“We’ll have to see,” said our guide with another apologetic shrug.
There’s nothing like a group of rapidly moving, purpose-driven people to set off primal survival instincts. So when a fleet of highly fit Japanese tourists trotted past us while we lingered, I felt an electric shock of unease, especially when one of the trekkers shook her head at us as if we were making a fatal mistake by remaining in place.
“What do they know that we don’t?” I heard Grace ask from behind me.
That’s what I wondered. Ruben caught up with their guide, both men wearing the solemn expressions that my parents had perfected these last few weeks. As the other tourists barreled down the trail, Ruben returned to us.
Mom asked, “What did he say?”
“We need to catch the bus now,” Ruben said. “The road to Machu Picchu Pueblo is starting to flood.”
The meaning wasn’t lost on any of us: We could be stranded.
Grace’s face was taut with stress from walking faster than I had seen her move during this entire trip. Miraculously, we caught up with Eduardo, one of our porters, whose forehead was damp with sweat from the strain of carrying Stesha. Hank and Dad followed closely behind them.
“Let’s take a two-minute break,” Ruben said, gazing at Grace worriedly. She was bent over, huffing hard.
“Put me down,” Stesha commanded, but once she was on her feet, she listed off balance. Dad immediately lifted her. When Mom started to protest, Dad said, “I can at least hold her while we’re standing.”
Mom nodded, which made two of us grateful that Dad wasn’t under the illusion he could manage the trail with Stesha in his arms.
“I can walk on my own!” Stesha protested, but her feeble attempts to free herself from Dad must have exhausted her. She sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her head against his shoulder.
From behind me, I caught a fragment of an argument brewing between Quattro and his dad.
“We might never get this chance again,” said Quattro as he began to unzip his backpack.
“No,” said Christopher with a tone of finality I hadn’t thought he was capable of producing. He placed his hand atop Quattro’s to stop him. “Son, this isn’t the right time.”
So I wouldn’t be tempted to eavesdrop, I took the camera out of my pocket and trained my lens not on Machu Picchu but on our group standing before it: banged up, heartbroken, and going blind. They were drinking in the ruins so thirstily, it was like they were desperate to find any bit of beauty in the rubble of this trip and our lives.
As hard as I tried to ignore Quattro, I shifted the lens to him. He was gazing at the ruins intently, as though it were his ancestral birthright to rule this place. But then, without a word to anyone, Quattro stomped down the trail with Christopher staring after him. Sighing, Christopher held his arms out to my dad, saying, “Here, I’ll take Stesha for a bit.”
Mom and I exchanged another look. Was Christopher even strong enough to carry Stesha? Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Quattro’s dad looked like he had solidified. For the first time on the trip, his cheeks were ruddy instead of faded pale, and a new steeliness energized his gaze.
“I’m stronger than I look,” Christopher said. He may have shrugged wryly, but even his shoulders looked wider. He was occupying space.
“I’d trust you,” Helen said, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her vote of confidence reminded me that it was Christopher, after all, who had rescued Helen from drowning in mud. Ducking his head, Hank took off down the trail without a word.
Despite a bashed-up chin and what was probably a nasty concussion, Stesha swung back into tour guide mode and asked us triumphantly, “See? Didn’t walking every single step here make this view so much more meaningful?”
No one answered. In the uncomfortable silence, Ruben reminded us that not a single person alive today knew for sure what Machu Picchu’s true purpose had been: religious sanctuary or military citadel? As we continued down the trail, I kept my eyes lifted to the ruins. Maybe the what and the why of Machu Picchu didn’t matter. Maybe all that mattered was that it was still standing.
Just as we reached the turnstiles guarding the entrance to the sanctuary, one lone bus pulled into the parking circle. The doors remained shut. I didn’t blame the driver. The long line of dirty, tired, and impatient backpackers at the curb surged forward as though prepared to storm the bus.
As soon as we reached Hank and Quattro near the back of the line, the few tourists behind them grumbled in different languages, none that I spoke, but I’m pretty sure I interpreted correctly: No way in hell were all of us cutting in line. As it was, only a magician could have squeezed in every person angling to board the bus.
“We should have come down earlier to secure our spot in line,” Hank said to no one in particular.