Losing our dimes in beautiful Cusco (10-12 and 15-16 August 2012)

Well, now that we have traction, it’s time to rapid-fire these things… 

Charly has been hounding me for days to write something short about Cusco. In addition to her demand, she asked - not so tactfully, “are you capable to write something short?” I looked at her with a blank face - is this smite or an actual question? I didn’t know for sure, but her abrupt tone suggested it was dirty-rotten-smite... So here it is, ruthless efficiency… and Charly, please don’t delete any of my thoughts again!


These meat-supports are killing me at this altitude and so are the capitalists.

After our trip to Machu Picchu we were marooned in Cusco for a few of days, which gave us time to explore the town and a opportunity to gather our fortitude for the nightmare that would be the journey back to Arequipa. Movement in general was now problematic: after having walked up and down 10,000+ steps the day earlier, the synovial fluid in my knees had evaporated and the cartilage had turned to dust - making a remedial task a truly harrowing ordeal. The city of Cusco, like every other South-American city, expands from a plaza which is usually flanked by some monolith cathedral, which Cusco has two of. Having two cathedrals of that magnitude, less than 100m from each other, meant that at some point, someone, somewhere was awfully paranoid. About what? I don't know for sure, although I do have my thoughts. 

Cusco was the epicentre for the Inkan civilisation: a powerful empire that span great distances with might and influence. They had their own customs and practices and like most other feudalistic-Indigenous cultures: they were brutal as hell to one another, but not nearly as vicious as to what was sailing over the horizon at nine knots. The Spanish conquest of the Inkas was pathetically easily. Against an estimated force of 80,000 warriors, the Spanish did the job which they had become so efficient at, with only 162 men, a few horses and a single cannon. The problem then is still South-America’s problem: South-American’s are crazy to the bone. The Inkas were too busy fighting themselves to even notice that the Spanish had already started the indoctrination, with the building of these monolith cathedrals. Once complete, the fear would then take care of its self: systemically rushing outwards from pueblo to pueblo at the speed of mouth, scaring the shit out of folk when they heard of this guy 'Jesus' and his fathers tyranny. So obviously, what ever the Spanish would do to them would only feel like the natural order of things. Enslaved without even noticing... Yes indeed, the Catholic church is the perfect system, the perfect corporation, the perfect process, the perfect weapon, the perfect disease for enslavement … The Spaniards must have thought that one cathedral wasn't enough to do the job so they built two of these big bastards - which really goes to show the scale of the fear the Spanish had. 

Naturally we wanted to go inside, but in this town they still mean business when it comes to worship or even looking – setting strict times for both and putting a big price tag on the latter. The first time we tried to get into one of the cathedrals, the grand-oak doors were closed to the general public - not allowing access to the seventy or so salivating tourists outside, all scratching like zombies to get in. The second time, the doors were open, but when we tried to enter we found out that you had to pay 15 sol ($5) to get in. Since we weren’t willing to buy into the madness, we left.

We wandered outwards from the plaza, in a circling manoeuvre at low-speed to intelligently cover as much area as possible with these raw arthritic meat extensions for legs. The Inkas were renowned for their skills in ultra-high-precision masonry, being able to accurately cut and position car-sized boulders of granite, meters off the ground. One of the most pristine examples of this is a rock with 12 faces, in the middle of the wall. 

This might not seem so significant, but when you consider that these things were not cut from the quarry with iron picks or shaped with hammers, but rather broken from the earth with wet grass and smashed into shape by other stones: it is just freaking amazing. 

When the Spanish came, Cusco was a bustling city covered in gold, which naturally the Spanish devoured and in the frenzy of the feed they destroyed some buildings. Time passed and the Spanish rebuilt on top of the Inkan granite, and former Inka temples morphed into catholic convents. 

Never before has a catastrophic cultural shift been recorded clearer in architecture than in the streets of Cusco. The power of its prediction is unsettling and probably very sobering for the Spanish in retrospect. Is it coincidence that the rocks and mortar in the streets of Cusco reflect Spains condition today? I think not! You don't often see 'made in Spain' stamped on anything and this is why... 

Navigating through the quiet narrow back-alleys, listening to your shoes scuff across the cobblestones, you could be forgiven to think that you're wondering around the rustic streets of Tuscany or Seville. 

Until of course, you see Charly cuddling a llama – then your lungs rush back to a suffocating altitude, your eyes bulge from your heart beating at 120bbm, and you hand over 5 sol… 

Cusco is surrounded by the low-rolling hills of the Andes and when overlooking from a vista, you can really appreciate the truly stunning contrasts in colours. The hills are covered in a whispy tan coloured grass that moves like a wave with the wind and the angle of the sun can deepen the shadows, all giving the perception that you are surrounded by a giant sleeping tiger. 

I needed to rest my arthritic meat-supports, so we retreated to the plaza and sat down to relax. In this part of town the majority of people are tourists and from our learned eye, they were 'freshies': Pale upper-middle-class types with their spawn - flown in directly from urban sprawls all over the affluent world. All hurriedly shuffling around in groups of five or six, off on a tour to see some stone or some street. 

The remainder of the people on the plaza were the usual unfortunate folk who survive off the 'freshies' pocket change. And just like in every other major city we have been to in this continent, the majority of people working on the plaza were kids. Around this plaza marauded pairs of kids ranging from 8 to 18 years old – all needing to sell or clean something for a few sol/dollars. The hopelessness of this situation was first pressed upon us in Bolivia, where child labour is the norm, but here, in the relative calm of Cusco, the 'freshies' were somewhat confronted by the sight – Shutting their narrow eyes, tilting their bulbous head and talking smack through their thin lips: “nope, I'm not encouraging them” or “just ignore them, they are not starving.” You pale rubber-neck waste! You want to go on an adventure, bringing your riches to this semi-impoverished country only to stop short with the people who need it the goddamn most! Maybe if you consumed less in your own country, you wouldn't have to be so insulted by poverty in others. And if I was in charge lady... If I was in charge...Lucky for you I'm not - clenching my pale-pink fists with rage ... 

Two young boys carrying wooden boxes walked by and mentioned to Charly that her hiking boots were in dire need of cleaning. Hiking boots are hiking boots and are obviously meant to be trashy looking – which we pointed out. The young master adjusted quickly and from several meters away he saw that a 5mm tear had developed in Charly's sole.

“Oh, that's muy peligroso and you need that repaired!” the little master pointed out.

“How much?” Charly responded.

“It's ok lady, you decide at the end,” he said passively.

So, it was a deal. With such shaky terms of agreeance, I warned Charly to press for a fixed price: which was deflected by some tricky Spanish and frantic handwork. The young master's work was thorough and detailed – he was no slacker, putting all of his 40kg into scrubbing Charly's boot. The younger boy with the young master seemed to be learning the ropes, watching how it was done and asking questions which were answered with motivation. The young master seemed so old already: little crows feet around his eyes from squinting too much in the sun, tanned like leather and his lips were burnt and peeling. His little hands, blackened by boot polish, awkwardly handled the large brush and occasionally he rubbed his face - forgetting his hands were covered in black tar. An honest mistake any young boy would have made...

Charly was now being maintained by two of these guys: one for each foot – buffing, polishing and repairing. A flurry of Spanish erupted from the young master and his compañero shot off to then come back with glue.

“How much is all of this going to cost,” Charly asked again

“Oh, you can pay 15 sol ($5),” the young master replied.

The progression of events was escalating with the arrival of a third person selling carvings of the Inka founder: Manco Capac. Charly made the mistake of commenting on how nice they were, which was taken as a sign of intent to purchase, so the young lady sat down next to Charly displaying several different styles of the heavy wood. Charly would plead with the young lady, “We don't have any space in our backpacks.” Which was true, but not persuasive enough to deter the young lady. Instantaneously, another young man materialised adjacent to me – abruptly declaring:

“All paintings one sol! Everything one sol,” he said.

“Jesus, where did he come from,” I blurted.

“Rich, it’s only one sol, maybe we should get your parents something,” Charly said

Being caught off-guard I was unable to form a sentence in time so I just raised my eyebrows snuffed at everyone. His arrival maxed the limit of people I can handle at any given time (4), so I stood up and hid behind a pole a meter away and the boy selling paintings took my seat and engaged Charly further.

In 30 seconds or so, Charly had transformed herself from a relatively incognito German girl to some kind of over-indulgent Elvis-kingpin – surrounded by the help: two slaving on her feet while two more offering gifts. Charly gave me a look of assurance, be cool everything is OK, but the arrival of another three kids told me otherwise. While hiding behind the pole, observing the spectacle, I felt a presence behind me.

“Hey Australia: cokan, wiid?” a voice whispered.

“Goddamn it! I've heard that before,” I muttered.

Startled, I turned around to see a man with a mono-brow shaking something in his pocket, staring me right in the eye from 30cm away: he said again, “Hey Australia: cokan, wiid?”. Mono-brow exceeded my maximum limit of people by exactly one (5). I squared my shoulders and barked in English, “What the fuck do you want, fool!” He abruptly took a step back and left. Watching him retreat, I remembered that the same thing happened several times the night earlier. On the way home from dinner, voices boomed out of windows, shadows and cars, “Hey Australia: cokan, wiid?” Sweet Jesus, I thought. How do they know I'm from Australia? Who have they been talking to? My skin and my clothes are as neutral as possible, If anything I look Romanian not Australian. I don't have the tale-tell signs of being an 'Aussie': Japanese sleeve tattoos, neck tattoos, kids names tattooed on my forearm, tattoos of stars on the elbow, southern cross tattoo, earlobe expanders, right-winged views on immigration and mining tax, flat-brimmed caps or wayfayer sunglasses. I have none of this, but the hounds still sniffed something. Or was it a generalism, because the biggest market now for cokan and wiid is Australians or 'Aussies'. Had they really toppled the great American cocaine hog! Not really surprising though, considering the calibre of the heroin addicts, fizzed up, swamped out and pinging bogans (rednecks) we've met on our travels. I complained to Charly that being 32 and white, had unfairly labelled me to the ranks of the dull and incestuous. “See how it feels,” Charly replied. Ohh, the sting of irony...

Returning to the spectacle, I looked at Charly, the over-indulgent Elvis-kingpin, who had chosen a few paintings from the boy who was selling everything for one sol.

“Oh, this one is nice. One sol, right?” Charly confirmed.

“No, this one is 25,” the boy replied.

“What about this one?”

“35”

“Is anything one sol?” Charly asked.

“No”

The little master and his aid had finished and were packing up their gear. Charly asked again how much it was going to cost. The little master lent back and put one of his little-black hands on his hip, summing up all the labour in his head.

“Well, we cleaned both your boots and repaired the soles with special glue. So it’s going to cost 45 sol.”

Holy shit! A shoe clean initially costing whatever we wanted had inflated to more than $15 and pictures advertised for 30 cents ended up being $10. All done in a haze of super-capitalistic tactics that we're already used to, so why should it be any different or less tolerated here. Except, hopefully, the money goes towards (as they say) “his chicken” and not the chicken of some pimp bastard. I didn't think so, judging by the ecstatic look on his face when we paid. No doubt we were scammed, but Charly’s shoes were clean and sturdy, we had two beautiful paintings and we felt like we made a donation instead of being gypped. Take care of yourself young master...

It came time to leave Cusco, back to Arequipa by bus. There was no chance catching a taxi because there was some kind of event being held in the plaza - turning the traffic to concrete. 

So, we loaded up with our hulking backpacks and went by foot in search for a ride. The further we went the more congested the traffic seemed – total gridlock in all directions! Pressure was mounting because our bus was leaving in 50 minutes and we still didn't know how far away we were and to make matters worse, there was no safe white taxies around at all, only the small-yellow taxies that rapists and psychos dealing cokan and wiid could hire. Charly's mood was rapidly deteriorating and in no state to willingly compromise – not liking the idea of the yellow taxis. “But darlin, there's no other goddamn option! We have to leave!” I pleaded. My blood sugar level was plummeting as my rage was sky rocketing - “Balls to this!” I screamed as I stopped traffic, pointed at a silhouette in a yellow taxi and waved Charly to get in to the back seat, while I road shotgun in the front. I swung my arthritic meat extensions in and slammed the door, giving the driver a look: Don’t fuck with me man, I'm goddamn Zeus! I tear your beating heart out!

The taxi driver sensed my heightened levels of adrenalin and broke the tension with light conversation – which worked. His name was Edgar, a gentle old man who was obviously no threat to us. He was generally interested in our journey, totally amazed that we came from so far away to come to Cusco. I asked him what was going with the traffic and he said that a school parade in the plaza had blocked the usual flow, but he didn't seem to mind because his grandson, also Edgar, was participating in it. Edgar assured us that we would make it to the bus station in time, repeatedly saying, “tranquilo, tranquilo.” After forty minutes of slug speed, we made it to the bus station with five minutes left. With Edgar's help we rushed to get our heavy bags out of the little yellow taxi. We thanked him and he gave us a hug as if he had known us for an age. He stayed until we walked safely into the terminal – waving at us the whole time.

Jesus, Edgar! Why were you so nice? Generally when I throw judgement, I'm right, but when I'm wrong it's always spectacular and I feel ugly and mean. On the other hand though, my harsh judgement has kept the weasels at bay, probably keeping us alive so far...


Well, it’s all said and done in an economic 327 words. I think I proved her wrong...

More photos of beautiful Cusco here: https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/Cusco?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Over mountains and through the jungle to Machu Picchu (12-15 August 2012)

Rich and I sometimes experience things differently but the overall opinion about our 4-day trek to Machu Picchu is definitely the same, as we both are hoping to do it again at some stage (may it be the 'real' Inka Trail, the Salkaintay Trail or again the Inka Jungle Trail). In between the lines you might find some differences though.This is my story:


Inka Jungle Trail from Charly and Rich on Vimeo.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY

The reason was Machu Picchu, the obstacle was undoubtedly the journey, but for different reasons this time... Long summaries of broken shoulders, Jason Bourne, cloud cities and a wayward beetle.

After spending an additional four hours awake, on top of the already 20 hours of the bus trip to Cusco, I was far past the point of no return for conscious thought and in desperate need for meditation and rest. Our room, oddly enough, had three double beds – the right kind of ratio for this kind of exhaustion, I thought. The action of getting into bed was comparable to pouring glue out of a jug, but the feeling was more like just finishing a death march across Papua New Guinea. I was babbling in tongue and really not making any sense, so I slept and Charly went to organise our journey to Machu Picchu.

Over the past few weeks, the motivation to deal with constant diarrhoea, danger and risk was the excitement of meeting my dear friend Aiden and his girlfriend Georgia in Cusco – who were on holidays in South America and also going to Machu Picchu. Ironically, I am living Aiden's life, but without his sharp-angular features and full head of hair. He was always been in love with South-America, professing a deep connection for reasons I never really understood - I suspected it had something to do with his powerful lust for exotic women and strong hunger for adventure. On the other hand, all I ever wanted to do was to rest on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean and wait for oblivion – inviting the adventure to come to me rather than going off and looking for it. Whatever the outcome, that tricky bastard 'fate' tied a knot somewhere in the scheme of things and now Aiden is anchored back home: successful, wealthy and still wretchedly handsome and I am here stuttering Spanish to people who don't understand 'No carne por favor' while slowly bleeding money form my palms...

The day prior to Aiden and Georgia's arrival from a snowboarding trip in central Chile, I received a heavy email from Aiden explaining that Georgia had fallen awkwardly and broken her shoulder and that they will have to fly back home the next day from Santiago... Obviously the correct, mature posture would have been to curse probability and think about how unlucky she was - but I couldn't. I share the same hand-eye co-ordination of Stephen Hawking. I've been snowboarding before and I've eaten snow plenty of times. One time so hard it rewired the connections in the lower-half of my body for days after – making a tickling sensation every time I had to deal with something difficult in the toilette. So, if I could starfish down a goddamn mountain and come away clean, why can’t other people do it! Ahhh, CRAP! What are the chances? Probably higher than you expect, given the variables on the side of an icy mountain. It took several minutes for me and Charly to come to grips with the sudden-unwanted news, but there was nothing else we could do but swallow the bitterness just like Aiden and poor Georgia. A while after the revelation, I levelled out from my rage to then think about their misfortune – particularly Georgia's: who would have to sit on a flight, for 19 hours to get back to home soil – all with a broken shoulder. I usually feel like I've broken a shoulder when I come off a long-haul nightmare and couldn't imagine what it would be like to sit on a plane for so long with one. Although Charly can, because she did the same thing several years ago and I still don't know how she dealt with it. I know women are stronger, the evidence for this is obvious and I'm sure Georgia is also made of kevlar, so there is no need to worry... But what if that plane ditches half-way across in the Pacific and all-out panic erupts, she has no chance with that arm! Aiden is a strong swimmer under normal conditions, but not conditions paramount to the Serengeti. Wait... Relax... This sucks and when you see randomness you will kick him in the balls, but for now, you need to save your energy because you're going to need it for tomorrow you're going to Machu Picchu. Yes, the great winds of the universe howl in your face sometimes and this is no different – the wind will calm, shoulders will heal and normality will restore itself. Aiden and Georgia will be back home comfortable while you are suffering from relentless fungal infections that hound all the surfaces that rub together. Maybe this outcome was a warning to poor Georgia: go home or run the risk of something worse happening. Probably not, I thought. Just another unexpected twist in a nice girl’s saga.

DAY 1:

The next morning we woke early to meet the group that we were doing the trip with, which consisted of a family of three from Canada and a Chinese lady from Dallas:Texas (wherever that is). We met our guide: Ronnie: a genuine Peruvian, who explained that he had been on too many walks. An average sized Peruvian with a gentle personality and excellent English, I felt he was in desperate need of a career change – not reacting at all to the nervous energy emitted by the tourists, only responding to humour with a snuffing noise from his nose. Probably herd it all before, I thought, in every shape and size. So, there’s really no need to be another faceless whitey with this man – I’ll leave him alone and be as featureless as possible. We mounted the mini-van and set out for the hills.

The drive from Cusco to the mountains took a few hours – snaking through several valleys which could have been designed from the imaginations of J.R.R Tolkien or Jules Verne. In one valley our depressed driver, while overtaking on a bend, decided to end it all and aimed for a head-on collision with another van, but lucky for us the other driver valued life more and veered right launching into a field. With the screeching sound of the other van’s tires still in our ears, I looked over at the Canadians and guessed, from their pale faces and silence, that their travel agent forgot to tell them how these fuckers drive. Feeling that I should say something, I leant over and mentioned that the lines on the road were merely optional and that it was probably best not to look. Jesus… Charly’s words repeated through my breath. I was surprised by my calm under-reaction. Was it bravado? Was I finally fatalistic? I didn't know. But it seemed my reaction was shaped by having someone else frailer than me in the car – assuming a quasi big brother role. Maybe my fright response was so over-used I am no longer able to respond in that manner any more as if suffering from chronic paralysis. Intriguingly, the Chinese lady from Dallas:Texas (wherever that is) didn't react either...

After the scare, the conversation in the van was shallow, so it didn’t take long for the 'what do you do' questions to surface. Charly and I exchanged the relevant information, being as efficient as possible with the details from having repeated the sentence every third day since travelling. I was content with everyone’s answers except one, Julie, the small 50-something Asian woman from Dallas:Texas (wherever that is). Curious… She intentionally danced around the topic - seemingly avoiding the obvious answer, not committing to certainty.

“I work for the D.O.D,” she said.

The D.O.D? These goddamn Americans and their assumptions, I squirmed. Every single American we met travelling, when asked “where do you come from?” would answer with: “Nantucket: Massachussets!”, “Dayton: Ohio!” or O.C: California!” Does arrogance, naivety, stupidity, ignorance force these people to leave out the crucial, most relevant piece of information in the conveyance? I don't know, but Charly and I have started to reply with: “I’m from Browns Plains: Logan” or “I'm from Schwiederstorf: Niedersachsen”, just to even the playing field and to fuck with their minds...

“The D.O.D?” I asked curiously.

“The Department of Defence”, she replied slightly miffed. In my mind I tore off my shirt and screamed like a wolf, “FOR WHICH BLOODY COUNTRY!!!!!”

Her short answer was prompt for more questions. “Did you fly here from the U.S?” I asked politely.

“No. I flew in from Afghanistan and afterwards I have to go straight back.”

“Holy moley! Afghanistan!” I blurted. “Well...what is it that you do there?”

“Oh... I can’t tell you that,” She stated. “It's confidential”...

Oh no! Questions were feverishly stacking up in my mind in no certain order. Initially I considered flirting with her to gain some kind of footing, however, the distorted image of a person suffering form an acute bout of Tourret’s warned me off the idea. No… No need to go all out just yet! Even though the intrigue is eating a hole in the back of your neck you need to be cool! After all, you have another four days with this woman, if you push the matter too far now, the matter might flee and then you'll never know!

Our first adventure was the downhill mountain-biking. Nervous energy could be felt in the atmosphere as we scaled up the mountains to 4350m to be well and truly in the canopy of the clouds. The mini-van pulled off to the side road in a clearing and we all exited and waited while the guides unloaded all the bikes and safety gear. Waiting gave a short time for reflection on many matters: family, politics, materialism and what the little Asian-American lady from Dallas:Texas does in Afghanistan. Just as I was getting into a trend of thought a truck boomed down the road with a tremendous fluttering sound from its compression breaking – humming a low-resonance vibration under our feet. We all looked and felt the disturbance to again acknowledge what we were about to do and what we were sharing the road with.

The bike ride started off slow as everyone was getting re-acquainted with their spirit and their biking skills before the pace quickened, which didn't take long. After a while, travelling at 60km/h almost felt too slow on the long-sweeping bends, but the problem at travelling at that speed is the sound of the screaming wind in your ears – leaving you deaf. So, it was really no surprise to be startled by buses and trucks honking angrily, looking to manoeuvre past on the narrow-high road. I wasn't angry at them at all, but proud with their maturity. In Bolivia, there would have been no honking or warning, just the sensation of our soft bodies being ground to a paste on the bitumen. 

It took nearly three hours and six pedal-strokes to glide down the mountain-range and in that time we saw the obvious effects of warmth and moisture on the environment, as the scenery gradually changed from a cold-hostile glacier to warm-lush banana plantations in the valley. At the bottom, we were met by our mini-van, which loaded our bikes and took us to our accommodation for the night. 

DAY 2:

Ronnie had warned us the night earlier that we would have to get up with the parrots to beat the sun, for we had to walk for eight hours back up to 3000m. Eight hours? That should be plenty of time to fleece this mysterious Asian-American woman from Dallas:Texas of more information, I figured.

The walk was quiet and very pleasant in the warm glow of the morning. Because of the mountains, the sunshine was initially blocked in the valley which was still a dark-azul colour and as the light gradually meandered its way down off the mountain side into the valley, more noise could be heard of all the little beasts waking up. 

The dusty-trail we were walking on was a functioning road and at this time it was used mostly by trucks transporting kids to school, tractors and shepherds which gave it an organic/necessary feel to it. I again thought about approaching the Asian-American woman from Dallas:Texas to sift some more information. (I think from now on, I'll refer to her in the acronym of AAWFDT, because us folk in intelligence are in the business of being specific). I noticed that the AAWFDT was walking by herself, so I moved my weight and pulled up next to her – matching her speed. I asked the AAWFDT if it was good to be on holiday and she replied, “Oh yes, so good! I don't get holidays so often.” I bet you don't, I thought. Blowing up the Taliban, negotiating with the Pakistanis, covering up war-crimes takes time... I began using covert methods of investigating – round about tactics, methods she may be used to. I tried to determine what her feelings were on flying, thinking a fear of flying would cancel out several action jobs. I told her my insentient hatred for flying and my dependence on valium.

“You think flying is bad in jumbos! My business car is a Chinook helicopter! They're bumpy as hell,” the AAWFDT explained.

“Jesus, a Chinook! How often do you fly in one of those?”

“My sector is southern Afghanistan so I have my own and I use it whenever I need to. It's too dangerous to drive on the roads. Especially for us!”

“Especially for you?”

“Well, I'm not military.”

“Then what are you?”

“Civilian-contracted, but I/we report directly to the secretary of defence,” she said reluctantly.

Holy shit, I thought. This little woman may be the tip of the sword. How close? I didn't know. She reports to the office of the secretary of defence, but what do you know about that office? Not much, I considered – It could be a really big office, lots of people doors and what not... There were too many loose ends to make any concrete conclusion, although, on her last statement the AAWFDT looked like she realised she had given away too much, so the trail ran silent. An uncomfortable dull developed which rocked my nerves and I needed to fall back and re-evaluate my position for the next interrogation. 

The trail led us up a steep section for about two hours - the beginning of the ascent. It was hard going, even for Charly and I who had now become accustomed to difficult walks. We were sweating like pigs and luckily it was time for a scheduled rest-stop at the advertised “monkey house”. I was looking forward to the “monkey house” from having had so much fun with Simón – the cheeky-humanoid-masturbating spider monkey in Bolivia, hoping I would again have the chance to whip around with a howling-maniac on my back. The foliage was so dense it hid our approach into the area of the “monkey house” – which ended up being three houses cut into the side of the mountain. To my disgust, this was no monkey house – not at all like what we had seen in Bolivia, but rather one poor-little capuchin monkey chained to a door, unable to move more than a metre. I had to sit down opposite this poor thing while it jerked in all directions out of frustration. The only stimulation it had was a teddy bear which it used to hump. Dear god, I thought. Can’t these people see the bizarre cruelty in this scenario, especially when we could hear the banter of other monkeys in the surrounding jungle? 

If I had a backbone, I thought, I would punch everybody in the goddamn face and break the chain with a swift heel, setting the poor beast free. But, being guided through the Peruvian jungle takes the edge of your vengeance and the ability to be righteous. I was glad to leave as soon as we did...

The walk for the next three hours intensified until we reached a landing made of stone by someone, sometime before. The landing gave perspective to how high we really were and the shear drop that surrounded us. 

We regained our breath and cooled-down a little so that Ronnie could explain that the next section was particularly dangerous because of the extreme drop. Like most things, I can’t handle heights. Born with a terrestrial brain that is too aware of itself, it rebels at altitude – reaping havoc with my central nervous system and balance making my legs wobble and shiver like some kind of detoxing junkie: turning every step into a fight for survival... 

I begged Charly to be careful, because I know that she's obsessed with taking photos no matter what the conditions are and it is truly a nightmare to picture her tumbling down one of these cliffs. I went first, behind Ronnie: my legs immediately convulsing with anger. Damnation! These Inkans must have had tiny feet, I though – noticing that some of the steps only had enough room for the heel. I looked down at the river some 1900 meters below and I remember imagining how many llama skeletons laid there shattered on the rocks. JESUS! Even writing this now makes me arch my back and grind my teeth!!! At one stage, behind me I hear a loud slap as if someone had tripped. My goddamn heart came out of my goddamn mouth! I snapped around to see a goddamn Charly, goddamn giggling at me. She jumped down a step on purpose, just to scare me. The sudden rush of adrenalin manifested itself as a loud GRRRR, which echoed throughout the valley.  

Several hours later, after descending to the valley below, we criss-crossed the river a few times...

...before making it to a set of hot-pools. The steam hung thick over the pool which was lined by knackered-travellers and judging by their drool and twitching faces, it looked pretty good. So we joined them and soaked our sore, dirty flesh until the skin fell off. 

That night, at dinner, I decided to get even more invasive with the investigation of the AAWFDT. I figured that direct information will be impossible to extract in any conventional manner, so I thought the subliminal method would work best. Instead of asking the obvious question, I planned on embedding key words in large bodies of text with the goal of not being heard, but instead thought about and the reaction to that thought was what I was looking for.

After dinner the conversation started off smooth and light, grazing in many fields of interest before I focused my attention onto the AAWFDT by asking...

“Ah, AAWFDT your glass is empty! Would you like some water-boarding?”

I held my breath for a moment and watched for the slightest gesture in reaction to an abrupt thought. She stayed cold as a stone and replied, “Yes please.” I was dealing with a goddamn professional here, I thought. Better skulk into the intrusive...

“Oh, so AAWFDT you're divorced! You wouldn't believe it, I had this girlfriend once: Geneva Convention, she was crazy as hell too!”

No reaction except a vague look as she sipped her drink, maybe catching a whiff of my tactics, maybe not. Better integrate props to throw her off course. I fuzzed-up my beard and put on my army-green cap, stood up, turned around and addressed the room...

“Yes indeed it war at crimes difficult to enter Florida looking like Fidel Castro!”

One of the Canadians commented on my likeness to Fidel, but the AAWFDT remained defiant and emotionless. Not even a twitch of an eyelid or a spasm of a cheek. I felt like I was out of my depth. In addition, the other members of our group looked a little on edge after the blurting of several out-of-context remarks. Nothing made sense to them, but did it make sense to AAWFDT? I couldn't tell...

“Oh man I need to sneeze! Ahhh.-Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-yacoub-chooooo!

As I held my mouth and nose in my hand, I raised my left eyebrow to catch a glimpse of her reaction. She stood up and slid the chair away with the backs of her knees and said, “Big day tomorrow. Good night, everybody.”

Oh, is that so, mysterious lady? The rest may be oblivious to the connection, but I'm on to the scent... Unless you were in the business of knowing or an avid reader of Al Jazeera, like I am, you would probably have no idea who Ahhh.-Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-yacoub, the FBI’s most wanted person, is. But, I do and it seems so does she…The subtle sneeze works every time.

On the way down, back to our room, I raked through the information in my mind with the latest revelation. I briefly considered the possibility that the probes weren’t subtle at all, and that she could be in her room thinking the same thing. As I approached our bedroom door I took off my shirt, reached up and unscrewed the light-bulb from above, I then wrapped it in my shirt, placed it on the ground and stomped on it with my thongs – smashing it to pieces. Looking around in the darkness, the coast seemed clear, so I entered the room, turned around and scattered the shards of glass quietly in front of our door. Charly seemed confused, “Rich! What the hell are you doing?!” “Nothing darlin, just a game played between lions,” I replied – shutting the door and latching the chain. Your move...

DAY 3:

The next morning we were taken to a zip-line park for a break in the walking – the activity had nothing to do with the Inkas nor did it achieve the efficient crossing of great distances: it was just something nice and exciting to do on the way. Our group was not alone in this little adventure, being joined by several other touring groups – which formed a crowd of almost fifty people. I was grumpy, not ready for the sudden exposure to other people again – being forced to listen to their squawks and barking, I would have rather done it alone in our little group. The company that ran the park was very professional, clearly explaining the process and all probabilities. We were given a harness, which connected our bodies to the cable and a thick leather glove, which acted as the break when applied directly to the cable above, behind the wheels. Really no problem at all...

The massive group bulged its way up the hill, eventually funnelling into a single-line on a narrow path that lead up to the first cable: 500m high. A rather large Argentinean man went first: being nervous as he activated the break too soon and became marooned just over half way, with still 100m to go. Charly went next with a tearing scream of excitement that startled a flock of birds below, she zoomed off. 

Because of the steep angle on one of the sections, we were warned that we would be going so fast that we would have to use our break no matter what and just to reaffirm the point the guide showed us how to use the break once more. The guide gave the all clear and I launched off the edge gaining a blistering speed! I was quickly reaching the other side so I began pulling hard down on the leather-break glove, which gave off a burning hide smell, to then land gently on a small platform. The platform was maybe three meters deep only enough space for four people, constructed from wood and bolted to the cliff-face, 25m below the edge and 300m above the valley. When landing, I transferred the karabiner to another cable which was bolted to the cliff-face and I waited for Charly and the others to come across to then scale up the moutain. Charly came zooming over giggling madly, slowed and landed with no problems. Looking to the other side, we could see a black speck being pushed off the edge. The whining of the wheels echoing through the valley and the vibration could be felt through the cable and the wooden structure. The black speck turned into a dot, which morphed into a blob, then materialised into the AAWFDT – who was travelling with such speed a shock-wave had formed on every leading edge of her body creating a condensation cloud. The guide was talking to us, not paying attention and as he was talking I noticed that the AAWFDT wasn't slowing down, but instead speeding up – turning the condensation cloud in to a blinding light as her friction super-heated the contacted atmosphere into a plasma. The guide swivelled around to see what I was looking at and by that time the AAWFDT was only a few meters from the platform, travelling at mach 5 – stone faced and silent but frantically pulling down on the wheels with her break not the goddamn cable. The guide sprung into action and tackled her in a mega-collision sending a sonic-boom into the valley. The AAWFDT went completely up-side down and bashed her legs on the cliff-face - making the frail-wooden construction violently shake away from its bolts.

“Great Scott!” I blurted. “You nearly turned into a goddamn smear on that wall lady! What the hell happened?”

“I couldn't slow down. The break didn't work!” she explained.

We calmly explained to her the laws of physics and how the break worked – which seemed to be news to her because her eyes widened and both eyebrows peaked as she confirmed, “Oh...behind the wheels!”

Yes AAWFDT, behind the wheels…

I was happy that she and we were O.K., but I was bitterly annoyed with myself for having entertained the notion that she was some kind of extremist avenger. I spent two days fishing for all-types of reactions and all it took was for her to nearly turn into an atom soup on the side of a cliff... Or was this apart of her plan? Shit, I don't know.

The zip-lining was just the prelude to the walking that had to be done in the afternoon to reach Aguas Calientes: the town at the footsteps of Machu Picchu. The trek followed a lazy river which had eroded a wide corridor through walls of mountains and at some stage the trail became a rail-road track which guided us all the way to our destination, leaving Ronnie somewhat obsolete. 

Some moments were totally free from conversation, just the sound of shuffling feet on top of the pebbles and the wind making its way through the trees. An amazing walk that may have been carried out by that pestilence Francisco Pizarro, as he methodically hunted those poor people across the entire continent - forcing them to ascend into the mountains like Machu Picchu. Occasionally, the low rumbling sound of a train would disturb the serenity and as it drew closer its vibration could be seen on the track making small stones dance. Its horn blasted a sound way out of context for the environment, an unwarranted offensive pollution moving slowly past at 10km/h. People on the train paid a exuberant price to avoid all the effort of walking, but they really missed the whole point of it all - the spiritual aspect to the journey: Mountain biking, hot springs, zip-line park etc….We shuffled our tired arses into Aguas Calientes around dusk – found our accommodation and slept... 

DAY 4:

To maximise the chances of a photo without too many people, we needed to get there first - the problem was that everyone else thought the same thing. We met our group on the street out the front of our hotel around 4:30am and already there was a steady stream of people making their way to the gate, which was about 1.5km away. Bastards! We're already too late! We’ve got to move goddamn it!

We walked out of the town to the gate which lies about 400m below Machu Picchu. The local dogs thought this was great and joined the migration of people as well, but occasionally straying too deep into another dog’s territory causing a showdown in the darkness. Off in the distance, near the gate, a pile of people formed all waving their torchlight - there was no apparent line so we joined the heap. A nervous anxiety could be felt, probably because of the hike that lay ahead: some 2000 steps on a dark narrow path. 

It was relatively silent, no one really talking which was nice because of the trickling steam near by – all of this was broken by the guard throwing his machete at one of the dogs, which made a sharp-glancing sound as it skimmed across the road slamming into the poor animal which yipped out of fright – shrieking in the pitch black. I felt like fighting this limping (now machete-less) old brute, but I figured beating the reason into him would not revert a continental wide policy of animal cruelty. Two lines formed in front of the gate so that passports could be checked against tickets. Once through, people spewed into the park, all walking with the most pressing haste! 

Our group managed to get to the path relatively early before many others came running across the bridge behind us. The initial ascend was constant and at a dishonest pace, I thought - my lungs already consuming cubic meters of oxygen while the lactic acid burned holes in my thighs. Natural selection showed its teeth early by felling some smoking Italians, who arrogantly felt it was better for everyone around them to all inhale carbon monoxide and benzine. They put up little resistance in their asphyxiated-state as I shoved them to the ground to allow the clean passage of air and a clear path for the rest of humanity to pass. The higher we went the greater the attrition rate was – dead bodies everywhere piled on the foliage or splayed across the path, sometimes providing a tricky obstacle in the darkness, sometimes providing more traction. 

Reaching the top, after the lunacy of the ascend, there was again a bottleneck of people waiting in a mass of steam which evaporated into the cold-dry mountain air. The dead-end at the gate of Machu Picchu made the manic ascend seem pointless. Once through the gate we met up with Ronnie again so that he could guide us through the ruins. He showed and explained various things about the place: obviously too much to go on about here. 

 

 
A few hours later after perusing the site, it was time to say goodbye to our group and I bid a spiteful farewell to the AAWFDT, who still existed in a shroud of secrecy. Maybe I'll catch a pixelated glimpse of her on Al Jazeera one day, or a White House press release denying her existence…Or maybe not. 

For Charly, the 2000 steps we climbed in the morning clearly weren’t hard enough, still hungry for an additional 3000 steps to get to where the condors fly: 600m above the ruins at a staggering 3050m above sea-level. Starting the 1.5 hour climb in the middle of the day was by no means desirable but it had to be done - even if our skin melted off our bones. 

I complained and howled like a brat and the effort was stretching the mechanical specifications of my knees, but the view on the way up was spectacular as the path curled around the back side of the mountain, sometimes on a razors-edge, before reaching the top - giving a stunning horizon to horizon view of the entire region. 

A few people laid sprawled out on rocks and other formations – absorbing the view, some were smoking weed some were eating sandwiches, all doing what they could to recoup from the hike. The quietness was unforgettable. Everything was beneath us: the mountains, the ruins of Machu Picchu and the river which looked like a creek 1000m below made no noise. We heard nothing of anything except the ruffling sound of the soft turbulence buffeting our bodies and trawling through the knee-high bushes. It felt like you could scream your lungs out and the sound would fall like stone at your feet. All the best spots had been taken, but we found a nice ledge where we could hang our feet off - to allow some kind of initial soft tissue regeneration to occur. 

Time whizzed by and we were being scolded by Peruvian sun, so we thought we would start our long descent - some 5000 steps. All my joints creaked like a 1920's barstool and there was zero grace as I stood up and grabbed my bag. Charly made a sudden inhaling sound and pointed her arm directly out into the valley and said, “Look!” as a condor, the mythical beast maybe 15m wide, sailed by without a sound.

Everyone on that mountain top was in awe, contributing to the significance of this moment, all of which was broken by the sound of hyperventilation. I watched the condor for as long as I could, ignoring the breathing, I then turned around to see the AAWFDT standing next to us bent over catching her breath. Holy shit! How did she make it up here?

We walked the entire distance: all the way down, all 6000 steps, back to Aguas Calientes which aged me arthritically about ten years...

Our train back to Cusco left that night from Aguas Calientes train station. A disorganised soup of people arriving and leaving: all at once, all in a baffled confusion, which itself was baffling because there was only one train and only one direction. Once it was allowed we boarded and found seats facing two other travellers who were in no mood for conversation. The cabin was dull with sound as most of the people were already falling asleep with the gentle rocking motion of the train. Looking around at everyone sleeping my eye caught a contour disturbance on the wall on the other side of the cabin. I sat there staring at it for nearly ten minutes trying to figure out what the shape was and then I realised that the shape was a freakishly large mutant beetle/bat straight from the dank belly of the Amazon! This goddamn thing was about the size of my hand and I have big hands! I remember thinking that it was only a matter of time until this beast decided to eject itself from the wall becoming disorientated, probably slamming into all the windows and people, in a bid to escape - creating all kinds of hellish panic. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, the big bastard’s wings buzzed with action – propelling itself backwards, straight down the ally: shoulder height at top speed. It then made a sharp 180-degree-left-turn to dock with an American girls face with precision. I was staring in shock because she didn't wake up! Was she already dead? Probably not, but it was only a matter of time before the confrontation, so I covered my ears with my hands and waited for the explosion. While still sleeping, her hand moved up to brush away the tickling sensation, but when she realised that it didn't dislodge easily she opened her eyes and screamed as if something was trying to impregnate her face with an alien. The distress jolted the silence and a man somewhere in deep-sleep blurted, “ALBINO!” The American girl managed to break the monsters grip and it boomed around the cabin to again land on the wall. Not so tranquil now, I thought as many people stared at the beast’s presence.

Maybe that’s where poor Georgia would have sat... 

Even more photos here: https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/InkaJungleTrail?authuser=0&feat=directlink