Lost Cities of the Incas

Horizons International, 2021. Copywrite with the author.

CUSCO. Gateway to Machu Picchu.

The ceiling was low, the door frame was low and the lights were dim. Though not yet dark, the window shutters were closed. A painting – brushstrokes on gold leaf, representing a snake − hung between window coves. The waiter ushered them to the last available table, nestled in the corner.

‘Gracias,’ said James.

The waiter smiled. ‘American?’

‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘Ingleses y Irlandais.’

‘Water?’

‘Por favor.’

James examined a map of the city, pinned beneath the glass topped table. They had visited before, at the beginning of their six-week long honeymoon. Lima was next, then home.

‘This is us,’ he said, smudging a finger on the glass. ‘The same as before.’

‘It’s different now,’ said Ruth.

‘How so?’

‘I’m not as frightened.’

‘Of what?’

‘Everything. But neither am I as excited too.’

The waiter brought menus.

‘Vino tinto de la casa,’ said James. ‘House red. Y agua, por favor.’

‘Water. Of course.’

A waitress squeezed down a narrow aisle. She carried a large wooden tray that sizzled. A charred, fruity aroma − barbecued skewers of rich green something and purple eggplant, corn on the cob with melting butter, maroon and amber dips, poached pears and fried pineapple stacks − steamed past. Ruth at once wanted the same; all of that taste, smell, and colour. Two older ladies gasped as the waitress placed the tray down.

‘Gracias,’ said the women.

‘Ladies,’ said the waitress. ‘Bon appetit.’

#

Ruth poured water. She laid phone on the tabletop and tapped her fingers on the screen. Behind them, a waiter asked a lone diner – a tall man, bearded – if he could share his table. The man stood. His head almost touched the ceiling.

‘No,’ said the waiter. ‘You misunderstand. I bring the lady here.’

Ruth looked through photos. She showed James a picture of a lake, high up on the Salkantay trail. 

‘Remember this,’ she said.

A grey-haired German couple beside them read the menu aloud. Ruth scrolled through the pictures on her phone; their wedding, a dog, Machu Pichu. James rested his eyes. He had hardly slept since they arrived back in Cusco.

#

A waiter carefully laid out bread and a bowl of pico de gallo. 

‘What’s this?’ asked James.

‘Pico de gallo,’ said the waiter. ‘With green tomatoes.’

James spooned some onto his bread. It spilled. He licked his fingers.

‘Delicious. . . delicioso.’

‘Por favour,’ said Ruth to the waiter. ‘El vino?’

‘Wine. Of course.’

The chatter of cutlery and noise of the crowd became indistinguishable. The staff brought out stools, moved diners, and filled empty spaces at the bar. James dabbed sweat. Muffled bangs from the street. They looked at each other.

‘Fireworks.’

#

James held the bottle of wine and poured another glass. His cheeks, nose and forehead flush. He offered Ruth a pour. 

‘Go easy.’

‘It’s forty Soles.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Go easy, would you?’

‘It was the same waiter,’ said James. ‘We had our starter, see—.’

‘Jesus.’

James gestured to the platter for two. A long wooden dish containing their starter, onion bhajis and dips, pushed to the side.

‘So we got our starter and mains at the same time.’

‘Because they are flipping tables.

‘Let it go.’

‘I don’t feel like letting it go.’

‘Don’t start.’ 

‘The firecrackers, the fifty item menus, the constant parades. Aguas fucking Calientes. The woman in the shop not selling me socks because she didn’t have change. We didn’t correct them.’

‘We didn’t correct them?’

‘Yea for six weeks we didn’t correct them. And we should have. Because then they’d know. If it was me, I would go to the bank every day and get change. And if I had a restaurant I would train the staff.’

'Would you now? You’re spitting.’ 

‘Remember Arequipa? With the cold soup and the ten of us staring at each other?’

Ruth popped a baby tomato in her mouth. It burst with warm juice. She dabbed her mouth quickly with her napkin.

‘Kate Whitby says that when more than eight are seated at a table, it doesn’t matter when you start.’

‘Yeah. . . she’d know.’

#

The wine brought a cosy high. James listened to the conversation behind him between the tall man from Eureka, California and the girl with sandy hair, now sat at his table. She was from Amsterdam but lived in Bern, Switzerland. She had travelled to Peru with her father

James turned in his seat, pretending to scan the room. He wanted to see if the girl was pretty. Her hair was long and sparkled gold but that was all he got. She sounded pretty. The restaurant had given bread and dips to the people in the queue. There were so many people and it was so hot now that they had to wedge the outside doors open. The queue tailed out onto the street. A waitress eyed their table.

‘Do you want dessert wine?’ asked Ruth.

‘No,’ said James. ‘Chai tea.’

The Germans beside them left and another couple, Italian, took their place.

The waitress approached. 

‘Listo?’

‘No. You have desert wine here,’ said Ruth. ‘Does it come in a wine glass or a sherry glass?’

‘It’s . . .  a special glass.’

‘Okay. Just fill up a wine glass and charge me. Por favor.’

‘Si.’

‘Chai tea,’ said James, ‘It says here that you make it fresh?’’

‘Yes. But it might take some time. We are busy.’

‘I can wait.’

‘My wine now,’ said Ruth. ‘And a biscuit with the tea like last time.’

The waitress nodded and left. 

‘Well done you,’ said James. ‘It reaches a point, doesn’t it?’

Silent, Ruth picked up her phone.

#

#

HUARAZ. Cordillera Blanca Range. Spectacular views. 

We met in the colectivo on the way to Lake Churup. We returned to the Plaza de Armas late in the afternoon. The nearby Mercado stank of cooked chicken feet.

The hot sun and thin air had my cheeks red. I splashed my eyes with water from my flask. I scratched at the stubble on my chin. The Dutchman, with whom I had agreed to share a taxi had not stopped talking. The taxi to Recuay would cost forty Soles and I did not want to pay more. Back home, I had been worried about getting mugged but a week into my trip, I was worried that my savings would not last.

My fingers tingled from Diomox. My feet were numb. The Dutchman bragged that he had never taken anything for altitude sickness.

‘Naturally, I did this before,’ he said. ‘The others took tablets but not me. I took nothing.’

‘Coca tea?’

‘Psssffff. Pisswater.’

Twenty years ago, he climbed Mount Pisco. The glacier had since receded and it was now more a technical climb, though doable if you were fit. I would find out. He would not. This time, he was trekking with his daughter. She would come tomorrow on the bus from Cusco.

‘Nothing has changed,’ said the Dutchman. 

He stuck out his hand for a taxi. It passed by..

‘Except the people look older. I don’t remember they looked so old. And there is more rubbish on the streets’ 

As he spoke, a small man, wearing a dirty red baseball cap approached. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear. He held out a flyer.

‘Tours Santa Cruz?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Fuck off,’ said the Dutchman.

The man walked twenty paces to the railings of the bridge. He pulled his pants below his hip, leaned into the railing and urinated, a pale steaming yellow stream joining the river.

‘That’s bad,’ I said. ‘Real pisswater.’

‘They pump sewage in on the other side. Where the water is grey. Look.’

‘That’s awful,’ I said.

‘It’s their own shame.’

An indigenous woman, with braided hair and a tall hat watched from across the street.  I wondered what we looked like to her, two giants wearing bright red and blue mountain jackets, waving at the road.

#

When we got to Recuay, it was dark. The Dutchman wanted a drink. We walked Main St. but the only bar open didn’t have a fridge. We bought a bottle of beer each from the tourist shop and sat on a wall.

‘I hate this,’ said the Dutchman.

‘So why return?’

‘For the lakes, the mountains, the stars.’ 

He pointed up and traced lines in the air.

‘The southern cross. Look, the tail. Scorpio.’

He lowered his gaze to the town, half-finished boxes with gaping holes for windows on the upper floors. He shook his head.

‘Ridiculous.’

#

LIMA. A bustling metropolis.

Female voices on the radio whispered cover versions. The doctor, who had visited the Andes once before, as a student, had forgotten this.

The barber’s shop advertised a gel for twenty-five Soles. The doctor calculated whether, if he bought the gel, he would get change. 

Though he had practiced, his Spanish was not good enough. There was no time left to learn. The Cusco clinic to which he was assigned would be busy. In Lima, when he spoke, one of two things happened. People would respond in English, or else gaze up at him with gaping mouths.

‘Redujar un poco los lados y corto las puntas arriba,’ he said.

He waited. As did his barber, a young man, acne scarred. 

The doctor repeated himself in English.

‘Short back and sides. A little off the top, por favor.’

The barber beckoned his colleague. The doctor waited, embarrassed.

‘What type of haircut you like?’ 

‘Short back and sides. A little off the top.’

The English speaker explained.

‘Redujar un poco los lados y corto las puntas arriba.’

#

The doctor watched in the mirror as the barber cut the tips of his wet hair.

'Un poco más. More.’ The doctor grabbed his hair. ‘Es. . . thick. . .  fuerte.’

The doctor watched in the mirror. Panic rose in his barber’s face. 

‘No, es bueno,’ said the doctor. ‘Bueno.’

#

The dryer burned his scalp. He gritted his teeth. He saw the barber’s look, fearful of a mistake. He grimaced a smile. 

‘Bueno.’

When it was over, the doctor asked for gel in his hair. Gel was the same word in Spanish. Gel. The barber brought a tin of wax. 

‘Bueno.’

The doctor looked in the mirror. He followed the man to the register.

‘It was good?’ asked the English speaker.

‘Bueno.’

The barber stood alongside, smiling. The doctor wanted to give him a tip.

‘Y gel?’ said the doctor. ‘Gel pequeño.’

‘No,’ said the cashier. ‘We only have the big ones.’

The cheapest was fifty-three Soles. He took it.

The doctor folded his change – a ten Soles note – between his fingers.

‘Gracias.’

He put out his hand to the barber to slip him the tip. The barber grinned and he had a black tooth. His hand was sticky with wax but the doctor, embarrassed, did not ask for a tissue. 

Upon exiting the barber shop, he turned the wrong way. Eight blocks later, his heart thumping, his head aswim he realised that the buildings and shops were all unfamiliar and he was not at all where he was supposed to be.