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...