place if you just strolled up to it on a bus! This place wasn't meant to be easy to get to! The Incas would be rolling around in their graves if they saw this assembly line of invaders strolling up on wheels. However, there we all were, at Machu Picchu together, the crazy and the lazy.

            Our little group following Gerson as he gave us the grand tour of the premises like he was a real estate agent, impressing his clients with the awesome engineering abilities of the Incas and fung shui design of their interior decorators. It surely was prime real estate, that was a given. It was magnificent and one of the most impressive things that I've seen in my lifetime. Snaking in and out of the many rooms and terraces I would often spot one familiar face or another from our trails. We would look at each other with a knowing smile and a slight nod that said, I see you. I know who you are, and what you went through to get here. We are one and the same and we made it. And then, we would move on to the next building or the next room until the open house was seen. Looking at Gerson, I could tell that he was tired of this part of his job. For Erika, Alister and I, this was all very surreal and we were amazed by everything. Gerson grew up in Peru, had done this hike and toured this site more times than he could count, so I was sure that this was the last place he wanted to be right now, but he was a great guide and very patient with our curiosity and our myriad of questions he tried very hard to answer. However, after a few hours of exploration, even we were tired of it all and food was the only thing we wanted to look at then.

            Just outside of Machu Picchu's entrance, we filed into a restaurant where the four of us sat with a lovely buffet of local dishes and I had my first taste of ceviche. This dish, consisting of sushi style trout pieces with slivers of red onion and cilantro soaked in tangy lime juice, was one of the most delicious things I've eaten in Peru so far. Here, I also had my first taste of Inca Cola. The Mountain Dew/pineapple-like soda with a little extra kick of sugar (if that's possible) was a little too tasty for my wellbeing. It's a good thing we don't have this stuff in the States or I would be in big trouble.

            When we finished our meals, it was decided that we would make the journey to the small town of Aguas Calientes, about twenty to thirty minutes away from the site. Waiting for our transport to take us there, Gerson asked us if we had brought our bathing suits for the hot springs. For some reason, his attention was directly diverted to me and I was suddenly grateful that I had the excuse to say I didn't. As nice as it would have been to go to the hot springs after a four day trek like we had just experienced, the last thing I wanted to do was don a bathing suit in front of the general public after not shaving for four days, sporting a very uneven sunburn across the top of my back and a slew Morse code of bruises down my arms and legs. I'll wait until I can hit the aguas calientes of my shower at the hotel later. Thanks.

            The bus ride to Agua Calientes was like driving on a tight rope down hill. On roads the size of alleyways in New York City, large buses squeezed a zigzag up and down the mountain’s cliffs with their wheels scraping the crumbling edges of the road. Around corners the buses would have to take turns letting each other go or both were going to fall over the edge together. As frightening as it was, I couldn't help but feel the adrenalin rush of danger.

"Have you seen many bus accidents on this road?" I asked Gerson who made himself comfortable in the seat next to me.

"A few."

"What!"

"Ha ha, just mirrors getting knocked off and minor scrapes when the busses get too close."

"Oh." Not funny. But I laughed awkwardly anyway. This is going to be interesting. I have a feeling Peru isn't quite done testing me just yet.

To be continued...

Day five...Slippy when wet

            Apparently, it seems we're not on a journey in pursuit of global understanding, self-discovery, and the spirit of human strength anymore. But on day three of our journey, it has become an episode of The Amazing Race. Before my alarm even had a chance to go off I was already hearing the voices of the other campers gearing up for the long hike ahead of us. It was one foreign language rallying the others to wake after another and the little competitive voice inside of me was itching to do the same. However, my body was asphyxiating that voice just as quickly as it started expressing its opinion.

"Buenos dias senhorita, coca té." I hear from Mariano, just outside of my tent.

"No coca té, gracias amigos." My head was thick with the pressure of the high altitude and snot from a small cold I was beginning to develop. Still trapped in my sleeping bag, I didn't have the head, or arms, for that matter, to put together some coca tea that early in the morning. Before I could crack open my eyes I was feeling aches and pains in nearly every part of my body. Although I couldn't see the back of my neck, a sunburn had clearly burned a few layers of the skin in the area which was exposed to the sun and my ankles felt like they gave birth to a new limbs overnight. When I managed to climb out of my down straight jacket, I inspected the cause of pain around my ankles and found a large bruise had painted itself halfway around the talus' of both my legs and the area bulged out like I was wearing floaties around my ankles. I have war wounds! Wrapping each ankle with a spare pair of socks for extra cushion, I slid my boots back on my feet, slathered some lotion on my neck and I was as good as new. Give or take a few sore muscles I didn't know I had.

            I may have been a little beat up in the morning, but at the looks of Erica and Alister, as they climbed out of their cave, they looked a little worse for wear in comparison. Well, I think I just might have a fighting chance of keeping up with the pair today. Gerson didn't look much better as he tumbled out of his tent. His blood shot eyes nearly glowed in the gloomy backdrop of the morning and his curly black hair, much like a plasma globe, splayed out in every direction, ignoring the laws of gravity all together. The rain had stopped coming down once we were up, but in the distance, clouds were beginning to make their way back with a vengeance. After a hearty breakfast we set off as soon as possible, trying to put some distance between ourselves and the army of darkness hot on our trail. Erika and Alister were feeling the competitive edge like the others who shared our camp and wanted to catch up before we were left in the wake of their dust as well. According to our map, the trail we had before us was a series of inclines and declines of equal distance and measure to each other. Although yesterdays journey was the shortest distance we would travel out of the four-day hike, it was also the most difficult because it was almost entirely an upward climb. Todays journey would cover nearly twice the distance but would start with a gradual climb up our second highest pass at Runkuracay point, nearly thirteen thousand feet up. A difference of two thousand feet from where we made camp last night. However, with a new rhythm in my step, I felt ready to do this hike.

            I spoke too soon. Fifteen minutes into the hike, I wasn't exactly feeling the same pain I went through yesterday, but I wasn't exactly climbing a series of level staircases in a high-rise either. It was more like using an elliptical, set at the highest stride length and hardest resistance level a Nordic Track has to offer. PX90 was beginning to feel like skipping rope at recess next to the trials of this journey so far. If I don't have buns of steel after this trip, I'll never have buns, period. Struggling up another steep incline, a man who looked very much like the gnomes I've seen guarding neighborhoods of suburban front lawns and gardens, came whizzing past us with his snowy head of hair and matching long white beard that curled down to his chest. I had seen him on the trail a few times since our first day, but it seems that this much older man only gains more strength as the days go on. He must be making much better use of those coca leaves than I must be aware of.

            Half way up our second pass, Gerson lead us to the ruins of Runkauracay where the three of us gratefully sat on a rock listening to his epic style of story telling. As newbies of the trails we stared wide eyed in admiration of the architectural genius of the Incas, fascinated that these massive stones were still standing firmly in place since before the pilgrims landed on American soil. When we left this short stop along the way, the rain began to sprinkle on and off over our heads. The cool spray was a relief to our sun burned skins while we continued our race to the top and began our long decent on the other side.

            After reaching the second pass I spent so much time looking down at my feet, mindful of where I was stepping so I wouldn't slip or trip off the mountain, I was surprised to find myself in the amazing subtropical surroundings we were slowly submerging ourselves, when I finally looked up. The vegetation began to take on a  jungle-like appearance and the air began to take on the humidity of a greenhouse, the lower we traversed the mountainside. There were moments that it felt like I was walking through the set of one of the Indiana Jones movies. Everything seemed so changed from just a few hundred feet above us that it almost seemed fabricated. I wondered a few times if Steven Spielberg or his crew ever walked this trail in the past. From what I've learned, the beloved Indiana Jones movies were actually an inspiration based on the explorer/treasure hunter of Machu Picchu, Hiram Bingham. It would only make sense that Spielberg or his scenic designer might have found inspiration in the same place Bingham's story unfolded. I'll have to give those movies another watch and see what I discover.

            After the third pass through the jungles of the temple of doom, we were trekking neck and neck with a group that was mostly filled with Londoners and North Americans from the mid-western states. They looked to be in their early twenties chatting about college and having to return to their studies when they got back. At this point the rain began to fall with a little more assertion and appeared determined to get us off this mountain whether we climbed down or slipped off, it didn't matter, it just seemed ready to be rid of us.

"Whoop, the rocks are a bit slippy here."

Slippy? Hearing Erica, a woman my mother's age, say something was slippy, made me giggle a little longer than it was probably funny. But I was so tired that everything just seemed funny to me at that point and I nearly slipped myself. A chubby guy from the other group who I heard tell a new acquaintance he was from Chicago, slipped more than once behind me on our decent. Each time I heard him go down I thought that was the end. With every SWOOSH and WHACK I froze paralyzed in fear, my life flashing before my eyes, just waiting for him to roll under my legs and take me out completely. By the second fall I just let the distracted and unsteady man go ahead of me. That way only one of us was skydiving off the edge of the mountain without a parachute.

            The climb down seemed just as painful as it was climbing up after an hour of having all my weight balancing on one leg and walking stick at a time. The porters seemed to take to the rain as simply as air and ran down the rocky steps with the greatest ease. One of them ran past me with both hands in his pockets like he was taking a stroll down the street. For some reason, however, their packs, which should have looked lighter and smaller by the end of the third day, seemed to actually look bigger and heavier. When Gerson asked one of the porters from another group what the weight of his load was, I was shocked to learn that they were not only bigger, as I thought, but their loads were actually much heavier too. Apparently, the extra weight had come by another porter who had caught up with him along the trail, after the last weight station. They've found a loophole to the weight restriction and the tour companies have taken advantage of them anyway. I'm just glad the poor guys didn't have to climb so much up hill as down with the additional weight on their backs.

            It has been three days of sweat upon sweat and I could now smell my own skin. I hadn't picked up anyone else's stench so far, but I'm sure I could have used a shower, or two. I must smell. I've been really good about lathering up on the Degree and changing into clean clothes every morning. However, I've recycled my super comfortable, waterproof pants for the third day in a row now because nothing else feels right. They've been broken in to the point where it feels like I'm not wearing a thing from the waist down. If I smelled, there was nothing I could do about it. I suppose these odors give meaning to the reason we call it "roughing it." However, I think that's the only thing I really missed about the civilized world, a nice hot shower and soap.

            On our final night together and just two hundred and twenty meters from Machu Picchu, we finally made camp by the ruins of Winay Wayna (forever young), the largest and most exquisite compound of the Inca trail sites up to this point. I was just terrace after terrace down the steep mountainside with the most amazing view of the winding river below us and a waterfall to the adjacent mountainside. As I stood there with my group I felt a gentle tap on my head. When I looked up, it was my good friend, Gerard, the Frenchman who was my saving grace and motivational coach with the most on day two of our hike. He was standing gracefully on the terrace just above me with one of his mates.

"Hello down there."

"Bonjour Gerard! How's the view up there?"

"It's wonderful! Glad to see you made it."

"So am I."

            Back at our camp, soaked like wet cats, we changed and had a last supper together. At the table our napkins were folded in the most intricate design that's we've seen Reale do yet. He managed to make a crane out of the thin paper and placed the cups under its chin and our silverware resting under its wings. That's it. I've got to know how he does this. The four of us called Reale over to our side of the tent and I had Gerson ask him if he would do the honor of showing us how he made his crane. With a smirk of pride and shaky hands, Reale kneeled beside the table, flashlight strapped to his forehead, and slowly folded the napkin before us. Explaining in Spanish so we could understand what he was doing, we watched his fingers command the tissue to become a bird. Voila!

"Muy bonito!

Muchos gracias Reale!" we called with a round of applause. Reale smiled at us and quickly ducked out, too shy to sit comfortably in all the attention, but returned a few minutes later with our dinner on a tray. At the end of the meal Erica, Alister and I gathered what money we brought and presented the boys with a gift of our gratitude. Like on our first morning, they gathered in a half circle around us as we each thanked them in our limited Spanish for all of their hard work and shook each one of their hands. I'm more of a hugger when it comes to these things but I thought that it would have been awkward for them to do that, so I did the double hand shake, both of my hands over their one, hoping to convey a deeper sense of gratitude in this way. After our exchange Reale came back with a bottle of red wine, opened it and bid us a good night. The four of us sat at our three-foot square table saluting each other in the last stretch of our journey. It was a somber moment. Although we were excited to finally reach Machu Picchu tomorrow, we were also sad that it was almost over. I would have loved to continue this journey for another week. Including all the pain and stink that came with the package. After all what's the point of having anything, if you don't earn it or learn from it anyway?

To be continued...

Day four...Failure is not an option

            Hearing a rooster crow has always been one of the most comforting sounds that I know. It reminds me of the summers I used to spend at my grandparents prewar home, set on a grassy hillside island off the coast of Portugal. That was the first sound I would hear every morning I spent there. Today, that was the last sound I wanted to hear at four o'clock in the morning, on vacation. The cocky little beast that was responsible for all the noise decided to jump the stream surrounding our campsite and anxious to introduce himself. After an hour of trying to ignore him I just gave up and decided to say hello to my fine feathery friend. While I was rustling around the tent trying to dress myself and roll up my sleeping bag without collapsing the entire thing over my head, I heard my favorite porter, Mariano, on the other side of the tent, "Buenos dias senhorita. Coca té?" Oh snap, I'm not ready for visitors. I scrambled as fast as I could to zip up my pants and wipe any remnants of last nights drool from my face then unzipped the door of the tent. Crouched over with a tray in his hands was Mariano smiling at me like he was serving the queen of England. On the tray was a plastic container filled with coca leaves, another for sugar and a plastic mug. In Reale's hand next to him, was a thermos of steaming hot water he was pouring into the mug. Oh, this is nice. What a great way to start a morning, two of my very own porters to deliver tea in bed on a cold and dewy morning in the mountains. A girl could get used to this.

            With a hot mug of coca tea in my hands I stepped out of the tent and found my feathery friend two feet from my ankles, eyeballing me like an angry parent who was sick of having to call his child out of bed. "I'm up, I'm up. So pushy." Erica and Alister seemed just as excited about the bird as I was, glowering at the fowl in front of their tent, hands wrapped around their own mugs of tea. When we looked around the camp in the light of morning, we realized that the tent that was used for the kitchen and our dining area was also the same tent that all seven porters and the cook used to sleep in. This tent is probably the perfect size for about four adults to sleep comfortably side by side. Although the porters are all small in stature, I just couldn't imagine all eight of them fitting into this tent without lying shoulder to shoulder or feet to face in this tent. In fact, I couldn't imagine what that space would smell like on day four of the hike. Poor guys. Somehow, in the time we were all trying to ignore our morning call the porters had magically converted the tent back into the kitchen and dining area for us again. When we came around to have our breakfast the table was set with new origami folded napkins, fresh coffee, toast and a buffet of condiments. After finding our seats, Reale came around with hard-boiled eggs and we each grabbed one and cracked into them. Spraying pieces of shell all over the table, all of us...except Alister. It was the most mind-bending display of table etiquette I had ever witnessed. Alister was able to manage cracking away a tiny circular hole at the top of his egg, just big enough so that he could fit his teaspoon, and then he proceeded to slowly dig out the egg without disturbing the rest of the casing. When I looked down at carnage of my battleground, I saw that I had even managed to get a piece of shell in my cup of tea. Ah, curses to these English blokes. Lets try this again.

            After breakfast Gerson called all of the porters and the cook out of the tent so that he could properly introduce them to us and we would know their names, or at least manage to remember them all anyway. They aligned themselves in a semicircle facing the four of us as Gerson asked each of them to tell us their name and a little something about themselves. None of them knew any English. Their primary language was Quechua, which is sadly, a dying language used by less than ten million people, and also Spanish. We all understood Spanish, so they went on to speak in that tongue. As they each went down the line and timidly said their names and confessed their ages and so forth, I was floored. These poor, overworked men were about the same age as I was but they looked like they were in their fifties. I couldn't believe it when they spurt out twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-two, thirty-eight and so on. Their skins were leathered from years of working in the sun, some with teeth yellowed and crooked from lack of oral health care and backs arched from carrying loads as big as themselves. I smiled at each one of them as they suffered through their introductions, as shy as myself with things of this nature, and I repeated their names so I could remember them better. My maternal instinct, however, was to want to give them each a big hug, thank them for the work they have already done for us and have them take a nap so I could wait on them for a little while. Anyone need a massage? Coca tea? I got you. However, I don't think they wanted anyone feeling sorry for them, so I just continued to smile and made a mental note to be as little a burden on them as possible on this trip. After introductions we all came in for a group hug, seven porters, three hikers, a cook, a guide and a rooster in a pair tree. Gerson had us repeat his mantra as one, "We can do it!" before the group broke up. But all I could think was, if he felt the need to rev us all up with a pep rally, what in the world have I gotten myself into?

            Bags packed and walking poles in hand, the four of us set out on the trail like hobbits of Middle Earth while the porters stayed behind to pack the tents and whatnots at camp. The sun was shining over the snow capped mountaintops in the distance and we were glad that it wasn't raining for the second day in a row. The weather channel told us differently. Continuous rain was supposed to pour throughout our hike all week, but I decided that it was the spirits of the mountains that were in favor of our journey being as agreeable as possible. Looking at the map I saw that the entire day would be a constant incline. Hundreds upon hundreds of steep, uphill slopes and jagged rock steps to the top of Warmiwanusqa Pass, where we would make camp halfway down the mountain, on the other side.

            When we got to the base of the mountain I looked as far up as the mountain would allow me too and thought to myself, this doesn't seem so bad. I walk four flights of stairs at least twice a day with no problem. I can do this. If Erica and Alister, who are nearly twice my age, are confident they can manage this, so can I. At this point, other groups of climbers began to make their way towards us and we let the first group pass. They looked pumped up and ready to fly up that mountain and we didn't want to hinder their tenacity. Although we were fresh and ready to go, it was still taking us a moment to build up to that momentum. We can do this.

            Less than ten minutes up the steep-sided Llullucha valley towards the polylepis woodland with a rushing stream at our side, I already thought my lungs were going to collapse. Erika and Alister had flown past me and they were beginning to look like small specks in the distance while I was hugging the side of the mountain praying to any mountain god that would listen to help me get through this. Gerson was behind me the whole time, either out of concern, or because he had way too many Peruvian beers the night before and it was now taking its toll on him, I don't know. He looked to be in as much pain as I was so didn't feel like a complete mule. Every five minutes after my first rest I had to stop again to catch my breath and ease the pain in my legs. I wasn't the only one at this stage. Some of the people in the group that flew past us earlier looked like they were going into cardiac arrest the third time I stopped for breath. "You haven't found your rhythm yet." Gerson says to me. "You should take small steps and breath in slow and out fast. That might help you." What the heck are you talking about? Can't you see I'm dying here? There's no way I'm going to make it up this mountain today. In fact, at the pace I'm going, I don't think I'll make it up this mountain before the end of the week. Just leave me behind. Go, save yourselves!

            For the first hour of the climb is was a series of stops and goes and at one point our porters came flying up the mountain like they were weightless. I stood hugging the mountainside like everyone else so that they could get through with the massive loads on their backs. With torn sandals and exposed toes they ran up those steps while we looked into the dust behind them, faces red with strain and bodies soaked with the sweat of disgrace. What pitiful, out of shape people we were. Another hour later I came upon a rather handsome, middle-aged French-man with locks of silvery white hair who was taking a breather above me.

"Ah, still smiling."

I had no idea who this man was but apparently he had seen me earlier, probably before I started the hike up the mountain because I was genuinely smiling then.

"Yes, I suppose it's better than crying."

"No, there's no reason to cry here." He said, looking out at the view of the mountains in the distance while dabbing the end of his scarf on the side of his face. Even in the wilderness under a scorching sun and a sweat soaked body, the French still manage to look graceful with their little scarves wrapped around their necks.

"No, not here."

"Where are you from?"

"The United States."

"France?"

"Yes, you don't have an accent, but I do, ha ha. I cannot hide it." He pauses to look out at the distance again, then turns back to me. "What is your name?"

"Marcy."

"I am Gerard, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

We stood there looking at the view for another minute while were catching our breath then a pack of four large Aussie men barged passed us, one of them announcing, "there better be some cold beer when we get to the top, or I'm going back!"

Those in the vicinity of the Aussies burst into laughter and the echoes bounced into the distance. Some had to stop and hug the mountain so they wouldn't fall over in laughter.

"Failure is not an option."

"I suppose not."

"I remember this from an American movie I saw a long time ago. Do you remember this?"

"Um, I'm not sure. It sounds familiar."

"I think it was APOLLO 13. Yes?"

"Yes, I think you're right."

"Failure is not an option. We must do this."

"We have no choice now do we?"

"No."

            Another hour later my legs were on fire and I was beginning to feel a little too short of breath when I caught up with Gerson again. He was sitting on a rock a few paces ahead of me. The thought of what I probably looked like in that moment nearly made me roll in laughter at myself. My left arm drooped down like it wasn't even attached to my body, my back arched forward with the weight of my pack, my head down and right hand gripping my walking stick with all the strength I could muster so my legs wouldn't have to feel so much of the weight. I never understood the point of those walking sticks until now. Really, I just thought they were silly little things people liked to carry around with them like fashion accessories, maybe to ward off stray animals along their path or slash at overgrowth. That was until I found that without that third leg, my other two would have still been on that first incline of the mountain a good ways below.

"Do you want some coca leaves to chew on?"

"Ah, if this stuff makes me high, I'm better off just jumping off the mountain then."

"It won't make you high, not really ha ha. But, it will give you extra energy." I don't trust this tiny Peruvian man. His smile is a little too coy for my taste. However, I'm at a loss for sufficient oxygen this high up in the mountain and I'm short of breath because I'm out of shape for this. So I took some coca leaves and shoved them to the back of my mouth.

"Just don't swallow the leaves." Okay, not swallowing the leaves. Oh crap, I think I just swallowed a tiny piece.

            It took me three hours into the hike to figure out what Gerson was talking about, but I finally found my rhythm. When I stopped taking my giant, New York City, fast as lightning because I'm always late steps, and took baby steps, one foot in front of the other in a slow and steady pace, and concentrated on sucking as much oxygen in and carbon dioxide out of my system as possible, I could then feel my lungs relax and my legs stopped burning in intense pain. I was so excited I nearly sang my favorite Johnny Cash song, "Get rhythm (when you get the blues)" to the mountaintops like Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music. Once I caught on I never stopped again. I was a runaway train of smooth and steady.

            At the final leg of the mountain, I could see Alister pointing his camera at me from the top of the peak. He better not show that picture to a soul. He and Erica had reached the top fifteen minutes ago and were snacking on a banana when I got there. At the top of the small pass was a plateau where I found my French friend, Gerard, again, with his mate, leaning against a rock with a broad smile on his face.

"We did it." He said.

"Yes we did. Failure was not an option."

            On the other side of us were the Aussies that passed us earlier. Sitting in a circle, beer-less, but content enough with their accomplishment, they sucked down their bottles of water instead. Scattered about were other groups that had left earlier in the morning and were already eating their lunch. Alister and Erika looked about ready to move on when I got there but I wanted a minute or two to enjoy the view and thank my lucky stars that I made it though the worst part of the trek. The rest was mostly down hill and rounding the mountain heads now. Sheesh, these two were making me look bad, never under-estimate a person with something to prove. Gerson was actually the last one to make it up to the peak and, thankfully, he needed a minute as well. Before we set off for a short trek down the mountainside, bound for camp on the floor of the forested Pacaymayo valley, Gerson reminded us of the stones we made our wishes on at the head of the trail yesterday. Just a few feet above our resting spot was the VERY top of the peak where we could see a collection of similar stones resting on top. With our hands wrapped tightly around our stones, Erica, Alister and I climbed the last few feet up the slippery side of the peak on all fours. At the top we placed our hearts desire in what seemed like just arms reach of the hands of God, and took in the amazing view of the Andes Mountain massif surrounding us. Before us were sweeping snow peaks, valleys of the Huayanay and the trailhead of the second pass meant for tomorrows hike. Oh, dear, that looks harsh.

To be continued...

Day three...Battle of the bulges

            I'm an idiot. Why in the world would someone go anywhere in a foreign country without a passport on them, at all times? After a twenty-five minute drive in the early morning hours, through the dangerously narrow streets of Cusco, I thought I had everything I could possibly need packed for this four-day hike to Machu Picchu. That was until my fearless leader turned around in the front passenger seat and asked me if I had brought my passport with me.

"No."

His eyes suddenly look like they're going to pop out of his head, "You didn't bring your passport?"

"Well, no. No one told me I had to bring my passport to climb a mountain. I have photo identification on me but not my passport. I wanted to keep the two identifications separate just in case something happened to one of them." I wasn't planning on leaving the country or committing a crime here. Did I mention that we would be in the mountains for the next four days? What's the big deal? I turn to my two hiking mates beside me and notice the same bug eyed expression. Erica, a fifty-something woman with a head of silver and a few remaining strands of golden blond hair, says to me in her British accent,

"Gerson, was our briefing guide and that was the first thing he told us to bring. He reminded us at least three times to bring it." Well, that's nice. I'm so glad you had such a great guide to brief you on the necessities of life, because my guide never mentioned a thing about it. In fact the conversation went something like this:

"Hola, my name is David. It's very nice to meet you." David sticks out his hand and we shake. David looks to be in his mid twenties, black shiny hair and about five inches shorter than me, and motions for me to sit down across from him, about a foot away.

"Here is a map (which I already had) of the trail. I have marked the spots where the group will make camp. Someone will come by later with a duffle bag for you to put your larger things in. A porter will take those things up for you so you don't have to carry so much weight up the mountain."

"Oh, that's nice. I feel bad about burdening the porter with more than he needs to carry. I can bring all of the things I brought with me myself (I think)." The poor guy already has to bring the tents, all our food and his own things as well. That's bad enough.

"Well, you really just need to bring a day pack with your clothes, snacks and personal belongings."

"Oh." Guess I need to buy myself a smaller bag then.

"Where are you from?"

"New York."

"Wow, must be nice."

"It can be. I'm very lucky to be able to live there."

"Expensive huh?"

"Very."

"What do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I work as a waitress and freelance as a production assistant and script supervisor for film and television when I can."

"Wow, that sounds like fun."

"Sometimes."

"Did you come here alone?"

"Yes."

"Really? No boyfriend or husband?"

"No, no boyfriend or husband. Just me."

"That's surprising," he says with a twinkle in his eye. Oh geez. Can we move on here?

"Do you have any questions?"

"Ah, I don't think so." I've never done a multi-day hike up a mountain before, let alone ever camped in a proper tent in my lifetime, so I had no way of knowing what kinds of questions to ask. I was going on pure instinct and the knowledge I've retained from my days of watching episodes of MacGyver as a kid. If he could survive a week in a dense forest with only his Swiss army knife and the belt around his waist, then what more could I possibly need?

"Ok. Here is my phone number. Call me if you have any questions, or (wink) whatever, just call this number."

"Great. Muchos grasias David."

"You're welcome. It was very nice to meet you."

"Same here."

That was my ever-informative briefing. Not once was a passport mentioned.

            Gerson pulls out his flip phone and dials Maria. Maria and the van driver were the first two people I met in Cusco and they were the ones who picked me up from the airport. It was kind of nice to have someone holding a sign with my name on it as I walked out of the gate, like I was some sort of celebrity. All I needed was a limo instead of a dusty grey van. Oh well. It was still nice. On the phone Gerson asks Maria if she can retrieve the passport from my luggage at the hotel and bring it over. Well that's silly, I thought. We should just turn around and save her the trouble because we would still have to wait for her anyway. It would have just been faster to go back. I already felt like a moron for not bringing the stupid thing in the first place, so I just kept my mouth shut and let them do as they wished. Thankfully, Erica verbalized my very thoughts and Gerson was back on the phone telling Maria we were heading back.

"What an American thing to do." I hear from Alister beside me with a smirk on his face. Alister is Erica's slightly older husband with an equally pretty English accent and head of salt and pepper hair.

"Hey."

Listen here bub. That's my home you're talking about! If it weren’t for the AMERICAN, Hiram Bingham, who discovered Machu Picchu back in 1911, you wouldn't even be in this South American country on an adventure of a lifetime to see it! So count your little blessings my friend. America may be a little backwards with a few things and a bit spoiled at times, but I can't say that my family and I have ever lacked for anything. I'm sorry you feel the shadow of your big brother up there in Canada but that's no reason to be rude. Of course I didn't say anything other than "Hey" to him. I have to spend the next four days with these two people, the last thing I want to do is make them my enemies. They were actually very wise and funny when they weren't poking fun at my country. All the way back to the hotel it was just one more jab after the other. A few times I nodded my head in genuine agreement and the other times I just listened and acted like I cared. Maybe if he just got it all out of his system it would make him feel better I thought. So I just let him vent. Although, I couldn't help but wonder, why are you not living in your own country? Apparently, Alister was born in South Africa then went to college in London, where he met Erica, got married, then moved to Canada for work and stayed there ever since.  What's so great about where you came from? I could have a field day with any one of those countries. Erica was more of a storyteller. She liked to compare things in the present with those of her past, and any topic would bring up a moment when she was here or met someone there. It took me a while to understand her through her thick English accent, but once I was able to grasp what she was saying, I was drawn in like a child at story time.

            Once I had my passport in the clutches of my hands, we backtracked to our last position and continued towards our location at kilometer 82 in Piskakucho, nearly an hour away from downtown Cusco. The higher the dusty grey van climbed, the narrower the streets became and the poorer the city seemed to look. Many of the houses seemed to be missing glass in the windows or doors completely. Everyone's clothes looked as though they had just rolled round with the stray dogs that littered the streets. Children with their caramel colored faces and sun stained cheeks sat on the sidewalks while their mothers worked the land around their homes or cooked from a carts on the corner for selling to anyone who could afford to buy something to eat. Here the women all dressed in the traditional, brightly colored and many layered woven skirts and short brimmed top hats called monteras. They reminded me of a porcelain doll I once had, the clothing very similar to what the Portuguese wore in the time of the Incas. Had the conditions of the town been improved, their clothing would have blended more with the back drop but with all of the dirt, dust and dinge their clothing just stuck out of place and time. 

            Not far from the checkpoint, the van made a turn onto a dirt road that barely fit the van when halfway down this road a massive bus turned the corner and was heading our way. The bus had a shorter distance to backtrack and make room for our little van to pass, but the driver refused to budge. Instead he just inched closer and closer until, finally, our driver had to call chicken and put the van in reverse, all the way down the dirt road, mere inches from falling off the edge. I couldn't look back. Apparently, neither could our driver. He punched the van in reverse, looked ahead at his side mirror and floored the van back as the bus continued the push closer and closer to our front hood, reminding us he was boss. This is it. I beat a hurricane leaving New York, but it all ends here. I love you mom and dad! Just before the van hit a corner and tumbled off the ledge, the bus managed to squeeze itself into enough ledge space to go round us, and the ordeal was over. As the drivers passed each other's windows, in what looked like slow motion, it was a battle of the steel gaze. And just as before, the bus driver had beat out the tender brow of our van driver and he continued past before another vehicle claimed the road.

            When the van pulled into a small yard belonging to a porter, the five of us climbed out and stood around looking at the scene before us. To our surprise, we saw not one porter scurrying about, packing the necessities for the trail, what we counted were seven little porters AND a cook. Erica, Alister and I locked eyes with each other, the same fret registering behind them. It was then that we realized that we were going to have to tip all of these people before the end of the trip and I didn't know what I was going to do about the unexpected number. I later figured out that what I had brought with me was more than enough, but at the time I just looked at these seven poorly porters in their scrappy clothes and worn sandals as they bundled up make shift packs weighing over fifty-five pounds on their weary backs. These men were farmers that took on work as porters for tour groups to bring in "extra" income for their families. We were told by several different people that they were paid well and the tips were extra, but I've been a waitress for years and no tip in the ballpark these companies were suggesting for these men could ever compensate for the struggle they were about to endure. My pack weighed less than thirty pounds and I didn't know how I was going to manage. And I was wearing a nice new pair of sturdy hiking boots and athletic gear shaped and measured for my body and load. Lord, help these men.

            Apparently, Peruvians LOVE to stamp passports. Along the trail there are several checkpoints where passports are needed and then stamped (optionally) for official order of the preservation of the Inca trail. Only five hundred people are allowed on the trail on any given day and in this way they can keep track of that number at various points along the trail. This number includes guides, porters, cooks and tourists. At this first checkpoint, there is also an area for porters to have their packs weighed so that they don't exceed the maximum of twenty-five kilos (about fifty-five pounds). These stations are something similar to the weight stations back in the States for truck drivers. This way tour companies can't take advantage of these porters and give them more than they can handle. Not so very long ago, tour companies used to weigh down porters with loads as big as seventy to eighty kilos at a time and they would have to struggle over twenty-eight miles, at heights as far up as fourteen thousand feet with these massive loads. It was inhumane, although, they did it because they had no other choice.

            At this checkpoint, I pulled out my nearly stamp-less passport and whack Piskakucho was stamped in bold blue ink, taking up half a page on my passport, and we began our journey at the footbridge over the Urubamba River, kilometer 82. Before crossing the bridge, Gerson tells us to pick up a small stone on the ground and make a wish on it. With the wish in our hearts and the secret passed on to a piece of the land, we put the small stones in our pockets to carry throughout our journey. Gerson goes on to say that later, when we reach the highest point of the mountain range leading to Machu Picchu, then there we will have to return the stone to the mountains. If we treat the land with respect and open our eyes and hearts to its majestic beauty along the way, then the stone will reveal to the mountain whether our wishes are worthy of coming true. We shall see.

"Everyone got their things?" Gerson calls out to us before we go any further.

Erika checks the ground by her feet. "Yes, I believe so."

"Yes, sir." Alister follows.

"Got my passport! I'm good to go!" I say.

            Over the rushing waters of the Urubamba River we crossed the footbridge together and head out. For the first two hours we walked along a canyon leading to the settlement of Llaqtapata. Here we saw the first traces of the Incas in the discovery of these beautiful farming terraces naturally shaped like a seashell along the bottom of the canyon. At the top of this canyon we sat in front of ruins, once used by the Incas as a lookout spot for the settlement below, and like school children we listened while Gerson told us stories of how things may have been here over four and a half centuries ago. We sat overlooking the terraces with eyes wide and ears absorbing the information like sponges. After the lesson and fill of exploration around the ruins, the three of us followed Gerson like ducks on land through a pass in the mountain where we began the hike of our biggest obstacle, to the top of Warmiwanusca Mountain.

            About three hours later we made camp at Huayllabamba, the last inhabited village on the trail. By the time we got to the camp our trusty porters had already set up our sleeping tents, a portable toilet, (which was really just a hole with a long tent surrounding it) and a larger tent where the cook was busy chopping and stirring his concoctions on one side and a friendly, but shy, porter who went by the name of Reale, was busy setting up our little table with paper napkins, folded origami style, over a cotton blend table cloth with proper silverware. I was not expecting such a glamorous little setting for our camp. I felt like Snow White with her seven trusty friends bussing about in the forest. Surrounding the campsite were two houses sitting behind us and to the right where a running stream flowed between the two properties. In front of the camp was a short drop off the mountain facing a beautiful view of the other mountains in the distance. A bit tired from the long day we threw our bags into our designated tents and the smallest of the porters, Mariano, came over with a plastic basin filled with hot water and a little bar of soap for us to wash our hands and faces. With a constant smile he stood close by as we cleaned up and then handed us a small wad of paper towel to dry ourselves off. All refreshed and clean, Mariano tossed the water out and directed us to have a seat on our side of the long tent for some coca tea. At the table about the size of a square yard, four canvas foldout chairs were set for Erica, Alister, Gerson and I where we sat below a burning lamp and admired the setting before us. Around the corner, wearing a flashlight attached to his forehead, Reale came over with a vegetable soup dispensing the most amazing smells and show of colors worthy of something out of the Food Network. I don't know if it was because I was hungry, but I couldn't remember eating a soup that delicious since I sat at my mother's table as a little girl. What bliss my stomach felt when the warm soup hit the bottom of its empty pit. Just when we thought our meal was done, out came another round of food displaying hearty potatoes, vegetables and fish. The cook even went as far as to garnish the plate with a sprig of mint. This was a man after my heart. I looked at Erika and we smiled in amazement and complemented the boys behind the curtain with a thank you in their Quechua language, "Solpayki!" Alister was too busy stuffing his grateful face, but he mumbled something along the same lines to the boys behind us. After our second course Reale poked his head around the corner yet again, this time delivering a tiny desert of chocolate pudding over bananas with more hot water for tea. Not expecting more than the soup, we were stuffed long before the desert, but we ate it because it not only looked great, but we didn't want to waste the food and we certainly hoped we were lightening their loads. The more we ate the less they had to carry we decided, so down went the pudding too.

            As the four of us sat around the table, stomachs bulging we sipped on coca tea. As he stuffed a wad of leaves into his mouth, Gerson explained to us the benefits and history behind the coca tea. Apparently, Coca-Cola didn't get its name being picked out of a hat. It was once made with these coca leaves, hence the name, "Coca"-Cola. Many people usually just chew on the leaves for the best results or if they don't have the hot water to seep them in. The three of us sat around Gerson watching him chew on the leaves like he was going to turn into a bird and fly away. When he didn't and assured that he wouldn't, Alister grabbed a handful and shoved it into his mouth succumbing to curiosity. He sat at the table chewing on these leaves like a camel, grinning like a little boy. Erica and I laughed at him, bouncing echos around the mountains like they too were laughing with us. It felt good to laugh out loud. It's been a long time.

            With our longest day ahead of us, we finished our coca tea and went to our tents for some rest. Wrapped like a cocoon in my sleeping bag I was lulled by the sound of flowing water from the stream surrounding the camp and was out like a light in no time.

To be continued...