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...
No comments:
Post a Comment