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Life is full of surprises, like in 2001 when I planned an extensive trip through Peru. Two friends were worried about my plans and tried to change my mind. On multiple occasions, our newspapers reported American tourists being kidnapped in Peru for ransom to help fund the activities of the Maoist Shining Path guerrilla group.

I listened to their concerns and conducted research. There were numerous incidents of violence in Peru from 1980 to 2000. Many had been linked to Abigail Guzman, a Philosophy professor who indoctrinated his students into embracing the principles of the Shining Path's radical Maoist ideology. His students traveled to the central Peruvian Andes as teachers, aiming to convert rural peasants to the revolution’s goals. When Peru attempted to hold elections in the 1980s, the Shining Path resorted to sabotage, burning ballot boxes, and committing acts of violence. Their socialist/communist ideological struggle gradually evolved into armed guerrilla groups. 

The risk seemed to have diminished. Nevertheless, I screened and identified reputable Peruvians to meet Monty and me at various locations to act as our personal guides. This was before cell phones became common, yet I felt confident because I had a list of contacts and phone numbers for each location.

Everything went as planned during the first part. Later, we arrived in Cusco and met our guide and his driver, who took us through multiple Inca ruins throughout the Sacred Valley. I’ll always remember him playing his flute of the Incas as we explored some of the ruins. His haunting music mesmerized us as it echoed among the mountains, and that sound is still embedded in my memory. Afterward, we departed on our own to hike and climb Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu over several days.

To maximize every moment of daylight during our time in the Machu Picchu area, we caught the last train back to Cusco after a full day of hiking and exploring. It would take four hours to reach Cusco. I settled into my train seat and enjoyed the drinks and snacks a charming young, multi-language-speaking hostess brought. 

About an hour from Cusco, our train's intercom announced in multiple languages that we would be delayed due to an incident involving another train ahead blocking our path. Later, we were told our train was going to push the other train back onto the tracks so we could all go home. After several starts and stops, accompanied by strange, unsettling sounds, we suddenly heard loud scraping metal—followed by a series of jolts and the sudden tilting of our train car.

Alarmed passengers screamed, and then many began talking all at once. Monty and I didn’t understand any of the languages, nor did anyone seem to comprehend English. Before long, our hostess approached us and said in English, 

“Slight problem. You stay where you are. I care for you. Do not move!”

My mind began replaying some of the stories my friends had told me about kidnappings in Peru. So, Monty and I said a quick prayer.

The longer we sat there, knowing nothing, the more tension mounted among the travelers. Passenger voices grew louder and more insistent. Some began retrieving suitcases and exiting our train car. Monty and I exchanged glances. It was dark, we were an hour from Cusco, didn’t speak the language, and had no idea where we were. Aside from that, we were fine.

Our hostess returned to plead with us.

“Do not leave under any circumstances. I take care of you.”

Time dragged on. We noticed more passengers leaving.

Finally, our young hostess appeared again.

“Quick, quick! Grab suitcases. My brother outside. I take you to him and he take you to hotel. Him trustworthy. Do not trust anyone else—understand! No one else! Don’t even talk to anyone else.”

We grabbed our roller suitcases and headed for the door. When I stepped into the opening, I was temporarily blinded by car lights trying to illuminate the area. Shielding my eyes and looking down, I realized I was standing quite a distance from the ground because our train car was tilted. A long, large wooden plank had been placed in the doorway, with men holding it steady. Our hostess instructed me to step onto the wooden plank and walk its length since it extended to the other side of the ditch, where seemingly hundreds of people were standing and shouting, desperately trying to find those they believed were on one of the two trains. The chaos of people shouting felt distracting and unnerving. Monty motioned for me to go on.

“Hon, you can walk that plank. I’ll follow as soon as they let me.”

The hostess took my suitcase from my hand and extended her other hand to give me the confidence to walk forward on the plank. When Monty and I made it across, our petite hostess returned my suitcase and shouted.

“Stay close and follow me!”

With that, she ducked between people and moved quickly. I had to weave through the dense crowd without even knowing how to say, “Excuse me.” My head was on a swivel, trying to keep an eye on our fast-moving guide and ensuring I didn’t lose sight of Monty behind me. His large size made navigating through the tightly packed, shouting mass of humanity more challenging.

I couldn’t see well since all the car lights were directed toward the trains and there were no other light sources. After navigating through the crowd to the dimly lit back area, we met the brother, who looked like a teenager and spoke no English.

We climbed into the back seat of his small car, completely filling it. When I looked up, our hostess was gone. Monty and I sat there wide-eyed, trying to take it all in while wondering what would happen next. After a while, she returned and placed a middle-aged woman from Canada in the front seat. Following a highly charged conversation between our hostess and her younger brother, we set off for one of my life's most unforgettable car rides.

I’m unsure what small rural village we were in, but it had no lights and extremely narrow streets. He drove down a long street that ran between houses so close on both sides that we could have reached out and touched the homes simply by extending our hands through the car windows—but we didn’t. I prayed no one would step out of a door in front of us. The doors and windows of the homes were open, giving us a glimpse into the private lives of families gathered around whatever kind of light they had. I felt like an intruder spying on them.

When we left town, darkness swallowed us. The car's small headlights felt insufficient against the pitch black on a meandering mountain road. No lights were visible across the landscape except for the faint glow of an occasional house in the distance. Our driver must have been very familiar with the road for he drove swiftly. We could never anticipate how to brace ourselves since we didn't know when we would suddenly navigate a curve, and there were many. None of us spoke as we bounced around. The only sounds were our pounding hearts and the tires assaulting the rough dirt road.

We arrived in Cusco, our driver delivered us to our respective hotels and disappeared into the night. We, on the other hand, encountered great excitement at our hotel. Everyone knew of the train mishap and was worried. The hotel staff seemed overjoyed to see us. I wondered if their concern had anything to do with Americans being kidnapped before. 

We were told the man who had been our guide to the Sacred Valley—days earlier—kept contacting the hotel, trying to locate us. He and our past driver were trying to find us at the wreck's location, but we could not contact him.

Monty and I reclaimed our large suitcases, which we had left at the hotel while we explored the Machu Picchu area. We had to repack because the next morning, we would start our long bus ride to Lake Titicaca, a large freshwater lake 12,500 feet above sea level in the Andes mountains on the border of Bolivia and Peru.

So, we were still awake when our Sacred Valley guide arrived at the hotel to personally see us. He was so visibly distressed that he was nearly sick. I was afraid he would collapse. He couldn’t understand why we hadn’t heard him or the driver calling our names. I, on the other hand, was astounded. It never occurred to me that anyone would miss us or be looking for us. In all the bedlam, we weren’t listening for our names. We repeatedly assured him we were okay, thanked him for trying to help us, and tried to calm him down.

While researching current information on the Shining Path guerrilla group for this blog, I learned that more than half of the 70,000 people killed during the insurrection from 1980 to 2000 were attributed to the Maoist Shining Path. This helped me understand the Peruvians' intense panic regarding our safety and whereabouts. With such a high death toll, they likely had personal knowledge of at least one of the deaths or disappearances that occurred in the 20 years before our trip.

When others have asked me why I was so calm under the circumstances, it was the fact that Jesus said in John 10:25-30 that if I follow Him, nothing can take me out of His hand. I knew God was in control and with me regardless of what happened. As I reflect back on it now, the beautiful words and melody of the hymn “In Christ Alone” waft through my mind, especially the last verse.

No guilt in life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.

No power of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand
‘Till He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand.