Donkey dung. Now on my pants for the next 24 hours. We were departing the birthplace of the Inca gods, the Island of the Sun in Lake Titicaca, and hence were trudging through the donkey dung strewn path down to the ferry. On the island, these donkeys are the beasts of burden, and, as a tourist, one can have one’s luggage carried up or down on the backs of one of them.
We were in a rush, so we shouldered our backpacks and set off. The path was slippery with donkey fecal matter. As we got close to the edge down by the harbor, we could see that the ferry was pulling in. We started hurrying. Next minute, I was on my back like an upended turtle. Except that my leg was bent in the other direction. For one second, I thought it was broken and thought how awkward that would be when halfway up a hill in Lake Titicaca.
The edge of the cliff was a foot or so away, and the only damage I had suffered was a bit of manure on my jeans. My friend gave me a hand up. And then, I was reminded of how lucky I was.
We made the ferry too. I enjoyed the aroma of my donkey dung for 24 hours. It didn’t smell that bad.