Contemplating the divine was proving to be a somewhat helpful distraction from the exertion of climbing a path sandwiched between boulders and a steep cliff—and from the knowledge that the distance between living and falling to a tragic death was about six inches.
“How long did you ladies say you were traveling for?” asked Shannon. She fell into step behind me, saving me from imagining one of us plummeting down the mountainside.
“We’re on the road for a year,” I said, suddenly sweating under the heat of the intense sun piercing through my fleece.
“This is our first country,” Amanda called back from her place at the front of the line, with Jen a few steps behind her. I paused to peel off a layer of clothing, and the others took the opportunity to do the same. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peered at people ahead on a peak, who resembled ants marching. The six of us women had formed a pack of our own on the trail, and that peak looked so high above us.
“How long have you been traveling?” Amanda asked.
Since leaving New York, the standard questions asked upon an initial meeting had changed from Where do you work? to Where have you been? and How long are you traveling? In fast-paced, success-driven New York, most people wanted to know whether a new acquaintance was, say, a Wall Street banker or a graphic designer. But on the travelers’ circuit, the amount of time you’ve been on the road and number of countries you’ve visited pegged you as a causal vacationer, newbie vagabonder, or seasoned backpacker.
“We’re doing six months through South America,” Shannon answered. The others in her trio, Elizabeth and Molly, had fallen back behind us after resting for a little longer.
“It’s so hard to find chunks of time to get away, especially if you have a boyfriend. Are you all single?” Jen asked.
“I’ve been dating my boyfriend for almost seven years,” Shannon said after a brief pause.
“Holly and I have been with our boyfriends for more than three years,” Jen shared, talking slowly to conserve her precious breath. “Shannon, do you think you’ll end up marrying him?”
Shannon’s walking stick made a steady thudding rhythm as she leveraged over the stones, and her breathing came out ragged between words. Maybe being in motion like that made it easier for us to open up so quickly because Shannon answered, “Everybody keeps asking me that question, but I never know how to answer because it’s not really up to me.” She sounded tired—both physically and emotionally. She revealed that her boyfriend was in medical school and that he kept postponing the marriage talk. Then she added, “I’m just not sure how long I’m supposed to wait.” She pulled her dark hair into a long ponytail as she walked, and I noticed sweat beads clinging to her neck.
As I listened, it occurred to me that Elan and I had never really had a big marriage talk either, apart from a mention or two about the far-off future. Marriage hadn’t been on our minds when we had met at twenty-three years of age (him) and twenty-five (myself ). But the years had sped by as if on fast-forward, and I understood that the pressure to check off that adult milestone couldn’t be avoided. I wondered if that pressure, mixed with his path as an actor, which would likely send him away too someday, would cause cracks in whatever that force is that holds a couple together. I hoped that it wouldn’t. I hoped that, as clichéd as it sounded, love really would conquer all.
As I scanned the path for potential ankle twisters like tree roots and loose rocks, it struck me as funny that our group was on the Inca Trail discussing quarter-life crisis issues such as commitment (which apparently aren’t confined to U.S. borders). After meeting the Irish girls, I was willing to bet that they were also struggling with the same questions we were: How long should I date a guy before getting married? Do I want to have kids? How can I make a living doing what I love?
Talking soon became too much effort as the climb grew steeper and the air thinner. That was just fine by me—I didn’t want to think about the future anymore. Worrying about stuff like marriage and jobs and things that only might occur were just distractions from what was actually happening that very moment. We were almost at mile 12, and my mind was focused on the rhythm of the walking sticks clacking upon the uneven stones; the sweet smell of rotting leaves; the dull burn of my thighs as they repeatedly lifted my legs; the starbursts dancing before my eyes as sunlight filtered through my sunglasses; the salty taste of sweat when I ran my tongue over my dry lips.
I forced any thoughts about the rest of my life out of my head and was content to stare down, concentrating on the task of putting one foot in front of the other. I paused only periodically to replace the layers I’d removed earlier as the temperature dropped and wind slapped my cheeks. After about two hours of steep but steady climbing, I was so consumed with taking it one step at a time that I was startled by the cheers erupting from the mountaintop ahead.
That must be Dead Woman’s Pass! I spied a rocky crest blanketed in clouds and nestled between two peaks. Bands of hikers yelled encouragement to those still on their way up. “You’re almost here. Just a few more steps!”
Turning around, I saw specks of people below on what looked like a vertical path from my high vantage point. Natural endorphins must have flooded my body after hours of climbing because my thighs were suddenly completely numb. My lungs, however, weren’t: My entire chest was burning from struggling to suck in as much precious oxygen as I could from the atmosphere up that high.
“Just a few more minutes, and we’ve made it halfway!” I called to Jen, who was walking steadily about five feet in front of me. Normally I’d have been up front, trying to push my body to the max by running toward the invisible finish line. But today I was willing myself to slow down and soak up the scene. I’d imagined what it would be like to walk this trail since high school. I wanted to hold on to the moment so it wouldn’t disappear so quickly. Amanda had made it to the top just seconds earlier and wasted no time in pulling out the video camera. Though Jen had wanted to do the trip without stopping to document it, I was happy Amanda was making the effort to preserve our first big achievement together—especially because I never thought to stop and record the moment. I didn’t want to forget the view from the top of our first mountain, where the sky itself looked so big it dwarfed even the snowcapped summits shooting up from valleys sprinkled with wildflowers.
Our third day, roughly twenty-four hours later and 5,000 feet below the hike’s highest point, we reached the last campsite. It proved to be practically luxurious compared to the pasture-turned-distillery where we’d camped on our first night or our second night at the base of Dead Woman’s Pass, where it got so cold ice crystals formed on our tent. Our group joined what seemed like hundreds of others in the lodge, where you could purchase showers by inserting coins into a metal timer. Though the bathrooms still lacked a few things I’d always considered essential (toilet paper, soap, a little bleach action), simply being able to rinse the grime from our matted, hat-head hair felt totally indulgent.
As we sat down for our last supper, it felt like the night before Christmas. The anticipation in the air was so thick that you could practically cup it in your hands. The next morning we’d start hiking around 4:30 a.m. to make it to our final destination, Machu Picchu, in time to see the sun’s first rays illuminate the ruins.
We weren’t waiting until tomorrow to celebrate, however. Reubén organized a tipping ceremony, and the porters stood in a semicircle directly across from our team of trekkers. The group of men with their callused, sandal-clad feet shyly shared their stories, and Reubén translated each into English for us. Reubén mentioned that Ramón had started this job when he was sixteen and that his fifty-four-year-old father, also working on this trek, was the oldest on the team. I’d noticed that Ramón was usually smiling. He smiled while shouldering a load as big as his body; he smiled while squatting over a pot cooking our dinner; he smiled while cheering on the tourists whose gear he carried. His life might not have been easy, but still he smiled.
Besides offering money, the
trekkers also pooled together things to donate that we no longer needed, such as socks, T-shirts, and flashlights. Reubén assigned each donated item a number and wrote the numbers on scraps of paper to be plucked from his black cap. Each porter was invited to pick one, and they all clapped wildly when someone drew a number that corresponded to, say, an opened tube of antibiotic ointment. The porters’ faces lit up, and they chanted, “Gracias!” as they clutched the bundle of castoffs.
Their enthusiasm over receiving unwashed clothing made my throat tighten. Far away from the glitz and grit of New York City, I thought that often the people who had the least in the way of material possessions seemed the happiest. The porters, who carried giant packs of other people’s belongings, didn’t appear to focus on what they lacked. Instead, they acted grateful for the small stuff that came their way—even used antibiotic ointment. And their eyes, though lined with creases and slightly weathered, looked to me to have more sparkle than any guy I’d seen walking down Wall Street in an Armani suit. I wished I had more to give than a measly bag of coca leaves, but living out of a backpack didn’t leave much room for miscellaneous items.
On our last morning, breakfast wasn’t the bountiful affair it had been on previous days. Instead, we quickly devoured cinnamon-sprinkled porridge by starlight, gathered our belongings, and then relied on our headlamps to guide us.
The earth quivered under the hundreds of feet tracing the path. We moved at warp speed through grassy fields and then forests with fan-shaped leaves that rustled in the wind. As the stars were gradually absorbed back into a brightening sky, it was a race against the sun.
We trekked the final few kilometers along the mountainside, slipped into a cloud forest, and then climbed about fifty steps to get our first view of Machu Picchu framed by the sun gate, or Intipunku. The Incas were genius architects, lining up the stone walls in this gate to match the angle of the summer and winter solstices. On those two days of the year, the sun was perfectly aligned to flood the gate’s opening with a solid beam of light. As we approached, the light beckoned us forward.
Less than three hours after we’d started, our group sat cross-legged on a stone terrace to soak up the moment we’d trekked twenty-six miles to witness: The first rays peeked out from behind the sprawling ruins of Machu Picchu. As the sky morphed from pink to gold to periwinkle, the light pushed shadows across the stones, making them appear to be living, breathing beings.
The centuries-old city changed shape before our eyes, sunlight flowing like water through the labyrinth of rectangular passages, staircases, and buildings sitting on a flat plateau framed by a cloud-covered mountain peak. The ancient Incas didn’t have wheels, so the sheer manpower it must have taken to construct such a monument was as impressive as the intricate architecture itself.
Despite the fact that Amanda and I had been sick just days before and we’d all spent the last few nights sleeping on rocky ground in the Andes, my friends’ eyes shone brightly and their complexions glowed. The sun suddenly shifted higher in the sky, illuminating every stone in the ancient city.
“Can you believe people built this place by hand?” Shannon, always filled with facts, whispered beside me.
Though the ruins seemed to me like some sort of miracle, I wasn’t contemplating the Incas’ brilliant engineering as I watched the sun climb higher in the sky. I was thinking about my own journey to Machu Picchu and how it wouldn’t have been the same if I’d done it alone. My thoughts flitted back over the past three days. The Quechuan woman who had returned Amanda’s wallet at the start. How Reubén’s voice had grown lower as he pointed out the offerings to the gods left along the trail. How Ramón’s face had lit up during the porter-tipping ceremony.
I can’t recall exactly how long I sat there, thinking that my teenage self never would’ve believed I’d have done this. It was long enough for the exhaustion from twenty-six miles of hiking to hit Jen and Amanda, who were leaning against each other and using their sunglasses to unsuccessfully hide eyes surrendering to sleep. Reubén jumped to his feet in front of them, signaling for us to gather around for another lecture. “Hey, everybuddy! I gadda question for you!”
Our pack of pilgrims dragged ourselves over as he continued, “You win a Snickers bar if you can tell me, what is the Quechua spiritual law of ayni?”
“It means reciprocity,” I belted out, excited to finally be able to answer a trivia question. “Kind of like, give and you shall receive.”
“Eggg-cellent!” he said, tossing me the chocolate.
My stomach grumbled, and I realized we hadn’t eaten since the porridge hours before. Ready to rip open the wrapper and devour the chocolate, I suddenly stopped.
“Hey, Jen, Amanda, you hungry?” I asked, breaking the bar into three. Handing them each a piece, we ate in silence as we followed Reubén for a tour of the Sacred Plaza.
CHAPTER SIX
Jen
AMAZON JUNGLE, PERU
JULY
Floating down the Amazon River, Amanda, Holly, and I peered over the railing of the famous triple-decker Amazon Queen, eagerly scanning the depths for piranhas. It was rumored that these legendary underwater assassins were abundant in the area, but we’d yet to spot even one razor-sharp tooth beneath the surface.
“Hey, Hol, why don’t you test the waters?” I cajoled, nudging her forward with my shoulder. “It’s just a few fingers.”
“Hah! I laugh at killer fish,” she said, pushing me back. “I think Amanda should be the one to put her hand in…you know, since I had to sit by myself on the plane on the way here.”
With a month of traveling already under our belts, Amanda, Holly, and I had settled into a comfortable sisterly relationship, teasing and tormenting each other as effortlessly as if we’d grown up in the same house. I still marveled at the fact that not only had all three of us committed to the trip but we’d actually grown closer—rather than wanting to throttle one another—after spending so much quality time together.
We’d packed in more adventures and bonding moments in the inaugural weeks of the trip than I’d been expecting from the entire year. So far, we’d hiked the Inca Trail, surfed down mountainous sand dunes in Huacachina, been rescued by a priest in a minivan in a Colca Canyon desert, visited the floating islands on Lake Titicaca, eaten alpaca in Cusco, very nearly been bucked off the backs of wild horses in the countryside outside Lima, and were now embarking on a five-day journey through the heart of the Amazon.
The sheer number of adrenaline-pumping activities we’d just experienced—and still had in store—had mostly overshadowed any homesickness on my part. Aside from one dramatic screaming and crying match with Brian in a very public Internet café in Arequipa (not my proudest tourist moment), we’d managed to shelve any serious relationship talks and decided to discuss the topic of “us” only after I left Brazil and returned to New York City for two weeks in August.
Until that day arrived, I intended to focus entirely on the trip and living in the moment. I pulled out my camera and started snapping pictures over the railing. Though there were no paint-smeared natives trolling the riverbanks, as we’d half expected, our leisurely cruise down the Amazon did provide a scenic overview of what was to come: emerald green rain forests, sleepy riverside villages, vast sherbet-colored sunsets, and an endless cacophony of monkey howls, parrot squawks, and cicadalike rhythms.
Upon arrival at our all-inclusive lodge (there really weren’t many other sleeping options available to tourists in the Amazon), we were escorted to quaint, thatched-roof bungalows to freshen up before meeting Cliver, our local guide and 24/7 tourist-sitter during our stay. As we sipped syrupy ribbons of rum and fruit juice through curly bamboo straws, Cliver entertained us with jungle trivia, then rattled off a quick list of must-dos. Determined to pack in as many activities as we could physically handle, we crafted an itinerary that included every excursion from the lodge-sanctioned Amazon sampler menu—taking a rain forest night hike, darting through the treetops on shaky suspension bri
dges, making friends with wild monkeys, and fishing for piranhas.
Personally, I was so thrilled to have someone else take charge of our schedule that I almost didn’t care what we did. As long as we were surrounded by nature, far from civilization and all the pesky Internet cafés I’d grown to loathe, I was a happy jungle camper.
“Hey, Cliver, I read that there’s Wi-Fi here at the lodge. Is that true?” Amanda asked.
Without thinking, I rolled my eyes but quickly turned my head, hoping Amanda hadn’t caught me doing it. Though I loved the tremendous reservoir of free time we’d just tapped into, it seemed she hadn’t quite adjusted to the serious downshift in the pace and structure of our days. I didn’t quite get it: though she’d been the one of us most determined to leave her high-stress job, she was also the one most determined to stay in touch with the world that we’d left behind. Every single person in our lives knew that we were overseas, but she still slipped off and checked her e-mail daily.
“Oh, sure, it’s a tad compulsive, but now that we have so much time to just chill on the road, what’s the harm in going online every once in a while? You know I’m addicted,” she’d joke.
Blame it on the ancient IBMs or ultraslow dial-up connections, but soon the single hour she said she planned to spend in the Internet café turned into several. And once Amanda decided she wanted to pitch articles to editors back in New York, our daily itinerary was often shaped around her desire to do online research and be available between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. Between Amanda’s newfound ambition to become a travel writer and the monthly column Holly had been assigned to pen from the road, I found myself left to my own devices more often than I’d expected—or wanted. Just when I’d built up the nerve to share my frustrations with Amanda, she hit me with a piece of news that made me pause.
The Lost Girls: Three Friends. Four Continents. One Unconventional Detour Around the World. Page 9
