Now that Frida isn’t going, what do I want to do?
A. Go to London/Paris, as planned.
B. Call the travel agency and look into an onward destination, which means you would probably remain in Europe.
C. Call the travel agency, explain
your situation and see if they have something different altogether.
* * *
Pit of
Despair
Stage 3
“Pe-ru!” exclaimed Frida on the other end of the phone. “How is that possible?”
Before my alarm sounded on the day of the trip, Frida rang, wanting to let me know she’d arrived at her Mom’s house and to say one more goodbye. I sensed shock at my change of plans, so I sat up in bed to sound more alert.
“Well,” I answered, “when I called the agent, I asked them what they had available for today and that’s the first thing they told me. Someone who had a package tour to Cuzco, Peru made a cancellation, and I only had to get an additional flight to and from Dallas/Ft. Worth. Their tour was only for a week and I got them to extend it to two weeks, the return flight departing from Lima instead. They quoted me over $1,000 in change fees, cancellation fees and rate differentials, but I got that down considerably because I’m finding my own hotel and missing the Cuzco to Lima flight. It was a long phone call. I had to use the toilet twice.”
“I see,” said Frida.
“You’re unhappy.”
“It just seems very sudden.”
“Quite frankly, Frida, you’re not in a position to complain about sudden changes in plan.”
She paused; then said sharply, “How dare you make me feel guilty for this. I didn’t break her leg.”
“Ok,” I breathed deeply. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m trying to say that I would have rather gone to Paris with you, but if I must go alone, I prefer to do the Peru trip. When we’re both ready, France will be waiting for us. Is it ok? Can you accept that?”
“I still don’t understand why…”
“It’s what they had for me.”
She waited for several seconds and answered, “I can accept it.”
“Thank you. And don’t worry. If you want to, we can meet the Sunday before work. You’ll be back by then, won’t you?”
“I have to be,” she replied.
“How is your mom, then?”
“Physically, healthy. In a chair, but healthy. Mom seems on edge though, and she’s needling me endlessly.”
“About what?”
“You. For the past few months, she’s been complaining that I haven’t brought you down to meet her, and now that I’m here, you’re suddenly to old for me.”
“Didn’t you tell her you have a thing for older men? Wait. Your ex was older than me.”
“What’s the use?”
“And why attack me already? You only got there last night.”
“I know.”
“Will you stick up for me?”
“Of course, Derrick.”
“Thank you.”
An emotional strain was pulling at my chest, and Frida’s silence told me she felt the same. But there was nothing more to say.
I asked, “Should we say goodbye now?”
“I don’t want to, so I think that means, yes.”
“Frida,” I said, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
We hung up.
I tossed the phone aside.
Gradually, I rose from my bed, and put on the outfit I’d prepared and laid over my desk chair the night before. I was at the airport within ninety minutes, and four hours later, my trip began.
* * *
Traveling alone gives people a break from the narrative of their daily lives. Generally, nothing of your life follows you into the trip, and the trip doesn’t follow you into the normal routine. The only thing that changes is you, a person transported to a foreign place, surrounded by strangers, with little to do apart from see and experience. Your work, pastimes and loved ones have been taken from you; so once the sightseeing is done, what you spend your free time doing represents the more genuine qualities of yourself. If you spend your time sending emails, making calls and writing postcards, it shows you’re greatly attached to your domestic life because mentally you’re still there. If you seek out chain restaurants and hotels, it demonstrates that you have an aversion to change, discomfort and, furthermore, self-discovery. Do you read, mastirbate, and then drink yourself to sleep? Or do you go to a foreigner pub, seeking a cheap high and another warm body? If this is what you do at home, has the urge increased or decreased on the road? Could you give up these entertainments, even for a few weeks? Or are you like a monkey in a cage, swinging on ropes and playing with a brightly colored ball until your next meal comes? If you could do anything right now, what would it be? And why aren’t you doing it?
Before starting my current job, I had traveled for a year and visited a few parts of South America, but never Peru. When the travel agent told me about it, in my mind, I immediately organized the trip; two weeks was sufficient to see Cuzco and Machu Picchu (seat of the Incan Empire), take a detour to the Nazca Lines and go home. I accomplished these three goals, with varying levels of success, and returned home on schedule. I had no family to address postcards to, I made no phone calls and checked my email once. During my time, I bought a few trinkets for myself, an Andean blanket for Frida, a pan flute for Gerry, and a second flute for Jan (because she covered for me at work, and I got a discount for buying two). By the end, I collected a few email addresses, but from people younger than myself, mostly Israelis and Europeans, who I was unlikely to see or hear from again.
--- --- ---
Denver is nicknamed the mile-high city and, arriving in Cuzco, which has more than double the elevation, I wrongly assumed that altitude sickness wouldn’t be an issue. Descending the steps of the plane and walking down the tarmac were a strain. When I picked up my luggage and carried it through the airport, my ears began to throb. My breath became short and the weight of my bags exhausted me. Before exiting the glass doors of the airports to face the touts and taxi drivers, I went to a food stand, where they had an iced tea made with coca leaves. A middle-aged Peruvian man smiled knowingly, as he sold me two bottles; I put one in my bag and drank the other in front of him. The tea helped, but probably because I badly wanted it to.
I took a taxi to a hotel outside of the main square, Plaza de Armas, where I got a room. It was a basement room with white walls that narrowed slightly from floor to ceiling; the only decorations were a rectangular mirror and a window that looked out on the central lobby. The bathroom was shared and there was no television, but the room came cheaply and it was clean. I spent two days on my bed, acclimating and reading the Melville novel, venturing outdoors only for meals and a tour of the nearby cathedral.
--- --- ---
Three more days were spent seeing ruins, cathedrals and the Pre-Columbian Art Museum. By night, I visited a few of the nightspots around Cuzco. At first, some didn’t want to let me in because of my age, but the doormen eventually thought better of it; looking at my clothes, they probably decided I was rich, would be generous with the staff, and pay to take the waitress to my room. None of which was true.
--- --- ---
On the train to Aguas Calientes, the village just beneath Machu Picchu, I met with my age group. They were in small packs and families, mostly wearing souvenir t-shirts and unflattering shorts. I supposed it’s easier to be graceless amongst friends; I isolated myself from them, preferring to enjoy the mountain scenery. At one point, a Peruvian man in a colorful skirt and mask turned on Andean music and danced through the train car, while shaking tribal rattles over his head. The show lasted three minutes, and the passengers seemed to enjoy it, clapping along and taking pictures. Now, they could go home and say they had an authentic Andean experience.
--- --- ---
When the train arrived, there was a crowd of touts offering hotel rooms and tours. One woman in the crowd stuffed a hotel brochure in my face; I backed away, looked at the photo and asked her to take me there. The building had about a dozen rooms on three floors. It was clean, simple, inexpensive and had a bathroom en suite. I took it.
I ate an early dinner that night, then found a copy of Faulkner’s Light in August in the lobby and took it back to my room. I fell asleep early to prepare myself for the next day.
--- --- ---
I was told to get a 5am start, if I wanted to walk to the ruin in time to catch the sunrise. I started at 4:30am because I didn’t want to overestimate myself again. Grabbing my flashlight, I walked the silent, downward-sloping roads and bridges to the base of the hill, and climbed the steep, winding pathway to Machu Picchu, breaking often. Several people hiked past me, but I didn’t mind; my only goal was to beat the first bus of the day, and the lazy throng of tourists that came with it. I was successful, and a marvelous sunrise was my reward.
--- --- ---
That night, I went out to celebrate my climb. There were several rustic, two-story venues in the mountain village with signs that read, “Happy Hour 24 Hours.” I visited one close to my hotel and ordered a Pisscola, a local drink made of pisco and coke. The young waitress joined me, and we started chatting in an odd blend of English and Spanish. The conversation centered on my trip, where I was from and what I did. I mentioned my legs were sore from the hike, so she reached beneath the table and began massaging my thigh. She asked me how it felt, and I said, “Good.” She told me to give her a kiss and I complied, repeatedly. Between conversation and amorous exchange, I managed to drink three cocktails. She asked me if I’d like something more, but I insisted I was finished and needed to leave. I paid my bill and did exactly that.
--- --- ---
I spent a further six days in Aguas Calientes, soaking in thermal baths, reading in cafes and making repeat visits to the ruin. I took a yoga class to pass the time, and through them learned about the spiritualist culture of Machu Picchu. Several people told me about the Andes as an energy center and hub for UFO phenomena. I mentioned I was going to Nazca, so they assumed that chasing UFOs was a lifestyle for me, ignoring any protests to the contrary. I listened to them patiently and without judgment, though I personally felt the need to lie about my work.
--- --- ---
I took the return train to Cuzco and went directly to the bus station, where I caught an overnight coach to Nazca. The trip was made in complete darkness, but the bus was comfortable and I slept easily for the duration. We arrived around sunrise, long before the travel offices opened, so I walked from the bus station to the town’s only three-star hotel. I asked if I could leave my bags there, and the woman at the counter took them kindly. I asked if I could sit in their lobby for a little while, and she said I was very welcome to. After a half hour, she brought me coffee.
The travel offices opened at 8am, and I was already waiting at the door. I booked the day’s first flight over the Nazca Lines; I was driven to the airstrip and on the bi-plane within an hour. The Nazca Lines are geoglyphs so massive they’re only completely visible by the air. A hot-air balloon would have been more appropriate for a viewing because the plane went up for only 30 minutes, rocked incessantly and only gave you brief glimpses. The pilot wasn’t overly informative, giving simple lectures like, “That’s a hummingbird,” or “That’s a lizard.” There was another man on the plane. He explained to me that human destiny was in outer space, but he soon became pale from airsickness and couldn’t speak anymore.
We landed and I returned to the hotel. I thanked the hostess profusely for her kindness and took the bags back to the bus station. A bus to Lima arrived shortly. I spent one night in the capital and left for home the next morning.
* * *
During my layover in Dallas, I turned on my cellphone for the first time in two weeks. There were messages from telemarketers, my bank and dentist, but my friends and colleagues had managed to remember that I was away. I called Frida, but she didn’t answer, which meant she was probably driving back from Arizona. I typed her a message that read, In Texas. Am: happy, healthy, dirty, stinky, tired. Need: shower, shave, nap. Missed you. Still want to meet 2night. CU? When it was sent, I turned off the phone, bought a pre-flight coffee and waited for the final leg of my trip.
Over the previous three nights, I had only spent one night in a proper bed and was beginning to feel sour. My eyes were heavy and the buzz of deep exhaustion was sounding. I stiffly walked down the terminal, turning my face from the vicious sunlight that poured through the window. At the baggage claim, I begged that my luggage come first, but it strolled leisurely down the carousel after most of the passenger had gone. I took my bags to the curb outside, and threw them into a taxi. I was in the backseat and headed home, when I remembered to turn my phone on again. There were two calls and two voice mails, both from Frida.
I was reclining crookedly when the message started, but slowly sat upright, as I heard a halting gasp over the phone. Finally, a thin voice said, God, God, pure in blood. Dream it’s a dream. Close my eyes, it has to go away. There was another short gasp, and the message ended abruptly.
Phone frozen to my ear, I tried to make sense of what I’d heard. If the call hadn’t come from her phone, I wouldn’t have recognized the small, squeaking voice as Frida’s. Before I could replay the message, the next one started. Like an old woman speaking from her deathbed, the voice said, I’m in the corner between the closet and the nightstand. I won’t call anybody. You get here and you tell me first. I’m hiding in my house.
Again, it didn’t sound like Frida’s voice, but it didn’t sound like the first voice either. I leaned back and listened to the messages a second time. They gave the same impression; voices of delusion and panic were crying out, but they could have easily belonged to someone else. I thought someone might have taken Frida’s phone and was calling everyone on her list, but if there were a real emergency, she would call the police, not me. I checked the call list on my phone and saw the first call was made at 6:03pm, and the second was at 6:12pm. The time was 6:45pm. I called Frida’s cellphone, and there was no answer. I tried her house phone, no answer.