In the long hours waiting for our ride, we made friends with someone who said he could arrange everything and that it would cost us nothing. True to his word, he spoke with a truck driver who agreed to take us. It turned out later, however, that he had merely organized that each of us would pay five soles less than the 20 per head the driver usually charged. We pleaded that we were completely broke, which was only a few cents away from being the truth. He promised to meet the debt, and this he did, taking us home for the night as well, after we arrived.
The road was fairly narrow, though not nearly as bad as the previous one, and pretty, winding through forest or tropical fruit plantations: bananas, papayas and others. It climbed up and down the whole way to Oxapampa, some 1,000 meters above sea level, which was our destination and the end of the highway.
Until this point we had been traveling in the same truck as the black guy who had reported the murder. At one of the stops along the road he bought us a meal and throughout it, lectured us on coffee, papaya and the black slaves, of whom his grandfather had been one. He said this quite openly but it you could detect a note of shame in his voice. In any case, Alberto and I agreed to absolve him of any guilt in the murder of his friend.
ESPERANZA FALLIDA
shattered hopes
With great disgust we learned the following morning that our Argentine friend had given us bad information and his mother hadn’t lived in Oxapampa for quite a long time. A brother-in-law lived there instead, so he had to deal with our dead weight. The reception was magnificent and we had a big, improvised meal, but we soon realized that as guests we were only welcome out of traditional Peruvian courtesy. We decided to ignore everything besides express marching orders, seeing as we were completely out of money and had built up several days worth of hunger, and we could eat only consistently in the home of our disinclined friends.
We had what for us was a wonderful day; swimming in the river, letting all of our worries disappear, eating a lot of good food and drinking exquisite coffee. But all good things sadly come to an end and by nightfall of the second day, the engineer (our “host” was an engineer) came up with a formula for his own salvation which was not only effective but particularly cheap: some roads inspector had offered to take us all the way to Lima. It seemed like a great idea to us as we were acutely feeling the restricted horizons and wanted to get to the capital to try and improve our luck. In other words, we fell for it, hook, line and sinker.
That night we boarded the back of a pickup truck which, after we had endured a violent downpour soaking us to our bones, dropped us at two in the morning in San Ramón, much less than even halfway to Lima. The driver said we should wait while he changed vehicles and to calm any suspicions he left his companion with us. After 10 minutes that guy went off to buy cigarettes, and at five in the morning this pair of Argentine wise guys breakfasted on the bitter realization that we had been taken for one long ride.
All I hope is that the driver gets what he deserves, and that, if it wasn’t another one of his lies, the driver-come-toreador meets death on the horns of one of his bulls… (In the pit of my stomach I knew something was wrong but he seemed like such a nice person we believed everything… even the whole vehicle swap.)
Shortly before dawn, we came across a couple of drunks and did our brilliant “anniversary” routine. The technique is as follows:
1. Say something loudly, immediately identifiable as Argentine, something with a che in it and other bits of slang and drawl. The candidate takes the bait, immediately asking where we’re from; we strike up a conversation.
2. Begin to speak of the hardships but don’t make too much of them, all the while maintaining a gaze fixed in the distance.
3. I intervene and ask for the date; someone provides it and Alberto sighs, saying: “Imagine the coincidence, it was a year ago today.” The candidate asks, a year ago since what; we respond that it was when we began our journey.
4. Alberto, much bolder than I am, lets out a gigantic sigh, saying, “Such a pity we’re in these dire circumstances, we aren’t able to celebrate” (he says this quietly, as if confiding in me). The candidate immediately offers to pay; we pretend to refuse for a while, admitting it would be impossible for us to ever pay him back, etc., and then finally, we accept the offer.
5. After the first drink, I steadfastly refuse to accept another and Alberto makes a face at me. Our host becomes a little angry and insists, but I refuse, without giving reasons. The man asks and asks until I confess, full of embarrassment, that our custom in Argentina is to eat when we drink. Just how much we eat depends on how we judge the candidate’s face. All in all, this is a highly refined technique.
In San Ramón we tried it again and, as always, were able to concretize the enormous amount we had to drink with some solid food. In the morning we rested on the shores of the river — a very pretty landscape even though its beauty escaped our aesthetic attentions somewhat, transforming itself into terrifying mirages of all types of edible delicacies. Nearby, peeking through a fence, the plump forms of oranges materialized. Our feast was fierce and sad; in one minute our stomachs felt full and acidy and in the next the stabbing of a severe hunger resumed.
Famished, we decided to cast off the little shame that stubbornly remained, and to sort ourselves out at the local hospital. This time it was Alberto who was overcome with a strange timidity, and I had to find the right words to intone the following diplomatic speech:
“Doctor” — we found one in the hospital — “I am a medical student, my companion is a biochemist. We are both from Argentina and we are hungry. We would like to eat.” In such a surprise frontal attack, the poor doctor could do nothing but agree to buy us a meal from the restaurant where he himself ate. We were so brazen.
Alberto was so ashamed he didn’t even thank him, and we set about fishing for another truck, which we eventually caught. We were now heading to Lima, comfortably installed in the driver’s cabin, who now and then even paid for coffee.
We were climbing the extremely narrow mountain road which had inspired such fear on the way in. The driver was happily relating the history of each and every cross lining the way, when suddenly he hit a huge hole in the middle of the road, visible to any fool. Our dread that the man didn’t know how to drive crept steadily higher, but elementary logic told us this wasn’t possible, that on this road anyone but the most experienced of drivers would have driven over the edge long ago. Tactfully and with patience, Alberto extracted the real story. The man had been in an accident which, according to him, had left his eyesight very poor, explaining why he hit so many potholes. We tried to make him understand the dangers — for him, and for the people traveling with him. But the driver was unyielding: this was his job, and he was paid very well by a boss who didn’t ask how he arrived, only if he arrived. Besides, his driving license had been very expensive, considering the decent bribe he’d had to pay to get it.
The owner of the truck climbed on board a little further down the road. He seemed happy to take us to Lima but only if I, riding up top, would hide away when we came to police checkpoints because taking passengers on freight trucks like this one was prohibited. The owner also turned out to be a good person, giving us food all the way to the capital. We passed through La Oroya before that, however, a mining town we dearly wanted to see, but we weren’t able to stop. La Oroya is at an altitude of some 4,000 meters, and from its unrefined appearance you can picture the hardship in a miner’s life. Its tall chimneys throw up black smoke, impregnating everything with soot, and the miners’ faces as they traveled the streets were also imbued with that ancient melancholy of smoke, unifying everything with its grayish monotone, a perfect coupling with the gray mountain days. We crossed the highest point on the road while it was still light, at 4,853 meters above sea level. Though it was still daytime, the cold was intense. Tucked up in my traveling blanket, staring out at the view extending on every side, I muttered all sorts of verses, lulled by the roar of the truck.
/> That night we slept just outside the city, and the following day we made it early to Lima.
LA CIUDAD DE LOS VIRREYES
the city of the viceroys
We were at the end of one of the most important stages of our journey, without a cent or much chance in the short term of making any money, but we were happy.
Lima is a pretty city, which has already suppressed its colonial past (after seeing Cuzco it seems more so) beneath new houses. Its fame as a precious jewel of a city is unjustified, but its residential suburbs are connected by wide avenues to the extremely agreeable resorts close to the sea. The people of Lima travel from the city to the port of Callao along various wide arterials in just a few minutes. The port has no special attraction (construction of all ports seems to be completely standardized) save the fort, the scene of many battles. Alongside its enormous walls we stood in wonder at Lord Cochrane’s extraordinary feat when, leading his Latin American sailors, he attacked and seized this bastion in one of the most celebrated episodes in the history of Latin America’s liberation.
The part of Lima really worth describing is the city center around its wonderful cathedral, so different from that heavy monstrosity in Cuzco, where the conquistadors crudely glorified themselves. There in Lima, the art is more stylized, with an almost effeminate touch: the cathedral towers are tall and graceful, maybe the most slender of all the cathedrals in the Spanish colonies. The lavishness of the woodwork in Cuzco has been left behind and taken up here in gold. The naves are light and airy, contrasting with those dark, hostile caverns of the Inca city. The paintings are also bright, almost joyous, and of schools more recent than the hermetic mestizos, who painted their saints with a dark and captive fury. All of the churches convey in their facades and altars the full scope of Churrigueresque gold-embellished art.* This vast wealth enabled the aristocracy to resist the liberating armies of America until the last moment. Lima is the perfect example of a Peru which has not developed beyond the feudal condition of a colony. It still waits for the blood of a truly emancipating revolution.
But there is a corner of the regal city which is most dear to us, and we went there frequently to relive our memories of Machu Picchu; this was the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Don Julio Tello was its creator, a pure blood Indian scholar. It contains extremely valuable collections, synthesizing entire cultures.
Lima is quite unlike Córdoba, but it has that same look of a colonial, or rather provincial, city. We visited the consulate, where letters awaited us and, after reading them, went to see what we could do with an introduction we had for a bureaucrat at the Foreign Office, who, of course, didn’t want to know us. We roamed from one police station to the next — until at one of them we got a plate of rice — and in the afternoon we visited Dr. Hugo Pesce, the expert leprologist, who welcomed us with extraordinary kindness for someone at the head of such a well-respected medical unit. He secured us lodging in the leprosy hospital and that night invited us to eat at his house. He turned out to be a fascinating conversationalist. It was very late when we got to bed.
It was also very late when we got up and had breakfast. There was apparently no “order” to feed us, so we decided to go down to Callao and visit the port. The going was very slow because it was May 1 and there was no public transport; we had to do the whole 14 kilometers on foot. There was nothing in particular to see in Callao, much less any Argentine boats. More bald-faced than ever, we presented ourselves at a police station and begged a bit of food, then beat a speedy retreat back to Lima. We again ate at Dr. Pesce’s, who told us of his experiences with different types of leprosy.
In the morning we went to the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Incredible, but a lack of time meant we couldn’t see everything. The afternoon we dedicated to becoming familiar with the leprosy hospital,* with a guided tour by Dr. Molina, who, as well as being a good leprologist, is apparently an excellent thoracic surgeon. As was our custom by then, we went to eat at Dr. Pesce’s.
We lost the whole of Saturday morning in the city center trying to change 50 Swedish crowns; we succeeded finally after a bit of hustling. We spent the afternoon exploring the laboratory, which didn’t have much worth envying and, in fact, left a lot to be desired. The bibliographic records, however, were formidable in their clarity and method of organization and also in their comprehensive detail. At night, of course, we were off to Dr. Pesce’s for dinner, and as always he proved his skill in animated conversation.
Sunday, an important day for us. Our first bullfight, and despite the fact that it went by the name of a novillada, a fight with lesser standard bulls and toreadors, we were hugely excited; so much so that I almost couldn’t concentrate on one of Tello’s books I was reading in the library that morning. We arrived as the bullfight was starting and just as we entered, a novitiate was killing the bull, but not in the normal way, by a coup de grâce.* As a result the bull was suffering, laid out on the ground, while the toreador tried to finish it off and the public shouted. For the third bull there was considerable excitement when it spectacularly hooked the toreador and threw him to the air, but that was it. The fiesta closed with the almost unnoticed death of the sixth bull. Art, I see none; courage, a certain level; skill, not much; excitement, relative. In summary, it all depends what there is to do on a Sunday.
On Monday morning we again went to the museum. In the evening, to Dr. Pesce’s house, where we met a professor of psychiatry, Dr. Valenza, another good talker who told us war anecdotes and others much like the following: “The other day I went to our local cinema to see a film with Cantinflas.** Everyone laughed but I understood nothing. This was not so strange; the rest of the people couldn’t understand anything either. So, why were they laughing? In reality, they laugh at themselves, each one of them was laughing at a part of themselves. We’re a young country, without tradition or culture, we’ve barely been discovered. And so they laugh at all the blights our infantile civilization has not been able to fix… But now then, has North America fully matured, despite its skyscrapers, its cars, its good fortune? Has it left its youth behind? No, the differences are in form only, they are not fundamental; all America is a sister in this. Watching Cantinflas, I understood Pan-Americanism!”
Tuesday saw no change — in terms of museum visits — but at three in the afternoon we met with Dr. Pesce who gave Alberto a white suit and myself a jacket of the same color. Everyone concurs — we almost look human. The rest of the day was of no real importance.
Several days have passed and we have one foot in the stirrup, but remain uncertain as to when we will be leaving. We were supposed to leave two days ago, but the truck that is to take us hasn’t left yet. The many parts that make up our journey are going well. In terms of furthering our knowledge, we visit museums and libraries. But the only one that really matters is the Archaeology and Anthropology Museum, founded by Dr. Tello. From a scientific perspective, leprosy that is, we have met Dr. Pesce; the others are merely his disciples and have a long way to go before producing anything worthwhile. Because there are no biochemists in Peru, the lab is run by specialist doctors and Alberto has spoken with some of them, putting them in touch with people in Buenos Aires. He got on well with two of them but the third person… Well, Alberto introduced himself as Dr. Granado, specialist in leprosy, etc., and they took him to be a medical doctor. So this silly guy he questioned, responded with: “No, there are no biochemists here. Just as there’s a law prohibiting doctors from establishing pharmacies, we don’t let pharmacists interfere in things they don’t understand.” Alberto was ready to get violent so I gave him a gentle nudge and this dissuaded him.
In spite of its simplicity, one of the things which left a very strong impression on us in Lima was the way the hospital patients farewelled us. They had all chipped in 100½ soles, which they gave to us along with an effusive letter. Afterwards some of them came to say goodbye to us personally and in more than one case tears were shed as they thanked us for the little bit of life we’d giv
en them. We shook their hands, accepted their gifts, and sat with them listening to football on the radio. If there’s anything that will make us seriously dedicate ourselves to leprosy, it will be the affection shown to us by all the sick we’ve met along the way.
Lima as a city does not live up to its long tradition as a viceregal seat, but its residential suburbs are very pretty and spacious and so are its new streets. An interesting fact was the number of police surrounding the Colombian embassy. There were no less than 50 uniformed and plainclothes policemen doing permanent guard duty around the entire block.
The first day’s journey out of Lima was unremarkable. We saw the road up to La Oroya and the rest we traveled during the night, arriving at Cerro de Pasco at dawn. We traveled in the company of the Becerra brothers, who we called Cambalache* or Camba for short. They turned out to be very good people, especially the older one. We continued driving all day, descending into more pleasant places, and the headache and general feeling of ill-health I’d had since Ticlio, at 4,853 meters the highest point above sea level, started to improve. As we passed Huánuco and approached Tingo María, the front left axle broke, but luckily the wheel became stuck in the mudguard so we didn’t turn over. That night we had to stay put. I needed to give myself an injection, but as luck would have it, the syringe broke.
The next day was uneventful and asthmatic, but that night fortune turned our way when Alberto mentioned in a melancholic voice that today, May 20, was the six-month anniversary of our departure. That was the pretext for the pisco to flow. By the third bottle, Alberto stumbled to his feet, abandoned a little monkey he’d been holding in his arms, and disappeared from the scene. The younger Camba continued for another half a bottle, and crashed on the spot.
The Motorcycle Diaries Page 14
