Chapter 10 - a new country

I have to catch my breath. After all that waiting it was such a rush to get on, and I only just made it. I don’t think I’ve ever had to wait so long to get on any flight, even in my backpacking days.

My legs had gotten stiff from so much sitting and waiting in the departure lounge. Getting older is a humbling experience. On the one hand, it’s nice to know oneself better, see patterns, habits, consider weaknesses of old now more like strengths. When I was in high school I was secretly convinced I was quite brilliant, then very, very talented in my early twenties, becoming merely witty a few years later. Now I’d be happy to be considered intelligent. On the other hand, I could not imagine sleeping on a hard bench again.

With no book shop and the airport newsagents long since shut, I’d read everything I had brought with me and was debating as to whether or not I’d get up and take yet another stroll around the concourse. Airports and their lounges are strange places. No one lives there, there’s no pressure to stay. Having a ticket is the way out. Yet I’ve always felt comfortable in airports. Just as I had decided to get up and walk versus stare into space, a body suddenly loomed near me and a pleasant female voice asked, “May I sit here?”

I looked up with an assenting smile to see a very attractive woman I took to be about 60, but who I found out later was 74. She was dressed head to toe in cream, her suit well fitting and exquisitely tailored, with modern, black rectangular glasses offset by a short, stylish haircut. I’ve always been inordinately fond of red hair on women and hers glowed. I guess growing up with my sisters both being red heads made it familiar in a good way. One generally sees red hair on an older woman as jarring and garish, but on her it looked superb.

“I love your outfit – you look fabulous,” she said to me. “Those shoes are to die for.”

At that point I thought any words of a complimentary nature I said to her would sound parrot-like, but I’ve learned to say them when I feel them, so I did anyway. She laughed brightly and said, “I see the ‘mutual admiration society’ is all present and accounted for. Where are you going?”

“Off to some beach to lie around like a barnacle and ‘rest’.”

I felt a slight grimace touch my face while I said this so added, “To be honest I have no idea why I’m going.”

She said, “So why are you going?”

“It was a gift from my boss and colleagues. They think I work too hard and for my birthday they are sending me off for a week of ‘fun in the sun’.”

“Happy Birthday! 35? 40?"


"48."


"You don't look it.”

“The ‘mutual admiration society’ thanks the honourable member to her right.”

She laughed again, then said, “‘Fun in the sun’. Who came up with that banal slogan?”

“Well,” I said, trying not to sound like an ungrateful recipient, “who knows? Maybe I’ll be surprised and love it. Or something exciting and unexpected will happen there. It’s happened before. Now what about you? Where are you off to?”

She beamed. “Paris! To visit an old school chum and do some serious shopping. And maybe meet the man of my dreams.”

“Now that sounds like a real holiday! Is there a specific man in mind?”

“Oh no, just any man.”

We shared a laugh. “What sort of work do you do that your colleagues think you do too much of?”

I didn’t want to make assumptions based on her age, so asked her if she’d heard of Google Earth, of which she had not. I dug out my laptop and opened it up to show her my favourite places, the places I visit most online, the North Pole, New York City, Victoria Falls, wherever I am right now, various buildings in the Middle East. She was most impressed. “Isn’t that amazing! What does a Google Manager do exactly? What qualifications do you have for doing something like this? Where have you been? Why are some photos clearer than others? What does ‘GIS’ stand for? How fascinating!”

I enthusiastically explained about intelligent data management, loading structures and seamless flythoughs. Also the reasons behind it, at least those reasons as far as I was concerned. “Even people in a poor, third world country can now see what the rest of the world looks like. For free. It’s a portal.” Seeing her look I added, “Oh yes, third world countries have access. You’d be surprised. It’s the landlines they don’t have. There are cell phones ringing in villages without electricity.”

“You must travel a lot.”

“Yes, I often have to look at the hotel pen to see what city I am in!”

“Where is home, then?”

“That’s a good question. Where is home for anyone really? Where we were born? Where our families are? Where we are living now? Is it a physical location or a psychological situation? Does the concept of home mean different things to different people? Is home portable, a bag containing a change of clothes? Or is it tied to citizenship? I wonder if someone born in China is always Chinese. What if their parents were born in India? What if you are born in one country but spend your entire life in another? Is it possible to be born in the wrong country? Maybe my home is my suitcase. Perhaps our native country is like a suitcase. What we carry inside it is our lives. We go across the world or across the street and see images of ourselves reflected back at us. Everyone wears the same clothes, buys the same gadgets. We are global citizens like it or not, recognize it or not.”

There was a long pause, and I realized I had been talking out loud. Good lord, what would this woman think?

She slowly answered, as if having given my ridiculous rant serious thought, “For me home is where the Christmas tree is.” I could have kissed her.

“Well you obviously love your work, I don’t wonder you don’t want to take a break from something so engrossing. Whatever next?” she asked rhetorically, but I had an answer myself, mischievously saying, “Right now, we’re working on Google Ocean. You will be able to see depths and landmarks. Imagine being able to track the depth of something like the Mariana trench.” I scrolled over to show her what I was talking about since many people had never heard of this deepest part of the world.

“My goodness, think of it. I imagine marine biologists would be all over this.”

“And seismic geologists, teachers, engineers… It’s like a new age of exploration. Those old maps of the world showed wild sea creatures, many imaginary. Now you can see the real sea and track real creatures. And after the oceans project there’s another one I like to call ‘Celestial Google’. All the stars and galaxies mapped, our place in the solar system placed in perspective ”

“I’d like to see you go and get those photos!”

“Actually it’s not so farfetched. There are satellites and spacecraft even now taking photos of space that could be stitched together in an accessible form like this. Imagine someday seeing what Mars looks like up close.”

“Can you show me Paris?”

I scrolled over towards Paris. “Look, here’s the Eiffel tower.”

“Oh it’s 3D. That’s a bit giddy, I’ve never been good with heights.”

I scrolled away toward the Louvre and the Opera, asking. “What about your hotel or a favourite café – what would you like to see?”

She asked if I knew where a much loved shop, Fauchon, was.

“Fauchon! That’s one of my favourite places, too. Every time I went to Paris I would go there to stock up on ‘crème de marron’.”

“Are you a fan of chestnut paste?”

“Not really but Ha-…” I bite down on the name. “My husband loved it.”

“Loved it past tense? Does he not love it anymore?”

“I can’t image that being possible,” smiling in spite of my sudden feelings, the speed of one spontaneous syllable bringing up an entire relationship. “The past tense refers to my husband, I suppose you’d say.”

“Separated?”

Good word, I thought. “Yes.”

“Willingly?”

Interesting choice. “Not really.”

I saw her eyes momentarily flicker to see the band of gold on my right hand and appreciated the fact that she didn’t refer to it. It’s been years but I cannot bring myself to consider its removal. Perhaps, in my mind, it’s not really over.

“Children?”

“No. Unfortunately.” That usually prevents more questions.

“So you are traveling alone?”

“Yes.” My fingers lightly flitted over the keyboard. Why do I feel like a schoolgirl being interrogated over some window that got broken?

“Too bad you couldn’t have had a girlfriend or something to go on this trip with you to make it more fun.”

“I don’t have too many friends who aren’t either mothers unwilling or unable to leave their families during the school year, workaholics like me, or who are living in other countries and not able to make it. Everyone is too busy.”

“I suppose spending all your time working doesn’t really allow for much of a social life does it? I used to be an OR nurse, and I’d be on call every other weekend, and usually did shift work the rest of the time which meant going out for dinners or weekends was impossible. I suppose it didn’t help my marriages either!”

“Marriages plural?”

“Yes, I’ve been divorced three times and widowed twice. Can you believe it? A young thing like me? To paraphrase the old saying ‘to be widowed once is unfortunate, but to be widowed twice is to be irresponsible’.”

I was struck by her breeziness. “That sounds so sad, to be widowed twice. You don’t seem to be too upset to talk about it,” I said, hoping that didn’t sound accusing. I was curious. How could someone who had suffered the loss of two men she loved enough to marry be so cavalier about it?

“Well, it was devastating at the time of course, but pain disperses over time. Life is for the living. You have to go out and make your life, find happiness wherever and however you can.”

“That’s an enviable sentiment.”

“You don’t agree? You’ve no doubt been through a share of heartache, don’t you find the best thing to do is to move ahead? Ever onward. Go west young woman. Etcetera.”

“My mind says ‘yes’, but my heart isn’t such a quick learner. I have a hard time getting past the pain, of living beyond the memory. Real life can never live up. I can never make it live up.” I felt a sting behind my eyes, so fussed with my computer, bending down to put it away. ‘Do not cry,’ I told myself the usual mantra. ‘Do NOT cry. You are an educated woman with several letters after your surname and miles under your belt. You can afford to buy Prada. You choose to buy fair trade. You have not felt the need to prove yourself to anyone for a long time. Do not do something so juvenile as cry!’

There was a moment of silence, and then she said softly. “You sound like one of the world’s romantics. Always looking for something. Love, probably. Or peace. Or a sense of self.”

Honestly, feisty woman with their uncanny ability to see right through you are downright dangerous. And yet I always seem drawn to them. It’s so easy to open up to them somehow, like talking to a mirror, or a cartoon superhero.

“You have obviously filled your life with marvelous work. Work that you believe in. You have friends, probably family, perhaps sex, I don’t know, that’s not the sort of thing a 74 year old grandmother asks these days,” (which is how I found out she was 74). “I think your boss and colleagues have the exactly right idea after all.”

I sat up and looked up at her with surprise.

“Oh maybe not the place itself, but the idea. To send you out there to find more than work. Fun. Happiness. Love. What are you looking for?”

People were always sending me places, I thought. “I don’t know what I’m looking for really. All those. And neither. Something.” Idiot. I sound 14. I forced a laugh. “That’s the sort to thing my mother hated, mumbling without really saying anything at all.”

“Is your mother still alive? What is your relationship with her like? I couldn’t stand mine. Old busybody, disapproving of all my men. Not without merit of course. Even the dead ones were deadbeats. Before they died of course. But just because she was right doesn’t mean she was allowed. It drove me crazy to hear her tell me I was throwing away my life on some jerk.”

“Yes, my mother is still very much alive. She will outlive most cockroaches I think.”

I suddenly thought how dreadful that sounds. Thankfully she seemed to know what I meant.

“Tough cookie?”

“Very. Wiry. And healthy as anything. Oh, we’ve had our rough patches, but I think down deep we understand each other very well. She tells me I shouldn’t need external things to define myself. Children, work. ‘You can’t replace what’s been and gone,’ she says. Most of the time I wonder if she’s not still saying things she thinks I want to hear. She thinks I am reclusive and bury myself in my work and ‘why can’t I just recognize the right person when I seem him and stay with him’. That sort of thing. This holiday would meet with her approval, although then she’d no doubt go on about how silly it is to be gadding around in the sun.” I laughed. Mothers and daughters. We’re all the same.

“‘Gadding about’, my goodness there’s a phrase I haven’t heard for a while! Still, a little gadding is no bad thing, if you can do it on your own terms. And she is right about finding the right person and staying with him. Unfortunately the right person for me was in grade school and we couldn’t do anything about it. He moved away when I was thirteen and I suppose I’ve carried a torch ever since. Maybe that’s why all my other men were jerks. Subconsciously I was undermining my relationships. Perhaps I’m not alone in that?”

I kept my eyes on my lap but felt her look at me. She seems to know just what nail to hit and then gives it a mighty wallop. Scary. I said lightly but sincerely, “First loves eh? Nothing else lives up to them, does it? They are elusive perfection.”

I didn’t really expect an answer, nor want one come to think of it, but I got it anyway. “Or are they? How is it that we only seem to remember the sunny childhood summers, long evenings barefoot in grass? Never the rainy days inside, of which there must have been many. I’m willing to bet that if you were somehow able to transport yourself back in time to that ‘perfect’ time with that ‘perfect’ first love you’d be shocked at how imperfect it – and he - was. Time is the culprit – time and our selective memories. Why do women have more than one baby? Why do men scale another mountain having lost a toe to frostbite? Why do people run marathons, fall in love? Pain fades. Perfection is inside – your attitude to life, your sense of achievement, your happiness. Being happy and in the moment is the epitome of perfection. And we have the capacity to realize perfection every minute of every day. Pity not more of us do.”

“But, where does one get the courage for that? To erase the mistakes made along the way. How can one undo a mistake?”

The tannoy suddenly made its presence known with the usual muffled effect whereby one could only hear certain words such as ‘important’ and ‘immediately’ and ‘all passengers’. Somehow my companion discerned her own flight and gate number in the strangled sound.

“Oh dear there’s my flight. And I fear I’ve left our conversation in an awkward place.” She suddenly put a kind hand on my arm, which forced me to look at her. Looking hard into my eyes she said to me, “You deserve to be happy you know. Allow yourself to go out and seek what makes you happy.”

She walked away and I sat there feeling a little stunned. Where had I heard those words before? I worried my handkerchief into a little ball while I vacillated, then closed my eyes to see the inner light bulb more clearly. Then, without another thought I stood up, gathered my things and walked purposefully to the airline desk.

“I’d like to exchange my ticket for a different destination if I may please. I’m quite prepared to pay the difference.”

“Yes madam. Where would you like to fly?”

“Dubai,” I said, and then hastened to the gate, clutching my boarding pass.

chapter 9 - dazed and confused

I’m in Cusco now. Arrived at first light. Yesterday is a daze. I can’t work it out. I keep going over and over the events to try to figure it out. I remember the train, looking from the top of the hill straight down into Cusco. Horn blaring, the train moved slowly down an extremely steep grade, then shuddered to a stop. Slowly again, this time in the opposite direction, following another steep path, horn blaring all the while. Stop, start back again, over and over in a sort of seesaw. About half a dozen switches later, we pulled into the station. ‘What a feat of engineering’ I thought. And before that. Last night.

On the mountain, under the moon, in the night, I woke suddenly. I lay there wide wake, listening for the reason, wondering if my subconscious had heard a sound. It seemed a long time before I was struck by the silence instead. Complete silence, but for my own breathing. My own breathing. I turned over and looked across to Hamish to see the rise and fall of his chest in sleep, to hear the soft snores. Except there was no rise and fall, no snores. Nothing. I sat up. I took a moment to wait for his body to adapt to the air, to gasp back. Like it always did. But there was nothing. I tried to count but got lost after 9.

Scrambling, I got caught up in the sleeping bag, inching closer like some ungainly caterpillar, peering into his face. I shook his shoulder, thinking how annoyed he’ll be to have me wake him out of slumber. I shook him harder. Then I yelled. In his ear. I yelled his name, our leaders name, the Almighty’s name, probably other names. Suddenly there was activity, our trek leader came over and pulled open Hamish’s sleeping bag, pounding Hamish’s chest. He yelled for one of the food carriers to grab the radio telephone and call for help. I couldn’t make out all the words. Damn it. I always relied on Hamish’s better grasp of Spanish, but I think I heard enough. Hamish was in trouble and had to get down, below here, to a lesser elevation. That bastard. I told him not to drink alcohol at altitude. I told him. I told him.

I grabbed his hand and shakingly checked for a pulse while the leader kept working on him. I could feel it, yes! But faint. Was I wrong? Maybe I was feeling my own pounding heart through my fingertips.

Not again, my mind said. I can’t bear it. After all my care! I felt uncontrollable anger at him, and then a tidal wash of guilt. I can’t do anything. I’m groping his wrist and that’s all I can do. In what seemed ages I heard the whirr of blades through air and a tiny helicopter appeared. It settled awkwardly on the ground and I worried about it falling over the edge. Then what would we do? A person leapt out and ran over, helped the three other men carry Hamish to the helicopter, trading places thumping on his chest. Suddenly they were away, flying out and down the mountain, away from me and the others, the flapping of the propellers slowly dying away, a hum, a breath, then nothing, stillness, the night quiet once more. I sat there, where I had been for the last several hours it felt like, still twisted in my sleeping bag, staring down the hill, into the night, listening into the darkness.

At some point I remember the leader came over and put a hand on my shoulder. I can feel it still, its light pressure. When was that? Before the helicopter? No after. Of course, after. But only a little I think. I looked up but could not read his expression in the dark. “Sorry, only room for him. Go to sleep now. Too dangerous to go now. Tomorrow we go back. Early. Sign papers. You go to Cusco by train.”

Then he left me to my blank staring again. What did he mean sign papers? What did he mean go to sleep? The man who saved my life tonight – every night - so many times on so many levels is gone. Somewhere into the night he was gone. I was stuck on a mountain in the middle of Peru in the dark. What do I do now? The shock and the cool air made me shiver and I wrapped myself in Hamish’s sleeping bag. Two cocoons, his and mine. I could smell him in it. I buried my nose and inhaled, waiting for the dawn to cut through me.

chapter 9 - losing it bigtime

We set out in damp. Grey wisps floated between the hills, and Machu Pichu was soon swallowed up by atmosphere. The beauty pained me and I hung back to get one more look, to hold it in my memory. It didn’t have the feel of a ‘golden second’ though. I wonder if I have used them all up.

The trail was clear, well trodden by others, and we climbed higher and higher, through rough gates, up steep stone stairs and along precarious edges. There are seven of us in total, two other travelers, one leader and two others carrying food and other luggage. We tried to strike up a conversation with the other two travellers, two women from New Zealand, but they weren’t very keen on talking. We reached over the first high pass at Phuyupapmarca “Cloud Level Town” at around 5 o’clock and set up our beds nearby. A fire was prepared and dinner was handed out, along with cups of hot coca tea. The water took no time to boil at this altitude. One of the kiwis opened a bottle of soda and it shot into the air, bubbles fizzing and roiling. I could feel the thinness of the air myself and had taken sips of water every few minutes all day. Dinner comprised a stew of potatoes and corn and a small round of stale flat bread. The “Trail mix” would not have appreciated it, but it was welcome to us. There was a moon, washing silver light over us, defining inky mountain silhouettes against the starry sky. I sat nestled next to Hamish spellbound at the beauty, me with a bottle of water and he with a beer. He was right, as usual, this was a good idea.

“A peso for them? I asked.

“My thoughts? They’re in Dubai.”

“Dubai?” I sat up surprised.

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what that engineer we met on the bus said. Remember? I can’t stop thinking about it. He wasn’t the first to tell me about that area, what’s gong on there, the challenges, the creativity. I love the idea of reinventing an old world. I’ve never really spent much time in the Middle East and I think it could be a fascinating place. And you know how much I like Vegas!”

“Well, maybe there’s a project you could get involved in.”

“Mmmm. I’m thinking of spending maybe more time there than for just one project.

More surprises. “You mean set up camp there?”

“Well, maybe. For awhile. Just to have a bit of fun and stretch my mental muscles. Get it out of the system, then move on to somewhere like here, or in Africa or Asia, somewhere that needs the work done. Have the party and then help the clean-up as it were. What do you think?”

I’d never before considered the Middle East as a place to live. Even visiting as a woman is hard, but then no doubt it is like everywhere else, some parts easier than others. I paused, wanting to change the subject until my mind could catch up. “Just look at this view. It’s lovely.”

He wrapped me in his arms. “It is. Satisfied?”

That was an odd word to choose, I thought. I don’t think I could say I was exactly satisfied.

“Well, I’m happy right now, right here.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No you asked if I was ‘satisfied’. It’s a different thing.”

“So you’re not satisfied?”

“That sounds like I’m unhappy. I’m not. Really, right now I am completely and utterly happy to be here with you.”

“But not satisfied. It didn’t work then.”

“You are like a dog with a bone. Happy is good.” Then I sat up and looked at him, “And what do you mean by “it didn’t work then”? What didn’t work?”

“Our cunning plan.”

““Our?” Who’s “our”?”

He looked sheepish, as if I’d caught him in a lie. “Well, me and Phil.”

“My Mother! What does she have to do with it?”

“Well, she suggested it. This trip I mean. And the Inca Trail. Can you believe it? Your mother knew about the Inca Trail. She’d heard about it from some friend of hers who had a daughter who read about it and said how wonderful it would be. Your Mom thought you might like it too. Especially as you’d been unhappy for a while. About…well, you know. Just unhappy.”

“You planned this with my mother?”

“Don’t be so surprised. We talk a lot, Phil and I. We worry about you. We want you to be happy, to be satisfied with life, to be comfortable in your own lovely skin. That was her word actually. “I think this will satisfy her,” she said to me.”

A red heat lit up my cheeks, and images flashed into my mouth. “You were in cahoots with my mother. What did you think you’d all get out of it? A happy little wifey? No, a ‘satisfied’ little wifey? Poor wifey, who is so needy she needs other people to plan her life for her. Her travels, her life, her work, her future? Or were you going to ensure I was ‘satisfied’ before telling me some awful news? Here you go honey, here’s the trip of a lifetime and oh by the way I’m leaving you?”

“What?” Hamish looked as if I’d hit him with a frozen fish.

“This is all about the children thing isn’t it? I’m unhappy because we can’t have children. There, I’ve said it. And my mother is unhappy because I can’t give her the grandchildren she wants so desperately. Oh I know she wants them. She goes gooey at the sight of a pair of tiny shoes. She talks about all her friend’s grandkids and sighs that Sidney’s are so far away. I know she wishes they were closer so she could be with them. Telling me all the time, don’t worry so much, don’t work so hard, just relax, if you relax it will happen, I just know it. As if she knows what it’s like.” I was choking, sputtering, the night’s charm dispelled into dust.

“She’s just trying to be supportive. Upbeat.”

“Upbeat! How about in denial? Reminding me that it’s my fault and making me feel there’s something I could do that will make it all good again. That if I only ‘relax’, I could have a house full of kids. That perhaps if I was ‘satisfied’ with everything ….” A completely unbidden though oozed into my head, like a stream of deadly night venom, a green noxious cloud of suspicion. “Or maybe she wants you to leave me. She knows it’s my fault. That I can’t have kids but that you could. You could still have a family, with someone else. Take me on a lovely trip. Let me down easily. Be your best friend and then she could be part of your future family. A surrogate grandmother. Maybe she’s got someone in mind. This friend’s daughter who loved Peru? Is she single?”

“What, did you take a crazy pill or something?”

Hamish looked at me with genuine concern and my insides disappeared, replaced by frost, a lump of solid ice. My throat was tight and constricted, the way it gets when I am too emotional. I tried to swallow it away so that I could talk, keep in control. I was breathing fast, too fast, and my words were getting caught. “I can’t help….. my body. You don’t …..have to…pretend. Maybe….maybe….you could….I wouldn’t ….interfere…in your way. But …my mother? ….If……you’d only ….talked…”

and then suddenly my breath wouldn’t work. There was no air getting in at all. I stood up, flapped my arms and looked around in panic, my mouth opening and closing but I could not breathe. My eyes started to see only the night sky, the blackness. I started to feel dizzy.

Knowing right away I was in real trouble, Hamish stood up, took hold of my shoulders and repeated firmly “Sit down. Sit. Down.”

I just looked at him gasping, my lungs burning, flapping like a demented pigeon.

He slapped my cheek and I was stunned. “Sit. Down.”

I sat.

“Ok, listen to me. Breathe out. Do you hear me? Just breathe out. Not in. Breathe out!”
With effort I pushed air out and immediately felt a rush of pain. I closed my eyes and clutched my chest while gulping air, eyes closed, all the while feeling Hamish’s hands on my shoulder and hearing him repeat, “Ok push out. Slow breath in. Slow! Now push it out.”

My body slowed down, and took in what it had done to itself. What an utter fool I am! What an idiot, having to be told how to breathe. I really started to cry then. I’d as good as told this man to leave my life and then he’d saved it. I said nothing, could say nothing, but clasped his shirt and pressed my face to his chest, sobbing and breathing in air, then pushing it out amid drool and tears and snot, all my body’s functions now working overtime. I didn’t much care what I looked like. Good thing too.

chapter 9 - taken aback but why should I be?

Got up early to go to the hot springs that give Aguas Calientes its name, a square pool cut into the mountain with a gravel floor and murky warm water. We were well advised to go in the morning after the daily cleaning: even at this early hour there was a thin layer of oil on the surface and hundreds of insect corpses. As we walked back into town we passed a windowless shack with a naked man out front, outstretched arms and one finger salutes. Tourism must foster mixed feelings all round. Later in the day we chatted with some of the other hostellers, five guys who had arrived the night before after a four-day trek along the Trail. They talked about the precariousness and the beauty, the moonlit mountains, extreme heights and repetitive meals.

“Potatoes and corn, potatoes and corn. Oh and bread. Stale flat bread, potatoes and corn.”

“Four days of what these people have all year,” I can’t help but add.

At little while later everyone else melted away, leaving Hamish and I alone together. He surprised me by announcing “Let’s do the Trail back to Cusco.”

“But what about all we said about litter and abuse?”

“I asked about all that. It’s not that bad. These guys talk a big thing but they are really okay, and said everyone is very responsible.”

“But you have to book up in advance don’t you?”

“They are heading back by train, they’re city boys really and found four nights roughing it was enough, so their places are empty. We’d get a good price if we wanted to go.”

“I..I…I don’t know.” I stammered. “Really? You really want to do this? Won’t it change our other plans, to Puno and Lake Titicaca?”

“We have time. And we can fly to Lima from Puno rather than go by land. We’ll be good.”

Well, what more could I say? I’ve always been the one to say opportunities that come along are to be treated as gifts. I haven’t really done enough of that myself lately, so I can’t begrudge him the chance.

In the late afternoon, we caught up with the “Trail Mix”, as I call them, again. Details were sorted, then bags were packed, and good-bye drinks were drunk. I cautioned Hamish about drinking alcohol before hitting altitude again, but he brushed me off. “Don’t worry so much. I feel fine.”

I bit my tougue. It’s true I nag him more than I should about things like this. Send him to the doctor when coughs don’t clear up after a week. Make sure he calls if he’s going to be later than expected. Forbid lozenges in bed in case he chokes. ‘At least I never take you for granted,’ I always say.

chapter 9 - otherworldly

We took the cheap train out of Ollantaytambo, full of hostellers and hikers, lucky to get seats at all. A myriad of colourful backpacks lay in the overhead racks. As we rocked along, their black straps swung in a rhythmic ballet. The terrain changed dramatically as we followed the river down, dry rocky slopes covered with cacti becoming greener and more dense with tropical plants and ferns. The air became humid and thick, surrounded by mountains swathed in mist.

Aguas Calientes itself is a bizarre town, its shops, restaurants and hotels straddling the train tracks. Defined by tourism, Peruvians know Macchu Piccu as not only a spiritual place, but also a lucrative one. Unfortunately this has lead to the government getting in on the graft, allowing a TV commerical to be filmed here despite its Unesco world heritage site status, with the result that the necessary technological infrastructure took a chip out of the top of a stone, and damaged the only Incan sundial still in existence so that it no longer works as it did for the centuries before television was invented.

Despite this travesty, one can hardly deny Peru its financial gain. By North American standards it’s still a bargain. Queues for tickets, sixteen switchbacks up, past a parking lot and posh hotel at the top (thankfully hidden) and one enters another world, an ancient city on the top of a mountain. Serene. Peaceful. Hidden. Escaping the Spaniards only to be revealed by a Brit.

We sat on a wall, taking in breathtaking views. What was it like for the women who lived here, living their lives as chosen representatives of perfection until earthquakes or lightening dictated the need for a sacrifice, death their ultimate goal? We feel transported by the place - are we still in Peru? This could be anywhere in the world, and in any time - it is untouched by the national boundary inside which it exists, not of the modern world. It is unique in the true sense of the word. No other place is like it, similar to the Pyramids and Angkor Wat and the Great Wall - one does not need to know which country houses them. It is enough to know they exist as talismen of our earth to the past, to some other generation and some other civilization.

I had a strange and vaguely uncomfortable feeling sitting there, for the first time cognizent that all the years I've spent analyzing maps and cherishing their notations and lines were not really all that important or necessary to the world and anyone in it. It is the places within that create the boundaries, not the other way round. Mountains and plains and valleys and cities identifiy a place rather than the coasts and islands and wars and politics. Geography working from the inside out. The heart and not the skin.

By late afternoon, most of the tours had left to catch the train back to Cusco, and we reveled in the quiet, wandering at will. Occasionally we would run into a group of Peruvian schoolchildren or French tourists or New Age spiritualists perched on a ledge screaming. Places like this attract all kinds. They always have and they always will

chapter 9 - Incan stonghold

Ollantaytambo is at the end of the road; the only way onward is by train. The ruins here are magnificent, the site of the only battle the Spanish ever lost against the Inca. Local peoples were of no more importance than the rocks and streams. I wonder if we have learned anything in the centuries since. Don’t we still judge other cultures by our own sense of values and desires? Imposing our own moral stamp on other regions of the world?

It's a local holiday in Ollantaytambo and we saw dancing in the streets and ate roasted alpaca cooked with potatoes and chica on metal disks over a fire, to the amusement of locals who are obviously not used to travelers joining in their festivities. Everyone drinks chicha by the litre, but fermented corn is powerful stuff and I didn’t feel up to it at this altitude. Hamish took a great big cup of it to resounding cheers. I drank Miranda, the non-alcoholic version instead.

As we walked along lanes past high walls that promised hidden gardens, we got glimpses of domestic life - courtyards, some grand, and some no more than dirt, homes with mud floors, little furniture and no electricity. And yet everyone manages to always look so well groomed, with clean clothes and shining hair.

chapter 9 - togetherness

There was a large group of Austrians who arrived in the night, and with everyone in the place having to share only two toilets they were NOT HAPPY. We kept out of their way, and got chatting to the daughter of the hostel owner. When we were leaving she thanked us for speaking her language. This surprised us. We’re in a Spanish speaking country. “Is this not common?” She shook his head emphatically. “Especially the people who speak English. They don’t try. If you don’t talk English to them, they just speak English louder.” “What about Austrians?” Hamish asked teasingly, knowing full well she was pissed off by the complaining group. She sniffed. “No, they speak all right. They are just rude.”

We took a collectivo to Urubamba, joined by two musicians, one with a guitar and wool covered drum, the other with a ten stringed ukulele, which he plunked away on. Lovely. More passengers were added along the way - ten would have been full, but we ended up with seventeen, one child on my lap and two on Hamish’s. Our bags were roped loosely to the roof and after every bump I looked back, half expecting to see them lying in the road. At one point the vehicle slowed to a stop. Much consternation by the driver and ticket taker. Three men got out and filled plastic bottles from a nearby stream, which were then brought into the front seat and emptied in amongst a tangle of electrical wires in the dashboard. We rode like stink after that.

There was only one other traveler, an engineer. Engineers always form some sort of club, they have their own language. He and Hamish shared their secret verbal handshake and extracted every possible reference point they could. This guy worked in the Middle East. “The money is good, but the challenges are even better. It’s like a new frontier. Anything you want to build, the most amazing hotels, towers, cities within cities. Innovative is not the word. Particularly in Dubai. That’s where you should go. That’s where you should start. An extraordinary place. It’s like the Las Vegas of the Middle East.”

I ask my questions and Hamish translates his into engineer-speak. He’ll learn more about building projects in Dubai in one hour than anyone else would in one month. Amazing that this man thinks I am the the intelligent one in the relationship! It has always seemed seems so obvious to me that it is him. “You should go,” I say, and then hypocritically resent him for considering it. He asks what I would do there. I wonder anew why he feels he needs me there. He says I am his spark. He says he needs me. I think he is just trying to please me. But then he really does want to please me. He always has.

Listening to him try to work it out, I feel the odd, old poison of resentment. Even for the trip which is ridiculous because it’s afforded me new perspectives as well. I don’t know. When I want to hole up in an island cabin with him he is wanting to expand into the world. When he wants to nestle in, I get restless. I rail against the times we are in separate places and chafe at the times we are too much in each others laps. It’s like we are traveling the same road but going in different directions, forever intersecting but never in concert.