Victor shows us a color xerox of Santorino in his binder. He says Santorino, 42 at the time, completed the Inca Trail in 3 hours and 45 minutes during a porter race. Why don’t these guys win marathons? Apparently, there is discrimination in Peru about who gets sponsorship. Victor said that darker-skinned Peruvians previously and sadly, currently don’t get the opportunity to compete.

I managed to sleep on the last night. But I was like, “Really?” when I woke up with an ear infection. I felt like a dented cell phone with one bar despite being charged for hours. It was 4:50am. Well, only a few hours to the monkey steps (you have to climb on all fours) and on to the sun gate (where Machu Picchu is visible). We get there very, very slowly while I expel huge amounts of green phlegm. My inner Singaporean was horrified that I was spitting like a chinaman near one of the wonders of the world. I would seriously be fined millions by now.

As Machu Picchu looked closer and closer, I really did feel like we accomplished something against some nutso odds. Of course, we had more help than I can remember: Victor’s guidance, the porters’ carriage, Regina’s and Paul’s inhalers, Kavitha’s counsel, Ashish’s pep talks and everyone else’s kindness. This New Yorker was seriously verklempt beyond words.

When we actually arrived at the site, we were passing people who were arriving via trains and buses. Immediately, we could appreciate how clean they were. Our group talked about how these folks smelled nice. “Now I wonder what we smell like,” was the general consensus. I had tears at the sight of a clean toilet with a seat.

Oh yeah, Machu Picchu is beautiful and the Incas were amazing with rocks, astronomy, irrigation, crop rotation etc. So worth a visit, and next time I’ll be a “lazy”—Victor’s word for the nice-smelling tourist.

Mealtime was the best time—we traveled with a chef and sous chef. They cooked with a gas burner and saucepan. Usually, we would have soup, a main course and dessert. On our last night, David (the chef) made a cake. A really good one! I would have shot some food, but was always so wiped by dinnertime that staying vertical was a challenge.

I’ll spare you the details of my continued frail state. Really just more of the same as Day Two, sans allergic coca reaction. The terrain was what Victor calls “Inca flat”. A joke for lots of jagged rocks masquerading as steps. But slippery this time because we were descending into the clouds for most of the 10-hour trek. The up side would be my favourite light for pictures.

These men are unbelievable—they carry kilos of gear while rushing by the trekkers. Often on the trek, we’ll hear someone yell out, “Porter coming!” and see these dudes whiz by. Yes, impressive due to Andean lung capacity and years of experience. Most defs, Davidson and I could not have possibly completed a day without them. Especially that part where I get carried by one of these guys. Talk about a tough job.

Bad, bad, bad. I can’t say I woke up, because I really didn’t sleep. An entire night of nose-blowing and spitting phlegm into a plastic bag while freezing in a tent will do that.

5 am, breakfast—We were told that we would be walking for at least nine hours, ascending 1200m before lunch. I was not sufficiently humbled by the previous day, so I thought I could do it. But it was soon clear to me that my lungs were compromised by this infection and the altitude. We literally stopped every five steps and Davidson ended up carrying both our daypacks.

As we started to climb the (ominous yet aptly named) Dead Woman’s Pass, the steps were so steep that I stopped to hack out my lungs every two minutes. We took one of our breaks with new Aussie friends, Ross and Karina (pictured). They kindly offered us some coca leaves to chew. (Side note: other trekkers had chewed leaves the day before, relying on them for an energy boost) I was leery, but tired enough so I took some.

I sped up for about 15 minutes, but my stomach started to lurch with huge waves of sharp pain. Climbing a steep incline with malfunctioning lungs, nostrils and intestines—nothing short of horrid. I tapped my reserves of willpower, looking down and putting one foot in front of the other. It helped that Davidson was saying “good job” every 30 seconds, and that we were near enough the peak where our fellow trekkers were cheering us on.

Once we struggled to the peak, I knew my system would be emptied uncontrollably. So while everyone was taking pictures of the gorgeous summit, I was finding a place to, err, purge. As luck would have it, my lungs started to seize and I thought I may be having an asthma attack. Luckily, fellow trekker and new friend Kavita is an oncologist and she soothed me. There were no medicines at the mountain top so all I could do was drink more water and um, purge again. Kavita and Davidson were deep in discussion. “You might be allergic to coca leaves,” one of them said. I was dazed, so I don’t remember who. I did remember that I had similar cramping after post-knee-surgery Vicodin. Great.

The nightmare didn’t end there—we were only halfway. We had to descend 400m of jagged rocks. I tried to do it but was severely weakened. Every muscle was shaky and I was dizzy from purging. And my lungs were getting tighter from the effort and infection. Davidson reported that he saw our campsite. It looked about 2 hours away at my snail’s pace. It was getting dark, and he looked crushed.

Mothers, don’t freak out—our guide, Victor came to the rescue. He walkie-talkied the campsite, and two porters met us. (These porters usually carry our heavy packs with the tents, sleeping bags and gas tanks for cooking.) “These porters will carry you now.” I’m not entirely sure why I protested. I guess pride can be ridiculous. The other porter picked up Andrea, a Canadian with a bum knee.

I hopped on the porter’s back and he started to run frighteningly fast down the jagged rocks to our campsite. I think it took him 15 minutes. Kavita was waiting at the campsite for me. She had found an inhaler. I had never been so happy to see an inhaler, ever. My lungs opened up, and I was fed some soup. Then I was told to go straight to bed. Well, sleeping bag.

(Later that night, Davidson was told that one of our trekkers was so breathless she had to be taken off the trail on horseback. Maybe I should have thought of that.)

Up next, Day 3—the longest day with the steepest downhill action. Guess who is less than thrilled?

It doesn’t start well—I wake up at 4:30am unable to breathe through my nose, and with a cough. Davidson and I discuss this curveball to our Inca Trail strategy. “We’ll just go slow and try not to push it.” I guess we forget that the first day’s six-hour hike would be “pushing it” for someone with a cold or flu. On the bus, we meet 14 other trekkers—Canadians, Australians, Brits and fellow Yanks. Everyone seems excited, healthy and slightly nervous about our four-day trek.

During the hike, I feel a little breathless here and there and attribute it to the altitude. We generally keep up with the group, so I start to think that I might be able to beat the cold and do the Inca Trail. (Most experienced trekkers would probably consider this blindly optimistic or stupidly arrogant.)

At the end of the day, we are fed a three-course meal at a long table. Turns out Peru Treks provides a chef and sous chef as well as our two guides. We feel lucky. Davidson and I tuck in, and take wet wipe “showers” in our tent before turning in. Ordinarily, I would imagine the sweaty odours would offend me. But the ole’ nose can’t breathe or smell. Lucky? Maybe. Unfortch, I spend all night coughing and blowing my nose. Which means I barely sleep. I have a bad feeling that Day Two will not be so bearable.