Manners

Thursday August 28th, 2014.

Inca Trail, Peru

At 4:30am I am awakened by Mom and hot coffee. I feel very nauseous but accept and drink the coffee out of habit. I am moving very slow, but eventually, get up and shuffle over to the breakfast tent with Laura. We are served a cup of watery quinoa. Plates are being passed down the table consisting of one pancake and two pieces of shriveled sausage. I ask for a plate without sausage but Raul says no. I am exhausted and officially sick. I take the breakfast plate and try real hard not to puke on it. One of my trail friends takes my sausage and I slowly chew pieces of the pancake which turn into little balls of salvia and carbs. I have to drink water in order to swallow and only make it through one-third of a pancake. 

After breakfast, the group gathers near the entrance of the campsite. I suddenly realize that Laura and I have not spoken to each other all morning. She looks how I feel. Laura announces that she feels sick. I can only nod in agreement.

The day starts with a sufficient hill. It’s not vertical (like yesterday’s), so the guides call it Inca-flat. I am not amused. 

About 30 minutes into the day, I stop at the side of the trail to let some porters pass by. They smell pretty bad and Laura loses it, and by “it” I mean her breakfast. She pukes several times on the side of the path. I want to help but I am fighting a strong gag reflex. A few trail friends help Laura by providing her with water and some electrolytes. Wordlessly, we continue up the hill.

For the rest of the morning, we visit a few pre-Incan ruin sites. I spend the entire time trying to will myself to be less sick. The trail is beautiful, but I can barely keep it together. If I were at home, I would call into work, wear pajamas all day and have grape-flavored Gatorade delivered to my door.  

After a morning of hiking, we finally arrive at the lunch site. I feel hungry and know that I need some calories. I optimistically plop down in the center of the table in our lunch tent. Lunch is served and Laura is out of the tent within seconds. I want to run out too, but my dumb manners have me glued to my chair. After staring at my plate for nearly five minutes, I finally have to leave. I am simultaneously very hungry and very sick.   

Laura and I sit on a hill overlooking the bathroom. We are both too weak and too hungry to move to a better spot. We sit in silence, despondently gazing at the Peruvian toilet house. It doesn’t take long before Mom and Dad come to check on us. I try to convince them that I am very grateful for the food but just need to sit this one out. I try to manage a fake smile, hoping that in Spanish it will translate into a real smile. No such luck, Dad decides that he is going to be helpful.

First, he brings us tea that tastes like dirt and socks. I sit and quietly drink the tea. It is terrible. Next Raul begins to rub his hands in a substance that he has retrieved from his bag. I think it may be soap, though deep down inside I know that it’s not. He tells me to breathe deeply and then, with no warning whatsoever, he shoves his hands around my face and demands that I keep breathing. Okay. I breathe. His hands smell like a menthol cough drop, mixed with sweat. I am still stunned when he removes them and asks if I’m better. For a split second I sit like a deer-in-headlights before I reply, “Yes”, Much better.”

Raul finally placated, turns to Laura. 

I watch my friend relive my experience and find a tiny resemblance of joy deep in my soul. I am so incredibly miserable, but still, I know that this moment in time can never be relived. 

Finally, lunch is over and we are back on the trail. I am starving but completely averse to food. It is a very strange feeling, to have my stomach scream for food but my mouth refuses it. I have no choice but to focus on moving forward. 

At this point, it really hits me that the only way to get off of this trail is to walk to the end. The Inca trail has no evacuation routes, no clinics, and no doctors. Furthermore, the porters have our tent, so there is no sleeping until we get to the campsite. Even if I was 10 times sicker, I would still have to walk to the end of the trail.

5 minutes after coming to terms with my situation, a group of porters trots past, carrying one of our trail friends on a stretcher. It turns out there is one other way to get off of this trail. Next, I see her worried husband walking quickly, trying to keep up with the porters. “She’ll be fine.” He flashes an obviously fake smile.

Determined to not be carried to the end, I decide to put together a plan. I dedicate all of my energy to putting one foot in front of the other and use all available mental strength to visualize success. I would like to have a meltdown, but know that I do not have the energy to spare.

By early evening Laura and I are officially at the back of the group. There are only a few porters behind us. They are obligated to stay at the back of the group. I guess they are there to prevent us from laying down and going to sleep in the middle of the trail. They are rushing us as it quickly becomes dark outside. 

Just after dark, we finally enter camp. Dad points out a tent and mumbles that a porter will bring our bags. I crawl into the tent, sit on the cold ground and begin to pray that the porter will actually bring my bag. I cannot get up and go look for it in the dark and do not want to call for anyone.

Eventually, my bag is brought to the tent. Without moving my legs, I somehow pull my sleeping pad and sleeping bag out and wiggle into it. I have to pee horrendously but need to sleep more. I take a calculated risk and go to sleep.  

An hour or so later, Dad tries to convince me to go to dinner, but I cannot. Later he insists that I attend the tipping ceremony for the porters. Laura, a saint of saints, takes my money and attends on my behalf.

I do not move until the next morning. Finally, I am asleep.