How does a sixteen year old girl accidentally embark on a psychedelic trip on the foothills of Machu Picchu?
All ten of us had just arrived at Machu Picchu pueblo, a small town also known as Aguas Calientes, named after its natural hot springs.
We were on one of my mother’s tours she organised as part of her spiritual group. The purpose of the group was to visit and activate various points of power across the globe. Machu Picchu was one of these scared sites, as we hoped to connect with the ancient Incas in the process.
Basically, we were meant to open a portal or something. As a tag-along teen, I didn’t pay much attention to the details (more to my copy of Catcher in the Rye). My immediate concern upon arrival in the small town was that I was tired.
“Oh, these hot springs look interesting, what do you think?” My mother showed me the brochure. The opaque, milky water housing several people was not an attractive idea. I would have to reveal parts of my teenage body that I wanted to remain hidden forever. “But it’s cold outside,” I said to her. My mother launched herself into action, “and the springs are hot! Pack your costume, let’s go!” I rolled my eyes.
Under duress, I walked alongside my mother toward the hot springs, nestled between two mountains, a few kilometres away from our little town. Under normal circumstances, we’d walk there and back with ease, but there, the air is thinner than a model on ozempic on account of the altitude of 2,040 metres or 6,693 feet above sea level. My legs felt heavy with every step, as we climbed a long, gravel road toward the springs with a few members of our group.
The conversation was much like the air as a late afternoon lull befell the group. We began regretting the trek, especially since we’d just travelled five hours from Cusco.
When we got to the hot springs, I was horrified.
There were so many people! At least forty, all lounging in the milky water — forty people who would potentially see me, and judge me for my appearance: they would never forget how awkwardly I walked, or how many pimples I had or, God forbid, they’d notice my minuscule breasts! I went bright red, and sheepishly followed my mother to the entrance of the springs.
The man at the counter exchanged a few words with the grown-ups. Negotiations took place with whispers. Apparently, we were required to rent costumes, and pay a fee that was not advertised. Perhaps it was getting late? One of our group members was picking out a costume, and my stomach curled with a deep anxiety.
Not only would I be forced to sit with strangers, but I would be in a costume that didn’t fit me! I envisioned, with disdain and drama, a loosely fitting bikini top flapping in the wind for all to see.
I spoke up: “Seems a bit expensive!”
The grown ups argued and whispered once more. Finally, their faces turned to me, disappointed. “We’re not going into the springs.” I tried to hide a grin. “But we came all the way here…”
The man at the counter smiled, and gestured toward a curtain-door. “We have a bar.”
And so, we entered into what we would later call the Marley Bar. Rastafarian cloths and tributes to Bob Marley hung from the wooden beams, and no one piece of furniture matched another. What really caught our attention, though, were the hundreds of paintings and photos of a man with long black hair, crossing his arms over his chest, standing underneath a waterfall. We figured this must be an important act, because a six-foot painting adorned the same waterfall scene.
Lo and behold, the mysterious and mythical man in the painting appeared in the flesh, asking to take our orders. He had a long lick of black, silky hair that bobbed around his waist, and an aura of wisdom worthy of a wizard. He was also shirtless. His chest and arms were muscular, and he had tattoos everywhere. He couldn’t speak much English, but he could tell we were obsessed with his celebrity-like status in the bar.
He softly placed his palm on his chest, “Carlos,” he said in a sonorous voice. He said something in Spanish that seemed like a question. We had no idea what he was asking, but we heard “Pisco Sour” in there somewhere and we all nodded.
I looked to the group who seemed to have forgotten that I was sixteen. I hoped no one noticed. The drinks came and Carlos placed one in front of me. I glanced for my mother’s approval. She gave me a slight nod. I felt as though I had been inaugurated. No longer would my friends and I have to sneak beers and spirits from the cabinet at home. I was convinced of my adulthood. I was one with the grown-ups.
We all sipped our cocktails in harmony. One of our group members glugged the drink, “this is the best Pisco sour I’ve ever had!” Carlos kept bringing more of the drinks to the adults. Smoke from the hot springs wafted through the wooden panels, smelling like burning shrubbery.
About half an hour later, I realised that my body was buzzing.
The colours on the Bob Marley cloth became bright and vibrant. The couch and the pillows that held a muggy staleness to them minutes before suddenly felt rich with textures and irresistible to the touch.
We were laughing in slow motion, and gawking at the painting of Carlos, who gestured with fine theatrics as to what he was doing under the waterfall. He gave us more drinks, and no one noticed me having my second Pisco sour. The music became a deep rumble in the mountains, and we were the only ones to hear it.
The walk back down to the town was merry, as we linked arms, and did a cabaret walk along the gravel. As if entering a fabulous fairy world, we waltzed into the town.
A smell stopped us in our tracks. The smell of cheese and beans and oil. Like moths to a lamp, we eagerly filled a tiny, dark restaurant with just enough room for the ten of us. All I remember was tasting the best quesadillas and bowls of corn I had ever had in my entire life. The oozing cheese, the pillowy beans, the fresh crunch of tomato.
I would totally say that this evening was a result of just high altitude and a teenager’s first brush with alcohol, but the next day proved otherwise.
After our visit to Machu Picchu, we returned to the town that was lit in frenzied ecstasy the night before.
We scoured it for the restaurant where we ate, and found someone’s takeaway shop... We had been eating in their kitchen, essentially.
I haven’t the heart to look up Carlos and his bar above the hot springs. In my memory, it is still a sacred cabin, where a sage had taken us in, and shown us a path to another world. Some pilgrimages are only meant to be taken once.
I tell you this story today, because we are so bogged down by daily life, and the shitstorm that is our world at the moment. This story is a reminder that beautiful things happen, and they happen spontaneously, where we least expect them.
Trust. Fall into the unknown. Perhaps you’ll become a Condor, and fly to Carlos’ bar for a Pisco sour.
Author Bio
Alexandra Gilbert is a South African author and editor living in London. She writes short stories, essays and poetry. She founded Mindfork, and edits both memoir and poetry for the mag.
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With mischief from your memoir editor,
Ally G xx
This was such a pleasure to read. Funny, atmospheric, and told with real confidence.