Cusco Peru:
Cusco is a beautiful city, well preserved and maintained as the tourist trap that is clearly is. Its great that the city has retained much of its Spanish colonial influence. *note: the Spaniards were clearly not interested in maintaining the ancient Inca culture and so proceeded to destroy all their works, which were quite a few and the Incas are rumoured to have been stone masons and architects par excellance. The Spanish used the stones from the Inca houses to build their own larger houses and the materials from demolished temples to erect Catholic churches, on the very ground the Inca holy sites had been raized from – an effective stick up the ass in my opinion.** So while the stone might have been Inca hewen, the stonework is all Spanish. Which is fine of course for the tourists, they all think they are coming to the ancient Inca capital (which they are) but to assume present day Cuscois an Incan city is a bit of a farce. From the handful of cathedrals to the glowing Jesus up on the hill, the city is clearly Catholicized.
However, I like walking along cobblestoned streets and looking at colonial architecture so I wasn’t complaining. Thunderstorms wrent (¿is that a word?) the sky into tattered strips like a kite torn in a raging wind. The thunderclap was so loud it shook the ground. And it rained. It rained and it rained, everyday. But only for half the day, the latter half. So each morning was a glorious bright summer morning high in the mountains, around 2600m. The green Andes surround the city but not in an enclosing way, more of a gentle caress like a kiss hello or goodbye between two male taxi drivers, or a diner and the maître d’hôtel at some restaurant that one walks by in Buenos Aires. Barnes and I were in Cuscofor one reason and it was not to sight see. No we were in search of services, a specific service that can only be aquired in Cusco. The service being, of course, a five day date with a bunch of burros and a few short Peruvian men. We were seeking a hiking guide to the famous Machu Picchu. And we got more than we bargined for.
Staying at our humble hotel with us were an American couple by the names of Nate Jordan and Annie Bell. Arizona grand canyon river rafting guides (say that ten times fast)
**note: addiction to smoking is progressing nicely; since Frankie has left us, my smoking has halted abruptly – the reason being that I cant handle keep up that pace and expect to live out the month. Frankie is a seasoned professional who has been killing himself slowly with great precision. One cannot expect to jump into an addiction head first with only a spread palm for protection (get Jack or Nate to demonstrate sometime) and expect to swim. No, no no, this is a process which I am happy to have the chance to get into, but Frankie is a master, a black belt if you will. I am not yet a pack-a-day smoker, simple as that. To get there I have some work to do and I am prepared to take those steps, but for now I need to get back on the breathing free train. Life with constricted nasal passages and a runny nose, while continually sneezing is undesirable for anyone, except perhaps the masachistis standing babas of the northern Indian range. The reason I say the addiction is progressing nicely is because the two Parisians sitting to my immediate left have been chain smoking Marlboro red’s and I’m tempted to ask for one instead of move tables.**
Where was I? Ah yes, yes, the daring duo of Bonny and Clyde. They turned out to not only be adept at crushing beers and navigating white water (hearsay only) but damn funny, hilarious even. It was a good match. With a series of botched credit card transactions and one that finally worked (possibly several the exact inverse and I will be charged 6 times for one trip after I am wlel out of the county, a good con if I ever saw one) and we were set to depart.
There was, of course, one other reason to venture into the Andes of Peru which was the relentless search for yagé that Barnes had been on since reading Lee Burroughs’ Interzone and Naked Lunch. I myself hadn’t had the simultaneous good pleasure and outright dry heaving feelings that come from reading Old Bull Lee and so was not prepared for the effects of the tea as my compañeros were. However, if there’s one thing that compañeros need it is trust with a capital T. Barnes and Noble have such an ingredient in spades so as their trip documentor I felt obliged and enthused to be a part of the action. Said tea was purchased at the market from a woman selling an assortment of mild narcotics from a stick of fresh rolled tabacco that must have wieghed five pounds, so San Pedro cactus juice, to natural cleanses to Shaman grade yagé. Barnes picked out some – just below Shaman grade – yagéfor the three of us and the kindly woman handed us a fistful of beedies to prelude the tea cleanse. The serve two purposes: firstly traditional and secondly as a relaxant. More to come from the Yagé Diariesluego, but suffice to say that it is a potent cleanser – in more ways that one – and the side effects include nausea, ED, mild to extreme halucinations, and religious experiences. The Shamans use yagéfor: predicting the future, finding lost objects, determining the problem to any question – such as, who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? – curing tapeworm and other stomach dwelling parasite problems, and any other ailment that might cause someone the need to have their digestive tract purged with the vengance of God almighty himself! Ya its that kind of cleanse.
Upon arrival to the bus at 3:30am one fine Peruvian night (it was still dark even thought it was technically the morning) and immediately Noble jumps up to the front of the bus where there is posted (foolishly) a map of the projected route the trekkers are about to be taking through the mountains. Noble has a knack for remembering little shpeels (¿?) that people give, but this particular one was given to us about 17 times in 3 days so a purple assed baboon could have reapeated it. However, only Noble (and maybe the baboon) would have the audacity to jump up in front of a crowd of people at 3:36 in the morning and start shouting and jumping and pointing causing a rucus to wake the Inca spirits[i].
[[alright we’re gonna take you on here on the first day to 3800m and you’re gonna feel a little light headed, but don’t worry we’ve got coco tea. Yessir coco tea gonna make you right in the head, then we’re gonna have the burros take your stuff here, then you can make the photos on the side, beautiful view you understand, and then we walk some more. Watch out for the cornbacked rattlers on the side of the road. Then up up up! To the highest point on day two 4600m very beautiful you can make photos there, time for a snack then the tents will be set up for you, oh yes no problem, yes no problem. Then we come down, Salkantay glacier, very beautiful ok time for pictures. Then to Machu Picchu, yes very nice for photos, long walk, no problem for you, yes we have every thing is included, but you must bring some things?]] What are you asking me or telling me¿ Im not following, is it all included or not? [[yes yes, no problem everything included, you must bring sleeping bag, your clothes for the horses, and snacks, of course tippings are not included]] ¿Ok so I bring my clothes for the donkeys? I feel like this tipping is going to be mandetory, it is isnt it]] And that’s how it went, or at elast thereabouts. Chris and Jojo, Kelly and Mike, Eddy and Pam, Nate (Jordan) and Annie, Alessandro and Daniella, and of course Barnes sat in the audience with a blank, somewhat amused/horrified looks on their faces…Barnes and Nate (Jordan) were the only ones with amused looks, while Annie was probably amused she sometimes pulls that horrified face in mock sarcasm, very effective.
As the bus finally pulled away we were intruduced to Wilson, who would become our guide, friend, and most annoying traveling compañero. But a sunrise over the green peaks of these lower Andes brought all attention of those still awake to the East, which happened to be the right side of the bus, the side that I was sitting on, and we watched as the firey orange star rose slowly at first then with gathering speed it rose from the peaks like I imagine a pheonix might (fawks) and shed its illuminating rays on the deep blue night sky turning it into a sea of flaming primary and secondary colour, excluding green of course. Every colour and shade from purple to yellow was represented but none from yellow to purple. The hills turned a rich lilac like the trees that line the streets in California and the Eucalyptus trees gave off a heavenly scent as they took shape and turned pale blue. The sky looked like a great Cali (Colombia) style salsa dance between the teams imaginatively named vermillion, purple haze, and tangerine. It was a good start to the trip.
Each of the 5 days on the trek had its ups and downs **the writer gooses himself for making such a whitty pun** but my favorite were the first two. Climbing mountains must be in my blood.
Day 1: ascent = a lot. 2700m to about 3900m over 17km on a gravel road, approaching a glacier that looks like it should be a lot high, only it is a lot higher than I think because staying in Cusco which is already in the clouds, one’s sense of altitude is askew. However, the lungs are not fooled and they protest each breath of meagerly thin air with a gentle puff that grows into a reproduction of the Three Little Pigs as each of us plodded along, rucksacks on our backs.
But sleeping in the bossom of two fatally beautiful glaciers is reward in itself and instant coffee never tasted so good. By the end of day one the morning antics were lost on everyone and a surprisingly deep circle of friendship had formed, we even all played frisbee before dinner, after which a round of joke and riddle telling left us all rolling in tears as Wilson sought to record each new word in his notebook and asked for the best jokes to be written down for him. Of course when he failed to ask Annie to write down a joke that we all laughed hard over, we laughed even harder when she asked Wilson why her joke wasn’t good enough for the book.
Day 2: Sleeping on an incline near a rapid and tumultuous stream/small river is not really condusive to sleep and I didn’t sleep much. Also the sleep pads were more like compressed straw. I awoke around 4am. Half an hour before the coco tea wake up call that our cooks would be giving us. I had a problem, the problem was this: no motions had been made in the past 2 days. Seems the yagécleanse had cleaned me out, but I was eating heartily and wanted the return of my morning tradition that is steeped in, among other things, nostalgia or a time when I had my own lou.
I set out in search of peace, beedie in hand. I don’t really like the beedies, the tabacco is too strong for me, fresh cut and hand rolled with no filter, it packs a punch, but a punch is exactly what im looking for – the nicotine will help with the motions. We’re high in the mountains and it’s a frigid morning. I can see my breath and the shape of the land but little else as the sun hasn’t yet graced us with its presence. The morning is overcast to there is no light from the stars which im sure must have been heavenly. My only companion is a bull cow that is strangely following me around the glacial meadow as I search for freedom from that which binds me: namely…fear. I have no idea what the bull wants but after having recently viewed a bull fight and being dressed almost entirely in red I am a little apprehensive. Luckily its quite dark and I don’t think this guy can see that well in the dark, plus he’s no that big, but still, out weights me by about 606lbs. I chase off the bull with some jaguar like noises (mostly mating noises, grunting sniffing and gurgling, or course) and climb the incline to search for my rock, Im like a dog sniffing the ground. As first light appears, I watch the cooks make their rounds with the tea and I am squatting up on the hill in bright colours watching my fellow trekers get out of their tents and stretch the stiffness away. Roaming farm animals:sheep, burros, horses, cows are on the slope with me as are the horsemen from our troop collecting our burros to be packed up. I could have gone for a quieter location but there was none. After a victory, albeit a minor one, I returned to camp, no doubt with a mischievious grin on my face, the look of a new Sub that had been developing in my psyche for the past few weeks. Jack strolled among the tents and was greeted by Nate
Nate [frosting rocks up there? You gotta watch out for those cornback rattlers in these parts]
Jack [ya I spotted a few of them up there but nothing I cound’t handle]
A puma purrs in the distance. Both men turn to the West and listen
Jack [One time, back when I was a pup, me and my old man go walking up in the Apalachians. We liked to camp there, drive on over from Illinois. It took a while, you understand, but that was summer vaccations with my pa, ma never liked camping. So we were walking in the foothills and this large water mocasin comes a gliding out of the woods, very rare to see one there, you understand, but it was 1978, the year we had that crazy rain all spring and then it warmed up unnaturally. All sorts of wildlife migrated north. Anyhow this big ol’ snake comes right down the path towards us and my pa pulls out his SigSauer P220 semi automatic, he used to be a cop and carried a Smith and Wesson snub nosed special but switched over to the SigSauer for the extra punch. So he just pulls out his pistol like it’s the movies and blasts this water mocasin right in the middle. Well I’ll be darned if 9 babies didn’t just come squirming out of it and wriggle off the path.]
Nate [Damn]
The sun has risen by this point to shed light on the Eastern Glacier, both men stare at it for a few moments, their breath rising like the mist over the alpine meadow. One of the young Peruvian cooks sticks his head out and calls them to [¡Desayuno!]
Jack rememberes the time when he was awakened by an angry, balding father of two rather unattractive Ecuadorian women who shouted at the top of his lungs: “BAÑO LIBRE! DESAYUNO!” Which of course was a rather rude awakening when one considers the amount of time that Jack had been asleep for.
He shudders in the morning mist. Both men head towards the mess tent with purpose and anticipation.
Mike and Kelly are already around the table, as is Pam, accounting for one half of the Asian-American doctors in the group. Ed joins shortly exclaiming:
[Man they weren’t kidding around about not flushing the toilet paper down. Did you see what happened to the toilet?]
Eddy **not to be confused with the infamous arch enemy of the author – Eduardo – is of coruse refering to the clogged WC in the middle of the field. Without doing an unnescissarily thorough inspection of the facilities I would assume that it is a hole with a John placed on top and 3 wooden walls erected to give a semblance of shelter, aka a shitty outhouse.
The Germans mosie in, geared up and ready for the day. They are wearing the exact same thing as the day before and explain that the material is “full of technologies” and will stay “keeping fresh” for some time in the mountains. Christophe goes into a story about engineering something or other and I notice Jack is reaching for his 4thcup of instant coffee mixed with coco and powdered milk, I fear that Cornback may be at it again.
The hike starts off around 7am and immediately the pack thins out. A steep incline to begin the day is always a clear indicator of who is hurting most from the day before. Hibbons is up front with Wilson and Mike, trekking with a purpose. Ricardo brings up the rear and inbetween are the sandal repping river guides, Nate and Annie; the geared out Germans, Christophe and JoJo; Kelly who is chatting with the Californian doctors; the Italians, Ale and Dani who are not as talkative as the rest; and Jack who is talking to me, or rather monologuing at me.
Jack [and of course that’s how my uncle invented the face dig in professional beach volleyball. Which of course reminds me of the time that I was hunting the rare bird of paradise commonly known as a ‘red skwack-tail’ by the locals, in the cloud forest of Colombia. Those little pygme buggers may only stand waist high but they can shoot a cross bow like a regular William Tell. Of course, only a few ever get to see them alive, they usually don’t take kindly to trespassers, luckily for me I had an extra large bag of McSweeney’s teriaki beef jerky which they happen to love and I traded it for my life and a guided red skwack tail hunting trip.]
Suddenly I realize I am walking by myself. I turn at the last second to catch Jack’s walking stick.
Jack [hold that for me will ya, I think I spotted a Cornbacked Rattler over yonder] he calls in a Midwest accent. Soft, like the way they say “Soda”.
JN [¿Como?]
Jack [Frosting a Rock Julian, cover for me!]
He runs off as a Condor circles overhead.
The group haults at the top of the hill as it gently graduates into a peaceful incline towards the pass between Salkanty glacier and the adjacent mountain. The pass is just visible through the clouds still loath to get up out of their resting place and face the rising sun, not that I blame them. The valley is green and soft to walk on, bordered on one side by a steep mountain rising to a jagged peak, and on the other by glacial till created by a hundred thousand tons of ice stealthily creeping its way toward the lowlands, then retreating again, leaving a deep gash in the mountain like a knife wound. From where we are standing Cornback is clearly visible in his red Gore-tex jacket. He is squatting ackwardly on the slope trying to bake a salmon. Thankfully he is too far away to be heard or smelt. But like a young buck he comes bounding over the boulders and soft grassy hillside to reach us, out of breath from both exersion and the altitude.
Nate [frosting a rock over there? Doing a little crop dusting?]
Jack [Nuked a gourd the size of Hiroshima! Could have been a McD’s chocolate soft serve the way that Clevelandcoiler piled up, I’ll say!]
Pam and Annie wrinkle their noses and the rest of the group looks nonplussed. Hibbons shakes his head admiringly. The rest of the hike progressed uneventfully (for Cornback that is). Scenery: jagged peaks of mountains and glaciers 6000m into the sky, cascading water run off from the morning rains and the melting glacier, the sound of a thousand kilo chunck of ice, crushed by its own weight, tearing off the ice blanket covering the mountain side and rushing towards the ice blue lake below, aquamarine due to the steady stream of thousand year old water of the purest sort.
I reach the highest point of the hike, top of the pass at 4600m first and place a piece of quartz I picked up on top of the ever growing rock pile at the summit. There is something very soulful (might have made that word up) about being at very high places. The Incas believed that the mountains were “Apu’s” or had spirits in there, or were spirits, something like that. It is easy to understand why they thought that. The sheer size and awe that they inspire is incredible. There is a really insignificant feeling that is both humbling and refreshing, just like being on a small boat on the ocean out of sight of land. The clouds were low so the sky was gray but they were high enough that we could see the glacier on the side of Salkantay that we were facing. Every few minutes there would be the sound of gun shots, thunder and a waterfall in a medly that signified an avalanche had just broken loose. It was barely above freezing there but the glaciers there, like everywhere else, are receeding every year. I hiked over to the ridge and looked a hundred meters down at a glacial lake the colour of a wolf’s eyes. Cornback and Hibbons walk over and sit quietly as the three of us watch avve’s cascade down the mountain in deadly elegance.
Troy[I narrowly escaped from an avy one time. Spent the winter season in Patagonia between Chile and Argentina, naturally Argentinawas better, girls, empanadas, lifestyle, you understand]……
……Jack [you gonna finish that tear jerker there little buddy?]
Troy [Hot Damn! I drifted off, were was I? oh yes that’s right so we were riding this ridge getting set to run a chute and this sound like a thousand kites being torn by the wind echos off my eardrum at a thousand fuckin decibles! Well that only means one thing so we got the hell out of there prettty fast. Soon as we traversed out of the way the whole side of the fuckin mountian came down like a stampede, son of a bitch it was a close one!]
The decsent from the peak isabout 12km of pure downhill. While that might sound nice, when you are carrying a pack, the extra weight on your knees makes them feel like all the tendons have been shorn and there is only skin and a capula holding the femur to the shins. Excruciating by the end of the trip, not to mention cold, driving rain and passing through three biospheres. We went from the glacial pass, down to apline meadows, further down to alpine forrest then into a cloud forrest were the amount of sweat we were all producing replaced the rain that had soaked our gear for the previous half of the hike. Naturally the Germans were high and dry with their highly superior tech gear and steel reinforced, nuclear proof hiking boots. Poor Christophe, the elder of the troop at 43, was suffering pretty badly by the time we made camp. Nate, ever the nature enthusiast was loving life as we passed through fields of wild flowers then trees of wildflowers, then groves of wild flowers, then groves of flowering trees, also wild. It was a nature lover’s ideal day. I myself also am a nature enthusiast which I exclaimed several times and was right beside Nate most of the way snapping photos, pressing flowers in my journal and doing other, regularly socially unacceptable activities for two grown men.
Decending a long way from the peak of the mountain was all killer and no filler. It was agonizing and excruciating to say the least. By the end of the day we all had severely swolled ankled and a deep passion for a cold beer. The beer was forthcoming and the swelling barely subsided or may have gotten worse as soon as I took the shoes off and allowed the blood to flow where it wanted to go. However, that was the least of our concerns as the pungent smell that radiated from the collection of feet was enough to skin a donkey live, which it did. We lost several pack animals that day and sadly we can no longer in good concience place the tag “no animals were harmed in the making of this film” at the end of the motion picture that will undoubetly be written about this hike and then purchased and produced by Disney. But that is a small price to pay for the distinct pleasure of knowing that I (my feet) am a deadly weapon, something that I and every other self respecting american longs to be from the time they cease sucking at their mothers tit.
The crew around the table which included most of us – the Dr’s were missing as were the Italians – demolished the pre dinner snack and immediately felt the shame of not having shared the bountry with the others who had just completed and therfore expended similar amounts of blood, sweat, and back sweat to get there. The solution was obvious to everyone and so we amalgamated the remaining plates into a few small ones that looked full of creackers, tea biscuits, and popcorn to give the illusion that A, we had waited patiently; and B, the cooks had really skimped out on us this evening. Not sure if we fooled anyone – Cornback and Hibbons had crumbs all over their respective mustache and beard.
We made camp and slept like babies who had just walked 18km up and down a mountain and stunk to high heaven. A few brave souls showered in the icy spigot. Nate, the beauty that he is dipped the essentials into a stream behind the cottage we were tenting near then at dinner pulled out his 2.5L tub of butter that he carries around with him on all such trips. Interestingly we used the butter for a lot of things. I mean when you have 2.5L of it there really isnt any reason that any of us could see to “go easy.” And I mean c’mon, we were burning a lot of calories every day. What’s the harm in a little (couple) spoonfuls of butter? Wouldn’t you? We also used it in our coffe in the morning; de-loo-la-licious! Cornback used it as an anti-chaffing agent on his inner thighs on day 3 after the previous day’s rain left him rarer than a 18 ounce porterhouse seared lightly on both sides and served cool in the middle.
Laughed myself to sleep remembering the image of ze germans coming around the bend from the cold showers and Christophe, the worlds hariest man, in booty shorts with a towel over his shoulder wearing his gore-tex hiking boots and carrying a bottle of vidal sasson shampoo in his hand, would have been the perfet commercial if only the cameras had have been rolling. Confouned unions and their coffee breaks!
Day 3:
I awoke to the distinct scent of putrid flesh and a pleasant aroma drifted towards my nostrils. Only once it was too late did I realize that the smell was one of Cornbacks flatulations disguised as aerosol by the rapid expulsion from the instument in question and the tell tale hissing sound that usually accompanies such spray cans. Once I had stopped the dry heaving by leaving the tent through the window, which incidentally didn’t open before that rapid escape, I headed towards the breakfast table where I was greeted by warm hellos all around except from the Italians who had apparently had the ill fortune of occupying the tent beside Cornback which they assumed (rightly I might add) that I had something to contribute to the cause.
The hike was now through the cloud forrest as the group had descended in a tour de force by almost 2000m the previous day. Spirits were light as we crossed a suspension bridge that looked like it was about to become past tense, taking along with it anyone foolish enough to try and cross the many gaps in the boards that were dangling by a threat. Miraculously, we only lost one burro and it was carrying only one tent as we had already gone through some of the rations.
Beautiful walk that day up and down the canyons following a river downstream 12km to where a bus would meet and transport us towards the evening festivities. Jack, being of another mind, or perhaps completely out of it gave us trail conversation for most of the day when he decided to “get low” during a group “jump” photo and looked like he was making the motions – easily could have been, Cornback is like no other.
The mission for the day was to end up at the hot springs which we had been promised the previous night by our dubiously funny guide Wilson who was enamoured with the english language, moreso for the tips he may perchance to make if he had a better grasp of the beautiful tongue than the fact that he was a scholar and a saint. He carried around a book in which he wrote all the “funny” sayings and jokes that were told by the gringos along the trail. However, the funniest thing that didn’t make it into the book was because of Annie MC who told a hilarious, if not quite confusing riddle, that took us a long time and a few hints to get. Clearly, because of the confusion and amount of explaining that was necessary to get all of us English speakers to find the answer to the riddle he wasn’t keen to get the riddle written in his little book. This all happened while we were sitting around the dinner table…
Annie MC [why don’t you want my riddle Wilson?]……
…no response……**resounding laughter**
So there we are walking our legs off…
Jack [son of a gun!]
And the clima gets hotter and hotter until the clouds part and we arrive in a clearing with incredibly short grass, im talking about masters short grass. WHO IS CUTTING THE GRASS HERE! Seriously they could be cutting the grass as any course or front lawn that I mowed as a niño. But then again, how much of a skill is grass cutting? I used to think it was a big skill until I found out that the grass at this place was being cut by GOATS! That’s right dea reader, mother grass cutting goats! If I grew up here I would have made Tiger Woods look like Gino Odjeck at the Roxy when I was there crushing Van Gogh espresso vodka shots; which is to say poorly!
We walk through some deep mud and I secretly wish that someone will fall into it. But im one upped when Cornback shouts: “I hope to high hooches some silly city slicker falls into this shit hole!” I immediately regret wishing ill footing on any of my fellow trekkers as Cornback once again displays the lower common demoninator.
He once tried to tell me a story about Windsor Palace. Whereupon I immediately reminded him that he is wanted by interpol on numerous charges, the least of which being pubic indecency. He is the kind of guy who sits in the corner of the kitchen in a youth hostel and just lets the biggest farts rip at the highest velocity and decible level as is humanly (and otherwise) possible. I mean C’mon!
So it gets hot and we reach the “destination” where the bus is supposed to be to pick us up; the weary travelers. But it isnt there. No, no no! this is Peru! Hahahahahahaha. What did you expect! Ba! [ah well there mister guide I expected that when you told us all that there would be a bus in the most bug infested part of the trek so far that it would be there. I mean if you had said it might be there then my hopes wouldn’t have gotten high at all but you said it would definitely be there, so you know, it kind of led me to believe that, well you know.]
There is no bus to be found so we hoof it. Wouldn’t you? There were flies everywhere! Long way down the road about ¾ of the way there the bus comes. I ride on the roof with Mike and Dr. Eddy. We arrive at our destination after being molested and assaulted by tree branches, bamboo and other flora, then depart the bus and wait till after lunch to reboard.
At the “restaurant” that our outfit has rented to cook us lunch we can purchase nice, almost cold beers. We do. We all get crushed off of one beer. That’s what happens when you hike for three days and expend tons of water and energy, you get crushed off one beer. It was awesome. Cornback naturally made the first assault on the shit hole, which was a hole for shit.
Jack [The old squatty potty routine! Drop the shorts, get into the deep squat and let ‘er fly!]
Dr. Pam [Jack we all know how to take a bowl movement in a hole in the ground, no need to explain it to us as we eat our rice mixed with frioles that looks like, nevermind.]
The cooks are getting gased in the kitchen about 4 feetaway from me. Its one of those open kitchens so you can see out into the room. They must be around 16 and the two horsemen (boys) are leaving us as we will be carriing all our gear form here on out. They are getting gassed as well. For them, it is a nice journey back to where we started from without having to wait for all of us. Hibbons comes over to me with Nate, they are discussing the skill of the apparent horsemen and their stamina on the trail.
Nate [im telling you these guys may be 15, may get juiced off one beer but they sure are troopers to head up on back there in the hills to do that trek in two days that took us three, and they have more uphill to make. I mean do you think they actually walk the whole way? I doubt it, how could they leave camp after us, pass us with silly grins, set up camp for lunch every day, take down camp as we get a head start, pass us again insulting gringos in their quechua or whatever indian language they call it and set up camp again for the evening?]
Troy[well I’ll tell you how it is Nate. These little son’s of heffers, old want’s to be with horse and ladied man or whatever their nicknames are, they ride those horses the whole way. Then as soon as they see our group or any other hikers for that matter they dismount and run alongside the animals. Its like the horseman code: make all the idiots walking feel like they are one of us, that way we don’t get jealous and demand that they carry the tents themselves and we ride the horses! I’ve a mind to tether one up and ride that monkey all the way to Picchu town!]
JN [Ya I concur with Jack on this one, he’s got a point. We arent exactly a slow group, how do these little fifty pound when soaking wet mountain men do it without riding. Sure they don’t have any packs on but c’mon.]
We give them a tip despite being a bunch of cheaters and then buy four more litres of beer to share around on the bus ride. Jack lies to the vender who wants the bottles back and we roar the hell out of there before he tries to collect his two sole deposit, about sixty cents.
The third night’s camp is reached via bus along a road that looks like it is about to give out at any second, which would result in all of us rolling several hundred meters down a steep and rocky slope into a river that the raft guides tell us is unpassable, aka to our death. Upon arrival at the campsite we were immediately greated by two spider monkeys that ran all over us like a pack of goombas and pulled some bugs out of Hibbons roaring mane that he refered to as “the quoff”. I personally saw a June bug and some sort of moth looking creature. My suspicion of the ever darkening foreshadowing deepened when Annie gave a throaty eghhhuuaa sound that was a cross between a Marine’s salute and a dying migetcry. Naturally I investigated. Much to my pleasure I found 4 young boys skinning a cow that looked all but moo-ing. The hide was off but and the body had been “halved” but the rest was fairly intact. Annie and Kelly, being vegetarians looked on with dispassionate disgust while a pool of drool began to form around the feet of the men who were probably thinking about their favorite cut of medium rare beef. I was pondering who would be the poor souls who would have to share a tent that night due to the rather unfortunate loss of a burro (and one of the horsemen, did I fail to mention that earlier?) The cow was skillfully, but reluctantly, cut apart with a hack saw (normally reserved for cutting metal pipes) that looked like it couldn’t cut through a watermelon. This was not the worlds sharpest tool. Another highlight of the greusome event was the opening of the stomache which could have easily weight in at over 150lbs. The release of gases and partially digested cud was a pungent sign for us to get the hell out of there and off we went to the hot springs.
The hot springs were cut into the side of the mountain where (evidently) piping hot water was streaming (trickling) out. There were 4 pools of different temperatures (1, 2, 3, and 4, of course) and the group, by this time, the end of day three, moved as a herd from the warm to the hot with frequent stops at the ice cold pool for those with aching joints – which was all of us but only Nate, Jack, Troy and I had the gall to endure the waterfall of what must have been supercooled water (look it up). I caught Christophe and Troyhaving a heart to heart in the über small two man very hot tub cemented onto the side of the rock face catching a tiny trickle of exceedingly hot agua. Clearly, judging by the look on Troy’s face (eyes glazed in a complete trance of incomprehension) Christophe was in the middle of telling him about his boots or a recent project that his engineering firm had done for some Korean automaker. Needless to say, his stories were technical and is severely broken english.
[The most memorable moment of the day goes to Nate Jordan, who, after setting the timer on his camera and setting it up for a group shot has to cover the 20m between himself and ourselves. However, we are all in the middle of a shallow pool, about 22 feetdeep, and he is already at the closest part. So he does what I expect any ten year veteran of the raging Colorado river would do. He sits down on the edge of the pool which is about 6 feethigh and face plants himself in while covering his face with an open hand and leading with the elbow as if it will somehow break the fall. *mouths drop open* There is a splash that would make a breachng whale jealous and then Nate covers the 20m in perfect butterfly that would make Micheal Phelps look like a Guinea Pig in a kiddy pool. Either fate was smiling or Nate has a perfect internal clock because as he finishes his last stroke he surfaces and turns to face the camera and smiles with fist raised like a true Champion and at that precise moment the shutter does its thing! Nate is the only one in the photo looking at the camera. The rest of the group is studying the back of his head with such incredulity that he might as well have been a rare Himalayan miget! Cornback then suggested a game of sharades where he and only he acted over and over the image of Nate sacrificing the body for the group shot. Dr. Pam almost drowned…because she was laughing, not because she’s Asian. Could be the funniest moment of my life to date]
Back at the camp site we have a delicious dinner and then are forced into watching a local dance that consists of hopping around. Mike and I somehow got pulled into it and hopped along really not knowing what the hell we or anyone else was doing. The blank smiles from our table confirmed what I was thinking. No wonder the civilization is extinct, this is the best dance they could think of? Then we were guilted into tipping the little girls which took the whole joy out of learning the 5 step peruvian hot with a five and sever year old about the height of a St. Bernard.
That night as we all went to bed, except Dani the Italian, due to a warning about the early rise that was necessary to make the days journey in daylight, we were lulled to sleep by the inhebriated shouts and calls of our 14 year old cooks getting severly obliterated on some ungodly liquor.
The 5:30 wake up call never came and by 7am the team of trekkers was up looking like a herd of wildebeasts on the serengetti that had been replaced by astroturf. The previous nights dinner and dishes was still strewn around the table like savages had been dining the night before. Our guide was in his tent and the cooks were laying facedown on the kitchen floor. A sorry sight. Spurred into action by the growing hunger pangs and a fear that if Jojo didn’t get coffee soon someone would be dead, the team rallied to clean dishes, get water boiling, cuss out the guide and kick the peasants masquerading as cooks with great vigor. The audacity! Shouted Hibbons as he lit a match on the head cook’s cheek and lit the stove. Preposterous! Cried Cornback from the grimy dish pit (read tiny filthy sink). The shamefaced cook were finally aroused and two pineapples appeared courtesy of ze Germans who got a series of thanks and strange looks that said “why have you been carrying two large pineapples for the past 47km up and down 4600m?”
The bus is late but it arrives and everyone gets on happy to be leaving the recent location of a murdered cow and a dirty kitchen that we got to clean.
Dropped off at the end of the road we have to sign into national park regestry and Cornback is sweating all of a sudden despite the 15ºC weather that is overcast and even slightly drizzling.
Jack C [man you guys, I havent told you this because I didn’t want to alarm anyone but im a wanted man. 6 countried in Europe, Cambodia, Iceland, and Burma. Interpol has their cold hands as close to closing around my nut sack as they can and the grip is tightening every day. I cant sign in here, I need a fake name.]
For some reason unknown but to the gods be settles on Hank Fischer. I’m stunned, naturally. He keeps his eyes down as he signs the ledger and no one in the guard shack seems to notice the sweat on his palms blot the previous page. Personally, I don’t think these guys have even heard of Interpol.
Jack [I’ll bite my way out of here if I have too. I once bit the recess lady’s breast!]
JN [no you didn’t Cornback, you were just listening to Pearl Jam on the bus and smoking gage in the back seat, now settle down you leper.]
We walk a few hundren meters down the road to where we are having lunch, a mere hour after we had “breakfast”. But the cooks are still mangled and they’re twelve so what the hell. On a detective’s hunch and a local rumous overheard, as well as a little tour of a local Inca ruin that took us into the forrest we (Mike, Hibbons and I) pulled the classic “stop to tie the shoelace” routine and go on a search for avocado trees. We find that this forrest has them in spades. However, avocado trees grow to heights of like fourty damn meters! So we were relegated to forraging on the ground for ones that had fallen and had escaped the scourge of foul and insects. Returning with arms laden full of fruit we felt a bit like Christpoher Columbus (white men in Peru and all). The rest of the party gave a great cry of delight and wiped tears from their eyes, though not because of the avocados.
It turns out Christophe was in the middle of his one and only story that was understandable…and it was hilarious. The subject? Why a banana split of course.
Christophe […ziss von time I voz viss my friendz for dinnah and ve ver having such a nice dinnah. Zo my friend he haz a shteak and I haz a pazta dishez. Den after ve are sinking, vat about dessert? Zo I am azking ve vaiter if de dessert iz coming. I checking ze menu and YESS I ZEE IT, DEY HAZ DA BANANA SHPLIT. Zo I order ze BANANAAAHH SHPLIT! My friend he orderz ze ice cream but I get ze Banana Shplit. Zen ve are vaiting and vaiting, and I azk ven iz it coming ze Banana Shplit! Zen I ZEE IT COMING ZE BANANA SHPLIT! AhhhhHH I am zo exzited for zis I get zis and I put my face in it ze Banana Shplit and AHH it iz sho good zis banana SHPLIT!]
And so on and so forth this went for about 5 minutes and the result was the most raucus laughter from Team Salkantay that there were unabashed weaping and floor rolling, it was the second funniest momemt of my life right after the head dive. Well after the laughter subsided momentarily, because it continued for the rest of the trip, we got about to making the guacamolé, and Nate that head diving son of a mother went down to the shacks at the train tracks and picked up an onion, tomatoe and garlic which made for the worlds most ferral and delicious guacamolé ever.
We walked along the train tracks for about 12km while getting Christophe to say “Banana Shplit” as often as possible until we reached the ‘base camp’ town of Aguas Calientes, meaning “hot water” after the hot springslocated nearby. Light was going down and the group was dissapointed that they wouldn’t be able to do the 4 hour hike up a nearby mountain that offers a view of Machu Picchufrom across the valley. Hibbons and I decided that 4hours was probably for the “lay person” and now that we had just come through the mountains to reach this joint we werent going to let a little thing like the sun going down from preventing us climbing a mountain that was very steep and would be a real shit storm in the dark. Turns out we championed this mountain in fifty minutes and sweated about 17 litres of man sweat on the way up probably setting a new record. The first half was nearly straight up and the only way is via the wooden ladders. Then it levels out just enough to not need ladders but is essentially straight up for 2 hours unless you think the sun is going to go down before you make it to the top and move like a bat out of hell, which we did.
At one point it becomes flat for 30m as you cross a ridge between the mountain and the peak ascent where on either side there is a 300m drop to the valley bottom. Going from there through the quad burnout to the top another 200m up was surreal and the view at the top indscribable. This place is called the belly button of the world because all around this peak there are slightly higher peaks but they are all over 5km away in every direction with Machu Picchuperched perilously on a cliff face several km away with the sun slowing sinking behind it. It was quieter than a library up there as the huge expanse of space swallowed up all sound like a good Argentinian cat jajaja. No wind, just the sound of sun rays piercing the air. It took 5 seconds for the echo to come back, seemlingly out of no where as our shout was swallowed whole like Jonah.
We descended in 45 minutes and met up with the Team for Happy Hour in town after taking the first shower in 4 days of serious sweating. Glorious. Naturally, as is a regular occurance among friends, we got a little cut, which is also in part, a large part, because of our severe intollerance for booze. After a few rounds of beers, margs, and mojitos we moved on to the last supper with the cooks who were obviously bashful for having let the team down that day. But we had a hilarious time as Christophe led the table in rounds of laugther. He, being a little drunk would go into peals of laughter which sounded like the beginning of an air raid siren followed by hyega chuckles, which of course sent the rest of us following suit in our personal laugh of choice.
The evening finished far too late seeing as the alarms were set for 4:30. Around 2am we finally left the soccer game we were watching in the street. We had just talked our way into the next match when we came to the collective realization that we were: exhausted, all wearing thongs, not soccer players, and most importantly – drunk. So we got out of there before the locals schooled us and took our ante money.
Day 5, the Picchu.
As we all suspected it would, 4:30am was quite early. Two hours of sleep under the belts of us few guys foolish enough to try and play soccer in the street made us a sorry bunch but we rallied and made it to the town square for 5am, the meeting time. One hour of forced marching towards ‘the Picchu’ in order to make it there for the parks opening. It went by without events worthy of noting…that is unless you consider the fact that Cornback had to stop twice for roadside rock frostings. The best was when Nate and I were walking with him and he stopped and dropped on the side of the trail. We moved on about 40m to give him privacy (which he clearly didn’t need) and also to avoid any sounds and smells that were certain to eminate from the general vicinity. However, my attention in the early morning twilight was drawn the the deep squatting and laughing character of Cornback who was nearly occluded by the four hikers that had just walked by him.
Jack [I was squatting there doing…]
Nate [leave it out Jack]
Jack […right. So I was squatting and I hear this noise right behind me and four people walk silently right by me as a lay a nice clevelandcoiler in a steaming heap on a rock. Little dusting. And all I think to do is say ‘Good morning’]
We didn’t have any mountian money so he was forced to using dewey leaves. It was a good thing then that he had to go once again at the top where there was a WC with real TP for him to use. However, with that guy im not sure if it makes a difference.
Machu Picchuis an incredible work of archeological art. Being there early in the morning was well worth the hang over which we had worked off by 6am anyway. One of the first ones in and the morning light is the only way to see such an antcient city like that. We toured around with Wilson making jokes and recounting the proud history of the once supremely dominant civilization that ruled that stretch of the Andes. It was truly awestriking to see the intricate stone work at such an elevation and on such a pricipitous slope. ‘The Picchu’ is perched on a ridge between two peaks that are part of the rim around the belly button that I had climbed up the previous day. Flowing water through the city from an aquifer follows channels carved into the stone city giving them flushing capabilities and a constant stream of running water. Carrying anything up those steep streets would be labour intensive. They even farmed on the mountain in steppes carved into the mountain. The last steppe is literally the last step. Take one more and it’s a long drop with a fast stop hundreds of meters below. I hiked up the the peak overlooking the small city and it was imporssible not to marvel at the engineering feat that it is. By 11am, the tour groups who made the trip from Cusco in a bus that day started to arrive and the magic was diminished by the sea of SLR’s poking out of ever doorway and window. Together Jack and I puched a few weaker tourists off the mountain and called it a day, only the strong survive.
Walking back the way we came we copped a “post-checkout” shower at the hotel we stayed the previous night in and were literally chased out. Its only water c’mon! We took a train and a bus back to Cusco that nearly everyone fell asleep on and sadly had to say goodbye to our new found family there as I was catching a bus south with Barnes and the river dogs. But we swore to stay in touch and rendezvous sometime in the following year at ze German’s house. I doubt if I’ll see everyone from that trip again but what a memorable trek it was. I have an unsettling feeling in my gut that it wont be the last of Cornback and Hibbons that I have to endure and survive before my South American adventures are through. The last thing Mike said to me as we shook hands and parted ways was, “Keep an eye out for Cornback, he’s a dangerous son of a gun!” Foreshadowing doesn’t get any more ominour than that.
[i] Barnes comes down. “¿What no wake up?” He seems somewhat miffed but that’s just his morning face, he is kinda upset at the world for waking him up for a few minutes, which is exactly why I didn’t wake him up.
“Ok man I was lying in bed and I let out a huge fart, mostly for you, then I rolled over and you werent there, and I was like Oh! I just let out a huge fart in front of three girls. Like a Big Morning Fart!” “Thanks man”, is Julian’s reply.
