Peru

I was speaking to my girlfriend (shut up) over the phone at the start of the year. She was in Lima, completing a tropical medicine course. I was in my pants, completing a Viennetta. When she caught me off guard and asked me to fly over and climb Machu Picchu with her. "Not Machu Picchu?!" I exclaimed. "Sure!!" Making a mental note to google whatever Machu Picchu is when I hang up. She was so pleased that I wondered if maybe I should have already heard of it. Still, the conversation moved on and I forgot to google it. 

At the pub a couple weeks later with my pal whose name sounds like it come straight out my old man's flip phone, Jimmy The Brush. Everyone my dad knows seems to have a reluctant nickname. I'm probably saved as 'Son 3'. He once took us on the ferry to Ireland to meet Rhino Boy. I was so excited to meet this half rhino - half boy monstrosity and when it turned out to be my uncle Joe I was not disappointed. Jimmy the Brush asked how things were going with Rosie. "About that.. Guess where I’m off to?" "You better not be!" The idea that I wouldn't immediately announce if I was going to Peru was inconceivable to my bestest hiking buddy. "Ahh don't worry. We're just doing that urm... Matcha Picchu." He was so giddy I briefly wondered if I'd revealed I was pregnant with his baby.

Knowledge unlocks doors. Ignorance climbs through the window.

I sensed an opportunity. In an adverse epiphany, I wondered if we might turn my carefully managed world knowledge into a unique cultural journey. 

"Jimmy, how many people d’ya think climb this Machu Picchu but dunno what it is or looks like?"

"Are you serious?"

"Hypothetically."

"Are you serious?"

He seemed to have rumbled me. Still, point made. Imagine how amazing these world wonders would be if you saw them for the first time up close - not through a book or screen.

"Jimmy, I have a confession to make?"

"You are 32 years old. How can"

"No, it’s not that." I interrupted. "I actually have no idea what Machu Picchu even is. I dunno if it's a pyramid or a waterfall. But imagine seeing it for the first time in person."

He looked concerned.

I told Rosie my plan and she said "How on Earth do you not know Machu Picchu?!

"That is exactly what Jimmy The Brush said."

"Please don't tell anyone this."

"And that!"

So of course I spent the next four months explaining to anyone who would listen that I had seen Angkor Wat and Niagara Falls but I was't satisfyingly flabbergasted as I had already seen the photos. Excelling my ignorance by repeating phrases like "You're hardly gonna be blown away by a waterfall when you've seen space lasers in Star Wars." Or "I basically already saw New Zealand when I watched Lord of the Rings." So amazingly, whenever Rosie sent info for our four day hike up Machu Picchu after that, or a document for me to sign. She would have to edit out the inevitable image of the thing I was travelling two days on a aeroplane to see.

Airports

Four months later, I was still relishing in this ignorance when the first of my four flights was delayed. I ran from Domestic to International in my clothes practical for sitting to catch my Chile connection and made it to check in with 50 minutes to take off. Had I approached a human instead of a sentient dog shit bin I might have been waved through. But instead he just ummm'd while making up his mind and said "Nah, I don't make the rules." Before adding a helpful "Would have helped ya if you got here ten minutes ago." I gave him my best Paddington stare but he was bureaucratically immune. 

The lady at the sales desk was full of reminders that she was only trying to help. Something about every single thing that she did kept making me forget. After enough time to bake a lasagna, she tried redirecting me via the US. As luck would have it I already had an ESTA. After 20 minutes of fannying through old emails and ESTA login piss I was finally able to prove it. "No see, your ESTA has your middle name but your ticket does not. You can't fly to the US." Horseshit! She might have had a point if I had been deported but she couldn't have known that. Another hour passed and the lady said "Good news! How about Canada?" Oh piss. Finally, we compromised by finding a route neither of us were happy with, via Australia the following day. 

The next morning my flight to Sydney was delayed, leaving me with exactly the same amount of time to run to my new Santiago flight as I had the day before. This time I asked the flight attendant to tell the next plane to wait - something I only knew was possible as he had just announced that's why this fucking plane was late. He said that he would but in that 'Okay Economy, wink-wink’ way. He may as well have followed it up by blowing a raspberry and tossing the wanker sign. As promised, he did do an announcement requesting everyone to stay seated to allow those of us late for a connection off first but unfortunately his enthusiasm and authority was tantamount to a mouse with Avoidant Personality Disorder. So I pushed my way past 43 rows of rows. Apologising for every bum, fanny, wang and face my wang pressed past on the way.

Time to run like the wind, in my stupid, oversized hemp sliders. A lesson I did not learn from the day before. At least this time there was no need to change terminal. First in line at security, they told me I needed to head back through and empty my water somewhere. Possibly as punishment for bypassing the ignominy of the derelict zigzag stanchions. I just boshed a litre right in front of the TSA agent's face like a hard cunt. Something they screened me for. Fair enough actually. It would have been wildly incompetent of them if they hadn't. Truth was, I was acting... erratic. The stress of missing flights, the hassle of rescheduling them, locating lost luggage, bussing in the middle of the night to a sleazy Auckland motel instead of staying in our lovely Cusco hotel was all adding up. Plus forcing my way through 43 rows of people to get off the plane first had definitely used up the last of my social currency and I was experiencing some fall out.

"This your bag sir?" I look around theatrically from left to right - I was the only one there. I almost pointed to the empty space and said "I think he's talking to you" but I was worried they might think that was worth some sort of mental health screening and I'm not sure I would have passed. I held my tongue and he rewarded me for it. "Thank you, you're good to go." I snatched it and bolted like a bank robber holding a swag bag. 

Spiralling

I arrived at the corridor to hell. A maze of meaningless repetitive retail stores with no beginning or end. Like a tortuous scene from Black Mirror. The blinding white light of the incessant liquor and fragrance shops went on and on and on until I lost my marbles. There was undoubtedly a more direct route to the departure gates but these companies have paid good money to torment people late for flights so what the fuck. Popup adverts wherever I looked as though I hadn't paid the full price for my ticket. An escape room for the soul. Facebook's metaverse torture chamber. Somebody stepped in front of me holding a litre of Jack Daniel's but instead of an "Excuse me" a  sincere  "WHY" slipped out my chest.

Finally it opens up into recognisable airport with breathable air. I was a little disappointed not to find a live studio audience at the end as though it had all been an elaborate prank. But no - this was all perfectly normal. It felt maddening that nobody else seemed bothered by it. Airports do actually provide sensory rooms now - which is some acknowledgement of their garish environment - but in order to gain access you have to speak to a load of people. Something people who need it avoid.

I run to the board doing my best to swallow a panic attack. Wheezing like an old dog, people were beginning to stare while I waited for the departure board to flip to the relevant page. There were two screens side by side. So they could have shown both info pages instead of alternating except one was reserved for adverts. I know, I know - who cares. But this was just one of the one hundred tiny things contributing to my imminent human Buckeroo impression. Waiting… waiting… 'Santiago - Gate 9 - Boarding... 11 mins walk'. "Fuuuuuuuuu-" I started spinning frantically looking for a sign to Gate 9. This morphed into increasingly larger circles until "uuuuaaarrNINE!" I tailed off the perfect spiral, running from the scene I had just caused.

My trousers kept falling down and my hemp sliders were creating a daft slapping sound on the tiles to attract maximum attention. I looked deranged. And was in all honestly, safely in deranges remit. I fly up an escalator. Realise it's the wrong way. Yell something poetic like "Shit! Shit!Shit!Shit!" and then run back down them. It must have looked like I ran up them to get more distance on my breakdown. I barrel down to the gate that says final call for Santiago. I was letting out baboon-esk whimpering noises as I exhaled. The staff heard me before they could see me. 

"Calm down sir, calm down. No need to hurry. Let me see your boarding pass." One of the one hundred things making me so loopy was that I still had no boarding pass and no idea where to get one. "Sorry sir, you are at the wrong airline. This is Qantas for Latam, you need Latam." There were two bastard Santiago flights leaving at the same time. One flight for each page of the flipping info board. "You need Gate 26, they're boarding. You should hurry". Yes thank you! I fucking know I should fucking hurry - As though I looked blazae about the situation. This was right the fuck back from where I just galloped. I’m so out of breath and on the edge that I consider stripping naked and sitting cross legged in protest. I look at my feet in defeat but the idea that I could take off my ridiculous sliders and run in my socks just pips it. Motivated by the certainty I was not mentally equipped to miss another flight I legged it there in time to join the back of the queue. I might have cried but was too dehydrated. Four hours into the flight and almost 24 hours after I left home I looked on the flight map to see my progress - we were flying over my house in New Zealand.

The Hike (and some avoidant anecdotes)

I loved complaining about packing for this hike. Cold weather clothes, hiking boots, hot weather clothes, giant water bottle, bloody trekking gear for the Amazon. The complaining was glorious. Every time I threw something into the backpack I would let out a self-indulgent "Urrrugh". It gave me a wee boost. Like how Rafa Nadal screams after he hits a return. Although in fairness if I had hiked in my flip-flops like I had secretly been planning then my feet might have rubbed down to the nubs. My pal Ben once mentioned the cold long hours he was working during the lead up to Xmas but I was on a month long work trip enjoying the Kiwi summer. Still, it did not stop me from jumping at the chance to complain. "Bloody tell me about it mate. Each evening when I get back to my hotel I have to untuck my bed sheets - again! The cleaner keeps tucking the buggers." Like a good friend he told me where to go.

I arrived in Cusco 30 hours late but we still had four days to acclimatise for the hike. The first two days were spent getting pisco'd and eating some of the best food in the world. Right until I ordered some alpaca fajitas from our hostel bar in the hope of a cultural experience. In many ways I got one -  gastroenteritis. As the only major hostel in town - it also doubled up as a music venue and there happened to be some sort of all day and night latin dance party happening in the courtyard outside our bedroom window. There was a constant metronome Peruvians do some kind of line dance to. If I ever hear that ticking again I will fucking scream. In and out of fever dreams about clocks it tormented me whether I was awake or not. Rosie decided I needed dosing with some mystery antibiotics she found in her bag as my involuntary shaking to the beat continued long after the party had stopped. One day and one stone later, I emerged pasty white ready for our mega hike. Still, how hard can it be?

Not that hard actually. It’s cliffhangers like that which keeps readers reading. We met at The Salkantay Trekking Company office the evening before the hike, to go over everything we ignored in the info packs. "Basically it's 2 days to the top of Salkantay, then 2 more days to Machu Picchu. Easy peasy lemon squeezy." To directly quote our guide Julio. Using his definition of direct anyway. I might have redacted some dangers he pressed upon us in his defence. Everyone in our group of 10 was lovely. This wasn’t luck - as an experienced trekking company they knew exactly how to separate the groups. Everyone in the world in one group. Americans in the other. But so long as we took the climb seriously and stuck to schedule we would always stay 30 minutes ahead of them. We stayed in ’sky domes’ after a breezy ascent on day one. The views of the mountain and the stars from your bunk were spectacular for all of two minutes before the windows steamed up. I tried drawing some stars on the windows but I think the altitude was getting to me.

Early on our ascent on day two the Americans caught up as we were taking our frolicking a little too seriously. This twenty-something year old marched past us booming Pitbull out of a speaker he had strapped to his backpack. It’s possible he was playing something as equally heinous but I just couldn’t hear past his active Pitbullness. It seemed to grow louder as he climbed the trail above us. We’ had all spent this time, effort and money to be in the most remote and beautiful spot in our lives and all we can hear is fucking Mr Worldwide? Nah mate. I interrupted the offensively polite hushed outcry of our group by shouting upwards "Oi Dickhead!" To our bemusement he looked around to see who we were talking to." "Dickhead, turn the music off!"

"Whaaaaaaaat?" He shouted cupping his ear that’s next to the speaker.

Then in a beautiful, unifying moment, we all in unison shouted "Diiiickheeeeead, Tuuurn theeeee Muuuusiiic Off!!" 

He did. Finally, we could hear the tranquility of our surroundings - all our gasping for oxygen.

Near the top of Salkantay we saw some wild chinchillas scattering about. Perhaps because English wasn't their first language but half our group didn't know what the fuck a chinchilla even was. "Oh we had one growing up." I said casually. "Not a chinchilla!?" "Yeah, one of them." I say pointing. When my eldest brother was little, he was playing with this kid Jerome from down the street and came running back one day. "Dad! Dad! Jerome says he got a chinchilla but his mum won't let him keep it. Can we have it?" "How big is it?" My dad asked after the inevitable inquisition of where the fuck did Jerome get a chinchilla from without his mum knowing. "A little rabbit." Dad looked at our empty rabbit cage in the back garden and said why not. "It'll have to stay in your room though." The cage was empty as the foxes kept getting in. Not having a fucking clue what to do with a chinchilla they headed to the library to look them up. I imagine the purpose of this trip was to find out what they ate. All my dad ever talked about was when he read about their life-span. "Tweny-five fackin' yeears!" Filling the silent void of our local library. "Does Jerome know how old it is?" Dad asked knowing it was a stupid question. My brother just shrugged. It lived in his room for the next 18 years.

When we reached the summit our Quechuan guide Julio sat us all down like school children to teach us about the local history and culture. Like how people often think his people are called The Incas but really there were only 18 Incas as that was the names of the kings. "We are Quechua people" he would tell us proudly. We were all feeling proud for scaling a mountain taller than the highest peak in New Zealand. Then he handed us all some muna tea. And we realised that the two chefs had overlapped us while carrying one of those giant boiling water urns you see in office break rooms. I heard that if you climb the famous Inca Trail instead then some poor fucker ends up carrying your tent and cooking supplies. Julio said this is because you're not allowed to build any structures on the Inca Trail. So because of this we were climbing the Salkantay route. Where they were allowed to build luxury sky domes with hot showers preventing the porter from having to carry it. A man of the people - I would think to myself as I applied the conditioner each evening.

During the mammoth eight hour descent most our knees were beginning to pack in. So we started bouncing with each step. I thought this is how Julio told us to do it but when he spotted us he started laughing. The point wasn’t to channel a drunk uncle traversing a bouncy castle but it worked. It just put us in the right mindset. Like how Rafa Nadal wipes each eyebrow then bounces the ball before serving. There were five of us bouncers way ahead and feeling smug until we realised we had taken a wrong turn. Luckily we could see our accommodation from above and managed to yell to our guide who told us we could enter from where we were. The donkey paddock. It was very steep, slippy and ankle deep in donkey shit. But turning around was not an option. We didn’t have the legs and much more importantly we didn’t wanna look too precious to wade through donkey shit in front of the donkey geezer. What kept us going that day was the thought of an ice cold beer and pisco sour at the end. But we opened the fridge to see a lit candle inside thanks to a power outage. Difficult to complain when the chef is hustling to cook us all dinner by candle light. I’m sure when Sir Edmond Hilary first climbed Everest his beer fridge was also lit by a candle, which makes our journey as equally fraught and impressive.

Day three we sauntered down to a passion fruit farm for juice & popsicles. Rosie turned her back on me and I stuck my entire hand in this pig's mouth. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. They warn you not to pet stray dogs in remote areas but I had never had a pig warning. Only now as I write this months later does it dawn on me that might not have been the sole problem. As our group sat down to enjoy their maracuya, they look over to see nothing short of two puppies revelling in their own faeces. All the while glowing in the connection that I imagined this pig and I shared. Rosie's not easily embarrassed but having to tell me to get my hand out of that pig's admittedly grotesque mouth seemed to undermine the political chat at the table. I pulled my hand free to reveal my sludgy black digits. “Yes, yes" I said “Terrible business over there.” at a desperate attempt to adult while scratching my chin. The whole table now frantically searching for wet wipes and hand sanitiser in their respective day packs.

We were undoubtedly the most incompetent group Julio ever had. He didn't tell us this but he did reveal that in his previous group there was a Grandfather and Grandson combination who both made a better time. Fucking six and seventy-three! We were all late twenties to mid thirties. I assumed all guides were this patient until we went to the Amazon and met our machete wielding guide Gabriel. His knowledge cantered depending on how fed up with us he was. He somehow found a giant tarantula hiding beneath the jungle floor. Telling us "No it's not a tarantula. It's just big hairy spider." That its official name? I asked. "He looks like a Miguel" he said laughing, leaving us to the single scariest thing I've ever seen. Until two minutes later when he found us a snake. I don't mind snakes but when Gabriel told us how the venom runs through the body, first making you paralysed, then you lose your vision, then you bleed out of your eyes, teeth and fingernails. Then thankfully you definitely die because there is no anti-venom. I became scared of this particular snake. "Yellow next to black, jump the fuck back" I said quoting Super Hans from Peep Show. "Oh my god Jake!" Rosie gasped impressed. "How d'you know that? They taught us that on our course." "Oh I picked it up from somewhere." I said, pretending not to remember. Biting my tongue for all of two seconds before continuing "Red n yella', cuddly fella." "That's right!"

The last leg of the hike was along a train track. One of the many things Julio taught us was that there was a train but it was exclusively for twats. Although he might have used the phrase 'Rich Americans'. At 950 bucks for a return, it’s not exactly accessible to the locals. The train is even named after an American, the chap who is discovered Machu Picchu in 1911. Although this notion is slightly undermined by the two farming families who were already living there at the time. That’s Americans for you. Columbus Day celebrates the discovery of a continent where millions of people already lived. It was just so much fun to walk along a track which snaked through the mountains, over bridges. When the Himram Bingham train eventually whizzed past us we hopped off the track and the children waved at us from the viewing platform. It may have been a tough four day hike to get here but to see the joy on that kid's face ripped away as we flipped them off made it all worthwhile.

We stopped halfway across a bridge as Julio pointed out Machu Picchu to us on top a neighbouring peak. I could feel the eyes of the whole group on me. As possibly the only adult in Peru who didn’t know what it looked like. I’m not sure what they expected me to say but “Is that the pyramid?” wasn’t it. We continued on to the town Aguas Calientes until dark. At 6:00am the following morning we finally got the opportunity to walk through the grounds. It was nothing like Star Wars. Julio said he’s been a thousand times but had only seen it this clear 15 times. I then had to explain the phrase “Jammy bastards” to him.

I thought I was doing a great job of not complaining about all the photos we had to take but after 40 minutes they said "Fine, let's go before Jake implodes." Julio sat us down again and told us the history of his people. And how most of the Quechuan empire was wiped out by the Spanish. The only reason Machu Picchu still stands is because it is so remote the Spanish never found it. In an unfortunate bit of timing a tourist walked behind Julio holding a Spanish flag at full stretch. They then started posing for photos with the flag, front and center of the sacred site. "Honestly, some fucking people. Who she think she is? Rafa Nadal." We moved on down the steps and on through the grounds. Finally we got to see it up close. It was just… well, we all know what Machu Picchu looks like, so I won’t bang on about it.