Posted by 
012505
Another early morning came quick in the wake of another long evening as my 7am alarm went head-to-head against a late-night hard rollick through several of the neighbourhood’s bars with my new buddy Steve. We’d been having a somewhat rip-roaring yet sensible good time getting to know each other but when we stumbled upon the amazing coincidence that we had both experienced devastating house fires in the previous year it called for round after round of grief-sharing until it got too late to tell time.
But a little breakfast and a couple of quick cups of coffee set us both straight enough, and we were soon out the door for a pleasant-enough stroll through the beautiful cobblestone streets. Steve and I arrived at our tour guide’s office well in time to meet our group of fellow whitewater rafters. We were seventeen strong when we boarded the waiting bus for a two hour drive through the gorgeous green-felt mountains. On our way out of Cusco the bus stopped to pick up some equipment. Steve and I got off to stretch our legs, as did a Spanish fellow armed with a small dry-bag packed with Jamaican cannons. He set one alit right then and there and Steve and I did our best to help put it out. When we finally succeeded we were positively dizzy from the effort.
Which only made the stunning drive that much more beautiful.
Unlike the harrowing and crowded bus ride that had scared the bezeesus out of me as it climbed two kilometres from the seaside town of Ica up to the cloud-city of Cusco, this ride skirting along the pointy top of the Andes Mountain range was as fearless as it was amazing. This felt more like a drive through British Columbia, except the trees were substituted for a lush green fuzz and these mountains towered over tiny mudbrick homes that looked in the distance like tiny birdhouses. As we approached the mountain towns we would invariably see everyone running around trying to splash each other with buckets of water which – we were told – is a national tradition during the week leading up to Carnival.
We were safe on the bus but no matter, we’d all be soaked soon enough.
When we arrived at base camp our new Spanish buddy hit us up again and then we joined the others getting fitted for wetsuits. Let me tell you, wetsuits are designed to be tight. When I finally peeled one on I looked like a walrus in spandex but I didn’t care; nobody was looking at me anyways because all the girls looked like girls in wetsuits. Once we were all suited up and in our helmets and lifejackets we were each handed a paddle and marched off to the training session, which consisted of ninety seconds of paddling instructions and twenty minutes of what you should do if GOD FORBID!!! the boat should capsize or for any reason you should end up in the water, but don’t worry (we were assured); you wouldn’t. Then they split us up into three groups; half a dozen per raft.
It being the rainy season the Rio Urubamba was high and fast – though what did I know about it? – and moments after shoving off from shore we were all soaked and navigating through rapid after rapid after rapid.
I guess it makes sense that rapids come fast. That’s probably why they called them that.
We six struggled to maneuveur our raft as best we could at the behest of our team leader, together cresting our pliable rubber boat over bubbling liquid hills and folding our craft betwixt and around ominous rocky outcrops that came at us nearly nonstop. “Backbackbackbackback!” and “Forrwardforwardforwardforward!” were the primary onboard talking points – always shouted – while our sudden and infrequent lulls in river excitement were punctuated with only gasps for breath and the occasional whispered “Wow…”, though we were mostly struck silent in awe.
And no wonder. The section of the Urubamba River we were traversing ran through a deep valley that was bordered on both sides with steep mountainous walls that towered above us with a stunning and surreal Disney-esque beauty. I can’t tell you what was more breathtaking, the paddling or the view.
Okay, it was the paddling, but the view (when we had time to admire it) was pretty darn nice.
Water is a curious thing. Sometimes we’d be trucking along and all of a sudden my paddle would be swinging through air instead of water because the river was suddenly five feet below me. I was enthralled by the many huge holes in the river we came across; cavernous vacuums of nothingness where the path of the rapids created a concave of space like a surfer’s tunnel. Freaky!
In one of the more treacherous areas we were paddling backbackbackbackback and forwardforwardforwardforward trying to navigate a particularly mean gap in the river rocks when the side I was on dipped well below the surface. In an instant we took on a massive amount of water and the next thing you know our raft was flipping over! With virtually no warning at all we six tourists and our team captain were catapulted into the frothing water and thrust careening through the thunderous rapids like so many rubber ducks being cast over Niagara Falls. I managed to grasp the nylon rope that strung along the outer edge of our upturned raft and assumed the position we’d been instructed to take if we fell overboard; laying flat on my back with my feet pointing downriver.
I’m glad I did because I immediately slid over a rock. It notched a hefty cut into my left foot but if I had been facing the other way the damage probably would have been much, much worse. Just then our team leader made it to the raft and I guess he didn’t see me clinging to it because he righted the raft right on top of me. So I’m still heading downriver through treacherous rapids, only now I was underneath our raft, fully submerged and fighting to hold my already panting breath. I had one hand pressing my half-askew glasses to my face and the other still gripping the side of the raft, but the direction we were going kept me from pulling myself free. It was pretty scary for a moment or two, but I finally got myself out and was the first person to be pulled back into the raft by our team leader.
This had been included in our training: first one back in the raft lifts the others back into the raft while the captain steers the boat. It is basically power-lifting; you grasp the person in the water by the shoulders of their lifejacket and lift them straight out of the water and back into the boat. It’s worthy to note that rafts generally get dumped in the most active part of the river, and trying to get people back in the boat while careening through furious, tumultuous water was no picnic. I tell you, my lungs were on fire as I pulled one person then another and another out of the water while our leader kept us steady amongst the unrelenting rapids.
When all was said and done we were down to five tourists, the sixth having been saved by another raft. Just seconds after everyone made it out of the water we found ourselves in calmer waters and were able to reunite our team. My breath was still coming hard trying to make up for lost oxygen, but as soon as we completed our reunion we were right back into the thick of the rapids again, with little chance for rest. It was wincingly painful on my lungs and my foot was bleeding up a storm.
Finally we landed the thing for a break and while most of the rafters went diving off a nearby bridge I busied myself inspecting the gash on my foot. It didn’t need stitches but it was certainly going to leave a permanent scar. But then, scars are cheaper than tattoos, and the two are not without their similarities. I noticed that the cut was kind of in the shape of a condor too, which made it very Peruvian.
Despite a lengthy break my beleaguered lungs were still aching as we lined up to re-board our raft, scrambling single-file over a mound of rocks that formed a pocket of calm-ish water along the otherwise rushing riverside. The moment our loaded boat started to move the front end hit the current and was sucked straight down. The raft was obviously going underwater again so I jumped ship, barely making the leap back to the rocky outcrop that we’d just stepped over. One other rafter bailed as well and the raft didn’t end up going down – arguably because we had jumped out – but two of us were left to scramble along the stony shore for several hundred metres to catch up with our waiting team (and our scowling captain).
Fortunately the rest of the journey was significantly less eventful while remaining just as as picturesque, and after continuing downriver for another three hours it was over. The entire crew was exhausted but happy to be alive as we trudged back to base camp, where we all stripped off our sopping wetsuits and hit the sauna to warm our bones.
In between the changeroom and the sauna I was given the shock of my life while undressing. And no, it had nothing to do with the cut on my foot. Rather, it had to do with the, shall we say ninja-like withdrawal of one’s body bits that came as the result of a half-day submerged in water whilst wearing a shrink-wrap bodysuit. I actually let out a little yelp when I didn’t see it. And to think that I’d been afraid of losing my glasses.
Anyway, after the sauna we were served a nice warm meal which we enjoyed as the beautiful day turned to cold wind and rain. After a couple more tête-à-têtes with my new Spanish bestie we were all back on the bus and creeping slowly along the winding mountain roads with the windshield wipers flapping a steady, staggering beat.
It was in this Impressionistic reverie, with the buzz, the exhaustion, and the thrill of being alive settling into my head while the stunning scenery floated by outside that the bus driver slid a CD into the player. Out of the speakers came Every Rose Has Its Thorn by Poison, and for some reason the late-’80’s hair-metal ballad was perfect for the moment. When the middle eighth came around I couldn’t help myself; I closed my eyes, threw my rock and roll hands in the air and sang like I was the only person on Earth:
Though it’s been a while now, I could still feel so much pain
And I could too. The throbbing in my foot only made my sing louder, if that was even possible:
Like the knife that cuts you the wound heals…
I didn’t care who heard me or what they thought, this was my moment dammit!
But the scar, that scar remains!
When we arrived back in Cusco we parted company with hugs and handshakes all around. Back at the hostel I borrowed a guitar from someone and plunged myself into the meditative ignorance of musical bliss for the rest of the evening.
The following day I would begin my Inca Trail hike to Machu Picchu. And while I was unquestionably excited, embarking on a four-day climb through the mountains from my already-elevated perch was giving me no shortage of anxiety.
First, there had been some political rioting down in Arequipa. There was an election coming and a former President named Alan Garcia was running on the platform that his successor Alberto Fujimori was more corrupt than he was*, and it seemed that pretty much everyone in the country had something to be upset about. This smattering of news afforded me little confidence that the rioting wouldn’t spread while I was severed from the rest of the world.
But truthfully, the main concern had to do with my still burning lungs. After half a lifetime of abuse I questioned whether the old airbags and especially the heart that pumped them wouldn’t burst as I lumbered my overweight, over-drinking, over-everything physical being up up and further up into the clouds to an artery-popping elevation of 4,500 metres, more than a kilometre above where we would begin our journey. And if the climb were to inspire a heart attack or worse, well, it would hit me when I was miles and miles away from a hospital or any other significant medical help.
If anything, I could (and did) take solace in the knowledge that if I didn’t make it back, well, I’d had a hell of a time these past thirty-seven years, and I wasn’t going to keep enjoying myself by sitting around and worrying about dying.
And so I strummed my worries away until I could keep my eyes awake no more.
*It’s frankly a bit of a toss up: Fujimori was eventually sentenced to twenty-five years imprisonment for embezzlement and bribery while the successfully re-elected Garcia ultimately committed suicide amid a flurry of scandal.
Todd Man Out 