The next morning, we were picked up and packed away into a big van, with probably fifteen or so other Machu Picchu-destined tourists of varying age and ethnicity. We chose to leave our big backpacks at the hostel and just stuff enough necessities in our day bags (I’d had to buy a new one, seeing as my other bag had been stolen in Lima). Derrick, of course, had his camera bag as well, and I my purse, but otherwise we packed very lightly compared to the other passengers. I noticed a fair few rolling suitcases and even trunks stuffed into the back of the big bus.

It was a treacherous trip if I’d ever been on one, around mountains and cliffs, where there was nothing between us and the life-ending hundred-foot drops over the side into a ravine or a river. We passed snow-capped peaks and rolling hills, with random plots of inhabited farmland, or a tiny town made up of a few shacks and a corner store or a restaurant out in the middle of what seemed like nowhere. We stopped once for lunch, and then once again on the side of the road so everyone could pee. At first, I hadn’t understood why we were stopping. But then when the bus driver pointed at the dilapidated old shack just six feet off the highway, with a gaping hole in the ground inside, and a roll of soggy toilet paper sitting on the floor beside it, I realized I was supposed to pee inside that building. What the actual fuck?

And that wasn’t the weirdest part of it, oh, no. I watched as all the men on the bus wandered off in random directions, facing the bushes or a random tree. To the untrained or ignorant eye, it might look as though they were simply admiring nature, or pondering the wonders of the universe, but we all knew what was really going on. But the women, we were not nearly as lucky, forced to line up for this solitary three-walled shack, with a hole in the ground to do our business; all the while a little Quechua lady with a colorful hat, braids, and a floor-length skirt was collecting money. We had to PAY her to use her hole in the ground!

I shook my head when I realized what was going on, fury tasting acrid on my tongue. Like hell was I paying to use a hole on the ground, walls or no walls. I didn’t have to pee that bad, I’d hold it!

And hold it I did. Boy, did I hold it. It was another hour or so, maybe two — time seemed irrelevant and thus no longer really existed when our bus narrowly missed falling off the cliff and down into an icy river — to our dropping-off point. It was a place known (though I don’t think that was the actual name of the town) as Hydroelectrica. And when the bus finally stopped and everyone bailed off, I ran like a cheetah to the nearest bush where I copped a squat and peed, FOR FREE!

From Hydroelectrica we were told to follow the train tracks but stay off them, as the train did still run, and that would take us to Aguas Calientes, also known as Machu Picchu Town. Fortunately, it wasn’t raining, and it was a flat walk through the bushes, with nothing but chatter and excitement for the following day’s adventures fueling us forward.

When we finally got to Aguas Calientes, my mouth dropped open. It was something you would expect to find in a whimsical fantasy movie, or where the trolls or elves in a fairy tale lived. It was set deep in a valley with a river rushing right through the middle and high, looming, rocky mountains threatening to close in all around, while the train tracks ran right through the center along the river. I found it positively magical. I actually did a little hop and skip as we made our way up through the narrow streets, with open concept restaurants and shops inviting you in, cobblestone paths and stairs, hanging awnings and big flower pots lining the paths to keep you from falling onto the train tracks.

We checked into our hotel and dumped our stuff in the room, deciding to take advantage of the last few hours of daylight and explore the city. Aguas Calientes might not be very big, but we quickly learned that it was confusing as hell. A series of bridges connected both sides of the town over the narrow river with its fast current and white water, while small side streets suddenly led to local markets and, if you kept walking, morphed into promenades with even more stores and restaurants, convenience stores and massage parlors. We wandered through one of the many markets, with rows and rows of stalls, shopkeepers selling everything you could imagine and more. Scarves and toques, blankets and bags, magnets and carved figures of alpacas, it was the tourist and souvenir enthusiast’s dream.

We made our way back up from the market toward our hotel, stopping in at a restaurant whose menu out front boasted lots of local dishes at reasonable prices, which according to the walking, talking tour guide I also let share my bed, was rare. Most restaurants in Aguas Calientes charged roughly double what they would in Cusco, because everything had to be brought in by train.

“Oh, my God,” Derrick said, turning his nose up while making a face as though he might suddenly gag. We were sipping wine and watching the world go by from our seats. The small street was filled with tourists and locals wandering around; it was so much fun to people-watch, even if the majority of the people were tourists just like us.

“What? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “I grew up on a cattle ranch, I’m a carnivore, but that’s just not right. I guess we know why this place was so reasonably priced.”

I spun around to see where he was looking. “What?” I asked more emphatically.

“That guy over there ordered the guinea pig, and look how they brought it out. Completely intact, belly up on the plate, hairless and roasted and still with its teeth.”

I gaped at him and craned my head around, trying to catch a glimpse. And then, sure enough, I did. I turned back to face him immediately, in complete disgust and not shy about showing it.

“I had guinea pigs as pets as a kid,” he said with a childish pout.

I looked down at my plate; I’d suddenly lost my appetite. “So did I.”

His face was drawn down into a contemplative frown for a moment or two, and then he lifted up his beer. “To Smokey and Beatrice… what was the name of your pig or pigs?”

I smiled and lifted my wine glass. “I had Jellybean and Molly.”

He gave one curt nod. “To Smokey, Beatrice, Jellybean and Molly. Who never ended up on anyone’s plate, but will remain forever in our hearts.” We clinked glasses and then each took a sip, smiling at one another over the rims. Smiles that said more than just sadness about our long-dead pets, or about our aversion to seeing rodents on a plate served alongside undercooked French fries, which seemed to be the norm here in Peru. They were smiles of understanding, of companionship and what we intended to do to one another later on back at the hotel.