Near Presence
The revelations came even before we departed for Peru. One by one the nurse inserted a handful of long, thick needles into our arms, the syringes emptied of their vaccines, required doses for our trek to Machu Picchu. Their necessity seemed to foreshadow the mist of dangers that would lightly, but perceptibly, rain on our travels.
My father and I had read about citywide street protests stemming from allegations of election rigging, human rights abuses and government corruption in the days prior to our landing in Lima, the capital, in late September 2000. But by the time we stepped off the plane, a quiet uncertainty had taken hold. The airport, flush shoulder to shoulder with cosmopolitan locals and those dressed in a more indigenous fashion, reverberated with a stunning calm and silence. Every rusted face and docile eye transmitted a sullen air of paranoia. Entire families huddled together with stocky bags and tickets in hand, speaking not a heard word. Perhaps they were leaving on holiday, but you could have convinced me they were fleeing.
Our guides, however, acted as if everything was on the level, and I could believe them. In a country and continent so familiar with political instability, sometimes the most predictable thing is chaos.
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The snow slide at 12,000 feet rumbled with the force of an avalanche. The wake-up call sent us all–trekkers, guides and porters–scrambling from sleep. Some of us shook it off with good humor; others refused to spend another night on the Inca Trail.
I could still hear the sound of it in my head the following evening while drinking shots of Pisco Sour (which tastes something like a Brandy Sour, if there is such a thing), smoking cigarettes and chewing coca leaves with the porters and guides.
Later, on a flight from Cusco to Lima, oxygen masks suddenly and mysteriously plunged before us from the plane’s inner ceiling. The scare was soon remedied and we were off again, making a brief stop in the jungle town of Puerto Maldonado. Perhaps, at this point, I should have known that the brink of misfortune always lay near. But my surprise was evident when a teenage boy was carted onto the plane with an arrow protruding from his chest. He had been shot by indigenous tribesmen while fishing on the tri-border of Bolivia, Brazil and Peru.
Sometimes cultures unknown to you are best unraveled by happenstance. In the process, your sense of self can unfold free of the hinges of your designs and preconceptions. And this, I think, is the essence of travel–the thrusting of oneself into a time and place that breathes regardless of your wishes. And thank goodness for it, whatever the present danger, because I’m winded by the marvel of it all, grit and flare alike.
