When I was traveling in South America I got thoroughly, debilitatingly sick twice. The first time we had just arrived in Cusco, jumping-off point for Macchu Picchu and locus of altitude sickness for hapless tourists.


Altitude sickness. Pshaw. It culls from the herd, like a hunting wolf, the old and the sickly. Not so! I myself was struck down by the altitude sickness. My traveling companion Rob was not. I was very displeased to be alone in my suffering, and though assured by Lonely Planet that altitude sickness affects individuals differently -indiscriminate of health and physical condition- I grew resentful of my body, that it should prove so susceptible, so fallible.


We took an early flight from Lima- shortening, for an additional 50$ hit to our budget, a trip that by bus was something like 18 hours to a 2 hour flight. That meant going from sea level to whatever ungodly heights Cusco is sprawled upon in a very short time, too short for the body to easily adjust. We got out of a taxi near a hostel and were confronted by a steep set of stone stairs, and I think got an early taste of the deterioration of muscle and energy old age brings on. I don't think either of us have ever ascended stairs so slowly or with such grisly effort.


As I said I was laid down by the altitude. The most troubling aspect of it is that along with the fevery headaches, shortness of breath and nausea comes insomnia- so while you can't leave your bed you also can't start sleeping. This can be a huge problem in hostel dorms full of drunk Australians- I think if there's one place you really want to be without any sensory data coming in it's a hostel dorm room on a Friday night.


The next morning we left and got a a private room down the street. Rob was very accommodating but I knew that I was becoming a sickly nuisance, unable to go anywhere or do anything. So on the second night, energized by guilt and sick like a rotten foundation, we went to get dinner at a little hole in the wall nearby and after started drinking with some local middle aged droopy mustachioed types. I don't know what they thought of us. Probably, though I don't recall the particulars, we bought a lot of the rounds. I made a friend in much the same way soon after, while on my first bartending shift in Holland I, ignorant of volumes and languages and ounces, was pouring whoppingly heavy drinks for a Dutchman while he sat at the bar and extolled my skill and virtue to his friends, before the head bartender returned and my whole operation was frowningly shut down. The buds I made on those two nights I never saw again. This is why I almost never buy anyone drinks, lest they abandon me in a similar fashion.


I didn't drink more than one or two beers the whole night, and even those were choked down to keep from violating the very tangible social norms that bind young tourists to old locals during drinking sessions. Everyone was so drunk that during roaring, incoherent Spanish and Quechua toasts, the fact that my glass wasn't thrust forward for more went unnoticed. Even so I could tell they were suspicious of how withdrawn I was, struggling to keep from throwing up my arms and hiding my head in my sweater, so feverish was I feeling. And all the while I could see what a great time it could be to the sound of body.


In a fit of activity the day before we had signed up to go mountain biking in the hills around Cusco. We were to meet our guide at 6 AM outside the hostel doors. We might have gotten 2 hours of sleep that night. Dutifully, and only because Rob was, did I arise and get in the Taxi with the bikes strapped to the roof. Rob! Always astounding me with his resilience. The taxi left the town on windy, potholed roads such as are not seen in what is commonly called the Global North. And it got worse! Bile rose in my throat, accompanying the dread in my soul of the consequences following spewing my guts up in a foreign taxi. Talk about violating social norms! Not the first time I've sacrificed my good sense to avoid a sticky situation only for it to subsequently blossom into a higher dimension of eventual stickiness as a result.


I opened my mouth to try and say something about pulling over, a move that brought down the levy and unleashed my unholy torrent. I futilely, but I hoped assuagingly, positioned my raincoat as a catch all. But it was all vomit-dripping, yelling, and screeching tires.

to be continued.