Global Nomad Travel

San Francisco Church, Lima

06/27/10

Six months in…

Boxie-boo did her morning happy sway, mimicking the dance of the sugarplum ferry after 16 pictures of beer. Bingo bang bang was in full motion. Her smile gleamed like a well-oiled pair of buttocks. We were stoked!

As a result of catching up on sleep, I woke up in a good mood, feeling a presumptious happiness, like a dog when a doorbell rings and thinks the visitors arrived for him. Nothing could have further from the truth, unless I said I toured a whale´s vagina…that would be farther from the truth.

I ate a banana for breakfast. This is important.

Gravity had made me a really down to Earth kind of guy, until a taxi driver pick-up put me back on the insane diet - I lost my mind, replaced by a photo of a duck robot. He laid a massive egg in my bootae that cracked with battery acid and entered my veins with a rage, while tickling with feathers. Giggidy. It turned out to be a confrontational morning, where even the flags at nearby hotels said nothing to each other, only waved.

The Pukhara Hostel called a taxi at an agreed price of 15 Sol to take us the San Francisco Church. We got in the cab and around the corner, the driver demanded 25 Sol. Looking back on another confrontational moment with a taxi, I realized I was being insensitive. I told the driver to stop being a stupid liar without considering how incredibly difficult that must have been for him. The result was us getting out of the taxi, then being stalked by the driver who had a peculiar look on his face, as if he was driving naked from the waist down.

We got in another taxi, 12 Sol later. I then realized had I told the driver to think before he spoke, I would have never heard a word from him again. I had enough rage for him that had I sat on a whoopie cushion, a chair would have exploded and everybody would have been fed scrambled duck eggs. I suppose, after six months traveling, taxi bullshit was no more fun than a party with hemmroids. Thinking of this moment, the yelling driver and post-drop-off stalking, even my inability to use emoticons properly got to me :).

My mood changed immediately when the second taxi stopped. It was as if the whole world was a mirage - the taxi driver dropped us off and asked for no more money. It was a twilight zone moment, right before we entered a church with 35,000 bodies.

For the rest of the story, please whistle the tune to X Files.

“Watch your head,” our guide said as we entered the catacomb (tomb). “We do not want 35,000 and one bodies.”

There was no funeral music, no tears, a sight beyond emotion. The walls were solitary mounds of brick, the ceiling low as we stood on unseen tombs. It was cold, a perpertual sight inbetween twilight, between life and death. The ceiling drooped in flickering lights, moving shadows, on a motionless landscape. With my head ducked down and an eerie chillness against my skin, it was impossible not to believe in ghosts.

With the smell of decay, we walked where the dead slumbered. It was a room of empty dreams, where unspoken souls whispered. The pathway was lined with bones, even deep wells filled with human skulls. My breaths felt stolen, my neck hairs raised and steps watched. I felt my bones crawling within my skin. Senses strong. The world outside was forgotten.

“This is so creepy,” Boxie-boo said, walking through a low passage way, dim-lit and cold, appearing to be the route of death himself. Human remains surrounded her on both sides, as she glanced down making eye contact with eyeless skulls.

“This place has to be haunted,” I said, surrounded by the dead. “This is really *beeped* up.”

No photos were allowed, but I managed to find one online that someone must have snuck from inside. The above link illustrates the art of death at San Francisco Church, using thigh bones and skulls to make a flower out of human bodies.

Surprise ending: You are not reading this. We are all in a mental hospital reading messages in Alaphabet Soup.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

The Huaca Pucllana Ruins, Lima

06/26/10

Taking off my shirt and dropping my pants (I see that I already have your full attention), I reached into my belly button and pulled a clump of lint the size of a small grape. I then thought of my readers and named the clump stalker McGee. Waiting for the shower to warm, I shivered enough that had I still be wearing pants, I would have been tempted to pee myself.

Our room was cold beyond the blankets, as in our experience, Peruvian hostels were not heated. This fact combined with no water pressure resulted in half my body burning, while goosebumps immediately formed where the lack of water missed. Half shivering and half burning, it was another hit of goat menopause.

In the shower, I had the provocative dance of a squirrel who confused his shadows for nuts: jerky and twitching, voice chirping and hands aimlessly flailing with soap, body spinning and trying not to cry, with my muscles tight and face scrunched, giving me an innate ability to be permanently constipated. The light gave me a shadow. The water gave me no nuts. The squirrel in me prepared for starvation.

I know what you are thinking - what a whining bitch - and you´re right.

It was in that very moment when the coldness near changed me into a woman, I realized I was beginning to miss those familiar comforts of home:

-a guaranteed good night´s sleep
-a warm shower with pressure
-knowing food would not give me diarrhea
-taking a dump without worrying abut stepping in poop or having to thow the toilet paper in a garbage can due to poor plumbing
-being treated as an equal and not a foreigner to be conned
-seen as a human being and not a white man with unlimited money who can buy everything
-paying the same price as locals without having to barter for 30 minutes
-etc.

Sorry, I needed to vent or the “laowai” in me, Chinese for foreigner, risked randomly biting people in public or refusing to wear clothes. Recently, I had begun to lose patience for many things: menus shoved in my face, salespeople grabbing my wrist, being stalked by honking taxi drivers or beggars gripping my pants. I needed a break. I said I would tell you what it is like to travel around the world, and sometimes, more than anything else, being constantly treated like a foreigner drove me near madness.

Venting over.

I cannot complain too much, or else you guys will forget how terrific I smell. It was a frustrating morning, admittedly over something I had dealt with many times before. All in all, I was glad we found a hostel to stay at in Lima. The night before we left Cusco, we received an email from the owner of the Albergue Miraflowers House telling us that our reservation was cancelled, less than a day´s notice. After hours of searching online, I managed to find one hostel with a private room for the day we landed, the Pukhara Hostel, in the neighbourhood I wanted of Miraflores.

After giving us some much needed rest, we headed out to the Huaca Pucllana, jumping in a taxi for 8 Sol.

Miraflores was a grimmy town, messy with faded painted and a sky of a perpetual fog that highlighted the bulky and grey architecture. Overcast and gritty, the buildings were stained with rusted air-conditioners and dusty satelitte dishes. Small homes were covered in metal bars with windows smoked stained. Haunting. Our driver made the sign of a cross while we passed a church, while I slouched, to keep my head from banging into the ceiling at intersection potholes.

Looking up at walls sprawling with grafitti, we passed packed vans with rusted wheel wells. Our driver turned, moving along a residential side street with some flowers and cacti plants, then pulled into a parking lot that appeared to be brown sand melted over black rocks. Bumping to a stop, I leaned forward to pull the sol from my wallet and banged my head.

For 10 sol each including an English guide, we entered the Huaca Pucllana ruins.

Inside a small gallery were ancient tools including stone to mould ceramics and a hair comb that appeared to be made of small nails wrapped in cloth. There were pots designed with shark symbols, figures created from bone and sewing needles made from cacti plants. We had entered the time of the Lima people, dating back 200-700 AD, well before the Incas. It was a strange sight, one with a massive crumble of an ancient pyramid, surrounded by modern buildings, both shrowded in the city´s winter grey.

The pyramid appeared to be a giant pile of books, faded into hardened dust, set up ladder-like towards the top, uneven and appearing fragile, able to disappear with a gust of wind. The Huaca Pucllana took 200 years to build and was once home to a perfected pyramid for religious purposes, administrative buildings and markets for trading. Our guide explained it was built using the “Bookshelf technique” to protect against seismic activity, allowing movement between the stacking enclopedia-sized shelves.

Archaelogists at the site had found the remains of food, fruit and vegetables in the temple for offerings to the gods, including human skulls for sacrifice. Since women represented fertility and children represented purity, the Limas sacrificed them for their godesses.

“There were women like governors and high priests,” our guide said. “This is why it was a martriachal society.”

“Sacrifice was not seen as punishment, but an honor.”

On top of the pyramid, our guide stood on dirt turned hard as stone. He pointed to holes where tree trunks were planted, alongside walls painted yellow, in an area to pay respect to their ancestors and praise their goddesses. Within the small holes, priests and followers placed offerings in area cracked in the shape of lightning bolts. The women priests would lead the people, paying their respects to the sea and moon. Looking down along the unbalanced bookshelf of brown, the bottom looked like receeding, ocean-front cliffs in low tide, stepping into a desert of sand. Up top, the female leaders would smash pottery with rocks as an offering, often after a customary meal of guinea pig - something Peruvians still eat today.

“You might find it weird to eat guinea pig,” our guide said, “but we find it weird other cultures keep them as pets.” I suppose in some countries, a Canadian pet store is a slaughter house, from stray dogs being hunted in China for their brains, to guinea pigs deep fried.

On this day, I also realized how few things excited us anymore. Seeing and learning about new things had become a daily activity. My boredom changed the moment I met one of the world´s ugliest dogs.

The site had Peruvian Hairless Dogs as pets, walking around with red blankets against their backs. With a few random red hairs and diseased-looking black skin, patchy and with scab-like red marks, Boxie-boo was afriad to go near them. I petted one once it stopped growling. It felt like worn leather with spikey hairs, similiar to an elephant.

“They say if you pet them they can cure things like arthritis,” he said. Boxie-boo was still unconvinced and was hiding behind me.

At night, we gave ourselves a rare treat since Africa - the enjoyment of cooking for ourselves. Back home, it is simply a routine and something to be done. Even grocery shopping had become enjoyable. For giggles, I am always tempted to secretly throw a box of condoms into the carts of a little old lady, use her same checkout just to watch for the cashier’s reaction. When traveling, being able to make whatever you want - in our case, Boxie-boo´s steak recipe, corn and a giant salad - was one way for us to snap out of our travel negativity and continue. We were thankful the Pukhara Hostel, the first in since Johannesburg, had a kitchen we could use.

We were also smart now to buy any pre-boxed food. We had little time left before heading home, and therefore, the serving size would have equated to: “Probably this Entire Box in Less Than An Hour, You Fat Bastards (or an entire family over two days).”

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Why Peru was the Last Stop?

06/25/10

On a flight back from Cusco to Lima, I decided to describe why I choose Peru to be our last stop on our around the world trip. In every single way, it was the perfect ending point for us.

Mesmerizing and mystifying, delicate and rash, spiritual and historical, Peru is one of the world’s most intriguing countries. At first thought, Peru conjured up an image of nightfall in the mountains, where the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu seemed to hold the light of the moon, leaving the rest of the world in its massive shadows. A ruin so old and rooted in the soil, it appeared as part of the mountain’s natural landscape. In this mysterious light, the country remained, for us, to be the best destination in South America – the land of the sun-worshipping Incas - sparking our imaginations constantly.

Energized with life and culture, and blessed with its charming blend of history and growing modernity, Peru was full of surprises. Besides the archaeological hotspots, Peru is home to a 2414 km of coastline, over half a million square kilometers of the Amazon rainforest and claims the world’s deepest canyon and highest passable lake. The country’s three regions – the desert coastline, tropical rainforest and the awe-inspiring Andes – combine Peru to be one of the most ecologically diverse countries in the world. We hope to return and see more.

The mountains were the heart of the country, pumping dozens of rivers through tropical rainforests, ending along the slender spine of the desert coastline. From up high, the impoverished indigenous people found refuge from the cities, some with whom we met on the Inca Trail, while the coast’s more affluent residents live in urbanized areas. The country was a cultural blend of mestizos, descendants of Spanish conquistadors, indigenous people, and African and Asian migrants, making Peru rich in music, dance, festivals and cuisine.

The Incas were daring engineers. They built mountain-top citadels and carved hillsides into vast farmlands, which were fed by water canals and drainage systems. The Incas followed the absolute power of their emperors for centuries and worshipped the moon, earth, mountains, rivers and most importantly, the revered Inti, Sun God, who nourished the earth and controlled the harvest.

For all its natural beauty and rich heritage, Peru has suffered a tragic past by the rifles of Spanish conquistadors in the 1500s. For centuries, the Inca people endured lengthy periods of political turmoil and bloodshed. Peruvian independence was achieved in 1821, bringing an end to Spain’s exploitation of Inca treasures, from gold and mineral deposits, to the slave labour of the indigenous people. Thankfully, much of the Incas structural marvels, culture and tradition survived, allowing us to witness the Incas innate ability to build in harmony with the environment.

Today, Peru is an electoral democracy with a 120-member, unicameral Congress elected every five years. The economy is dominated by fishing, mining, agriculture and tourism. The class structure was clear-cut with the indigenous people at the bottom and the mestizos at the top, with little middle class in between. While development continued to transform the capital of Lima, in many rustic sections of the country, indigenous people have managed to change their lifestyle very little over the past 400 years. The result was a country that offered a buzzing metropolitan - and the ability to travel back in time.

Peru was bursting with opportunities for unforgettable travel experiences and exploration. Our imaginations were left at home in a country legendary for lost temples tangled in shrubbery and vines, hiding their ancient treasures and dusty imperial tombs. Snowcapped mountains, volcanoes and the jaw-dropping terrain of the Amazon jungle made way for raging rivers, the prowl of pumas and the medicinal treatment of healing wizards. And while the diversity, at times, even overwhelmed the most affluent traveler, the tranquility of Peru remained – a country where locals always seemed to find time for a drink, a chance to take in the setting of a country that has laid claim to over 20,000 years of empires.

Fact File

-Peru shares borders with Ecuador and Colombia to the north, Brazil and Bolivia to the east, and Chile to the south. It is the third largest country in Latin America, encompassing 1,300,000 square kilometers.

-Peru has a population of 27,900,000. It has the largest indigenous population in South America. Approximately half of the population is indigenous and poor.

-The capital of Lima is home to 8 million people. One million people live in Arequipa, the second largest city. Other major cities include Trujillo, Piura, Iquitos, Cusco, Cajamarca, Puno and Ayacucho.

-Since independence in 1821, Peru has experienced alternating periods of civilian and military rule.

-The Amazon accounts for more than half of Peru’s territory and one half of the world’s jungles.

-There is a widespread belief among the young that worthwhile education can only be obtained overseas. As a result, more than 400,000 Peruvians leave the country each year, most between the ages of 15 and 29.

-There are approximately 3,000 festivals celebrated every year in Peru. Although most derive from the Christian calendar introduced by the Spanish, indigenous Andean beliefs are also celebrated.

-Peru has two distinct seasons – the wet and dry season. The wet season runs from December to April. The dry runs from May to October and is ideal for visiting most of Peru.

-Peru holds world records in highest diversity for birds (1,816 species), butterflies (3,532 species) and orchids (3,500 species). The country also has a huge number of mammals (462 species) and amphibians (379 species). There are at least 6,288 endemic species of plants and animals.

-The national dance is the mariner, which mimics the mating ritual of birds. A female dancer marks the beat with a white handkerchief held above her head, and shakes the folds of her skirt, while a suitor struts around her.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Inti Raymi: The Festival of the Sun

06/24/10

Loudspeakers belted speeches in Spanish, as we walked towards the main square of Cusco, known in Inca times as Huacaypata - “The Warriors´ Square.” I later realized why. It was time for the packed crowds of Inti Raymi, the Inca celebration of the sun and the winter solstice.

The parade circled the square blocked off by police. Buildings were draped in massive Inca photos, the images of ancient priests. In an attempt to crazy-horse gallope before the beginning of the Inti Raymi Parade, I was only able to penguin waddle, still sore from the hike with the facial expression of a woman in labour. Thinking of this, I then wondered why men have nipples and some women have nostril hair.

We found Yamila, Fabienne and Victor in a section overlooking the square and joined them. The sound of marching began. Men chanting. Dressed in long, colourful gowns, soldiers passed by wielding shields and speers. Elderly Peruvian women as tall as my belly button, nestled under my arms like I was a giant and they were baby elephants. Their elbows began digging into my side and gazed at them with puppy dog eyes, wishing I had octopus hands to push them gently away. I stiffened my position, while women on both sides attempted to burp me with their eblows.

“I am being hit from all angles,” Boxie-boo yelped. She gave me a strange, enthusiastic look, the facial expression of old men after learning of the invention of Viagra. She then tightened her lips, pouted, looking ready to do her usual rabbit thump of anger.

Tourists were as sparse in this section as armpit hair on newborn babies. With most locals being small, my head was well-above the crowd, even more so than in places like China and Cambodia. Women with boards of jewellery tapped my shoulder, while locals chewed coca leaves, pushing into me. The sound of plastic twisting. People cheering. Dancers and soldiers passed through the square, some carrying golden chairs and what appeared to be an ancient mummy with its hand attached to its face, stray hairs dangling, old skin attached to visible bones. In every single way, I appeared distracted, but was sure to bury my wallet, before returning my hand into my pocket between photos - a habit born from traveling.

The wind belly-laughed with the sound of banging drums. Then silence, only the loudspeaker´s muffled words as the head priest held his arms up towards the sun. His soldiers dropped to their knees, colourful and in perfect unison. Their costumes resembled the card soldiers from Alice in Wonderland. A child was lifted onto a father´s shoulders, forcing Boxie-boo to elongate her neck and coil her sight in abnormal positions.

Post-photograph, I felt a hand brush my upper thigh. Then saw a man in his early 20s.

Adrenaline pumped through me, screaming into my bones, my smile smothered away, turning my face into the look of a disabled frog attempted to stalk flies. Ribbit, homie. I shook my head slowly, my forehead lined with wrinkles and my body leaned forward. I pointed at the man beside me as if my finger was a gun, my body visibly flexed in attack position, warning him I was willing and able to massage his brain with my forefinger up his nose. He lifted his hands in the surrender position and walked away. I imagined him tripping, falling face first into a pile of dog shit with his crotch slammed into a rock.

Legion after legion of soldiers - from red and yellow, to green and golden in dress - stayed in a respectful silence, bowing. The procession ended shortly after, the crowd dispercing. We caught a cab to the next Inca celebration site, finding packed crowds in the thousands.

Walking on route to Sacsayhuaman, salespeople were in full pursuit for the rare sight of foreigners. The roadway was lined with outhouses, women in decorative ponchos carrying baby sheep, dangling with bracelettes and shawls. Salespeople were selling everything from traditional clothing and small instruments, to bubble-makers and candy.

I thought about how sore and stiff I was simply walking, surprised by the challenge of the Inca Trail. Back home in Canada, I try to stay fit with sports, including soccer, trail running and weight training. I had even developed two tips for running faster: 1.) Find a hot girl to follow; and 2.) Make sure there is a real creepy dude behind you. The problem is I have also learned that if there is a Number 1, I am likely Number 2. So perhaps I would have been in better shape for the Inca Trail if I had figured out a way to run away from myself.

Most tourists paid anywhere from $100 to $150 U.S. for a tour of Inti Raymi. Our tour cost a few bucks for a taxi ride between sites, finding a viewing point on a hillside between the expensive seats, overlooking the entire parade.

We arrived at Sacsayhuaman early. It was built before the Inca Empire around 1100 AD, later expanded by the Incas. It was the official ceremony point for Inti Raymi, where flag runners lined the hillside, standing inbetween the massive rock walls of the Killke ruin. The opposing hillside was packed with locals, as most Peruvian people could not afford the $70 U.S. ticket price and the view was fine from above. Gathering in what appeared to over 100,000 onlookers, we awaited the emperor. He arrived, carried on a golden chair on the shoulders of his guards. When he raised his arms, the sun reflected off his gold medalions, causing the crowd to erupt with cheers.

The event had four different rituals, involving dancing and praising movements to worship the sun, all narrated by speeches in the native language of Quechuan. It ended when a black llama, most likely sedated, was symbolically sacrified. The sacrifice was simulated, no llama died, through the raising of organs that seemed hidden on the central rock structure, where the ancient priest screamed, elevated towards the crowds.

In all honesty, we were both very glad we did not pay the expensive cost of a tour and seats. The rituals at Sacsayhuaman were very similar to the square, easily visible and more entertaining to be viewed on the hillside from a local´s perspective. This should be the cardinal rule of any traveler - whenever safe and accessible, leave the shelter of your foreigner mindset and enter a society, as best you can, as a citizen of their culture, seeing their world from the inside out, instead of merely spectating from the outside in.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

After the Inca Trail

06/23/10

At 4:30 a.m., we entered the silent streets of Cusco, finally having returned from the Inca Trail…sort of. We were hours late, a result of the train stalling twice and then having to catch two separate buses. Again, Cusco Explorers did not live up to its contract. Instead of dropping each person off at their hostel/hotel, our driver booted a group of foreigners off the bus on some random street, in a town that we did not know our way around, where not one person, one car, was in sight in any direction. After a 30-minute walk we spent lost, cold and confused with stiff, overworked legs from the Inca Trail and headaches from lack of sleep, we managed to find our hostel at 5 a.m. When we woke up later at noon I was ready to have a one-on-one meeting with Cusco Explorers between the manager’s junk and my fist.

“Good afternoon,” the front desk clerk said to us as we walked down the stairs. I looked over at a tourist laughing while using the one free computer at our hostel. At all hostels, there should be a trap door below the lone computer chair that opened up into a pit of fire if anyone uses the one free hostel computer for Youtube videos. She was stopping me from an angry email I had to write. Yes, it was one of those days where I had trouble finding my Zen. I felt as though the entire town was in on my suffering in my confused, enraged state of mind.

“What are your plans for today?” the clerk inquired.

Oh paw-leassee. As if she did not know. I knew it though. I knew the entire city was in on it, my suffering, in cahoots with Cusco Explorers and hiding the groin region of their leader from us. As if she could not tell from the look in my eyes that I was looking to punch someone I had never met before in the junk.

“Can I help you?” she asked. I suddenly realized having an internal monologue to myself was not helping the situation. I had walked up to her, rested my hands on her counter, then looked up at the wall aimlessly behind her and began thinking to myself. I had my sunglasses on and likely appeared to be looking her directly in the eyes without speaking.

“Yes, we are just waiting for the computer,” I said, not realizing I was asking for her help with waiting. I decided to continue speaking, even though I had failed to communicate properly all morning. “We need directions to get to an office to discuss some business.”

I nodded quizzically. She did not nod back. I hoped I had communicated our situation in a way that let her know that I needed to punch someone in the junk, but in all likelihood, I said it in a way that suggested I was looking to discuss some business.

“Do you know the address?” She asked. I did not know. The computer was not free and I was too impatient to wait. Instead, I removed my glasses, threw my hands up in the air, as if this body language communicated my entire diabolical plan. I still did not receive a nod. Grumpy and with new motivated, we headed out on the town looking for a massage instead of a stranger’s junk, though my thoughts lingered.

The town looked friendly enough, with happy locals getting dressed up for an important festival, including a smiling vendor that sold me a bottle of water. Though, I knew, underneath it all, all these people were also in cahoots with Cusco Explorers. The water cost me money, money that was likely lining the pockets of the estranged manager, protecting his junk from my fist.

In a restaurant, I saw a tin cup that claimed to be collecting donations for a children’s band. The money-snatching oppression was without end. Yes, the owner smiled and thanked all the locals and tourists who deposited their change. On the outside. I’m quite confident he was calling each donator a jackass and laughing at us. On the inside. He was probably texting the manager’s junk all about it.

“Ha! Donations! Yeah right!” I chicken clucked to Boxie-boo. “I bet he also wants to drop us off on a random street in the middle of the night.”

“A whu?” she retorted. Apparently, she had trouble understanding my angry, bird-like mumbles. I found myself feeling silly, so I grabbed the change from my pocket, then through it in the jar…before I realized, these people were so good, they even had Boxie-boo in on it.

Throughout the day, we accomplished very little. I looked like someone´s great-aunt after three strokes had toddled me, my face unable to lift up into its normal position, appearing to be suffocating from my own clothing. I was foaming at the mouth with the thought of Cusco Explorers, all the insiders taunting me in the city, my eyes bloodshot and red as if I had injected heroine directly into my eyeballs. I enjoyed the afternoon no more than I would enjoy a diagnosis of penis shrinkage. Then I felt nothing. A sleep state. I found myself tempted to light my hair on fire, find the address of Cusco Explorers and walk into the office: Look what you did to me?

Honesty reigns supreme for the Ribatron-don. When I do not get what is promised to me, especially in a written contract, a distaste enters my mouth that resembles monkey droppings. At night (above), while we walked around Cusco, my rage howled like a baby after being told he can never suck a nipple again. I simply wanted a ride to my hostel, not to be lost in a city I barely I knew at 4:30 a.m.

Thankfully, the culture of Cusco invaded my ear drums, healing my soul. I snapped out of my ridiculous conspiracy theories and began enjoying the wonderment of the festival that was growing around us.

Walking with the pace of a turtle with an oversized shell, the streets of Cusco were packed for pre-Inti Raymi celebrations. We inhaled the smell of popcorn and frying meat, passing through locals wearing colourful ponchos. Street performers spray-painted gold stood statue-still, only moving for drops of change. It was a Halloween-like scene with goblins and witches, the streets crafty with salespeople, guitarists and women tapping shoulders with wooden boxes selling chocolate bars to the gathering crowds. It was a pickpocket’s dream, so I was sure to wear my hidden money belt and keep one hand on my camera bag. It turned out, this was a smart move.

Another parade had formed, its drum beat penetrating my skin and into my heart, fueling me with needed life. Firecrackers popped and echoed, turning the cobblestone into orange lightning. Trumpets all tuned differently blasted. Young mother´s backpacked their babies within their ponchos. The rainbow flag of Cusco swayed. Bronze instruments pointed upwards at the sky. No manager’s junk was punched, no Youtube watching backpacking fell into a pit of fire, but I still had a blast. It was a sight of moving music and colour, where we searched and bartered our way, in time, for an Inca massage - a must after the Inca Trail, costing 25 Soles per person for an hour and a half, which is about $9 Canadian.

For our massage, we entered a room that smelt of hockey equipment, surrounded by draping red curtains and a red massage table. Solo flute music fluttered in the room. Paranoid about my camera and wallet, I placed them through the face hole to ensure I could always have them in view. My paranoia rang true, as later in the night, we met up with Fabienne who told us her camera had been pick pocketed. After returning home to Canada, I emailed her a DVD with all my photos from Peru. There are few things worse that losing photographs traveling and I experienced this in Thailand, as you may recall, but for a different reason.

The massage was just what we needed, starting from our head, releaving me fully of both my exhaustion-caused headache and my urge to punch junk.

“How you doing, babe?” I asked, through the swaying curtains. The festivals drums slightly penetrated the wall, the flutes smooth over top of a backdrop of rhythm.

“Ohh wahh ohhh wahh,” Boxie-boo responded, too relaxed to communicate properly, unless she confused me for an ancestor of Fred Flintstone. It was yabba dabba do-errific. Boxie-boo never underestimated the power of carefully worded nonsense.

While on the table, all my sore areas were concentrated on - neck, upper back, mid-back, arms and feet. When she began massaging my caves, pain shot up my legs and into my back. Painful at first from hiking. Then lessoned. I relaxed, possibly too much. After massaging my thighs, she pulled my arm over my back, massaging my triceps, before gripping my wrist and shaking, my hand flapping back and forth over my bootae. It was as if she was signaling I farted. No comment.

Boxie-boo continuously moaned, mixing cavewoman gibberish with the post-poop giggles of a baby. The party outside continuously creped in with the backdrop of drums; a rhythm that crawled against my skin where gentle hands kneaded into my muscle. I began to feel loose and flexible, so much so that one wrong step would result in my own foot slipping into my bumhole. Then they were finished, the world around us beaming, slowing time: Relaxed, at peace and rejuvenated.

We treated ourselves to a dinner, a three-course meal for 20 Soles each, capping of the night watching the parades pass by, women swaying in circles and dancing, followed by drummers and blasting trumpets.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Inca Trail: Day Four

06/22/10

They say it is the person with the shifty eyes you should watch out for. As a result of waking up at 3:30 a.m. after four nights without sleep, I resembled Mr. Potato Head high on speed, constantly changing my snap-on eyes, and therefore, I was afraid of my own reflection.

Looking in the mirror after another bathroom balancing act, the face was somehow familar, but I could not quite remember my name. I looked like a waffle after someone tried flattened it with an iron: my face awkardly shaped by being pressed up against a tent on one side, and rocks on the other. I was so confused, each time someone asked me a question, I felt like taking off my shoes or randomly pointing at their noses.

Packing up my bag confused me even more, leaving me to feel like a lama being asked a math question. Pure exhaustion. I felt a small balloon wrap around my entire skull, which later made the sound of a whoopie cushion, until I realized the boiled water was giving me the farts. My entire face felt ball-skin loose, but with more wrinkles, as I attempted to pack up quickly for the porters who had to hike out in darkness to catch a 5 a.m. train.

In every way, from having shifty, Mr. Potato Head eyes to a waffle -ironed face, the only thing I could not figure out was why there was not a Ribatron-don action figure. As you can clearly read, my mind was elsewhere, making this post written from pure jibberish, as if I was drawing hand signals instead of words in my notebook.

After breakfast, we began our hike at 4:40 a.m. with a massive maze of stars overhead. Our flashlights dotted up and down the trail. My nipples were doing just fine. We walked a short distance waiting for the Winaywayna Control Point to open, listening to the sound of the river running and Boxie-boo shivering in my arms. By 5:40 a.m., the sun began to rise. It was a sight that seemed set from a great power, the gods playground, where the mountains seemed to still grow, set from sky planted seeds, sprinkling across the skyline’s green skeletal glow, blending almost too perfectly with light blue skies and a sea blue that darkened with distance.

Making our way to Intipunku, The Sun Gate, I lead the way out front until Valeriano caught up, jogging passed me. Feeling about as energetic as sloth after a labotomy, I made another stupid decision and decided this was my opportunity to try to keep up him. Even pass him.

Picture a hound dog puppy slipping on over-sized ears. Cute right?

That is how I ran, along a cliff edge, chasing Valeriano passed hikers, climbing steeps staircases with my arms up as if they ladders. I could hear the Urubamba river foaming, the trail being pounded by my feet, the dust and pebbles falling over a wide chasm of steep cliffs, thousands of meters down. I sounded as though I was coming up for air with each breath, my legs flailing out, body sideways, even running alongside the left wall to pass fellow hikers. My skin crawled with the tension of competition, the leaves speeding behind us on the trail.

My shoes continued spitting brown powder. Leaves flashed from the corner of my eyes. Branches snapping. I managed not to poop myself.

By the time we reached Intipunku, I was within a couple meters of Valeriano, who attempted to give me a high five. I missed, then went to slap my thigh instead for balance, and missed, flailing my arm aimlessly between my legs as if mimicking my own balancing equipment. My pulse was throbbing in my neck. I felt nothing but my backpack straps and my own sweat. He pointed to Machu Picchu. His smile was stripper friendly.

“Yes,” I said, my voice slurring out of breath. I could barely see and I was one dead cat away from a country song.

When Boxie-boo arrived, I felt her presence more than saw her. It was the first time, and only time, I went on without her on the hike briefly. She seemed to be walking through a mist, the low-level clouds filling the Sun Gate with unseen moisture, like walking through a watery shadow. Her voice was light with innocence, as she touched the hair curling my neck. I wanted to freeze time. Something felt right in the universe. We were a short hike away from our destination, Machu Picchu, a feeling of great accomplishment I will never forget.

Valeriano led the way out front, taking us to a better viewpoint, where we watched the sun slowly illuminate the lost city of the Incas.

After a four-day, three-night Inca Trail hike, we had finally made it to Machu Picchu.

The curtains closed. A tremor on impact. Machu Picchu had exorcised my demons.

Looking at this ancient city, it resembled the beginning of the world, where light and shadow moved down the mountains to the tempo of music. Locals in white gowns sang to the rising sun, nearby grazing lamas. The trees gleamed like polished silver, leaving me lost in this setting, until my infatuation with the ancient world broke my trance. In this moment, when I thought of nearing the end of our trip, of returning home to a normal life, I was sad. With each step into Machu Picchu, I felt crowds of people walking over my grave.

When we arrived to the lost city, it had been 99 years since Machu Picchu was “officially” discovered. I say “officially” because history seems to only recognize discovery when something is seen by a westerner. In actuality, the American Hiram Bingham was shown Machu Picchu by a local Peruvian named Melchor Arteaga. An area where Bingham saw families were living, is now where the hotel now resides. Instead of giving the discovery title to those that deserve it, the 4,000 treasures found at Machu Picchu are still in the United States at Yale University, yet to be returned, according to Valeriano.

“The truth is - the the first discoverers were the local families,” he said. “The treasures belong to Peru.”

But why did the Spaniards never find the ruin?

When the Spanish began conquering Peru, the Inca leaders ordered their people to destroy sections of their trails to confuse the Spaniards. “Thankfully,” Valeriano said. “The Spaniards would have destroyed it.”

Machu Picchu was built in the middle of mountains for many reasons, Valeriano said. It allowed the religious monument to be hidden, it was nearby many ecological zones to provide everything it needed to be a self-sufficient community, year-round the vegetation was green and growing -and it has a natural spring for water. Machu Picchu was built from granite rock from its own mountain (Machu Picchu Mountain), the roof made from valley trees and the grass from the nearby highlands. Ancient Incas were able to grow everything from peanuts to beans, to jungle potatoes and tomatoes.

After four days of hiking, our pace slowed down as Valeriano showed us to the Temple of the Sun (above). The structure´s original sections were smooth, completed with perfectly fitted stones, while reconstructed walls looked rough, more like stacked rocks. The building, a tower in shape, had two windows - one set for the winter solstice sunrise, the other for the summer solstice. The tomb inside was found empty by archaeologists. Historians now believe the Incas removed their mummies after the arrival of the Spaniards. Inside, animals were once sacrified, same as the Inti Raymi festival we were set to visit in Cusco.

Nearby, we passed the Temple of the Water. In total, Machu Picchu had 16 fountain, but one fountain (above) in particular, was only used for religious pruposes.

Out front of the Temple of the Condor, it was easy to spot the Incas artwork, outlining two giant wings through natural rocks, with stone work on the ground to represent the head. In Inca belief, the condor carried the mummies to the spiritual world. Lamas were sacrificed over the face, Valeriano said, while locals offered coca leafs. The condor, as Valeriano put it, was the “Messenger between the Earth and spiritual world.” Entering inside the tomb was eerie, the feel and smell of cooling stone. I was quiet, ancient, a walk through time. Respectful while non-believing, I left an offering of coca leaves to follow in tradition.

Hiking the stairs to the botanical gardens, I felt 15 months pregnant, but with more belly button lint. By the time we arrived at the top, I was keen to relax, though admittedly uninterested in the garden. We saw passion fruit, jungle potatoes, the infamous coca plant and many orchids, before passing by the Temple of Three Windows, named as such by Bingham, because there were three windows. What a genius. Nearby, was a stone structure shaped by three steps on either side, flattened across the top. It was interesting, not for its shape, but for its meaning. The top section represented light and angels; the middle represented the people; the bottom represented the under world. The shape continued below the surface, an opposite Valeriano said, represented the dark side of everything.

We had climbed to the top, a sight where the ancient altar stood, now bending in one corner. We could see the early artwork, where Incas mimicked the neighbouring mountain range with stone. From up top, we looked down into the Sacred Plaza, an open area, which held a natural echo, portrayed by the clapping of Valeriano´s hands. Down below, festivals and parties were held, when less than a 100 years earlier, it was covered in jungle bush.

Boxie-boo found herself fascinated with the Intiwatana stone (above), arguably Machu Picchu´s most famous piece, accessed by a 78-step staircase. On one side, we spotted three steps carved out of the granite, centered by a polished monolith, consisting of flat surfaces. The structure served two purposes - measuring time (solstice and equinox) and serving as altar where animals were sacrified. Each of its corner direct to the four points of a compass.

The Intiwatana stone was able to determine the beginning and end of the harvest cycle, including the most important date - the winter solstice (June 21), the original date of Inti Raymi, until it was changed to June 24th. On that day, the sun is at its farthest from the Earth. The Incas were afraid the sun would abandon them. Their festival was held to lure the sun back, to guarantee another year´s harvest.

“People believe the rock has a powerful energy,” Valeriano said. Victor walked over, held his hand over the rock, then began pop-and-lock dancing, then appeared to be electricuted.

“It does,” he said, as we all laughed.

Unfortunately, part of the stone was broken while filming a beer commercial. Valeriano would not tell us which one.

With time to kill and train that did not leave until 9:45 p.m., Boxie-boo and I headed to the town Aguas Calientes and capped of the day walking through markets, relaxing and giving our legs a much needed break.

That´s all for now.

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Inca Trail: Day Three

06/21/10

For the purpose of this story, please avoid picturing me wearing your mother´s wedding dress. Thank you.

“My entire body is sore,” Boxie-boo said at 5:45 a.m., shivering as we took off our thermal underwear and sweaters, knowing mid-hike exercise would result in over heating. We scampered to the bathroom, where I was careful not to slip on the floor covered in slippery mud, urine and poop. Toilet seats did not exist on the Inca Trail. With no back toilet cover, I rolled up my socks to avoid disgusting stains, with my right arm back against the wall and my left hand holding up my pants, shivering while pooping. This was a new experience.

I had spent all night sleeping sideways in the tent with my face soggy in one corner, my feet covered in cold condensation in the other, as a result of being a giant in Peru. At least there were no roosters and no Boogie Man, though I am confident my shadow resembled Brad Pitt.

The result of being faster than the porters a day earlier, meant we did not recognize the meeting point as the lunch spot. This resulted in us missing our last opportunity to buy bottled water for Day Three. Instead, boiled water had upset my stomach to the point where I worried I could poop my pants, mid-stretch, reaching between two of the Inca Trail´s giant steps. I thought of this, squatting while small pieces of poop floated in one centimetre high brown water, then decided to take two Immodium tablets.

I was glad we remembered to pack toilet paper.

Step one on the hike was not stinking, so we powdered down our drawers with baby powder and I fought my instinct to stuff flowers down my pants. The first section of the hike involved climbing from 3600 metres above sea level to 3950, short compared to what we went through on Day Two. Walking near Ming and looking at snow-peaked mountains, he joked that we should stay behind the lead guide so we get lunch. My calves were rock hard, breathing still loose and the stairs were their usual, Inca Trail steep. We saw an ancient Inca site in the distance, which motivated us onwards. We were walking around the Veronica Glacier, and I hate to admit it, but I might have accidentally looked up its skirt. My apologies.

Valeriano caught up, with a face of distress and worry.

He told us he was helping another guide with a big problem. A sick hiker´s oxygen level was very low at 67. Mine was tested yesterday at 97. This sick hiker´s resting heart rate was at 130, which meant, porters - the superhumans they are - were preparing to carry him up the 350 metres, at which point he was to be picked up by helicopter.

At 3760 metres, we reached the Runkuracay (above), a circular rock Inca site covered in yellow and green moss. It was discovered in 1915, Valeriano explained, four years after the first foreigner was shown Machu Picchu. He said it was developed around 1200 A.D. From above, it appeared to be two stone letter Cs facing eachother, with a letter O in the middle. It overlooked the Pacamayo Valley, with a view all the way back to the Dead Woman´s Pass. It is believed to be a lookout point, or message station, where information runners stopped, passing their messages from Cusco to other runners, who carried them onwards to Machu Picchu.

In 1532 when the Spaniards came, the society had lasted approximatedly 300 years, at which point it had expanded to Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia, Northern Argentina and even Chile. The Incas had the capability of mass communication, using trails from the capital of Cusco, through various runner stations that could send messages anywhere in the Inca Empire within a week.

“The trails were 41,000 of kilometres,” Valeriano explained. The messages passed from Cusco to Machu Picchu through runner stops, for example, took only seven hours - a distance of approximately 115 kilometres through the mountains. Holy flamming cow shit! The modern day record of the Inca Trail, which starts over 40 kilometres closer to Machu Picchu than Cusco, was set by a porter at three hours and 45 minutes, beating all professional athletes in the competition, Valeriano added. That statement, unless he was pulling our legs, was insane, I thought, finding the trail challenging to complete in four days.

We arrived at the first peak, 3950 metres, followed by a random dog. We arived at the top at 9 a.m., the others at 9:30 a.m. We were content not to get too far ahead, until Valeriano agreed to walk with Boxie-boo and I, whom he nicknamed the “Speedies.”

Within a few metres, he challenged me to race, at which he sprinted, not jogged, down the steep staircase, giggling with his usual inpubescent, contagious laugh. He reminded me a young boy on a sugar high, running away from his Dad with a stolen Playboy Magazine. I conceded defeat, but vowed to challenge him again on a flat or mildly uphill section, or possibly to a Trivial Pursuit game on Canadian history.

The three of us walked through a panoramic view of the Acombama Valley, near the snow clad Pumasillo peak. The ancient stairs were surrounded by tall grasses, where specks of colour from orchids and lichens lighted the mountainsides in pedals. The air was fresh, our lungs more adjusted to the altitude, which allowed us a pace between a speedwalk and jogging.

Reaching a lookout down towards the Inca site of Sayaqmarca (above), Valeriano told us to hold up for the others. For the first time in a couple hours, our following dog did not rest with us and continued on. He did look back, once briefly, before following hikers in the distance. It was the first time in my life I felt cheated on by a dog. I now know why my dog Roxie - rest in peace - would sniff me, then walk away, when she smelt the scent of Boxie-boo´s dog. Oh how could you?!

Sayaqmarca reminded me of a smaller version of some castles located in the United Kingdom. It seemed melted in the mountainside, complete with towers and walls smooth against the flow of the earth, without a swimming pool. While resting, my feet felt of pines and needles, an itchiness of pain that came and went through the Inca Trail.

Sayaqmarca was built in the upper mountains for three reasons, Valeriano explained, for protection, to defend the Inca Empire and out of respect for the rivers. Sayaqmarca had three fountains - one for religious purposes and two for domestic use. It was centered around a holy rock, which included an alter that religious travelers on route to Machu Picchu would leave offerings to the mountains, from precious stones to coca leaves.

“You can take out your memory card from your camera and leave it behind,” Valeriano joked.

“I will donate Victor´s underpants,” I added, then glanced at his crotch region by mistake. Thankfully, Victor laughed at my joke, without placing his hands over his trouser snake and blushing.

Boxie-boo and I found the alter covered in coca leaves, no underpants and small crumpled pieces of paper that I imagined were notes, not litter. Archaeologists were measuring the site´s walls, near an area where we found the dried up passageway of running water.

After Sayaqmarca, we entered the Amazon Jungle. The pathway was dark, covered in overhanging trees, where massive ferns grew alongside dangling vines. Moss grew inbetween the rock steps, while from the umbrella tree tops, flowers fell in the moisture-rich air, the area around us covered in thick branches. The area was surprisingly silent. Chilly. The pathway was still bubbling in rocks as if the skin of boiling valcano. It was an easy section of mild uphills and downhills, even occasional flattened areas that made our bodies feel weightless after Day Two´s 1200 metres up and 600 metres down.

The Amazon, at times, felt as though we were walking in a dried creekbed. I was still leading the pack, post-lunch, and starting to run out of steam. Rocks slippery. The smell of cut grass and Tiger Balm on my sore knees. My bag straps began squealing like loose bed springs, the sound of pigs post-tail pull. The moisture continously thickened. I could have been breathing underwater.

Concrete legs. Body heavy.

The view was spectacular, motivating me to continue to see more gorgeous landscapes. The pathway eventually reached massive slabs of fallen rock, pinned against the mountainside and trail creating darkened caves. Rock steps and ancestors challenging. The Inca trail was a constant battle between mind over body. Luckily for me, I had watched enough cartoons to allow my mind to drift elsewhere. We perservered, with time to relax for 25 minutes at the Phoyodata Pass - the last pass of the trail, near the citadel of Phuyupatamarca, “Village above the clouds” (below).

The area beyond the ruins of Phuyupatamarca, the second most beautiful site after Machu Picchu, were covered in low-level clouds, an area of agricultural terraces and fountains, some still working, circulating fresh water where villagers gathered in front with buckets. The ruin over-looked flat-topped peaks, looking naturally curved, as if the mountain itself created a gathering point for the Incas by raising stones from its skin.

The problem with Phuyupatamarca was what followed - a 1,000 metre decent to our last campsite at Winayhuayna. We began heading downwards, as a porter passed us, jogging by while carrying an unconscious woman on his shoulders.

Yamila from Australia, rolled her ankled badly on the way down. To help her along, the guides saw her limping and went on without her. I could not believe they did this. Her brother Victor took over her backpack, while I walked within one foot in front, in case she slipped she could grab onto to me for support. It was a slow pace, our entire group coming together to help her along, except for the two Argentinian girls who went on ahead. Halfway down, everything hurt - my back throbbing, calves permanently flexed, thighs turned into steel and knees tingly, gently numb and vibrating. Then I felt nothing, my entire body without feeling. My legs had become self-possessed.

By the time we reached Winayhuayna, all Boxie-boo could talk about was having a shower, the first one available on the Inca Trail. After dinner, we ceremoniously collected our tips for our amazing porters, then went to bed early, knowing on Day Four we would be up at 3:30 a.m.

You may now picture me in your mother´s wedding dress.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Inca Trail: Day Two

06/20/10

In Canada, I am an average-sized dude, though my nostrils are different sizes, a beauty trend passed on from my mother - one side resembles the Africa continent, while the other could be the wrinkle line near a baby´s armpit. In Peru, I was a Yao Ming giant, which means I had knocked my head on multiple ceilings, including one leaving a bathroom, forcing me to walk out bent forward massaging my head, looking like I injured myself from drinking out of the toilet.

For the entire night, I struggled with my body being too long to fit in the tent without laying on my side on rocks, while my shoulders were too wide to fit inside my sleeping bag. The result left me wearing my sleeper like a strapless dress, my knees up in the birth giving position. By the time I fell asleep at around 2 a.m., I was awoken at 3:15 a.m. by roosters armageddon screaming. If I ever become a farmer, one my first day on the job I woul call a meeting with the roosterstell them to wake up around 9:30 a.m. If they do not respond correctly, I would crack their spirits by eating scrambled eggs in front of them. Thankfully, a couple hours later at 6 a.m., a porter knocked on our tent´s wall and handed us two glasses of coca tea to prepare for the altitude. It was the first time we had received room service while camping. Awesome.

Walking outside the tent, we dodged chickens while I attempted to stick my foot so far up a rooster´s bootae I would have known what the animal was thinking. We brushed our teeth in a nearby bush, spitting on top of a pile of cow poop. In the distance, the rising sun had turned the brownish mountains golden. My feet were cold in shoes and socks, while our porters prepared breakfast wearing sandals.

Day Two was the hardest section of the Inca Trail. Lack of sleep over two days made me no more prepared than if a doctor told me I was pregnant. Young lady, I too am surprised by the size of your ovaries.

“To the hill of destiny,” Boxie-boo proclaimed, watching the sun cast light down the shadowy mountain at 7:35 a.m. as we began our hike. My nose was already slightly burning from the thin air, but my armpits felt silky smooth. Leading the pack, I felt like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs with my fellow hikers behind me, but without wearing a push-up bra and nobody tiny screaming “High Ho”, though, it would have been nice. Our feet crunching on rocks, we began our first incline from 2,950, eventually leading to 4,215 metres.

By the time we reached the Wayllabamba check point, we removed our clothes fast like triathletes. Our passports stamped, we looked at the hardest incline to date, as our next meeting point was 350 metres higher. Valeriano had told us to meet him at a rest stop that had our group´s flag, two stops ahead.

“Porter,” a group yelled marked by Canadian flags as we passed. For some reason, Boxie-boo and I were hauling ass. I thought of being called a porter a compliment, the same way it was nice to have a donkey sniff my bumhole a day earlier. We were in the zone, ignoring our troubled eyes and faltering breaths, our smiles coming and going, mouths wide to the point that even our gums were drying.

“Is this pace okay?” I asked, my voice sounding as though as I was just punched directly in the lungs.

“I´m actually doing okay. The next flat part I will grab more leaves,” Boxie-boo replied, having become an addict to coca leaves. We will never know if they actually helped, or if chewing on them was simply a placebo effect. Coca leaves, according to our guide who was no where to seen all day, contain 14 alkaloids, one of which is cocaine (Don´t worry, Mom, not enough to make the drug, as it would take thousands of leaves).

We were a good team on this day. I held my hand back to help Boxie-boo up steps that were higher than a foot, sometimes two. We continuously motivated each other. When my heart rabbit thumped in the back of my head, I remembered to take in slow, deep, fuill breaths while twiddling my pen in my hand to allow my mind to focus elsewhere, beyond the burning in my calves. In the rare downhill sections, we reminded each other to be careful of our ankles, passing tourists every couple minutes.

…One and a half hours later…

The trail turned to straight rock, staircase after staircase between one and two-foot high. Step after step. Thighs sumo wrestler vibrating. Exhausting. We skipped the first rest stop and the trail began to live up to its reputation. My muscles switched from tight to jello. “I have bad headache,” Boxie-boo said. It could have been altitude sickness, or possible dehydration, so we rested quickly a couple trail turns ahead, at which point we were joined by Ming.

At 10:25 a.m. we arrived at the second rest stop with no flag in sight. No porters. We waited for half an hour, eventually joined by Fabienne. The three of us figured there was no way we would be faster than porters, even though they carry larger bags and we had a head start. Ming asked other guides if he knew about Cusco Explorers and was told our lunch stop was much later. “Let´s just get it over with,” Boxie-boo said, and we moved on.

Reaching higher altitude, the air became thinner again. We were above 3,600 metres, with over 600 more to go to Warmihuanusca Pass, the “Dead Woman´s Pass.” AT this point, I felt a pre-serve tennis ball bouncing on the back of my skull, then smashed into my brain. We continued on staircases scattered between sharp rocks, caveman-like tools. The mountains began talking to me. A puzzle of small dark plants sat amongst light, yellowish brown scrubbery, writing me a message across our mountain. How do you like me now, white boy? Another mountain, across the passageway, added to the conversation. Your penis has shrunk from overexertion. How did it know?

The thin air resulted in Boxie-boo needing more stops, while she kept telling me to go on without her. Nope. The low oxygen levels had given me the frozen, loose gum facial expression of a dog mid-run. The rabbit no longer thumped on my brain, but instead, seemed to be have invited over a female companion. I felt half-dead, the feeling of my lungs collapsing and forced open with each breath. When Boxie-boo asked to stop, my response was “No problem.”

Ever since passing the slower hikers, we were keeping pace with a 72-year-old Canadian, one of the fastest foreigners in the Andes Mountains. Taking a break, he stopped beside us.

“They say you burn more calories by having sex than hiking the Inca Trail,” he said. “What am I doing here?” The four of us burst our laughing. Around the next corner, a resting guide told us we were approximately 3,900 metres above sea level, then pointed to the pathway between two mountains.

“All the way up there?” Boxie-boo yelped, the literal truth passed off as absurd. “*Beep* my life.”

Continuing across shark rocks and staircase steps of smooth stone, we kept moving, limited our stops to only 10 second breaks. We realized when we stopped longer, it felt impossible to keep moving. Boxie-boo began walking with her hands on her knees, face downwards and swaying, looking as though she was dragging an invisible beluga whale; one with a blow hole that only released curse words.

“One second, I need to grab something from your backpack,” I said to her. The moment she took it off, I strapped the bag to the front of my chest as if preparing for lamoze class. “Let´s keep going, you are doing great, babe.”

“I can…” her voice drifted away, losing breath. “…Carry the bag.” I kept walking.

Nearing the top with only 30 steps left, I felt a sudden surge of energy, an adrenaline rush of pure stupidity. I told Boxie-boo I had to run it, to just get it over with. By the time I reached the top, I was gasping for air more than Monica Lewinsky during her internship. I sat down on a rock, heaving and delirious. We had finally reached 4,215 metres, the highest point on the Inca Trail, and the four of us took a celebratory photo, before heading 600 metres downwards to camp. Fabienne decided to wait for the others, while Ming joined Boxie-boo and I downhill. We walked, jogged, and occasionally, gripped the rock wall beside us like caged animals reaching for freedom.

“You are too fast,” Valeriano said, finally catching us with a few metres of camp, a statement my soccer teammates hear from their wives after some alone time.

“What time did you arrive at the second stop?” he asked, stopping us on our route down the Pacasmayo River Valley, giving us a break from steep staircases, pounding my knees with vibrations that left mine without feeling.

“Around 10:30 a.m. and waited until 11 a.m.,” Ming said. It turned out, the porters did not get there until 11:30 a.m. By the time we arrived at camp Pacaymayu at 2:20 p.m., there were no foreigners in sight and few porters. Our last porter showed up at 3:40 p.m., at which point we were finally given lunch, while the other hikers on tour began showing up from 5:20 p.m. onwards.

All night, the topic of conversation was how it was somehow possible we beat the porters. Yes, we had a head start and little baggage in comparison, but still, it was an expected pace. To celebrate, I rubbed my burning thighs and calves with Tiger Balm, then contemplated how many ibuprofen tablets it would take to leave my entire body without feeling. I took three regular strength.

That´s all for now.

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Inca Trail: Day One

06/19/10

“Here we go again - back to pooping in holes,” Boxie-boo said, walking under the darkened, cobblestone streets of Cusco before the sun had risen. As a result of our room at Apu Wasi Hostel all night going from sauna hot to ski hill cold, I now know what it is like for a mountain goat to go through menopause. It was a ba´aaa´d night of sleep, further interrupted by someone who could have been tap dancing on the floor above us. I wanted to re-direct my hot flashes into lightning bolts and blast the tap dancer´s feet on fire.

There was no bingo-bang-bang in my heart, only the feeling of my brain attempting to jump ship through my nostrils. Screw this guy! I am leaving! I must have been an Egyptian Pharoah in a past life - Ronamin Ribatronius, the King of Insomnia and Mountain Goat Menopause.

“If I get negative on the hike, don´t get mad, but remind me to stay positive,” Boxie-boo said as our bus climbed a hill so steep, the driver could not leave first gear or remove his socks. “Just say, ´stay positive,´” she added, her voice high-pitched with her arms swaying like Popeye post-spinach. We were on route to Kilometre 82 - the starting point for our four-day, three-night hike along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.

The drive went up and down a swervy mountain highway, then down through valley towns. Some streets were lined with cactus, others with homes built within a few feet of train tracks. The area had vast, snow-peaked mountain ranges and low valley farms. Our driver dodged whipped cow crossings, boulders of fallen rocks, edging us passed other buses so tight along cliff edges his mirror had to be turned inwards. We passed through the villages of Chinchero, Urubamba and then stopped at Ollantaytambo, creating a break through our three-and-a-half hour drive.

Inside Ollantaytambo, ancient viaducts ran through the town in small streams a foot wide. Locals surrounded passerbyers, offering everything from hiking poles, toques to coca leafs that our guide said aid in the battle with altitude. We reached the Terraces of Pumatallis (above), an ancient Inca site that had cut the mountain in latches. These terraces, a common architectual practice of the Incas, allowed them to farm on otherwise unusable terrain at various altitudes. At Ollantaytambo, the walls of cut stones were higher, which archaelogists have also found at other Inca sites like Chinchero, Pisaq and Yucay. It was so beautiful, I decided to find a bush to pee in.

Leaving the small town, the bus drove down a tight, one-way path on top of train tracks set between the tires, spitting up rocks. I felt as though we were driving inside a gravel pit, as we continued to lower our altitude, leaving Cusco´s 3,400 before arriving one kilometre before Kilometre 82, walking alongside the Urubamba River, the route used by the first westerner to be shown Machu Picchu.

“We are all family now,” our guide Valeriano said. I thought about this briefly and realized our Mom must have gotten real busy. We were a mixed group: Two Canadians, one Chinese-American man, one British guy, one Bulgarian woman, brother and sister Aussies, a Brazilian man, a Swiss girl and two girls from Argentina.

When we reached Kilometre 82 called Piskacucho, the first of four control points, we had to show our passports while our guide showed our Inca Trail passes. Only 500 people a day all allowed on the trail, including guides and porters. Being the dry season, it was the more popular time to hike as it decreased the chances and danger of rain. I was glad I reserved our trail pass many months ahead, almost a full year, a must to be 100 per cent certain on being able to hike the trail.

Crossing the Cuisichaca (Happy Bridge), our hike finally began, stomping across creaking wood while the cables steadied the crossing. With my first step on the gravel path, I felt the dust rising, the wind forcing me to hold onto my hat, while a donkey bumped its nose into my bumhole, the aggressive animal tailgating a species with no tail, just awkwardly placed balancing equipment. I was already a slow tourist in the world of superhuman porters, who passed us with bags upwards of 25 kilograms making me feel no more masculine than a girl in a wet t-shirt contest. Hey boys!

We battled our first uphill climb, sucking up the thin air like hotdog eating contestants, drying our lips, yet somehow, still allowing Boxie-boo and I to fart, sometimes in unison. It was romantic. Our path was surrounded by massive cactus, house-sized boulders and mountains that towered in all directions, casting giant shadows. We felt our presence, more than saw the trail, a feeling of how minimal our existence is an area that has stood relatively motionless for thousands of years.

“I feel so bad for them,” Boxie-boo said, as a porter passed with a bag so big it went from behind his bootae to a foot over his head. He was wearing sandals, his toes black and nails sharpened. His fingers, gripping a strap across his upper chest, had turned a pale white. Valeriano led the way out front, his 260th time hiking the trail. I wondered, did he still enjoy the hike?

“I enjoy the second day, watching the people who look like they are dieing,” he said, passing a donkey dragging a stick. “Keep going, keep going, I tell them,” he smiled. Boxie-boo did not. Instead, she gave me a disgusted look as if I had pooped myself. “I enjoy this too much.”

We continued, listening to the sound of horse shoes, metal stomping dirt, the clip-clopping ringing and mimicking my rising heart rate, while porters jogged by continuing their inhuman capabilities. Valeriano pointed at Angel Trumpet Flowers, white and dangling downwards with the tube of a trumpet, which he said can make us hallucinate. He teased us, asking who would want to try a special tea made from the flower.

“You drink this tea and the mountains go flat,” he said, as we all laughed. “Then tomorrow, day two will be easier.” He asked us to stop, then pointed at a glacier mountain, known by the Incas as the Wheeping Mountain, 5850 metres. He then pointed ahead at the 4,215 metre pass we were set to do the following day. Nobody reacted. We looked at it the way people look at monkeys at the zoo - it was beautiful at first, but monkeys tend to throw poop. The mountain, instead, had the capability to throw boulders and create mudslides that could disappear civilizations.

Valeriano put what appeared to be a white seed in three of the girl´s hands, then smashed one of them, turning the Fabienne´s (Swiss girl) palm red. It was a bug. We all laughed, while Boxie-boo quickly threw her bug in a bus. Valeriano cackled, as he always did, the way a 12-year-old boy reaching puberty sounds if he was attempting to mimicking a crow´s mating call. Ah! Ah! Ah! The pitch always the same, coming from the back of his mouth, sounding throaty and dry. In everyway, his laughter was contagious.

After crossing a forest of eucalyptus, we reached the Salapunku archaeogical site (above), situated across the left bank of the river. Valeriano explained the difference between reconstruction and restoration - reconstruction involves new stones, while restoration means the same stones are used. At Salapunku, they used the same stones, a sight that has stood in the Sacred Valley for centuries, with no Tim Horton´s in sight.

Recently, archaeologists at the National Institute of Culture (INC) said it may be the resting place for a pre-Inca tomb, while other researchers believe it was a “Tambo,” or resting place for travelers. The remains found, according to the INC, may belong to a woman from the Quillke culture, which flourished before the Inca Empire.

“When the people built the railway, they destroyed one of the Inca trails,” Valeriano said, chewing on coca leaves, which dangled from his backpack´s shoulder straps in a small plastic bag. He said there were originally six trails to Machu Picchu. On day two, we would be walking on actual Inca-laid stones, a pathway cut by the ancient civilization for pilgrimages to visit Machu Picchu and pay their respects to the Sun God. The ancient means of communication, Valeriano said, was through runners from Cusco who would pass their messages throughout the empire to different posts, where other runners continued, between the cities. This means, the Incas were capable to run across passes we walked up with the pace of snails towing a sandal.

The nearby river, the Cusichaca River (as it is a tributary of the Urubama River), was believed to be the representation of the Milky Way galaxy on Earth for the Incas. To me, it represented the easier route, or “lazy people passage” as Valeriano called it, where people took the train to Machu Picchu.

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After lunch, the hike began to live up to its reputation and got tough, but throughout the hike, Day One was relatively easy. “You don´t need Jenny Craig, just do the trek,” joked Victor from Australia, hiking with his sister Yamila. We were walking along a steep cliff, where below, cows mooed and chewed, mocking us with their ability to laz around, and I suppose, use their hooters as milk squirt guns. I thought back to my goat menopause, now feeling cold as the altitude rose, heading from the Kilometre 82 at 2600 metres, to 3,000 at Huayllabamba, a village we were set to camp at. With no other goats insight, I had nobody to head butt, so I released the wedgie from my bootae and stretched. I prepared to continue, began chewing on some coca leaves and focused on slowing down my breathing. From on top a mountainside, we could see Patallacta (also known as Llactapata).

Llactapata, known as the “Village in the Highland”, was located at the foot of a mountain (above). At this site, people were given free food and lodging, a stopover on their religious voyage, Valeriano said. From above looking down, we could see the cultivation terraces, which probably served to seed people and fill the “Ambos” (store houses) along the Inca Road. Its urban sector helds approximately 50 families, Valeriano added, a small society, as the Inca Empire had an estimated 30 million people. Beside the site, local families were farming the same vegetations their ancestors had cultivated for centuries.

By the time we reached Huayllabamba, it was around 5 p.m., 12 hours since we had awoken. This small indigenous village, located on the foothills of small mountains, was surrounded by neigbouring farmland, chickens and wondering dogs. Nearby, were ancient Inca steps, our next challenge after a night set for us to sleep on a mattresses less than one centimetre thick, inside a tent I was too tall for. All complaints aside, our porters proved not only to be exceptional hikers, they were hardworking - our tents and dinner were ready before we even arrived.

That´s all for now.

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Cusco Festival and Pre-Inca Trail

06/18/10

“I’m nervous about the hike,” Boxie-boo said, her fingers nervous and twiddling together.

It was nightfall, dark with one light bulb in our room, while the drums of the Cusco festival echoed across the ceiling, fluttering the thin sheet we shared on the hardened, hostel bed.

White paint, a shifting dapple of light, the unforeseen future frightening us both into stillness.

She scanned across the ceiling, the white paint, and I knew we both thought of our last adventure left. Her eyes dilated in the darkness, so full, so blackened; there was no room for any other image within my imagination.

I could hear my own concerns in Boxie-boo’s voice. I leaned over to view her from another angle. She laid parallel to me as she always did before we fell asleep, facing me. Her eyes, sideways now, stony with held-in tears, the saddest kind, the type that force us to cry if we let but one tear fall to our cheeks.

I felt so cold, felt the shade of night pass over me. I suddenly realized that some of our adventures she only tackled because of me. There was an expression on her face I had not quite seen before, a subtle change in her voice. She had become someone else in this moment, someone I did not know.

“Me too, babe,” I responded, then gave her a hug and kissed her forehead. “We will get through it together.”

She looked pretty in a way I had never seen before, as if something had a hold of her and finally let go, and for a moment, I saw the ending, the adventure over, a gateway into the rest of my life.

The first fight happened soon after we had returned home from the trip. We had both moved home with our families. We were apart for the first time in over six months.

I never told her how much I missed her.

Alone in my old high school bedroom, I made up poems that I never wrote down, but still remembered: ‘She focused all the light of the sun into one stare’. I would think of this look often, the look of a woman giving an honest and hurtful confession a week earlier in Cusco.

I stayed awake all night, curled up with two pillows lying parallel with me to my side. In the morning a few friends visited, curious of my travels. I began to answer the same questions about my trip that I would come to know quite well for years to come: “What was your favourite country?” “Would you do it again?” “What was the worst experience you had?” “Did you get sick?”

I called her to see how she was. She was short on the phone, a bit angry with me for calling as I knew she was busy catching up with family and friends.

I never told her I missed her.

Later, she called back, asking if everything was okay. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. “Nothing really, just checking in,” I told her. This was the first time I had lied to her.

I had traveled around the world and returned home to my family, but without her by my side, for the first time in seven months, I felt a thousand miles away.

In the apartment, after moving in together, I surprised her with an itinerary I was working on for a short trip to Belize. I sensed she was unimpressed with the idea of traveling again. I tried to hide my excitement to her for driving to Guatemala and back, to seeing ancient ruins once more and hopefully diving with Whale Sharks. She said nothing at first. Still as a painting. Later I will learn how much she had changed and how much I had changed from the trip. But now, unaware of what was happening between us, I smiled, resisting my urge to ask, “Where are we going to next?”

It was the first time I felt alone in her presence.

I went for an evening walk in North Vancouver, and as I scanned the skyline of the City of Vancouver and looked back at the North Shore’s mountains and everything was unfamiliar. I walked the streets I had known my entire life like a stranger.

I knew the adventurer in her, at least for now, was gone.

When we first met in Hawaii, many years earlier, I impressed her with stories of my previous travels and my dreams to travel around the world. The house we stayed at overlooked the ocean and a backdrop of stars illuminated the outer tips of palm tree leaves. The fresh scent of humidity and nature soared above us, powerful, listening in, stealing our secrets. I almost did hear her say, “That sounds amazing!” as it seemed too good to be true. The scariest moments in life, after all, are not illness or even death, not even love, but knowing we could be falling in love at any moment.

“There’s not enough room for my clothes,” she told me, as we organized the small closet in our apartment, shared one dresser and the bed with drawers I had bought for more storage. We had just moved in together for the first time.

I hated organizing the condo I had bought in Canada, and although she never said it, it seemed clear to me that our small bedroom reminded her of tiny hostel rooms where the floor was once crowded by our spread bags. She wanted structure and normality in her home. I did my best to hide my annoyance. I had been used to living out of a backpack and a part of me missed it. I felt the space was more than adequate and that if any couple could handle a small apartment, it would be us. Yet my anger was etched on my face from months of thought. This was what I feared most - the return to normality, the grocery shopping and working Mondays to Fridays, to fighting the way all couples do about simple day-to-day chores.

The Cusco festival was in full force all morning.

The drums wailed and trumpets blasted, creating a wall of noise around us that we leaned against in silence. With her back against a building wall, the sun’s glow burnished Boxie-boo’s skin. She watched the festival, wearing a smile on her face of permanent stone. In each direction, young children danced, played flutes and drums, sending goose bumps across my skin and waves of music through my veins. The entire city was alive with colour, personality and a feeling of community unmatched anywhere else on our trip around the world. We held hands the whole day, our attraction to each other refueled by the romance of the setting.

“This town is amazing,” she said, her voice slurred and out of breath from the high altitude, still leaning against the wall for a rest. Walking a few blocks in the morning was exhausting, until our lungs adjusted to the high altitude of the town. The sun seemed to close in around her. Energy came in waves from each direction: A movement of human-powered electricity. The parade of children continued: Dancing, smiling, music, their outfits colourful from large feathers to high hats glittering with stones.

I smiled at her.

She smiled at me.

She gripped my hand.

It was a moment worthy of a photograph, yet I had trouble feeling happy. I knew this was our last adventure of the trip. I felt buried alive by my own future and my skin tingled. It was as if I was walking across a forgotten graveyard; yet she was excited, looking forward to the normality of home.

Over two weeks had passed since she left me. The day after she came to pick up her stuff at the apartment, I woke early, having barely slept. I starred at the contours of her blankets where I once read poetry and felt emotionless. I focused all my efforts on feeling nothing.

Unable to eat, I headed to my favourite shop to pick up a fruit and berry smoothie. A young woman entered with a tan. “I just came back from Mexico,” she said. I did no tell her I went around the world. I did not want to think about it ever again. I wanted to forget my smoothie and leave, but instead, as if without choice, I told her, “You are so lucky to have traveled.” I began seeing photographs. I saw Boxie-boo’s smile as she swam in a cage near a massive Great White Shark, her cheeks raise after yelling “Bula!” in Fiji, her drunken snicker sitting at a bar in Bangkok, the massive grin when seeing the pyramids of Egypt and Cambodia, her mouth permanently smiling in the rear-view mirror of my motorcycle in Nepal, her Cusco Festival happiness. It all came at me at once. These images. Australia, Japan, India, Botswana, Tanzania, Brazil: Her smile. The woman sensed something was wrong, and for the first time, I left the store and cried.

I had timed the last stop on our trip perfectly. I had planned for Peru to be our last stop for three reasons - end with one last hike through the Inca Trail, arrive for both the Cusco Festival and Inti Raymi, which is the celebration of the Sun God.

Throughout the day we walked around aimlessly shopping for our hiking supplies, yet we were fully entertained doing so. Around us always were locals dressed in bright coloured-shawls and decorative hats. A group of men circled the center of the city dressed like ancient priests, belting out high-pitch notes with instruments that seemed made out of bone. All I could do was whistle along quietly, making me feel no more adequate than how my testicles would feel if I had no penis.

As Boxie-boo continuously pointed out, I needed new shoes. My shoes were so battered they looked like a mix of a beaten crocodile’s snout and the facial expression of a teased duck; the front lip extended and pouting upwards, while heals flattened without grip, the sole broken right through to my socks. Boxie-boo convinced me to get new shoes and we treated ourselves to two new pairs of socks each. New socks for us, after months of travel, made our feet feel finer than baby hairs, so much so that I wanted to burp my big toes, but I instead decided to mimic Boxie-boo’s happy dance.

The day she came to pick up her stuff from the apartment it was sunny, a rarity in North Vancouver’s winter. I came home with my smoothie to discover she was already in the apartment, waiting for me. Her arms were wrapped stiff across her chest, with her legs stiffened straight across the coffee table; the rigid curve of her calf answering to the rigid curve of her collarbone. I peered at her from the hallway that leads to the living room. She stayed silent.

I was mad at her for entering the apartment without using the buzzer and asked her for her set of keys back. She apologized sarcastically, hurt by my words; a childish boy acting in retaliation for my broken heart. I acted tough in her presence. I brushed off her compliments of her being impressed that I kept the place so clean.

I wanted to tell her we could make it work, hold her in my arms and protect her the way I had when she was scared camping near wild hippos in Botswana or gripping my hand in fear during a horrifying taxi ride in Nepal. But I knew her mind was made up, and instead, cowardly said nothing more than what was needed.

I helped her pack and carry away boxes when her father came. I was robotic and skeletal as I help load his SUV quickly. I was tough and short with words, releasing a smile when her father said hello. I could have been wearing invisible spurs. Her and I did not touch, no kiss hello or hug goodbye for the first time.

We felt like strangers, this girl I once knew so well alone in the dark.

A buddy came to visit me at work to see how I was doing. I explained that I was not going to move out of my place; that I will just work harder in my career to make more money so I can afford it on my own: It was a small sense of protest, a challenge for myself, to know I could survive without her. On my lunch break, we stopped by the furniture store I had bought my dresser at so I could inquire how much a second one would cost.

“What I need is just more storage,” I told my friend. “A matching dresser to make more room in the closet.”

My voice had pitched and I swallowed quickly to avoid sounding feigned with enthusiasm or sadness. My buddy smiled back in a sympathetic way, as if to say he knew a secret he would never tell.

The fresh scent of humidity and rain soared into the store, and I had smelt this before, the door opening with more shoppers, their footsteps listening in.

Blinking to swallow my tears, it became apparent that everyone knew my story and all our nerves were straining.

I kept half my closet and dresser empty for months. I never bought more bedroom furniture, yet choose to struggle to stuff t-shirts and sweaters into tightly-fitted drawers while others were empty.

When I returned from snowboarding with a buddy from out of town, he threw his borrowed goggles, toque and glove in an empty drawer. When he left the room, I moved everything out of the drawer, putting them back in a storage bin in the bottom of the closet, angry with him.

The empty drawers became my secret: A silent place, a meaningless empty spot I often forgot existed; a place that only called out when opened and seen, like a clown mask lifted to reveal hidden tears.

At the Cusco festival, Boxie-boo and I searched out the company that had screwed us. Andex Adventure, the travel agency with whom we had reserved our Inca Trail trip through Cusco Explorers, did not live up to its written contract. Our free hostel pick-up never happened at the airport and we never received free accommodation in Cusco. We did not find their shop so instead went to an Internet cafe. My email of complained received a new, edited version of our previous receipt, stating that we were promised earlier were “Typing errors.”

We were under the impression that sleeping bags and a porter would also be included. Instead, we had to pay $130 U.S. extra; a handing over of cash to Cusco Explorer employee that made me wish I had pooped on my own hands.

This is the nature of backpacking. Sometimes we could fight con-artist companies; other times we could not. My emails accomplished nothing and neither did stomping my feet like an elephant on steroids. Nothing worked. Not even my telepathic attempt to communicate with Tom Cruise. It was too late for a refund and we were set to wake up early for our last adventure - a four-day, three-night hike through the Andes Mountains to Machu Picchu.

I remember thinking, I cannot wait until we just pay the same price as everybody else and simply always get what we are promised, and for the first time on the trip, momentarily, I thought fondly of returning home.

The afternoon she left me, I heard her words before she said them.

“I don’t love you anymore,” she said, with an expression that was familiar, yet different. She looked pretty in a way I had only seen once before.

All my poems crumbled into dust. I avoided eye contact with her to allow her to speak more easily. Her words moved across my body and into each one of my organs individually, draining them, like she controlled the flow of my own veins. And then my body was emptied of all instincts: No hunger, no need for sleep, nothing. It was as if she had entered my mind and left with my dreams, leaving only her lullaby behind.

I knew she was unhappy and confused. She had gone from emailing me engagement ring photographs to crying, from smiling and laughing, to being angry and cold towards me. I had tried to make her happy. I threw her a surprise party and invited over her entire family. I built a closet with two rows for more storage of clothes. I offered her more drawers and did my best to stop talking about traveling. For weeks, I felt alone in her presence – the worst feeling in the world.

I listened to each word individually. I don’t love you anymore. My body folded inwards and all the music in me was gone. Each law of science I had ever known evaporated in my lungs, and, without the feeling of my own skin, without the sensation of my own living body, of my own blood, my lungs finally compressed slowly and I realized I had stopped breathing. I placed my hands flat on my thighs, looked her in the eyes and saw the last traces of who I was once when I was with her: I saw how she saw me.

She became someone else in this moment, someone I met briefly in Cusco and we were strangers once more. She was horizontal to me this time, but the sight was the same: The eyes stony with held-in tears, the kind that would cause us both to cry if she let just one fall. There was no room for any other image in my imagination.

I finally realized what I saw in her eyes that night in Cusco, this difference between us, that I was a traveler at heart and she was not. While she was content to stay home, I was eager leave once more, a part of personality that will never dissipate.

I placed my hands on my thighs, while my back and neck dropped to the position of defeat that physically imprinted across my entire body for months. With eyes red and heavy-lidded I droned in a soft low voice.

“Okay. I can help you pack,” I responded, looked up across the ceiling, the white paint. I gave her a hug and kissed her forehead. It was my way of saying one last time, “We will get through this together.”

That´s all for now.

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