It All Begins in Lima
What goes through your mind when you wake up at 5:45 am to catch a flight to start the Trip of your Dreams? Not much, which is why the customs guard held my trustworthy Swiss Army knife, having detected it through the X-ray machine in my backpack. I felt like such a damn amateur.
“You can store it at the airport for $1 a day,” she said, sympathetically.
Quickly working out that no Swiss Army knife is worth $365, even one that has traveled the world with me, I forfeited its ownership and it now resides with all the other pen knives and nail scissors that terrorize pilots worldwide.
The flight to Lima connected through Houston, where I was disappointed to find I was the only one wearing a cowboy hat, albeit a cool Indiana Jones version. I guess all the cowboys have moved into the White House. The flight was delayed, so I hung about, fingers ready to draw, chewing on some marvelous chicken curry from the French Bistro in the food court. Its line-up was made up mostly of flight personnel, which told me all I needed to know. Still, pretty brave to open a French Bistro in the Houston airport. Actually, it’s just a perfectly French thing to do.
I sat down by the gate, surrounded by more Peruvians than I’d ever seen in my life. I half expected them to whip out panpipes. I struck a conversation with a middle-aged fella, a doctor returning home on holiday. He told me a fascinating story about a lost tribe of Germans in the Amazon, only recently discovered. 300 families had moved into the jungle a hundred or so years ago and lost touch with civilization. I promised to investigate, excited at the prospect of hacking my way through miles of thick jungle to chance upon a tribe of Audi-driving, schnitzel eating natives with pens through their noses.
The plane took forever to depart, but I had dozed off to the typical soundtrack of a baby screaming. Six hours later, the plane landed, and the baby was still screaming, prompting a butch American woman to threaten the Indian mother with a can of whip-ass. Nobody said a word, but everyone thought the same thing, namely “dumb American vs useless mother equals great mud fight.”
I watched the baggage boys being frisked before entering the plane to retrieve our luggage, which was the first clear sign that I had arrived in Lima. We were two hours late, and already I was praying that a little man with my name on a sign would still be waiting for me at arrivals. Deplaned, I met Rusty from San Francisco who three days ago decided to hike Macchu Picchu. Apparently the new government regulations that require a 35-day advance booking apply only to idiots like myself. Rusty was fit and geared to go, telling me about the steep second day, the rough third and especially the dangerous decline. It appears the few games of tennis I played in the weeks prior to the trip was not the kind of training you need for a grueling four day hike.
“You can always suck on coca leaves,” says Rusty, knowing the shit I’m in.
