I tend to think that unfortunate incidents make for better stories. Imagine how disappointing it’d be, for example, if Romeo had laboured over his suicide for just a few more seconds, long enough to see Juliet rise and dispel his dark intentions. Or what if Alice hadn’t slipped down that hole? That would surely have made for a much less exciting – not to mention shorter – book.
I find that my own unforeseen mishaps give me something to talk about; they lend interest to otherwise mundane tales, and make the difference between an anaesthetic and an anecdote. Indeed, it is only when something goes wrong that an experience becomes truly unique, and it is then that we cry the most and laugh the hardest.
Imagine my delight, therefore, when I heard a painful howl while walking along the Inca Trail, and turned to see my girlfriend sprawled gracelessly across the thin, dusty path, clutching desperately at her ankle. Brilliant, I thought with a pang of excitement, wait until everyone at home hears about this! After three days shuffling along precarious ridges and staggering up ever-rising inclines, she’d stumbled on the home straight within an hour of our goal, just as the trail was getting wider, flatter and, quite frankly, easier.
The walking hitherto had been hard but gratifying, especially as I’d announced myself naively on day one with nothing more than an empty bottle of sun cream and a change of socks, while just about every other hiker looked ready to take on Everest. I had little else besides determination and pride to get me through the high mountain passes of the Andes, and while I was sure that bystanders were mistaking me for Bear Grylls at the time, I probably looked more like Boris Johnson or an overweight donkey.
I did have one attribute to my advantage, however: height. I was actually midway through bragging about the length of my stride when Holly fell – I believe I was saying ‘There’s no point in even trying to keep up with these Ox’s thighs, darling’ – for I’d developed an intense smugness about my ability to cover a greater distance and height in a single step than anyone else in our group. Sometimes I’d freeze at full stretch just to demonstrate the kind of span I could achieve.
This smugness vanished when I realised the only way Holly was going to make it to Machu Picchu was by clinging to my back like a koala bear, which meant that my arrival at one of the world’s greatest wonders would be devoid of the pomp and grace that I’d envisaged beforehand. Can’t we just leave her here until her ankle gets better? I asked, doubting for the first time the strength of the thighs which had gotten me this far.
They wouldn’t let me do that, of course, but I didn’t really mind. Had Holly not so thoughtfully twisted her ankle, I’d now be writing something unremarkable about the ineffable way in which the sun peeked over the Andean ridge and placed a golden spotlight on the ancient ruins of a once great civilization, presenting to us a glowing trophy that made every bead of expended sweat over the past three days worthwhile. I’d probably tell you it was spectacular, and it was the highlight of our round-the-world trip, and although I’d be telling the truth it’d just be a bit boring, wouldn’t it?
27 January, 2012 11:59 am
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