When I was young, I watched the old Bob Hope-Bing Crosby Road To movies. Bali, Utopia, Singapore exotic locales all, accompanied by the glamorous Dorothy Lamour. The comedic duo's reasons for leaving one place to head for another were always just an excuse for some scenic backdrops, some songs, and one-liners, and a score of pretty girls for Crosby to romance and Hope to fail to romance.

Last year, I got the chance to embark on the Road to Macchu Picchu. My reasons were obscure, and I could not work out if I was Crosby, Hope or Lamour. All three at various times, I suspected, although I broke into song only once. And, well, all right, there was belly dancing, but the Peruvian band asked me to. But I never romanced no girls.

I wended my way from Melbourne to Lima, and then Arequipa, Paracas, Puno, and Agua Calientes. If I was Lamour, I was accompanied by a mixture of Hope and Crosby, in a wisecracking, mild-mannered man. Every time I looked around, there he was, grinning at me. It was hard to look exotic and attractive when he was hoiking me up one of the ladders with his shoulder. I didn't remember Bob Hope holding Dorothy's head as she vomited into the toilet, during a bout of Peruvian Poo Virus.

Even so, his close companionship faded into the background when I walked through the modern turnstile and into the stone wonderland of Macchu Picchu, the remote Incan city in the mountains.

Every step was a postcard moment, a chance to stop and take a photo. But I wanted to absorb it for myself. If the city was laid out in a pattern, I could not see it. Left to my own devices, I quickly became lost in the narrow labyrinthine high walled paths.

Macchu Picchu is laid out in the shape of a condor.
"Use your imagination," said the guide, pointing to a slope which was meant to be the wingspan.

"A lot of imagination," I muttered to myself. "Good thing I'm a writer."

A few days later, I would repeat this as I was asked to see the llama shape of Ollantaytambo.

It was 5am and the sky already light, but I was there for sunrise, when the light hit the terraces. I was directed to climb up to a small house at the top of a set of terraces, the best look out point. I looked up, and up. I'd had enough of climbing. Everything in Peru was uphill, even the downhill. I simply could not climb all the way up there. I sat on a lower terrace, facing outwards to the Happy Mountain. Slowly, the sun climbed past the Sun Gate, the traditional entrance to Macchu Picchu, and the terraces below and before me went from a greyish green to a dazzling emerald. Shadows defined the stones. On the top of another mountain were tourists, snapping the ultimate postcard moment. I could only spot them because in every tourist crowd, there is one person wearing red.

From the moment the sun hit the city, I felt drawn in. On the guided tour, with a knowledgeable leader, I heard all but nothing. I took photos of significant stones and later would find I had no idea what they were for. I walked the alleys of the city, surrounded by Americans, fellow Australians, a Belgian, a Canadian, and three Poles. My feet sought contact with the ancient Incan presences of the city. I touched the walls as I walked. I sensed a deep quiet and gentle amusement. I, too, would feel amused if future generations from another country were tramping through my house, taking photos of my bed, my letterbox, and wondering what statement I was making with a long-unmown lawn.

Round and round I walked, looking at stone after stone. I no longer knew which way I faced. In a strange way, I walked to the heart of a labyrinth and found not the strangeness of the Minotaur, but a sense of home. I declared a storage shed my home, and as soon as I proved my Incan roots, I'd move in and put up curtains.

The tour continued, but I stopped listening, and stopped taking photos. I wanted to burn the feeling and sights into my mind. I appeared in others' photos, looking somewhat bewildered, and away with the Incans.

Afterwards, I sat on a small rock outcropping and wrote in my journal. I was here, at the heart of the organised tour, somewhere in Peru, in the labyrinth of Macchu Picchu. I'd walked a long path to get here. From being fearful of getting on a plane and assuming I'd always be in Melbourne, to making three international trips in one year, and even braving a Third World country, and starting to think of myself as a travel writer, and adventurer.

In the silence of the Incan city, or at least the silence of my little corner of it, I looked back over my journey and was full of astonishment. Did Theseus ever take a moment, in the heart of the labyrinth, to reflect on his journey from potential sacrifice to hero? Most likely not. Too busy being a hero and doing hero things, like following red threads, and fighting minotaurs.

I had no such fights to tackle. The very opposite, in fact. My Crosby-Hope companion made travelling easy, and provided amusement and entertainment along the way.

On the train from Agua Calientes back to Ollantaytambo, we sang together. We were not in tune, did not know all the words. We sang train songs a la Johnny Cash: Folsom Prison Blues, Orange Blossom Special, Hey Porter. To paraphrase Bob Hope in The Road to Bali, they're singing, time to go get popcorn.

For months afterwards, the walls and paths turned up in my dreams. Again, I walked the labyrinth towards a new understanding of myself. Having survived a post-Peruvian illness, I knew I could tackle any travel. The Road to the Yukon; The Road to Cairo; The Road to Rome; Dorothy Lamour and the Lions of Africa - they all wait for me.

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