They say that after fifty, people play football with their hearts… and with knee braces.
I, however, still train and get excited like a child before every Sunday match.
My right leg — that stubborn companion carrying so many stories — remains faithfully at the service of adventure.
My father once grabbed my right leg and said with half a smile:
“Son, this is where the money is.”
And he was right.
This leg brought me much of the success I had in life.
Not through football — although desire was never lacking — but through the mountains.
My legs literally fed me:
climbing, descending, guiding travelers through the Andes.
I have completed the Inca Trail more than five hundred times.
And during one of those journeys, sometime around 1996, my right leg once again became the protagonist of a tragicomic episode worthy of its own legend.
The Third Day…
Back then, adventure tourism was still primitive, almost handcrafted.
A guide was not just a guide.
You were also the cook, porter, medic, entertainer… and sometimes an improvised philosopher.
That day I was guiding a mostly European group.
Day one and day two had been perfect — picture-postcard trekking days.
Then came day three.
I had given very clear instructions to the porter on how to operate the Primus stove:
kerosene, manual pumping, primus needle, blue flame.
A dangerous choreography… but an effective one.
When I arrived at the “third pass,” he was indeed boiling water for the soup.
The pots, of course, were veterans of a thousand battles:
dented, patched with cloth, worthy of a military museum.
I suggested switching the small pot for the larger one to avoid serving soup portions suitable only for dwarfs.
The sun was shining brightly, the mountains glowing gold at midday, and everything seemed perfectly under control…
Until it wasn’t.
In one eternal second, all the boiling water spilled directly onto my right leg, from the knee downward.
I was wearing boots, but even that could not stop the pain from piercing through me like liquid fire.
My hands trembled.
Even my soul burned.
The only thing I could do was run — or rather desperately hop — toward the ceremonial Inca baths of Phuyupatamarca.
There, since ancient times, crystal-clear water flowed softly from one stone fountain to another like a sacred whisper.
I plunged my leg into the freezing water.
Half an hour.
Maybe an hour.
I lost all sense of time.
Every time I removed it from the water, the burning became unbearable, and blisters had already begun forming:
round, swollen, treacherous bubbles beneath the skin.
I was shaking.
I still don’t know whether from pain, fever, or pure fear.
Inca Remedies and Unexpected Sandals
Some fellow guides, supportive and creatively optimistic, suggested homemade remedies:
“Put tomatoes on it! It cools the skin. Natural miracle.”
And so there I was:
a heroic man in shorts receiving tomato slices as if they were sacred offerings.
Spoiler:
they did not work.
Meanwhile, the cooks were still struggling to prepare lunch — because naturally, the gas was failing again — and the tourists, with the selective patience of hungry travelers, were waiting.
I needed to buy time and keep everyone distracted.
So between jokes, Inca stories, and improvised entertainment, I somehow kept the atmosphere cheerful while we figured out how to cook.
My boots, of course, no longer fit.
The leg was swollen, burning, marked by liquid fire.
So I negotiated with one of the porters:
I gave him my boots, and he gave me his sandals —
simple recycled-rubber sandals worthy of an Andean epic.
And so, wearing sandals and carrying a blistered leg, I descended toward Wiñay Wayna.
The sun hit mercilessly, and every step became a fiery reminder of my bad luck.
One girl — Slovenian, I think — took pity on me.
She walked beside me the entire way, fanning my leg with her hat to ease the pain.
Meanwhile, I moved from shadow to shadow like a half-burned but still dignified warrior.
Ruins, Fever, and Night Tourists
I arrived at camp exhausted, burning with fever, and beyond the help of any cream.
But at five in the afternoon, using my best professional guide voice, I announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now departing to visit the majestic ruins of Wiñay Wayna.”
The group was ready for the excursion.
I was not.
My leg was raw and burning, but neither the accident nor the pain had been included in the official itinerary.
And a guide does not abandon the ship halfway down the river.
Wiñay Wayna…
What a beloved place.
Among hanging terraces, ceremonial fountains, and ancient stone walls, I always felt the site carried something sacred.
So, pretending nothing had happened, I guided the group through the ruins.
The visit lasted no more than forty minutes:
passionate explanations, majestic scenery, soft applause at the end.
But as soon as it was over, I quietly walked behind a small farmer’s hut and finally released a long sigh.
The pain was constant:
a hot pulse that refused to leave me in peace.
The fever had reached me too.
I had chills — that uncomfortable sensation that tells you the body is silently fighting a war.
And just when I thought I might finally rest…
A couple of tourists approached me with guilty smiles:
“José… they told us the ruins are beautiful. We couldn’t come earlier because we were tired. Could you take us now?”
I looked at them.
Then at my leg.
Then back at their excited tourist faces.
And there it was again:
the eternal conflict between health and duty.
“Yes, of course,” I answered with one of those professional smiles that hide entire storms.
“Let’s go.”
And so it happened:
another walk,
another explanation,
another silent act of heroism —
all while wearing rubber sandals and carrying a burned leg filled with pain.
Andean Philosophy and a Triumphant Return
Later during dinner, some tourists finally noticed my strange way of walking.
“José, are you okay?” they asked with genuine concern.
Using my usual dry humor, I replied:
“I’m fine. No problem. As long as I reach Machu Picchu… worse things have happened. Fine horses have died in war.”
They laughed.
And so did I.
Even though every muscle inside me was screaming.
The night passed between mild fever and the soft sounds of travelers sleeping.
And the next morning, like the stubborn guide I was, I stood ready at departure time, prepared to finish the journey.
We reached Machu Picchu around eight in the morning.
As soon as we entered, I went directly to the medical station.
The nurse — a kind but practical woman who clearly knew how to calm suffering with authority — drained the blisters with a syringe.
Then she applied a yellow cream whose name I have long forgotten, wrapped my leg with medical tape, and gave me painkillers.
And just like that, with a bandaged leg, I completed my final guiding duties as if nothing had happened.
Andean Epilogue
The return to Cusco was quiet.
Several days of rest followed:
bandages, patience, and recovery.
My dark skin remained marked with pale patches for months.
There were no deep scars, but the memory remained written there like a permanent reminder of that treacherous soup.
Curiously, I never blamed the porter who accidentally spilled the boiling water.
On the contrary:
we eventually became close friends.
Life in the mountains teaches you not to search for culprits…
but for stories.
And this was undoubtedly one of the best:
the time my right leg faced fire, fever, sandals, and nighttime tourists…
and still arrived proudly at Machu Picchu.
One stubborn leg.
One stubborn guide.
And one unforgettable soup
“Wake up above the clouds and experience the magic of the mountains.”
