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.
