by Brian Keenan
The sense of gloom and decline is emphasized outside Belén where there is a cemetery surrounded by a high wall with a massive eucalyptus tree, dead and skeletal, towering above it. It is an image from Armageddon.
We drive on through the afternoon over narrow, rutted tracks in the thick fog called camanchaca. Our horizons expand a little when we pull in at a truck stop. We are now on the main road from Bolivia down to Arica and many huge lorries loom out of the fog.
Brian has appeared to sleep for most of the afternoon. Not a bad idea given the dullness beyond the windscreen, but we other three keep giggling about his ‘advanced years’ and his need for rest. I become aware of a beady eye glinting at me.
‘I am not asleep – just resting my eyes.’
We are aware that altitude sickness can be unpleasant and Brian is taking no chances; we still have a long way to climb so he is keeping his breathing regular, like the wily old-timer he is, rather than getting puffed as I have done looking for ancient remains.
Eduardo leads us into the café for some maté tea which he says is good for altitude sickness.
‘And it will keep the old man awake,’ he adds, doubling up. The place is very basic but it is clean and the family who own it give us a warm welcome. We have bread and cheese with our tea as we look at Tourist Board photographs of the great Chilean beach resort of Viña del Mar and the spectacular views of water and snow-capped volcanoes bright in the sunshine of the Lake District far to the south, the only points of colour in the otherwise drab room.
When we reached the truck stop, the light was fading fast and the evening was becoming bitter cold. The place was as spartan as one would expect in this region and we desperately needed something hot.
Maté is not a drink native to Chile, but it is common enough in Bolivia and Peru and we were near to those borders. I had not tasted it before and was curious. It is simply a brew of boiling water and thick green leaves. When the large steaming bowl was set in front of me, I mashed up the leaves in it and tried to smell what I was about to drink. Eduardo told me it was necessary to let it infuse. I was given a few straws but thought it a little childish at my age to be sucking tea through a straw, so while the others chatted, I sat and waited. We were brought a large plateful of chocolate digestive biscuits. McCarthy laughed at this small surprise and quickly began demolishing them. I had ventured into the maté. It tasted quite innocuous and so, as I drank, I chewed the leaves. I ordered another as I was sure I would not be tasting any more for the rest of our journey. Karlen and Eduardo looked at me incredulously.
‘What are you doing?’
I joked that I was still hungry.
‘But this is very strong tea,’ they said, ‘you must not chew the leaves.’ I thought I had heard Eduardo telling me that these were coca leaves and I shrugged my shoulders.
John roared with laughter. ‘No, you blithering imbecile, not coca leaves, loco leaves.’ L-o-c-o, he spelled out, grinning wildly. When he had finished, he informed me that if I persisted I would go crazy. I wondered whether the guides were having some fun with us and I continued chewing, rolling my eyes in mock dementia.
That evening we were due to stay in the outskirts of the town of Putré. The hotel, if you could call it that, had originally been built to accommodate migratory miners. It was more or less a series of one-room cabins set off from the main building, where one could eat and watch television in a communal room. John jokingly warned our guides that if they wanted to sleep that night they should take cabins well away from the mad Irishman. When they questioned him as to why, he informed them that he would tell them in the morning – ‘if they slept’. We quickly unpacked our bags and took a very brief and very cold shower. The absence of any mining in the area and the scarcity of people passing through meant that there was no perceived need to heat any water. To underline his own advice, John had taken a room some distance from mine.
After half an hour or so we all gathered in the dining room for our supper. There was no menu and only one basic dish of potatoes and vegetables and a choice of meats. The hotel cats were probably better fed that evening than they had been in several years.
Perhaps because this part of our journey was coming to an end we were relaxed and in good form. We cracked some jokes about the impossibility of eating the meat, which had the texture of well-tanned yak hide. Our guides were intrigued by our yak farm idea. We began explaining the project as simply and as briefly as we could without labouring the subject of our captivity in Lebanon.
I was becoming a little light-headed and giddy. I thought it had to do with a combination of thin air, my own tiredness and the wine we had been drinking at lunch with Patcha Mama.
We were also discussing the various ceremonies and festivals that take place in these villages. The conversation triggered a lunatic train of thought in me. I began to explain that for many years after we had established our yak farm in the area, these villages would have a new festival day dedicated to the yak. With elaborate descriptions I painted the picture of these nomadic herders coming for miles and miles through the mountains to the ceremonial village on the blessed Day of the Yak. And how, many years later, a wizened, grey-bearded village elder, a rough-cut St Francis of Assisi, would tell the village children of the two strangers with their great lumbering beasts. A folklore would develop around the story of these gringos. In every adobe cabin in every village there would be old sepia photographs of McCarthy and Keenan pinned to the wall and above these images would be posies of bright mountain flowers.
I was concocting the story as I spoke, encouraged by the stunned faces of the guides. McCarthy was clearly enjoying the fantasy I was unfolding, and was soon laughing with me. As my elaborations grew so did my laughter. The lunacy was catching.
Prayers would be offered up for the repose of the souls of Keenan and McCarthy. At supper, bottles of red wine would be hoisted up to these two men. Everyone would carry a miraculous medal with our faces on one side and the head of the bull yak on the other. The after-effects of the maté were producing scenarios that drew even more strange looks from our guides, but threw McCarthy into outrageous guffaws.
When we arrived back at our cabins I was too exhausted to do anything other than flop onto the bed. We had been warned by our guides that the thin air in these regions sometimes made sleeping difficult if one wasn’t used to it. They added that it also had the effect of producing strange or disturbing dreams. I felt so weary that I was heedless of their advice, convinced that nothing would affect my sleeping.
I looked around the tiny room, and thought about the miserable lives of the miners who had nothing more to do at the end of a day’s labour than sleep or read a newspaper. I undressed and rolled into the bed as if I myself had dug up half the mountain that morning.
I don’t know when I slept or for how long or if during that time I had even dreamed, but some time in the middle of the night I was suddenly awake, panicking and gasping for breath. One moment I was asleep and the next I was sitting bolt upright on my bed and taking short gasps of breath as though there was no air in the room. It took me some moments to compose myself and return to a normal pattern of breathing. The effects of what had happened to me were something similar to a miniature seizure. I quickly assured myself that I was not at the edge of coronary collapse. But I also convinced myself that if this was the result of living in high altitudes then the Indians, the miners and whoever wanted it, could keep it.
I burst out laughing. I imagined myself galloping across these hills, got up like some pioneer mountain-man. Dressed up all in leather and sheepskin but on my back I had strapped a gleaming tank of oxygen! Clamped across my face was not a colourful scarf but a breathing mask. As suddenly as I had begun, I stopped laughing. I felt myself losing control of my breathing again. I began panting like a woman in labour.
However I got through the night, it left its mark. The next morning I had deep, dark rings around my eyes. I washed and dressed hoping that breakfast would be an impr
ovement on the evening’s meal. The water was still freezing cold. I shuddered as it stung my skin. It was becoming obvious that I was not mountain-man material.
When I entered the dining room our guides and John were already perched at the table. Having greedily gulped down the steaming coffee to warm myself, I mentioned to John and our companions that I had had a poor night’s sleep. He replied that he too had found difficulty sleeping and had woken gasping for air. And then he wheeled in his chair and said, ‘It’s all your fault anyway.’
‘Me?’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, the amount of air you filter through your nostrils every night, it’s no wonder there was no air in your room, or anybody else’s for that matter!’ John paused and, turning to our guides, asked solicitously, ‘And did you two sleep well last night?’
They hesitated for a moment before Eduardo said, ‘Well, not really, I seem to hear many volcanoes in the night.’
Karlen quickly agreed. ‘Yes, me too, all through the night, volcanoes and earthquakes.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel embarrassed, as John rounded on me again: ‘See, I can’t take you anywhere.’
The next morning the air is thick with camanchaca as we enter the Lauca National Park. The main road takes you past the world’s highest military base at 4,350 metres. Although there is some ill feeling towards Chile from Bolivia and Peru because of the lands taken in the War of the Pacific it seems overcautious to have a military presence here, rather than merely a customs post.
‘Really they are more interested in the drug running than invasion,’ Karlen explains.
‘Given the fog,’ I say, ‘I’d have thought even the most incompetent smuggler could simply walk past the gate, with kilos of whatever, in broad daylight.’
Just inside the park we see some vicuñas and the curious little rabbit-like vizcachas with their long tails and ears which sit on rocks. The Aymara herders keep their flocks of llama and alpaca in this region. These domesticated beasts, which, with the guanacos and vicuñas, are South American members of the camel family, like to feed on the bofedales, the swampy pastures. They provide a strange sight, with their long necks and shaggy coats, some adorned with ribbons, as they munch the wiry, dark green grass in the muted, foggy atmosphere.
Eduardo stops to talk to an old herder who is wearing light trousers, a thin jersey, sandals but no socks, and a sou’wester over a baseball cap. The whole ensemble is topped off with a sheet of polythene wrapped around his shoulders. He says it is the lambing season. Most herders have around a hundred head and keep them penned in stone folds at night. A friend comes up carrying what looks like a small piece of sponge. It is in fact rock hard and Karlen explains that this is llareta which, when dead, as is this piece, can be used as fuel. It grows at a millimetre a year which seems like a hell of a long time to wait for a bit of warmth. The men though, in their light clothing, seem oblivious to the murky conditions and their faces, weathered to a deep mahogany, are constantly smiling.
As we climb still higher there are patches of snow on the ground but it is impossible to maintain a sense of perspective because of the fog. Now we are on a good road we seem to drive for miles without seeing any other traffic, often climbing up a rise that suggests we will disappear into the clouds and find something new, only to discover another stretch of snow-skirted tarmac ahead.
Brian and I exchange glances. Having spent so much time together we are pretty adept at following each other’s thoughts, a skill honed in situations where, blindfolded, we might be dealing with a hostile guard and every nuance of conversation could be important. We learned to read as much from each other’s pauses as from the spoken words. The need for cautious communication was also useful when dealing with our own disputes and those of other hostages. Generally we can read each other well though there are times when we get things wildly wrong. This is not one of them.
‘This is beginning to get rather dull,’ I observe and Brian just grins and gives me a ‘you said it, pal’ wink. The captive imagination had not conjured the Andes in this way: anxious, heavy breathing in a bank of fog.
Then, as if stage-managed by a great impresario, the clouds part slowly to give us spectacular views of Parinacota, 6,342 metres high, the snow-covered volcano beyond the sun-bright waters of Lake Chungara.
It takes whole minutes for the view to be revealed. I find myself trying to guess how the mountain will appear as, almost coyly, it sheds its cape. Down by the lakeshore one can really appreciate the scale and majesty of the place. It is vast, peaceful and there are no other humans in sight. I stand there pondering the wonder of it all when I become aware of the sound of derisory laughter. Looking around to find the source I realize I am being mocked by birds. Checking in my guidebook I discover that Chungara is home to the Fulica gigantea – the giant coot.
We take a drive with Jorge, a ranger for Chile’s Corporacion Nacional Forestal (CONAF). As we go along he points out vicuñas. Karlen translates for us. ‘They are smaller than their guanaco relations and have very fine wool. Once they were all owned by the Inca kings. They were almost hunted to extinction, but now they are protected by CONAF and are doing very well. Jorge says that they may provide additional income for the Aymara herders.’
An eagle swoops from high above us down low as if to mock the ungainly scuttlings of the rheas, cousins to the ostrich.
We reach our destination, the thermal springs at Chirigualla. The water from them bubbles up green, yellow and white over the rocky stream bed. The air close by is clammy with steam and thick with the smell of sulphur. I go up to where Jorge squats next to the main thermal pool, wanting to feel the water. I feel it all too much as one leg goes in up to the knee: the rock I thought I was stepping on is nothing more than a platform of mineral scum. Strange place, this Lauca: plants that look soft but are as hard as rocks, and rocklike objects as soft as soggy papier mâché.
Now it is Brian’s turn to laugh with our guides. ‘Watch out, John boy, or you’ll be putting your foot in it!’
I slept until we reached the village of Parinacota. It is one of several ceremonial villages located in the area. It dates back to pre-conquest times and has belonged to the Aymara tribe since then. It is ceremonial in the sense that it is not a permanently inhabited village. These people are still nomads and permanent settlement is not part of their way of life. They live with their animals and go wherever they go. But they return to this village for certain specific religious or other tribal meetings. Though the village is empty apart from these ceremonial occasions it doesn’t have the feel of a ghost town. It is so well kept. At any moment one expects someone to open the door of one of the small adobe homes, or a shepherd to come wandering around a corner with a flock of sheep or goats, or to see the priest scurrying across the courtyard to ring the bell and call his parishioners to prayer.
The church itself sits at the very centre of the village and undoubtedly is the hub of all life here. It is an exquisite and magnificent example of its kind, enclosed by a clay stucco stone wall with three arched doors and capped in pink volcanic rock. The massive bell tower is attached to one corner of the church perimeter. The original church dates from the early seventeenth century and had been partly rebuilt in 1789. It still retains its traditional thatched roof and even the wall surrounding the church grounds is topped with thatch. Once again, the bell tower or steeple was deliberately set separately from the church structure itself. I liked this male/female division. Indirectly it spoke of sexuality and of fecundity and procreation, and this tiny little church high in these cold northern hills was more eloquent than any church I have been in before or since. There was something simple yet immensely more passionate here than in any cathedral of any great city or empire in the world.
As I stood looking, I thought that the little church and the landscape it sat in would have been a colourist’s fantasy. The massive sky overhead seemed to have so many shades of blue. The clouds were either incredibly white or tinged with grey-blue and a
kind of feeble purple and pink. The landscape beyond the village was one of rolling hills and great mountains in the distance. Here were browns and greens and greys. It could have been a scene from the Scottish Highlands. But the church itself animated the scene. The walls enclosing it were losing their whitewash, revealing the curious pinks and beige of the volcanic stone from which they were built. The arched doorway of the church was a soft powder blue with side pillars and lintel decorated in strong red and bright primrose.
Inside, at first glance, one thought oneself in a barn. For here was no vaulted ceiling or flying buttresses, only tree-branch rafters covered in cobwebs and thatch. The whitewash was peeling in here also, and everywhere the villagers had embossed the walls with a naive decoration in green and gold. No barn could have been so lovingly painted. I was attracted by the images of the Virgin and the saints. They were unlike those statues one normally finds in churches. Here each of them was dressed in real clothes which had been specially sewn for them and they were more like dolls than objects of veneration. The altar itself was smothered in lavish heavy lace and damask; bunting was everywhere, giving the place the atmosphere of a carnival about to begin. It might have been a hoopla stall.
The little Indian caretaker who had come with the key to let us in was silent and unintrusive as we slowly walked around. I noticed that he was dressed in a suit. It was a little too big for him and probably twenty-five years older than he was. But I was impressed by him. In this back of beyond he had deliberately dressed in his Sunday best to open the church for us gringos. He led us excitedly to the back of the church and revealed an old sea chest. When he opened it we were shown the boots and clothes and the sword of what must have been one of the very first Spanish settlers in this area. Everything was covered in a heavy layer of dust. The smell of age as the old caretaker opened the chest was all too evident. I wondered how long he would still have these relics to show to the very occasional stranger.
