It was a Tuesday evening, and we were en route from beautiful Cusco in south-central Peru, to the capital city, Lima.
“Hola señor. ¿Es este tu pasaporte?”
I had only one job: show my papers and get on the damned plane.
It was a Tuesday evening, and we were en route from beautiful Cusco in south-central Peru, to the capital city, Lima. In three hours, we’d be whisked off to Miami for breakfast, then on to Pearson International.
Home before Canada Day, after five weeks in a beguiling land where (don’t ever forget it) you are the foreigner, not those other folks. If they choose to eat roast guinea pig, or raw fish briefly marinated in lime juice, tuck in and join them. You may love it.
My longtime pal, Mike, had floated the idea of a trip together a few months earlier. Numerous niggly details and setbacks later, we found ourselves in Peru in late May.
After a week, we were ready to trade the relative blandness of Lima for the more obvious delights of Arequipa, with its unforgettable museums, legions of military, and tons of saints and martyrs. Not to mention block upon block of eyewear stores, although few locals seemed to wear glasses.
From there, we headed to Cusco, a city drenched in Incan history and culture, with enough rugged Catholicism in evidence everywhere to remind you who won the wars (but did they, really?).
Cusco turned out to be my kind of place, with its narrow, cobbled streets, its monasteries and museums, massive hand-cut stonework, and exuberant parades at the merest hint of an occasion. I was even willing to ignore the constant onslaught of street artists and other pedlars, who actually have a separate police unit to keep them moving.
Mike is 14 years my junior and quite spry. We hadn’t seen each other for years, so I’m sure he hadn’t anticipated spending so much of his holiday waiting for me to catch up after pausing every 30 metres to lean against an ancient stone wall for a quick breather.
He wasn’t with me the day I took a tour bus to the legendary Andean peak known as Vinicunca, aka Montaña de Siete Colores, aka Rainbow Mountain. My breath was laboured at much lower elevations; it would definitely face a challenge at 5,036 metres (16,522 feet).
After driving hefty quads as high as we could, we still faced many metres to the summit. My lungs and hips screamed for mercy, each breath threatening to be my last. But our tour guide adopted me as a personal project. “Keep going, Canada. You can make it.”
And, by golly, I did, winning an unexpected round of applause from my fellow sightseers of many nationalities.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s get back to that flight from Cusco to Lima.
After showing my boarding pass and passport, I lurched down the aisle with my carry-on, my fanny pack, my neck pillow and lap blanket from Cancun, the genuine Peruvian grass hat (made in China … of paper), and a thick alpaca poncho bought in Cusco for a fraction of its worth.
With my gear safely stowed, I squeezed into 26B between a robust woman of obvious Incan lineage and an equally robust young man. Neither seemed intrigued by the prospect of travelling with an elderly Canadian.
I opted for some sleep-inducing detective fiction on Kindle, and awoke just before touchdown at Jorge Chavez International. As everyone else herded out, I frantically gathered my stuff. From two rows ahead on the opposite side, Mike urged me to hurry.
With a sense of total panic, I mouthed the words, “No passport. I can’t find my [expletive-deleted] passport. It’s not here.”
I checked every pocket, every fold, every sleeve. Over and over. Checked the magazine pouch in the seat ahead. Checked my blanket, my fanny pack, my carry-on. Searched under the seats two rows ahead and two rows back. Searched every cranny capable of concealing a Canadian passport.
I was about to start ripping out seats when the flight attendant said I had to leave. It was the day’s last flight, and the crew had no intention of spending the night with a befuddled Geezer whose Spanish vocabulary consisted mostly of ¿el baño?
Even as we reached the departure area, I refused to abandon hope. One of two things would surely happen: either the passport would emerge from some impossible hiding place, or a jubilant cabin cleaner would come running after us, shouting, “Hola señor. ¿Es este tu pasaporte?”
Or a third possibility might exist. A soft-hearted border agent could say, “Don’t worry, Sir. This happens all the time. Just wait here. We’ll get you a temporary travel document and honour your existing ticket. You’ll be on your way in no time.”
I learned another valuable lesson on that trip. Pigs really, really do not fly.
To be continued….
