He reached over and shut off the alarm, emanating from a small, cheap, flip phone he had rented at the airport in Lima five nights earlier, still half-asleep from the sleeping pills he had swallowed to get him through the flight from Mexico City. It had turned out to be a good investment: $40 for the three weeks he would be in Peru.
"What time does that train leave?" said one of his companions, entering the bathroom.
"6:30. We gotta get a cab, get our tickets and all that bullshit," said the cell phone owner from under his covers.
"We're gonna kick Machu Picchu's ass," said the other young man, also still in his bed. More properly; Cusco was kicking his ass, or at least giving him a good fight: he was fighting the classic on-again, off-again battle with his digestive system that the international traveler must endure. He had eaten only white rice, arroz blanco, and Cusqueña, a local beer, for several days now.
Twenty minutes later the three young men exited their hostel, Hotel Suecia 2, which charged them 24 dollars a night for a room with 4 single beds and a private bathroom, which only seemed to pump out cold water despite the hostel's promise they did, indeed, provide hot water for weary foreign tourists. They each carried a backpack and were dressed in layers; it would be warm in the Incan Valley where they were headed. It was still dark, and the the temperature hovered just above freezing. The streets were silent, although they hadn't been just an hour before, when the dance clubs were closing up shop.
They traipsed the block and a half down to the Plaza de Armas, the enormous square which was the cultural center of Cusco, where they promptly found a cabdriver willing to take them to the train station. Travelers provided much of the economy in Cusco.
"You guys headed to Machu Picchu?" asked the cabdriver in the lilting Spanish of the Peruvian highlands.
"Yep," answered the owner of the cellphone, fluent in Spanish. He did most of the talking, although the other two could get by if they needed to.
"You're gonna love it. Beautiful. All the tourists love it. Where you guys from?"
"The United States. Have you been to Machu Picchu?"
"Once. I took my kids about seven years ago. I loved it. Too expensive, though."
"Yeah, it's expensive," the young man agreed. The trip in train, van, and guided tour was costing them around $140 each; not necessarily a ton when taking into account they were going to a major international tourist destination, but, as he did the math quickly in his head, incredibly expensive in terms of what the average Peruvian made per year.
"Where did you learn Spanish? You speak very well."
"Oh, thank you. Here and there. I lived in Venezuela for a while, and my wife is Peruvian."
"Oh, really? From here in Cusco?"
"No. Lima."
"Oh. The capital," the cabdriver said, obviously disappointed. Cusqueños (men) and cusqueñas (women) (and yes, that's the same word as the brand of beer) are very proud of their city and state, and fiercely defend its status as the ancient capital of the Incas versus the capital city of Lima imposed upon them by the Spanish conquistadores. "Where is she?"
"I'm meeting her in Lima on Tuesday. Her sister's getting married in the United States on Saturday."
"Ah, I see. A boys' trip."
The young man smiled. "Exactly. A boys' trip. For now, at least."
They were nearing the train station. The sun hadn't broken the eastern sky and its ominous mountains yet: it was dead winter in the southern hemisphere. In fact, just four days earlier, the three travelers had seen the traditional Incan celebration of the Inca Raaimi, or winter solstice. The parade had wound around the Plaza de Armas, the people in traditional clothing, and they just kept going, and going, and going....
"We are here," said the cabdriver, pulling to a stop at the train station.
"Thank you so much," said all three of the young men. They tipped the driver well.
"Enjoy," he said. "You will love it. It's incredible. It's like a miracle."
To be continued....
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