The case was in Peru, in a four-day walk through the forests and stones there. We – an international bunch of urban idiots who called themselves Konyukhovs – were served by local carrier Indians, “porters”. Thin, small, you can’t look without tears. Every morning, after breakfast, we went on the way, and they stayed at the parking lot. We washed dishes, folded tents, stuck everything in giant backpacks the size of their human height, and only then were wearing boldly behind us. They did not recognize shoes, they wore some beach shoes. In the middle of the road to the next parking lot, the Indians overcame the lightweight, slightly pale faces. There, in front of them, the porters laid tents, prepared food and patiently awaited the great travellers. When we, after ten hours of lazing on the devil's goat path, flooded into the camp, from fatigue barely swinging the limbs and rolling out the dog's tongues, the porters built up half a circle and joyfully applauded us. The fucks.