Archaeology, and Other Trips and Triggers

I scanned the sun-bleached desert archaeological site. Stale air hung low over the valley between the Andes. The desert floor had given up on sealing its wounds long ago, and now only the most egregious scruff of vegetation cluttered the landscape. Balancing myself atop an unforgiving stone, I kicked off my boots and investigated the bottoms. Mud-caked, dry, sad, split, and rotting. I mused at the number of things I had grown accustomed to doing, from slicing calloused skin from my heels with my Leatherman, to relieving myself in an immodest crop of cacti. Grim.

Once I had rid my feet of the offending dead skin, I swiped the knife blade against my shirt and used it to peel an orange. This extremely small, no-chemicals-attached, bruised and battered specimen was a gift from my team leader, hours ago. The orange’s spongy peel fell to the ground with an unceremonious thud; the desert’s indifference would not be shaken. I lost my appetite and shoved the entire fruit into my parched mouth, just to make it go away. Chewing, I swatted away a cloud of festering insects, tiny insects, daring insects. I decided to place all culpability on their mere existence.

That morning, I had stocked up on spindly wires with shocking orange flags attached to them. I had stuffed these into my backpack, made distracted plans with my crew and captain, and I set out to divide and conquer the valley. “This is real archaeology,” I declared. My crew nodded in unison, ready for action. I felt a moment of peace, watching each surveyor stalk out into the desert valley, in different directions. I felt the day ahead of me, saw it ripple as the sun rose over the valley, and I, too, set off, my hair swept up in a ponytail that I was too old for, my contact lenses already protesting the beginning of a new, dry, dust-infused day.

Now, I blinked at the Andes, blinked at their soaring, jagged unfamiliarity. I started walking again. The desert pavement served only as a reminder that water used to tumble through and against these valley walls. Now, the pavement cracked and winced against my gait, resigned and crumbling away from the unreasonable force of my actions. My own body, wrapped in a claustrophobic shroud of sweaty t-shirt and cargo pants, lurched onward, protesting with the occasional twitch the overwhelming fatigue. Keeping my gaze trained to the desert floor, I ambled on, eyes cloudy, contacts weeping from the unfairness of airborne debris. I crouched to examine a slight bird bone. I held it gently, as one would hold a wishbone before rending it in two. The bone quivered between my fingertips, caught up in the paradox of being both frightened and dead. Satisfied with my singular archaeological find, I walked on, in a straight line, kicking pebbles and trying to remember the name of the first tour guide I’d met, the one with passion for tapas and with Harrison Ford’s strong jaw.