Love & The Goddess (24 page)

I was shocked – had I unintentionally flirted with him? Yet I wouldn’t do that – I knew he was married; I had seen pictures of his wife on the website. “I don’t
need a big double bed …”

“Why not? You could take a lover while you are here in Cusco. Peruvian men are excellent lovers – they know about the Tantra.”

In an effort to buy time and hopefully think on my feet, I crossed the room, opened the window and gazed out as if transfixed by something in the street below. This man was to be our guide for
the next seven days. How on earth could I get out of this one without causing offence? Turning to face him, I steadied myself before saying, “No, I don’t think so. You see after my
marriage broke up I realised I preferred women to men. My lover is a woman, a beautiful woman, and I miss her.”

His hawk eyes stretched wide with incredulity; his mouth dropped open. “Oh
qué lástima
… What a pity!” He shrugged his shoulders, and turned to leave. As
soon as the door closed behind him, I locked it and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d been a coward making up a silly excuse, but I felt it would have been too uncomfortable to fall out with our
guide right at the start of the holiday. I called down to reception, requesting a single room. Delighted to accommodate me, the porter arrived within minutes and showed me to a smaller, duller room
with a queen-sized bed, hardly any floor space and badly-hung red curtains. I lay down for a few minutes to catch my breath and recover. It had been a long and emotional day. Then I unpacked,
showered and went to visit James. Maria was already in his room, sitting on the edge of one of the two single beds that filled his room

“What do you think of Hakalan?” James asked, standing in the bathroom doorway with his toothbrush in one hand and a tube of toothpaste in the other.

I said cautiously, “I’m not sure. Is he trying to test us? They say gurus do that to push their apprentices or whatever we’re called into more conscious awareness. Or is he
just arrogant …?”

“Arrogant,” said Maria. “I couldn’t believe his contempt for the poor victims of the flooding.”

I was relieved that her opinion chimed with mine. “You’ll never believe what just happened …” I told them about Hakalan booking me the honeymoon suite, and my pretending
to be a lesbian. “I don’t know why I felt I had to make up an excuse not to sleep with him. I’m so sick of men thinking they can pick me up just because I’m vulnerable after
a break-up.”

Maria said, her brows knitted, “I had the same problem after my marriage broke down. I think in the early stages you give off this helpless vibe which appeals to men. And you know, a lot
of these gurus are sex mad because
kundalini
– which is linked with sexual energy – gets activated through spiritual practice. When I was in India, women would queue up to sleep
with gurus who hadn’t washed for half a century. Hakalan must have expected you to fawn all over him.”

James was disgusted. “This trip is too expensive to be ruined by a lunatic tour guide. When I was booking it, I asked the travel agent if I could contact anyone who had come on this tour
previously and she gave me a couple of email addresses. I’m going to run down to the business centre and check them out right away. I should have done it before. You guys can get a taxi to
that restaurant we booked and I’ll follow on as soon as I’m finished. Okay?”

The taxi ride took us through the town’s central plaza. I was enchanted by the prettiness of the place. The central area, dotted with flower beds and exotic palm trees, was lit with
old-fashioned street lamps. Swarms of tourists sat on park benches or browsed the well-lit windows of the quaint indigenous shops that lined the streets on each of the square’s four sides.
Our restaurant,
La Taberna del León
, was rustic with wooden benches and red gingham tablecloths. James arrived as we were ordering, and told the waitress he would have the same as us.
As soon as she’d disappeared with our orders, he leant forward across the table: “Girls, I got the guy from Illinois on Google instant messenger. He warned me not to expect anything
great. Hakalan looks after Hakalan, he said. He thought him a sharp businessman, not an enlightened master. He was there with a big group, maybe thirty people, and apparently some of the women
thought it was desirable to have sex with the shaman. They thought they’d receive the seeds of enlightenment, so to speak.”

“They would be more likely to get seeds of STDs if he’s that popular,” I said, throwing my eyes heavenwards.

Maria sighed, “I expected to learn a lot from this man. I’m very disappointed.”

“But maybe our journey is to learn from each other,” I suggested. “After all, we’ve all had different learning experiences prior to coming here. And I did learn something
today about the feminine aspect of God, even if Hakalan is a pain.”

“You could be right, Kate,” Maria said, as our tomato soup arrived. “When I was in India I met a wise woman who told me no guru or teacher can solve your problems because what
another tells you is not your life.”

“Indeed. There are no gurus apart from the one within,” said James. “The problem is we paid to come on this journey and none of us are happy with this shaman. So I sent an
email to the tour operator telling her just that. I’ve asked her to see if she can she get us Raúl. He’s the shaman on the website, the one we were initially expecting. When she
said we’d be getting Hakalan instead, I didn’t question it because he supposedly has a good reputation. But I really don’t think we should put up with him.”

Just then the scent of tarragon in steamy chicken stock heralded the arrival of our main course. It was
Aji de Gallina
– a delicious chicken stew, served with slivers of hard-boiled
egg with rice and garnished with olives. Very simple, yet different from any other chicken dish I’d come across. I made a note to remember it for my ever-expanding recipe collection. James
drew my attention to a dessert called
Suspiro de Limeña,
a local speciality made with eggs and condensed milk. The friendly proprietor, a stocky woman with crooked teeth in a
weather-beaten face, was pleased to tell us it meant “Sigh of a woman from Lima”. She hovered beside our table for a few minutes, explaining: “According to legend, this was given
its name by the famous poet José Galvéz, who said it was ‘as sweet and soft as the sigh of a young woman from Lima.’” As we finished, she reappeared with a piece of
paper in her hand. “Here, my dear, is the recipe for you.”

Arriving back at the hotel, I felt strangely energised to be in Peru. Saying goodnight to the others in the lobby, I decided to visit the small room which housed two computers – the
“business centre”, as it was called. I had short emails from Julie and Liz and there was a nice email from Geoff the artist telling me his exhibition went well and he hoped I was
enjoying myself. His email made me think about the dating site again. There had been a lot of talk of goddesses in the past twenty-four hours – the Divine Feminine and Pachamama. It made me
think about the username I had given myself. The myth of Persephone was a metaphor for depression, a descent into the underworld of darkness. Though a goddess, Persephone was very much a victim,
having been abducted by Hades, king of the underworld. She was childlike and frail, an archetype I’d always felt was personified by women like Marilyn Monroe, a baby-woman whom men liked
because of her vulnerability. After the run in with Hakalan and the comment from Maria about sending out vulnerable vibes, I knew I no longer wanted to identify with that aspect of womanhood.

I logged on to the dating site. Though I had not used it for quite some time, my profile was still active. I knew as soon as the page appeared that I wasn’t at all comfortable with being
registered as Persephone. A warning message came up asking me did I really want to deactivate, since I had several unread messages. I did. I wanted to leave Persephone behind forever and I
determined that no matter what happened I would no longer see myself as a victim.

A moment later it was done and I sighed in relief at how cathartic it felt. Maybe Pachamama was working through me. Whatever it was, I’d suddenly begun to feel how powerful it was to be a
woman with the ability to give life. Hakalan was definitely a pain in the butt, yet he had provoked me to ponder certain questions. I was beginning to feel how genuinely like a mother this great
planet Earth was in her indiscriminate support of all life. That potent creativity and the ability to give unconditional love is where our power lies as women. Why had I not considered using the
name Demeter, Goddess of the harvest and Mother Earth archetype?

A
most unlikely shaman, Raúl turned out to be a slightly plump character with a jovial face that remained boyish despite his
fifty-odd years on the planet. The tour guide had told James he was a Kung Fu master. I’d envisioned meeting up with a benevolent and swarthy Omak the knife, or at the very least a rugged
brigadier, not a comical character who swaggered as he walked and occasionally referred to Maria and I as “my sisters”, James as “my brother”. Still he was a welcome change
from Hakalan and certainly would be easier company during our time spent trekking to sacred sites for ceremonies and meditation.

Raúl forewarned us that our first trek, to Machu Picchu, would be a spiritual trial, testing us physically and mentally. The plan was to walk in the Incas’ footsteps one way along
the trail, before taking the train back to Cusco. Even though we had porters to carry our tents and belongings, and even with the help of sticks for support and balance, it was tough going. The sun
belted down on top of us as we scaled mountain after mountain. My hiking boots dug into my ankles, and when we stopped for refreshments I had to spend most of my time re-bandaging them. I had not
anticipated the extent to which my bones and muscles would ache, or that I would find the night cold and terrifying, staying in tents at campsites along the trail.

That said, my resolve to go on strengthened when I looked at the hard-working peasants in traditional dress, herding flocks of llamas through jungle passes near Incan ruins. The deep lines on
the women’s weather-beaten faces told of hard lives toiling for very little gain.

“One of the sole comforts they have is their cup of coca tea,” Maria volunteered, as we climbed another steep hill. “
Mate de cacao
works like an anti-depressant for
them.” I’d become fond of the tea as a substitute for my familiar Lapsang souchong and knew it was good for altitude sickness, but I doubted Maria’s claim. Too exhausted to chat,
I made a mental note to ask about it later.

On the second day of the trek, my body weakened despite my will to plough on. “I think I’m getting a heart attack.” I had my hand pressed to my thumping chest, and was leaning
on my stick for support. “I don’t think I can go on any longer. No wonder they call it ‘Dead Woman’s Pass’.”

“This is one of the steepest inclines. Once we make it up here you’ll be fine. Come on, you can lean on me,” drawled Raúl, offering me his arm.

“I’m finding it hard to hike up another mountain having just scaled and descended the last one,” said Maria. “I worked out in the gym for this trek but boy, it’s
hard going.”

“You’re both doing great, girls,” James said encouragingly. “Not much further to go and … Just look at the view!” Suddenly, it seemed as if we had entered a
scene from a magical animated film. The misty clouds had parted to reveal ancient moss-strung trees on paths edged with exquisite wild orchids and giant cacti, the meandering Urubamba river far
below us. We had arrived at Phuyupatamarca, and our spirits lifted.

Phuyupatamarca was an archaeological centre famous for its waters and springs. The Incas worshipped water, seeing it as sacred because it was vital to life. Raúl conducted a simple
cleansing ceremony with us, in preparation for entering Machu Picchu the following day. Immediately afterwards we continued our descent to Wina Wayna, the final campsite on the trail.

“Let’s look around, shall we?” James said to Maria and me, after we’d eaten a meal prepared for us by the porters who accompanied us on our trek. The campsite was teeming
with tourists, excitement palpable as different groups celebrated arriving so close to their destination. As we walked through the crowds towards the bar, I caught the odd snatch of conversations
in Spanish, French, Japanese, German and English.

“What are you drinking, ladies?” James asked.

“Beer, please,” said Maria.

“Water for me, James. I need to keep hydrated.”

“I recognise that voice,” boomed a voice behind me. “Kate Tynan.”

Amazed to hear my maiden name spoken on a Peruvian mountain, I swung around to find a man not much taller than myself, smiling broadly, blue eyes dancing in an impish face. “Billy Bunter!
I mean, Billy Costello!” He was no longer as chubby as he had been when I’d last seen him, at his parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, although he still had a cherubic face for
a middle-aged man.

“Pippi Longstocking!” He grabbed my hand and shook it wildly. He’d obviously been out walking like we had – his bald head had received a fair burning from the sun.
“How are you? Fancy meeting you here on the other side of the world and we haven’t met up in Dublin for yonks.”