The street dogs were humping outside
the five star boutique hotel in Cuzco. I'd run out the door of my own
funky hostel without brushing my teeth, but luckily the numerous (and
bored) staff seemed not sure what to make of a grungy gringo, and
perhaps swayed by my prodigious use of the formal Spanish verb forms,
agreed to let me use their fancypants bathroom while Abi waited for
the Argentinians across the street.
Abi would be my guide for the next four
days while we drove, bicycled, walked, and occasionally soared on our
way to Machu Picchu; the three Argentinian girls would be my primary
companions. They seemed terribly young, and so
very.....what.....Argentinian? It seemed unlikely I would develop a
traveler-crush on any of them, and I wondered for a moment what it
was about them that faintly repulsed me.
Just enough space remained in the
familiar white minivan of tourism, and we squeezed in among the
Brazilians. They were young and male, wrapped in new alpaca sweaters
and a precise lazyness. Plenty of hair gel. They reminded me of a
futbol team. The eight of them bantered in Portuguese with the closed
ease of a well-established clique, and I wondered if it was going to
be a lonely four days.
They spoke Spanish while hitting on the
Argentinas, so I had hope for better conversations to come, but I sat
back within myself as we climbed through Andean towns where Inca
heritage squinted in sun-leather faces, choclo
grew in precise rows, and piglets followed sows through the overgrown
shoulders of the new highway.
Bob
Marley wanted to know is this love is this love is this love that I'm
feeling? Akon tried (and failed) to find the words to describe this
girl without being disrespectful, and an interlude of Mexican maracas
preceded Argentine bliss when a countryman told them he was borracho
y loco.
The Argentinas stepped aside for
cigarettes at the bathroom break (is there any less attractive
behavior than smoking a cigarette?) releasing most of the monkey
tension from the Brasileiros, so it was time to test their
cliqueishness. “So, you guys are all Brazilians?” I asked in
Spanish. Feeble, but it's a seed.
“Si” one said, and they went back
to Portuguese. Lonely days it is. I tried once more when we stopped
to change a tire, with an identical lack of success, so wandered off
to take a picture. I had just enough time to reach the nearby house
and request a photo of this little girl before the van roared up
beside me, Argentine pop spilling out the windows and Abi shouting
“Hey! Boludo! Vamonos!”
My co-passengers might not be ideal,
but Abi was clearly a force of nature, and I had Peru to keep me
company. Cuzco has something special, but as we moved away from the
city the houses were painted with the dignity of space, while the
Andes casually asserted their divine presence through the foggy
windows. Happy backpacker.
We had just passed Abra Malaga, a pass
among the clouds at 4316 meters (14,160 ft) above sea level, when the
Brazilian buzz escalated. Below us, figures bicycled down the winding
road that marked the edge of a sheer cliff like eyeliner.
Then it was me moving through mist,
effortless acceleration as the dubious equipment bowed to gravity,
wishing for lower gears while I tasted rain through a grin that
wouldn't stop for miles.
My favorite moment was coming around a
blind corner to find myself face-to-grill with a semi truck. There's
no friggin way they'd let you do this in the US, poor lawyer-ridden
bastards that we are. I don't think I even signed a waiver.
Dinner that night was chicken, rice,
and French fries, with conversation and a growing awareness of who
these people I'd inaccurately snap-judged in Cuzco actually were. The
food was good, but the conversations were better.
I went to sleep that night as rain
pounded on the roof, thinking this trek might be pretty good after
all. And the best was yet to come...
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