Having to go to the bathroom in remote jungle towns of Peru requires currency. What does it cost? One sole. Soles and centimos are the dollars and cents of Peru, but when I heard it initially, encountering a uniformed woman at the threshold of a bathroom asking for “por favor un sole,” my reaction was strangely emotional. I imagined the ephemeral soul—the energy holding the cells together, animating each living thing–as the currency, and my repulsion was visceral. Logically though, I understood that she meant money, so I dug in my pocket and produced a handful of coins, picking out one sole for which she traded me a small ration of toilet paper.
If a soul is the source that funds our affecting experiences in the world, it would then be the spiritual bank holding our emotional currency, ever exchanging, through interactions and relationships, this for that. The bathrooms that cost money smell bad and are generally awful experiences, while those existing as a fringe courtesy of a larger business are clean and pleasant, to the extent that they can be under such circumstances.
Bathrooms have always been a fascination of mine. They are architectures of human vulnerability. They may be one of the only truly private spaces available virtually anywhere. And when one retreats to them, regardless of the reason, no questions are asked, no curiosity aroused. Bathrooms themselves are a kind of currency, providing an exchange of revelation for exposure, induction for contact, interior for interior. So trading a sole for this private privilege and a small amount of paper, although typical and even expected, seems striking.
The worst was the one on the way back from Machu Picchu. Monica was riding up front with the driver, chattering away with him in Spanish while I sat oblivious in the back, alternately staring out the window and drifting off to sleep. A word about Monica—she is a good witch. Not only is she a little psychic, she also attracts luck and good energy quite effortlessly. People are drawn to talk to her. It’s not unusual that she’ll know half your life story within five minutes of meeting you. I grew used to this phenomenon quickly, so I wasn’t surprised when she turned around mid-conversation with this man to tell me that, back during the time of terrorism, he had been in hiding for three years to avoid being drafted for the military, subsisting on corn alone. I asked her to ask him to stop so I could go to the bathroom. She did and he did. It was another public bathroom, only with holes in the floor in place of toilets. The concrete floor was wet and populated with people, seemingly just congregated there for no reason. A man with a mop directed me to a stall. My only comfort was that it smelled mostly like bleach. I dropped my pants, leaned on one hand against the wall behind me, and peed. It wasn’t that bad until I thought I would fall. The horror of where and how I would land was a brief misery, but I didn’t fall. I braved the hole in the floor and the hole in the floor gave me certain rights of passage. Still, it wasn’t worth a sole.
Earlier, in Machu Picchu, I found my Soul at the top of a mountain.
We got there early to be one of the first 400 people they would allow for the day to climb the higher peak, Waynapicchu. The mountain was shrouded in mist that slowly cleared as we climbed, revealing green expanses and sharp dimensions. Thick mountainous jungle, from a distance, looks like layered paint, color on top of color, saturated and bright. As we climbed, I felt an ache beneath my ribs, just above my belly button. It felt full and vibrant, so beautiful it was painful, like gasping for air after surfacing from a too long time under water. I mentioned this to Monica, speculated that it was the energy of the mountain affecting me. She said she felt it in her heart. As we climbed, mine spread up and hers spread down until we were both filled and lightheaded.
The path was steep and the rocks were slick from mist. Ropes and twine were bolted into the cliff walls along the steepest parts to assist the climb. I remember thinking they looked like adornments to tombs. The ever-present view was a flowing glaze in my periphery, the jungle a dense dwelling of life, the shifting mist like a gray smoke, lucid and bright. My breath was a chant. Each step was passionate. Our gorgeous ascent proceeded to an orchestra of birds and wind. Monica turned to look at me, panting, telling me the people up ahead have good energy. “This place attracts you’s and me’s,” she said. Her eyes were placid blue stars. I laughed, looking along the edge of the sky in the horizon’s far margin. A pause. Rapt. Rising memories gliding silently by.
The sweaty march continued until we reached the first plateau, where among the people lining the edge was a dog sleeping on its side. I took little notice of the dog at that first pass, assuming amusedly that it belonged to one of the hikers, and how strange and almost cruel to drag your dog up that treachery. Then we crawled through a claustrophobic, damp cave to the other side of the narrow mountaintop, where we ascended to a higher plateau and sat to rest.
“He’s not ok,” Monica said. I tore my eyes away from the view to see what she meant. She was gazing down at the dog.
“He’s not?”
“He’s dying,” she said. I looked down. He was completely still on his side, not even the subtle movement of breath.
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet, but we need to help him. He needs water,” she said. Her face was both concerned and appalled, as though the mountain itself was a terrible, rude brute to subject the dog to such exhaustion and dehydration.
“Should we climb back down and help him?”
“Yes, but let’s get to the top first,” she said. It was so close, after all. So we went up the short path. It led to a wooden ladder propped up to an opening. We climbed it and emerged onto a group of flat boulders that made up the very peak of the mountain. The space was small and filled with bodies. Too many to maneuver easily. Monica was giddy and awed. A man, invoked by her charm, asked her to take a picture of him. As she did, he posed on the rock by dropping back on his elbows, spreading his knees wide, and arranging his lips into a subtle pucker. Monica started singing, “I’m too sexy for this rock, too sexy for this rock…” We all laughed hard, including Mr. Sexy. I got my camera out and took a self shot of the two of us. We sat for a moment looking at each other. I said, “Not bad for two white girls from Cleveland, huh?” She smiled and I took her picture. She lifted her arms to the sky in a victory pose and laughed, disclosing to me again another facet of her poet’s soul.
On the way back down the dog was still there. I knelt beside him and turned my hands on to give him Reiki. When I touched him, he looked up at me. His eyes were a million burning coals of a boundless, expectant soul. The gaze we shared may have been shorter than it now seems, but within it, I fell in love. He laid his head back down, weary. Monica tried to give him water. He wouldn’t drink. She broke up some wheat crackers in her hand and fed them to him. He gobbled them greedily. She fed him the second package, which constituted the rest of our snacks. After a minute, I lifted him to his legs to see if he could stand or walk. He took a few wobbly steps. He was painfully thin. We let him rest while we sat and took out our journals to write. A blue and black butterfly landed on Monica’s arm and didn’t move. After a while, it flitted over to me and stuck. It proceeded to fly back and forth between us as we sat and wrote, and even after we left, it rode us down.
The dog was moving around a bit and starting to head down the path. I worried that he didn’t have the strength or agility to make it. I worried he might fall to his death.
“I’m carrying him down,” I said. Monica took our bag, slung it over her shoulder, and led the way. I lifted the dog into my arms and held him close to my stomach. His long legs were folded against me. He was a docile and gentle weight swaying with my gait. We came to a steep place that required the use of a rope. Me and the dog attracted the attention of everyone we passed and Monica was telling the story in Spanish to some curious onlookers. One man came and offered to help. I handed him the dog, climbed down to where I had a solid footing, and held up my arms. The man lowered him to me. His paws came into my face and I gathered him against me again, his warm bones with mine. I was unexpectedly and abruptly moved to tears–the frailty of the dog, the generosity of the man, and the splendor of the place was all too much. I turned and looked at Monica.
“I want to keep him,” I said. She looked back at me with hard sincerity and said, “I will do everything in my power to help you achieve that.”
We continued down, accompanied now by the generous man, who continued to help in the same fashion at each tricky pass. We picked up more friends along the way, more good people attracted by the good witch, Monica. Some of the men talking to one another about money sparked an idea for the dog’s name. Yes. His name. It was perfect. He is Soul.
Eventually, we reached the bottom and I carried him out through the ruins to the entrance gate. We got lost among the ruins at times, heading down one path only to hit a dead end and have to turn around.
“Thees ees not the waey,” the generous man said. His name was Cesar.
When we finally found the way, we were walking through a narrow passage of the maze-like ruins and I felt a lurch in my arms. I looked down. Soul puked. He vomited all our snacks on the ground. He was very polite and managed to avoid getting any of it on me. At the gate, I put him down. I crouched, waiting to see what he would do. He trotted off blithely, disappearing into anonymous legs. I looked at Monica, most likely with a pathetic, dejected face.
“He’s a free spirit,” she said. “Machu Picchu is his home and he wants to live here. Can you blame him?”
I reluctantly agreed with her. I reluctantly let him go.
Later, after we spent several more hours exploring the surreal wonder that is Machu Picchu, we came to the entrance again to wait for the bus back down. There was Soul, trotting directly up to me. I knelt to him and held him, petted his head and kissed him. He was very dirty but I didn’t care. Something about this animal pulled me, made me want him with me always. After a few minutes of cuddling, he left me again, bounding away into the woods.
“He came to thank you,” Monica said.
There was an exchange that occurred. He gave me something and I gave him something. The emotional currency we each carry flows in and out in the name of experiences like these. And somehow, we are always made richer by them.
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