FALL2016
MLBLUE
99
words :: Melanie Chambers
photos :: Amélie Légaré
“I was struggling whether to bringmy eyelash curler,” says a beautiful Los
Angeles fitness instructor. “But I did bring lots of Immodium.”
Diarrhea-free with voluptuous curls—we’d arrive at Machu Picchu in style.
Seventeen women—including two Peruvian female guides, a rarity in a
family-dominated Peru—are hiking the Inca Trail for five days.
Canadian tour operator WildWomen Expeditions’ mantra is to accept
differences. And we couldn’t be more different: a partridge hunter; a
spiritual leader; a Los Angeles eyelash curler; and a llama farmer, to name a
few. Andme: a tomboy and solo independent traveller based in Ontario.
Every day a new batch of 200 people with 300 porters set out on the 35
kilometre trail: Only a tiny part of an elaborate system of 20,000 km of
trails the Inca created, and yet, I’mworried I won’t have solitude or quiet.
After the checkpoint, and a group photo, we cross a suspension bridge and
begin walking alongside the Vilcanota River, but soon we stop for more
pictures, orchids, history lessons, orchids, more ruins: it’s like someone
interrupting during your favourite movie. I just want to hike.
Tranquillo
,
Melanie. Calm.
Coming onto a ledge hours later, below is the Llactapata ruins, impeccably
built rock terraces that follow the natural curves of the mountains and
trapezoids in the homes to withstand earthquakes. Incas were prescient
beyond their time. This is one of many ruins along the way—a teaser to the
big one we’ve all been reading about most of our lives.
Later that afternoon, we arrive at our first campsite in someone’s backyard;
imagine living on the Inca Trail? Many do. In 1983 when the entire region
became a park, landowners weren’t allowed to sell their property—it can
only be passed down to other family members. If they don’t want it, it goes
back to the government.
Waiting for dinner, Los Angeles leads a yoga class—to which some local
boys twist into giggly positions. Instead of yoga, I findmy zen: beer.
Alcohol is discouraged: it exacerbates altitude sickness (luckily I’ve been in
Peru four months). Two other women and I sneak behind a tent and drink
cold Cuscean beer in plastic cups. I’ve foundmy hiking soul mates.
The second day, at 4,200metres, is the highest of the three passes. Our
guide Disnardo also calls this The Day of Excuses: “Oh, I should stop to
take a picture; Oh, I should eat.” But I don’t have any—I feel strong and
so I break with the pack. Initially I feel guilty, but liftingmy legs up the
giant stone blocks, I findmy rhythm, and another hiker who shares my
philosophy: “This is your journey—as much as it’s theirs, this is yours.”
Guilt dissipates. When I reach the peak of the pass, stopping often for
Millionsarrivehereeveryyear, but
somehow thismoment ismine.
