The Road to Machu Picchu

It's still dark when we board the bus. My stomach growls with hunger and anticipation. I unwrap my cheese sandwich and eat it. I'm still hungry and so I eat my second cheese sandwich and my cookies, but save my banana for later. The trip begins. The sparkling Cusco lights slowly fade as dawn creeps in. The sun, rising in the east, softens the city view, varnishing and sculpting doorways, alley ways and snow-covered mountaintops. Except for the bus driver and me, everyone else sleeps. I sit in the front where I have a clear view of the slowly awaking world. I shuffle through my iPod in search of the perfect soundtrack; not just anything will do. It needs to be mellow, but inspiring. It needs to be thought-provoking, but open to interpretation. I look out the window as we make our way through the hills, each rolling of the wheels taking us higher and further away from Cosco, the center, and bringing us closer to the reason we are all on that bus -- Machu Picchu.

I close my eyes and allow the sounds of gipsy guitars to transport my thoughts. I try to keep my mind blank; it's hard. Images of ruins, mountains, temples, jaguars, lighting and thunder, beautiful and ancient brown people worshiping pagan Gods and sacrificing virgins run through my head. It doesn't matter if I keep my eyes open or closed, the visions never fade.

I'm aware of our surroundings once more. We have left Picasso's Starry Night. The golden orbs disappear, melting into a watercolor world of marigold yellows, flushed flamingo pinks, lapis lazuli blue. The bus stops and we exit. It's breakfast time. The town is picturesque and quaint; it doesn't seem real. Buildings appear to be molded from the rocks they rest on. People bustle around, making their way to work and school. With their brightly colored garbs, they resemble exotic birds of paradise. The women's long and ebony braids swish down their backs; I want to pull one. It's been way too long since I have felt the weight of a braid against my back and with my short, black hair barely ponytail length, it'll be a few more years before I do.

We walk toward the restaurant and makes me think of the house in "Blue Lagoon". Let the bonding begin! After all, we are going to be together for the next 4 days -- hiking, complaining, laughing, sweating, eating, sleeping and not showering together. Oh boy...

Another bus ride. But then, we are there! We unload and start getting ready for the next 4 days. I'm excited and a bit unsure about what to expect. The hike is only 27 miles, all of which are covered over FOUR days. Twenty-seven miles. That's a marathon. People run marathons in a handful of hours. Maybe it won't be so bad...

Everyone puts their backpacks on. Mine feels heavy. I contemplate eating my banana, but it's mushy and let's face it, it won't make my backpack any lighter. It doesn't matter though, I'm too excited to worry about lugging the extra weight on my back. I pick up my walking sticks and trip over them. But I just smile, regain my composure and run after the group. We stop and take our group picture. We are all clean, fresh and smiling. It's obvious it is day 1.

The next 4 days aren't easy, but they are an experience and a test for perseverance. The trek is exhausting. The mountains are stairways to heaven. We climb and climb, one leg after another. It just seems to never end. Each mountain is steeper than the next. My heart pounds hard in my chest. My breathing is heavy. Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes. My shoulders ache from the weight in my backpack. Walking downhill is no better. The ground is slippery and the steepness we climbed, is the same steepness we need to descend. The thought of slipping and breaking my neck crosses my mind several times. I try to not think about it and just focus on climbing and using my walking sticks properly. Being clumsy by nature, and a distracted dreamer, isn't doing me any favors. I've slipped twice. The first time was at the bridge before the hike had even begun -- I almost went over. The second time, I slipped right after replying, "I'm okay," to one of my new friends. Famous last words. Luckily, I am blessed with ninja reflexes and caught my fall with a sexy, white motorcycled-gloved hand. I knew those gloves would one day come in handy.

The weather is fickle and unforgiving. It pours one minute, the next is all sunshine, my skin scalding under the hot, hot sun. The wind combats our bodies, an invisible, violent, and swirly force that hurts. The temperature drops, only to rise again. We peel off layers of clothes, then pile them back on when our flesh goosebumps. We pull our rainwear on, the plastic swishing with every step we take. Swish! Swish!

My legs are covered in welts. I have 42 mosquito bites split, unevenly, between my calves. It seems like my left calf is more appetizing. The itching is overwhelming. I have bug repellant and even with that, the Mosquitos don't stay away. I scratch until I'm close to bleeding. I think of the possibilities of scars and stop. I like wearing short dresses.

There are no bathrooms. We have to squat every time nature calls. At night the temperature drops to zero. All we have is a plastic tent and a sleeping bag to keep is warm. I sleep with my hoodie on. The same hoodie I've been sweating in all day. The floor is hard and makes my back hurt. I don't have a pillow. My tent mate snores. Loudly. I try to sleep with my headphones on, but we don't have electricity and I need to preserve my iPod and iPhone for train and bus ride back. Sacrifices must be made. I lay awake in the dark. I hear the wind blow. I picture the sky. It was majestic before I went to bed, the onyx background lit up by an infinite quantity of sparkling stars. I had tried to take a picture, to capture the mystery of the orbits on film, but I couldn't do it. Instead, I have to rely on memory to keep it alive.

As hard as the hike sometimes feel, I am appreciative of every second. I haven't felt so alive in a year. I can feel every muscle working, every fiber breathing. Nature engulfs me and it's beautiful. I try to take in every tree, every plant, every insect and animal -- snakes, tarantulas, hummingbirds. I'm captivated by the vibrancy and vividness of it all. The colors inspire life. I fall in love with an orchid that's so electrically bright it seems unreal. I want to touch it, but it doesn't seem right to tarnish its essence with my grimy hands. Everywhere I look, there's something that makes me feel so blessed to be alive. The air is thin, but it's crisp and clean and I greedily breathe it in. We are high up and it's misty. The hills, rocks and trees are gently cloaked in magic and mystery. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming. I feel as though I've been trekking forever, and not just a few days.

At night, we have "happy hour". The porters set up a tent and kerosene heater and we all sit around the table, eating popcorn, crackers with jam and butter, coca tea and our favorite, Milo. Yummy Milo. It's powdered hot chocolate that we mix with powered milk and deliciously hot water. After happy hour, we feast. The porters, led by the Chef Sebastian, prepare delicious meals three times a day. Dinner always starts with a soup, followed for a 4 course meal and dessert. Yes, dessert. My diet is much better here than it is at home. Can I bring Sebastian back? Too bad I'm feeling sick. By day two, the thought, smell and sight of food makes me sick. I can't eat in fear of vomiting. I don't drink in fear of awakening my hunger. Good thing the hike is only four days long.

The second days if definitely the hardest. The road is treacherous and the steepness of the incline is undeniable. I wonder how I will make it to the top and how I will make it back down. I question my vacation choice. Memo to self: Next time, take the train. But like everything else in life, nothing last forever. We make it to camp, eat and sleep. "Tomorrow," Roger promises, "will be much easier."

He doesn't lie. Day 3 is difficult, but not as brutally intense as the previous day. We end early and explore. He takes us to an Inca site that is not known like Machu Picchu. We walk, hike, play and take pictures. Then we return to camp. Machu Picchu awaits us.

That night, the heavens cry. There are fireworks in the sky. The rain falls hard, beating against our tents. The lighting turns night into day and thunder serenades us, keeping us awake. I want to leave my tent and dance in the rain. But for once, I resist impulse and instead, I lie there, listening. Finally, the storm seduces me into a deep slumber. At 3:30 am, we all rise to begin the end of the trip.

It's dark when we head off. I'm excited, sad, anxious. We hike and hike. The ground is muddy and as I hop and skip in excitement, mud splatters all over, staining my dandelion t-shirt. Kassandra and I race to the fifty hand-and-foot climbing stairs. We can't wait to reach the Sun Gate and gaze upon Machu Picchu at sun rise. It's hard to keep up with her, she's 6"2, almost a foot taller than me. I try though. Our efforts are in vain. Machu Picchu is thickly veiled in clouds and mist. Once the group is all together, we hike some more and finally, there it is, Machu Picchu.

After four long days, we made it. It's breath-taking. Magic and mystery. Solace and support. Reality and other-worldliness. I try to picture people living there; working, learning, fighting, loving, raising a family. It's hard to do. Wide-eyed and impressionable, I silently absorb my surroundings, carbon-copying them into the most graphic memory chip my brain contains.

El Last Shaman de Cosco

Tomorrow is the first day of the Inca Trail. I'm so close to seeing Machu Picchu, something I have wanted to experience since I saw the first photograph. While walking around Cusco, I came across a shaman shop. I went in to buy a good luck charm for a friend back home. Like me, she could really use it. There, I discovered they did coca leaves reading. Now, I'm not what anyone would refer to as a mystic -- I'm a skeptic through and through. However, during difficult times, when I feel lost and in need of answers, I seek in places that I hope will give instant gratification or at least some sort of comfort to my otherwise restless existence.

So, I decided to do a reading today. It was pretty interesting. The shaman was beautiful to me. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had a beauty that came from within. His face was heavily lined and his features, strong Inca ones, possessed a strength and joy that I only dream of having. He seemed at peace with himself.

He placed a basket of leaves on the table and asked me to take 7 and lay them in front of me. He said we would start with a general reading. He took each leaf, held it up and studied it in silence. Then he spoke. The first leaf was for my health. The second for my fortitude. The third for my relationship with human beings. Number six was for knowledge, something I possess he said and I'm always in search for. The seventh was for my harmony -- I'm not very harmonious. He said I won't be until I'm content with myself, my job, those around me and am one with nature; when I wake up in the morning grateful to be alive. I don't remember the ones in between. Much of what he said made sense. I'm not in good place right now. I have great qualities, he said. I'm extremely intelligent, I'm kind, hard working but I'm not happy.

He then asked me if I had any specific questions. I did. They were the same ones I always have. I asked about him. He said to close my eyes and pick a leaf. The leaf was split, like a snake's slithering tongue. He looked at it and said he wasn't convenient for me. I spoke, making him laugh with my outrageous comments. He said I needed someone who was my equal. I needed a man that I admired, one who understood my intelligence and my heart. He said this one didn't. I need someone I could talk and debate with. With him, I may never find happiness.

It's not what I wanted to hear. It made me sad because, even though I know he isn't for me and he doesn't care, he's all I want. I don't know how I will gain the harmony I need, when I still feel empty and broken-hearted. I know my feelings don't matter, that they won't or can change anything when he doesn't see me, or even want me. It's my fault; I search for him in my dreams. And, even in my dreams, our paths don't cross. Even in my dreams, he doesn't want me. I want to stop caring and hurting inside; I just don't know how. I know he doesn't deserve me. But even knowing that doesn't make it go away, nor does it diminish what's in my heart.