It was 1977…I was an Incan
I went with my 10-year-old daughter to Peru to visit my dear Peruvian friend Rosa, whom I met while at university.
Oh, and Husband No.1 went with us.
Peru was mind boggling. We stayed with Rosa’s family and the funny thing about being at their house in Peru, was their maid’s name was Lucy. Imagine them calling out for Lucy to do something, and we both would respond.
One highlight of the trip was going to Machu Picchu, via Cusco.
Arriving at Cusco, (altitude 11,152 ft.) the caring woman at the hostel gave us all te de coca, which was tea made from leaves of the coca plant, which helps with the altitude. My daughter had three cups and she sprinted up the streets while we slogged behind.
At the time there were two trains from Cusco that made the heavily switchbacked journey down to Machu Picchu (altitude 7,972ft.); the tourist train and the peasant train.
The tiny hotel at Machu Picchu (altitude 8,000 ft.) had 17 rooms and was roughly 50 feet from the ruins.
The next morning I woke at o’dark hundred, left my family behind and took off for the ruins. At that time, I was the only person at the incredible ruins. I climbed stairs upon stairs to the highest point. Mist covered Huayna Picchu, the giant mountain peak that overlooks Machu Picchu, entranced me. At one point, I was actually above the clouds. With no sounds except maybe a bird, I felt absorbed into the Lost City. I was an Incan.
After spending most of the day in the ruins where my daughter ate wild strawberries at what was once the Inca cemetery, and where we climbed into and out of doorways with stones so tightly set together that even a nail file couldn’t squeeze in the joints. It was magical.
I kept my eyes on Huayna Picchu (altitude 8,835 ft.), watching the weather change from misty to sunny. I wondered if climbing it would be possible. The hotel manager said that it was a difficult climb, even with crude stairs. “People do it,” he said, “but not children.”
“Por su puesto,” I said. Of course.
Husband No.1 was up for the adventure and the hotel manager said they would watch my daughter, and that she could play with the llamas on the hotel grounds.
The next morning we took off on the trek up the tall, almost vertical mountain peak. It was slow going. When there were stairs, we’d have to crawl on hands and knees to climb up them. When there were no stairs it was grab the earth and keep moving.
Toward the beginning of the climb I looked down at the hotel and could see my daughter indeed playing with the llamas.
At one point I heard two French guys coming down. I only saw their boots. To see their faces, I would have had to look up and that was out of the question. My vertigo would surely have sent me falling backward. Besides, for them to pass us, we had to hug the side of the mountain. There was barely enough room on the path for one, let alone two in passing.
I never did think it was dangerous, just that it was difficult, until Husband deviated from the path for some unknown reason and slipped down out of sight.
Shocked, I called out, “Are you okay? Are you there?”
I couldn’t see him, but I heard him choke out, “Yes, but I can’t get back up.”
Instinctively I told him to kick off his shoes and dig in with his toes for grip.
It took awhile, but he made it.
The rest of the climb was comparatively uneventful until I reached the top, which seemed to be one big boulder. The wind was gusting and I quickly stood victorious! And then I dropped to my knees, afraid to stand again.
On the way down, I fought altitude sickness and worse, Montezuma’s Revenge. Big problem! The path was against the mountain on my left side and sheer drop on my right. No place to poo! So I walked a few steps, waited until my intestines calmed and walked a bit more until I reached the bottom, waved to my daughter and…
What did a girl do?…I grabbed an armful of dinner napkins (certain there was no toilet paper), and made a beeline to the hotel loo!
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for the Record-Bee. To contact her, email lucywgtd@gmail.com
