‘That’s pretty intense.’
‘Intense doesn’t come close to what it was.’
‘You had an overdose,’ I say.
‘Yes.’ He clicks his fingers. ‘That’s the word in English. That’s what I had. An overdose.’
Eduardo returns to the queue at 5.20 a.m. and orders us to follow. We’ve been waiting an hour and twenty minutes at this point.
We bypass envious hikers from other tour groups. The pace quickens dangerously as we rush to the Sun Gate.
‘Why are we going so fast?’ I ask Kim.
‘So we can beat everyone?’
The flagstones are slick and an older British tourist from our group slips and slices the skin on his knee. ‘Carry on without me,’ he says, fallen soldier style, and waits for Eduardo and band aids.
We finally reach the Sun Gate and it’s completely covered. All we can see is the white wetness of cloud over the view while it drizzles on us. If there was a bit of black and grey it would look like the fuzz of an untuned TV. Maybe a creative entity would emerge from the haze?
Me and Kim take a silly picture together in front of the cloud.
‘Well, that was an anti-climax,’ I say after all the panic to get there.
It’s been a long day already and it’s not even 9 a.m.
We continue on downhill towards Machu Picchu. I slow my pace. The sky clears and the sun is hot. Kim is lovesick for Federico. I try to distract her by telling her Konrad’s coke story.
She puckers her face. ‘What sort of a fucking eejit is he?’
The crowds at Machu Picchu are overwhelming. Not used to seeing people, it’s disorienting to suddenly be surrounded by hordes of them everywhere.
One of the hikers complains about the ‘bloody tourists’.
‘Who, us?’ I say.
‘No, these guys,’ he says and points at the crowds. But still, he moseys over to a llama and tries to get a selfie with it.
Eduardo gives information and recounts stories about Machu Picchu, why it looks as it does, what the Incas used it for, and the seismic activity underneath it. He tells us about the American explorer Hiram Bingham who discovered the place in 1911.
‘Did nobody know about it till then?’ I ask.
Eduardo laughs bitterly. ‘Yes. Nobody with a Yale degree.’
I climb the top of a hill with Kim and some others. We take a picture with the famous view of the terraces and ruins in the background.
‘Kim,’ I say, ‘I’m done.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m done. I’ve had my Inca Trail. Over it now. I’m ready to go back.’
Kim hankers around in hopes Federico will carry her off to the mountains. But he doesn’t. She unsubtly asks Eduardo where the porters are.
‘Gone home to their wives,’ Eduardo says, matter of factly.
I link arms with Kim and encourage her to follow me to the bus.
Some of the group are waiting. A local sells chicken sandwiches in burger buns. I buy one. It’s made of cheap bread, cheap chicken. No love went into putting it together, but still it tastes great. I use the bathroom facilities close to the coach stop and nearly cry on seeing the Western toilet, the flushing throne.
In Aguas Calientes we find the restaurant meeting point, order a beer and chill out with the group. I order chaufa and yuca fries. Someone orders hamster and offers it around. I can’t try it, with its deep fried little head on the plate, its mouth petrified in a silent scream.
We’re all very self-congratulatory. Eduardo hands out our certificates for completing the trail. They’re tacky-looking with a drawn graphic of the route and a babyish font. Some other Inca Trail groups got T-shirts. All we get are these lousy certs.
Eduardo tells us once again about how rich we are, how poor Peruvians are.
‘I almost feel hate,’ Konrad says, clenching his jaw. ‘He’s making me hate them.’
‘Ignore him.’
‘But his manipulation is putting me off them all, not making me have sympathy. And how the hell does he know that they aren’t as happy as me? He doesn’t know where I’ve come from.’
Two musicians enter and start the familiar ‘El Condor Pasa’ tune, on a guitar and panpipes.
‘I haven’t heard this one in a while,’ Konrad says.
The musicians walk around to each of us, while we’re eating, with their hands out. They linger at the table until someone passes them some soles or tells them no.
Some of the group exchange email addresses and Facebook usernames. Eduardo makes a big deal of leaving.
‘Let him go,’ Konrad says but there’s a chorus for him to stay.
He comes back, all dramatic. Kim gathers our tip to offer to him. He counts it out in front of us and says goodbye, in a slightly edgy way. He says something in Quechua to the restaurant owner, then leaves.
Kim speaks to the owner and comes back to the table with a leaflet. ‘We should get massages to cheer us up. Yer man said this place is upstairs.’
‘Do they have showers? I’d pay twenty dollars for a shower.’
‘Yep. Let’s go.’
The parlour is dimly lit and smells of essential oils and scented candles. Kim haggles a shower and an Inca massage for each of us for fifty soles total.
The shower is magnificent. I thank it. I thank the water. I thank my legs and belly and arms and chest as I rub the soap on them, for holding me up through the trek, for feeling so good being lathered, under the water. I stay under it and wash and condition my hair. It’s the best shower of my life. It’s the first shower of my life. I’m completely present for it. The heat of the water on my sore body. Everything so very sensual. All the dirt washing away. The water, the cleansing. How fortunate I am. I switch the dial to the cold water side, start with my feet and work the showerhead up my body to free the energy in it.
The shower is the highlight of my trek.
I am invigorated, drying myself. I put on my knickers and the robe they’ve given us. I wonder if I should wear my bra but decide against it.
Kim and I wait in the lobby in our robes for the massage. Kim’s masseuse is a small older lady, mine is a Peruvian man who’s my height. He wears loose green cotton trousers and a black vest.
I follow him behind a curtain.
‘Hard, medium, easy?’ he asks.
‘Medium?’
I undress and lie on my belly. The rosewood massage oil is warm as he drips it onto my skin. I want to moan in pleasure at his touch. It feels tremendous. I receive it. He dips low under my arms with his oily hands, he’s kind of catching my side boob but I let him. Then he goes down to the back of my legs and feet. Up to my ass and around. He’s dangerously close to holes. I wonder but thinking takes me out of the moment so I let it go. It feels too good. Eventually he turns me around to my front. I am blissed out.
He starts at the top again, my head and neck and shoulders, then my breasts. He spends ages there. I notice his erection. I can feel it in my open hand as he leans over me. He leaves it there. I don’t want to think but thoughts fly in. Is it deliberate? Is it automatic? I don’t know how men’s bodies work. If my body turns him on, so what, I’m a little turned on too. Has he left it there to see if I’ll respond?
Is this what an Inca massage involves?
Would he touch a male customer the same way?
My inner commentary momentarily pauses as he works down to my lower parts and is so close to my outer lips that I think he might dip a finger in. I am close to climaxing from his touch.
Will I resist? Will I stop him if he gets on top of me?
I don’t honestly know the answer to that. I don’t feel assaulted in any way, I feel worshipped.