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 catching two 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 a random street, in a town that we did not know our way around. After a 30-minute walk, lost, cold, legs stiff, with headaches from lack of sleep, we managed to find our hostel at 5 a.m. - and woke up later at noon.
Throughout the day, we accomplished nothing. 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, my eyes bloodshot and red as if I had injected heroine directly into my eye. 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 and walk into the Cusco Explorer 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.
Then the culture of Cusco invaded my ear drums, healing my soul.
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.
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. 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, about $9 Canadian.
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. Fabienne, if you are reading this, email me and I will mail you a DVD of photos as promised.
The massage was just what we needed, starting from our head, releaving me of my exhaustion-caused headache.
“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 the ancestors of Fred Flintstone. It was yabba dabba do-errific.
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 tricep, before gripping my wrist and shaking, my hand flapping back and forth over my bootae. It was as if she was signalling I farted.
Boxie-boo continuously moaned, mixing caveman jibberish with the post-poop giggles of a baby. The party outside continuously creeped in with the backdrop of drums, a rhythm crawling in my skin as gentle hands kneeded into my muscle. I began to feel loose and flexible, as if one wrong step would result in my own foot slipping into my bumhole. Then they were finished, the world around us beaming, slowing time.
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.
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