Global Nomad Travel

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.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

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

The drums wailed and trumpets blasted, creating a wall of noise around us we leaned against in silence. With her back against a wall, the sun´s glow burnished Boxie-boo´s skin. She watched out wearing a smile on her face of permanent stone. In each direction, young children kicked off the Cusco Festival, sending goosebumps 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 around the world trip.

“This town is amazing,” Boxie-boo said, her voice slurred and out of breath from high altitude. The sun seemed to close in around her. Energy in every direction. A movement of electricity. The parade of children continued: Dancing, smiling, playing instruments, their oufits colourful from large feathers to high hats glittering with stones. She smiled at me and gripped my hand, a moment worthy of a photograph and also a high five from my readers.

Before we left Canada, I had planned for Peru to be our last stop for three reasons - end with one last hike through the Inca Trail and arrive for both the Cusco Festival and Inti Raymi, the Inca celebration for the Sun God. Though our day was spent mostly shopping for our hiking supplies, we were fully entertained, though I was envious, of the men who were followed my packs of sheep, dressed like ancient priests and belting out high-pitch notes with instruments made of bones. All I could do was whistle quietly, making me feel no more adequate than my testicals would feel if I had no penis.

As Boxie-boo continuously pointed out, I needed new shoes. My shoes had the body of a battered and abused crocodile, the facial expression of a teased duck, front lip extended and pouting upwards, with heals touching what was left of my flattened rubber grip, sole broken right through. Boxie-boo convinced me to buy new shoes, which were cheap in Cusco, so we also bought two pairs of new socks for each of us. My sweet mercifcul crap! New socks for us, after months of travel, made our feet feel finer than baby hairs. I wanted to burp my big toes, but decided instead to mimic Boxie-boo´s happy dance.

Our shopping list also included: Gatorade powder, granola bars, winter jackets (two North Face bartered down to $39 U.S. total), toques, gloves, a little bit of candy, and due to Boxie-boo´s decision to throw out her small backpack (I warned her not to), we had to buy another one. Since I like shopping about as much as I enjoy lighting my underwear on fire, I was glad the festival turned a boring day into a fun and exciting afternoon. Though, this did not last long.

Andex Adventure, the travel agency with whom we reserved our Inca Trail trip with through Cusco Explorers, did not live up to its written contract. Our free hotel pick-up never happened at the airport and we never received one free night accommodation in Cusco. My email of complaint received a new, edited version of our previous receipt, stating the promises were “typing errors.” We were also under the impression that sleeping bags and a porter was included. Instead, we had to pay $130 U.S. extra, a handing over of cash to a Cusco Explorer employee that made me wish I had pooped on my own hand.

This is backpacking, I suppose. Sometimes we can fight con-artist companies who take advantage of tourists, other times we cannot. In this case, I wrote multiple emails of complaint, phoned and stomped my feet like an elephant on steriods. Nothing worked. Even my telepathic attempt to communicate with the Tom Cruise did not help. 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.

At night, while the drums echoed across the ceiling, I looked up at the white paint and thought of our last adventure left. I heard myself in Boxie-boo´s voice. I leaned on my side to view her from another angle.

“I´m nervous about the hike,” she said, her fingers nervous and twiddling together.

“Me too, babe,” I responded, then kissed her forehead. “We´ll will do it together.”

That´s all for now.

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