Inca Trail of Pus

When I´d envisioned summiting those devilishly hard steps of Machu Picchu, I never thought I´d have pus dripping from my ankles.

But sometimes pus happens.

Especially when you have an allergic reaction to the 159 mosquito and sand fly bites covering legs, thighs and an odd spot on my armpit. And the bridge of my nose. Is there even blood there?

I know, I know, the first thing you´re thinking is - but what about the knees? Well, the front, non-veiny part has been spared. But behind the knees... where the flesh is ripe for the bloodsucking... it´s been compromised.

It all started 4 days earlier when I booked a jungle trek through the Sacred Valley of the Incas. It was supposed to be an adventure, and it was. Days of mountain biking, white water rafting, zip lining over rivers and a lot of hiking through the Inca jungle.

I can´t say I hadn´t been warned. For days prior, I´d see hikers filtering in and out of Cusco with tiny red pocks imprinted on legs, ankles and arms, in a bloody staccato. But they weren´t that bad...

So I took a bath in insect repellent and asked our guide, a 24-year-old ham named Willy, if shorts were okay for the first day´s 8-hour trek into the Inca´s ancient Pony Expressway.

´Of course, Miss Suli, becasue the jungle is very hot today.´

Worse advice was never given.

By the time we reached the end of the first day´s trek, my right thigh had swollen inward, hips swollen outward, and my cankles were blistered from the poison of those evil little Incan insects. Maybe anthropologists aren´t 100% sure why this group went extinct... but I sure as hell know.

My elephant-lady-ness got worse the following day when I awoke, legs burning, muscles tight and the ooze starting to weep. Willy took one look at my legs and announced, ´Miss Suli, you scratch at night. Therefore, you are a suffering. If you do not scratch, you is fine.´

´But Willy, I haven´t scratched! They aren´t even itchy, just uncomfortable.´

´No Miss Suli, it is your fault! No scratch!´

And there I was, goo seeping onto the faces of two golden labrador retriever puppies smiling up at me from the plush blanket, staring up at the tin roof, the singular florescent lightbulb swinging under the clatter of rain, and arguing with a Peruvian obsessed with fart jokes about the consequences of scratching.

It was the beginning of the end for me and Willy when we started talking about using ´hot´ as an adjective.

´You know, ´hot´as in really cute or foxy?´

´Oh, you mean like a donkey in the spring?´ We nodded, politely.

´You know what this means, when the donkey is in the spring, he likes so many lady donkeys and...´

´Yeah Willy, but it´s not really the same meaning...´

´Yes, but do you understand this terminology, donkey in the spring? I explain it better to you...´

And he did. We realized this was our guide for the next four days and he was giggling like a 12-year-old boy at his own joke. Other real doozies included:

Miss Suli, you to share a room with Mister Ben tonight, do you know the matrimonial bed? But you are not married! Haha!

Miss Suli, I think you want to become concubine of Mister Florian, do you not? Neither he is married! But he has German mamacita! Haha!

Miss Suli, you know the Inca tradition - we have to sacrifice a lady. I think Miss Suli wants to be sacrificed, yeah guys? Guys, she no likes my jokes.

Well, between the pus and the matrimonial bed, self-sacrifice was sounding like a good option.

The German mamacita had also been prescient enough to wear shorts that day. We agreed the second day to take the train instead of more hiking in mosquito hives. At the station, we encountered a gaggle of middle-aged trekkers from Alabama of all places, one of whom was a doctor. One look at my legs, and I got the riot act read to me on the virtues of amoxicilin.

Which I bought, no prescription necessary, for less than $10. Willy was, for once, silent.

Romancing the Shell

I wonder how often south americans come to an Oregon beach and sit there thinking, "Gosh, I could really use a shell necklace right about now. And maybe a massage from a self-taught, but pretty un-professional."

See, in Cartagena, Colombia's emerald jewel on the Caribbean coast, you don't have to preoccupy with such worries. They are right there in front of you. And behind you. And to you right and left, an armful of shell necklaces conveniently nudged your way so you may compare and contrast as closely as possible.

Lucky me, I went to Playa Blanca, Cartagena's 'nice' beach and got my own armada of shell necklace groupies, enthusiastically encouraging me to pick the right one for such a regal neck.

I realize this isn't harassment in Colombia. Or stalking. But rather good salesmanship, because they knew better than me my mind would change with just a bit more shell nudging.

"This is a one-time opportunity, my queen!"
"Youthful princess, you cannot find this style anywhere but THIS beach!"

This style being so special, it is only manufactured in China.

Colombians must be nonplussed to find no one selling ANYTHING on the Oregon sand - no mango slices, no half-melted ice cream, no cocaine (well...), and definitely no shell necklaces.

"You mean I have to go to a mall? But I'm right here! On the beach! Sell me SOMETHING!"

I fear, in the end, my persistent posse are the victims of some kind of South American Shell Necklace AmWay scheme. Nobody bought their stuff. Mangoes, yes. But the puka shell rosary? Surely someone must buy them, lest waste precious time?

The patience and time-wasting award for the day goes to Big Bird, a pretty lady with the most vibrant canary yellow romper - that's right, I wrote ´romper´ - of all time.

As our boat abutted the beach, she was the tallest of her 10 friends, spoke English, and took to me immediately in what was to be a doomed attraction.

Big Bird wasn't selling necklaces, her gig was a massage. And normally, I'm all over that, but I was distracted, fiddling with my life vest, warding off conch bracelets and in the organizational kerfuffle, I uttered the single word every traveller should exorcise: maybe.

Maybe, in my mind, almost unilaterally means no.

Would you like to have a meeting with HR to discuss your poor attitude? Uhh... Maybe?
Do you want cow entrails soup for breakfast? Well - maybe!
Feel like digging ditches in the rain today? I dunno. Maybe.

But maybe to a woman whose only job is to sell her hands to tourists on the only nice beach for miles is simply an invitation to employ your most unflappable sales strategies.

For Big Bird, this meant hovering. She followed me to lunch. She watched me eat said lunch. She waited for me to finish my dip in the lovely warm water. I kept turning her offer down, generous as they were.

"But you tell me maybe!"

It was true. I said it, not realizing she would understand it, or use it like an effing scarlet letter. Worn down, I said in my most snappy Spanish, "No! Do you understand the word NO?"

And Big Bird just sniffed, looked away and left, as if now I was annoying her. She completely ignored my existence, which is what I had done to her and every shell necklace salesman all day as if they were subhuman.

And then a wave of guilt overcame me. Big Bird was just trying to do her job. It was an irritating job, but honest employment nevertheless. And I am a rich tourist who should treat others with more respect. So I thought about apologizing... you know, maybe.