Inca trail day 3 – Inspiring shit

Day 3 – 15kms, a mixture of up and downhill in an average of 3500m above sea level altitude.

There was no fucking around on the third day. I’d had a total of 4 hours sleep over the last 2 nights, I hadn’t been to the toilet in 2 days, (it was like my bowls instinctively knew that this was NOT the kind of environment it liked), and I was feeling highly nuclear.

Using the excuse of my fractured foot, I dumped 3 neurophens and continuously chewed on mouthfuls of coca leaves. Today my motivation was very serious – I had to make it to the next camp site to use the toilet.

Between the mixture of drugs and toxins in my body, I was hauling arse on the third day. Stopping for nothing except to take pictures every now and then to prove that I had actually been here. The views would have been quite spectacular, if a heavy fog hadn’t settled over the mountains making the background in every photo a white mystic screen that could have been anywhere really.

There was a section of the trek where I had passed everyone in my substance induced speed, and hadn’t seen or heard a soul for quite some time. I started to worry if I was going in the right direction? And if I wasn’t, would they send a porter through the mountains looking for me? And when the porter found me would they expect me to back-track?

At that moment Budd, an Aussy in my group, went flying past me using his hiking sticks as an extension of his arms, moving in tight synchronisation with his pace, like a well-oiled mechanical spider machine man.

T, relieved – ‘Hey Budd, glad you’re here! I thought I was going the wrong way’

Budd, zooming past me – ‘ Sorry, need to shit’ and disappears into the foggy distance.

I passed through the Runkurakay, Sayacmarca and Phuyupatamarca ruins with only the thunderbox in mind.

When I finally reached the third camp site, Budd was already there having a beer.

T, panting – ‘Where’s the toilet?!’

Budd sends me in the wrong direction, and after another few minute of messing around and saying ‘banyos’ (toilet) 15 times, I finally had my reward – a clean toilet that flushed!

I join Budd with a beer.

Budd – ‘How’d you go?’

T, big smile – ‘I am no longer poisonous’ proceeds to get drunk.

Quality time with the family – My grandmother

I quietly watch my grandmother count out the 15 pills she’s required to consume each day to keep her running like a well oiled, old, toyota.

Speaking in Chinese, she asks if I know what the 5th type of pil is for? I inspect the 1cm long, flat, white bean, type of drug that looked like it had been picked straight off the tree, dried by the sun, and free from any form of modern manufacturing .

‘No’, I replied, never having seen any drug that looked even close to similar.

Popo, my 84 year-old grandmother, continues to frown in concentration while trying to recollect what this pill was for and why it was needed. Then she shrugs her shoulders and resigns to the fact that if it’s in her pil box, it must be a do or die situation.

Conclusion – I think it’s safe to say that it’s NOT a memory helping drug.