CHAPTER FOUR
Ola Hodaka, Old Friend
Completely befuddled, I confirmed the name on the scrap of paper handed to me by the strange woman, dressed as a giant corndog, at the Astete International Airport in Cuzco. Holding it aloft for comparison to the battered wooden sign above the sorrowful looking tavern's doorway, I blinked my eyes in the light drizzle enveloping the rickety old street. The writing, indeed, matched: Parrilla de la Roca del Buho or, approximately, The Owl Rock Grill.
A rough wooden door was attached unevenly to the stone facade by two wrought-iron hinges, resting uneasily atop a well-trodden threshold. The windows on each side of the imposing entrance were of a greenish hue, much like a decades-old soda bottle found in an abandoned garage, hopelessly opaque with the accumulation of dust, grime and oil. I cast a final look in the direction of the Plaza de Armas at the far end of the street before entering the mysterious taberna.
If the outside of the building was foreboding in appearance, its interior took the definition to an even greater level of intimidation. Faceless silhouettes sat in darkness along the walls, the orange glow of their burning cigarettes like signal beacons lining an airport runway at night. The low ceiling, with narrow strips of exposed beams, added to the crushing sense of claustrophobic panic as I stepped down onto the uneven floor. At the end of the room stood the bar, glimmering yellow from the light cast by multiple candles lining its arch facade and shelves. There, in the midst of alcoholic dispensation, a pocket-size rail of an ancient woman moved back and forth like a haggard high priestess making holy at her altar. Not a word had been issued with my appearance. Instead, I was being read like a chapter on the human reproduction system in a high school anatomy textbook.
"Ola," I hailed, holding firm my stance amid the uncertainty of the hostile atmosphere, "mi perro se." My mind stumbled and snagged on itself while searching for the correct words in my rust-encrusted Spanish vocabulary, "mi perro se nombra Baron von dek Horn."
The ensuing laughter grew exponentially like a chorus of frogs croaking at the perimeter of a bog pond, leaving me in a derisory fog compounded by a nagging urge of having to urinate. "So, your dog is Baron von dek Horn, señor," a male voice inquired from behind me, "por favor, who are you?"
"I am Baron von dek Horn," I repeated, realizing the error made. "Sent here by --"
"So, you are a perro?"
"In some respects, yes," I chuckled, opting to accept good-naturedly my blunder. "When in dogged pursuit of my quarry. I was sent here by," I paused, not quite achieving a good look at the woman wearing the brightly colored pollera, her face hidden beneath a large montera. "Actually, I'm not so sure who sent me."
"Divine intervention, maybe?" The speaker translated the exchange for the benefit of those non-English conversant in the room, bringing another charge of laughter. "The hand of God must be upon you."
"And also upon you," I grinned, hoping to establish a civil affinity with my anonymous cohort. Choosing my words carefully, I elected to speak in a water-downed missionary chatter which I hoped sounded both amiable and harmless. "I am tired from my journey, having just traveled twenty four hours in order to arrive in your fair city. Too, I am lightheaded from the altitude, for my Caucasian lungs know only the thick air of the low lying forest floor. Might I gain a seat and partake in a mug of good cheer?"
"You sound Medieval, señor knight." More translation followed, echoed by more laughter. The unseen converser spoke rapidly to the old woman behind the counter, who placed a clay cup under a nearby tap. "Sit down, amigo. You have five minutes to rest your weary bones. Then we leave."
"Five minutes? Leave?" I lurched toward one of the two vacant stools visible in the dim light. Any hope of grabbing an empty berth for a short amount of uninterrupted sleep faded into the blackness around me. "I told you, man, I just arrived in Cuzco after a lengthy and complicated effort."
"Entiendo, señor. Hard of hearing I am not. But your friend said you would be soon to follow up the hill, so it is up the hill we will go. Soon."
"Friend? The message indicated I was to come here."
"Si. And so you have." His tone took on a nastiness. "Now drink and we leave to meet your amigo."
I placed my valise on the floor and eased onto the wobbly stool, positioning my attaché strap so it slung across my shoulder and chest bandoleer-style. This particular pouch -- containing my papers, mobile, notebook, passport and the remaining all-important medicinal leaves Antoine had kindly given me -- I could not afford to lose. The old woman pushed the earthen cup across the rough top of the bar, resting against my fingers.
"Cerveza de raíz. ¡Bébala!" she commanded, lifting her hand into the air as if pouring the liquid in her mouth.
I raised the cup and sniffed its rim.
"A and W root beer, my friend. From my mother's special collection. You should feel honored."
"Gracias," I replied, nodding my head to the woman. She scowled and crossed her arms, retreating back against a musty wooden column. "Quite refreshing, indeed. Say, my good fellow, will we be taking the same train to Machu Picchu as my friend?"
"¿Tren? ¡El tren está para las mariquitas!" The room erupted into laughter, permitting me to count at least a half-dozen various individuals present. "No train! Real men make their own ride to the ruins. You are tough guy Yankee, yes? You join us to ride and meet your friend. You feel better about yourself doing so."
"Will we rendezvous with my friend at the ruins?"
"So many questions, amigo. Drink your drink and do not worry."
Yes, I was full of query, served alongside a healthy dollop of trepidation. The identity of the friend who arranged this contact and transportation? Was it Angel? Why not take the train to Machu Picchu? To avoid confrontation with Bridgework? I tipped up my porkpie and rubbed my brow, thankful I phoned Tumultuous Manor from the airport to advise of my present destination. I hoped to reach Miss Kolpeaux and discuss the sad state of my travel arrangements, but instead I interrupted Smudgely as he diligently waxed the Whippet. Mia, it seemed, was busying herself sunbathing next to the upper pool. What I would have given to be standing over her, mojita in hand, addressing the proper protocol of von dek Horn migration. We fly first-class, Mia, ever and always.
"It is time."
"What's that?" The vision of a bikinied Mia, smiling and waving at me, vanished.
"Move, gringo. Up and move."
I gulped the last of the root beer and wearily reached for my valise.
"No, no, no. Your luggage remains. No bag."
"Certainly, my good man. Will it be safe here?"
A flurry of Español flew about the room, followed by the rattle of metallic clicking. The barrel of an ancient rifle rose out from the shadows to my left, accompanied by a voice filled with indignation and hurt. "My mother is not trustworthy? ¿Usted está insultando a mi madre?"
"Untrustworthy, heavens no," I replied laughing off my remark, flush with perspiration from grateful respect of the firepower directed my way. "It's just, well, it's full of soiled laundry and I wouldn't wish to place such a burden upon a woman as dear and sweet as your madre." My smile was also insincere but just as convincing.
"My apologies, señor. I appreciate your concern for mi madre." The rifle barrel rammed sharply against my kneecap. "Now move!"
Prodded by the weapon, I was directed through an open door next to the bar itself and propelled down a dank, debris-strewn hallway. Which "friend" of mine would have arranged for such treatment? Certainly not Angel! That was, at least, my hope.
"Izquierdo, gringo."
As my spine filled the gun sight belonging to my nameless guide, I willingly entered the small exterior courtyard filled with mud-spattered motocross dirt bikes, all crudely rigged and haphazardly painted. Strands of rusty barbwire curled along the top of a ten-foot high concrete wall, negating any thought of a quick successful escape. An ample sized adolescent boy, grinning broadly, stood guard next to the latch of the wooden gate located at the opposite end of the
rectangular enclosure.
"Our transport," my guide said, remaining directly behind me. "You are the lucky one who rides the scrappy Hodaka."
For a few moments all my distress evaporated and I traveled back to my early teens, when many a summer day was spent traversing the trails surrounding Tumultuous Manor on my very own Hodaka Ace 90. With its fire engine red frame contrasting smartly against the chrome handlebars and gas tank, I proudly sat astride its thick black cushion seat when comporting myself to the outermost hinterlands of the family property. Over time, I became a proficient operator of the early motorized trail bike while acquiring intimate and valuable knowledge of the estate grounds. "An Ace Ninety," I remarked, more to myself than the audience of kerchief-wearing roughnecks who now drifted to their own rides. "I'll be jiggered."
"A Yankee know it all, too," the leader said, facing me for the first time. He was tall and gaunt and, even with the red bandanna covering all but his eyes, I knew he was most definitely not a native of Cuzco. Indeed, his accent and use of colloquial urban expressions led me to believe he was raised somewhere near a metropolis in Central America. "Well, know this, gringo. Try to leave us and you will be met with great disappointment and severe punishment."
"I'll comply with your wishes." Selfishly, I wanted to see how this old beauty handled before committing myself to any alternative plans.
"Of course you will, gringo," he laughed. "I'm behind you with two more riders. Any upset from our ride and this!" He ripped the tip of his finger from one side of his throat to the other.
"There will be no need for that, now. I assure you I want to get to the ruins just as badly as you do."
"We will see, Yankee. Follow the pack."
Within seconds the courtyard was filled with such a roar of engines it was difficult to tell if the Hodaka had accepted my kick start until I spotted the telltale stream of blue exhaust spurting in rhythm with my gunning the throttle. The power plant housed a tight compression, impressive after leaving the assembly line so many years ago. With a full fuel tank, at forty miles per gallon, I could make Machu Picchu non-stop. The ruins were -- according to the Slipstream Green in-flight publication Why Are You Here? -- roughly fifty miles from where I sat idling. The formation of cycles took shape with the drivers lowering goggles over their eyes and tugging at the tight chaps covering their pants. In a bumper-car maneuver, the leader wheeled his front tire into the Hodaka's exhaust, nudging my conveyance sideways.
"You've ridden before, yes, Mr. Yankee know it all?" he challenged above the thundering noise.
"A little," I replied, flashing a smile and twisting the throttle once more so a plume of acrid blue smoke shot back in his direction. "I'll go slow."
Planting his feet on the ground and pulling back on the handlebars, he lifted the front wheel to within inches of my face. "We'll see who returns for root beer," he said, patting the strap of the carbine slung over his shoulder.
The portly teen shot the bolt and threw open the gate, allowing the trio of cyclists ahead of me to filter through the narrow passage. I gathered the clutch in, pumped the throttle and slung gravel on my way into the chasms of alleys ahead. Riding in single file, I had no choice but to chase the bumper of the bike ahead. A dizzying series of rights, lefts and switchbacks became innumerable to memorize or count. At one point, we u-turned and double-backed, traveling down a side street we barely covered moments before. If the strategy was meant to confuse me, I reluctantly admitted it succeeded. I had no idea where I was, other than riding smack in the middle of a pistol and machete toting gang who did not have my best interest at heart.
Jamming third gear with a burst of acceleration, our buzzing caravan punched through the final veil of the city and launched itself onto an ancient deserted roadway slashing in jumbled fashion through the abundant greenery of the countryside. The scream of our engines sawed into the air like so many cries of agonized banshees as we fought to keep traction in the rutted dirt, all the while ducking low-lying branches and occasionally tasting the moldy remnants of dying leaves smacking our faces. To the west I spied glimpses of the rail bed, void of any train, but a welcomed sight nonetheless.
Keep it in view and you will reach Machu Picchu.
We rumbled through small assemblies of humble homes and ramshackle huts, our cacophony turning out rural observers to what was a most incongruous sight barging its way through their pastoral farmland. It was apparent my escorts were well-versed in the path we traveled and my intuition sounded every alarm this trip would not end well for the outsider.
My fellow riders proved proficient, if not above-average, operators given their advantage of knowing the route. Any escape attempt would rely upon the Hodaka's ability to outperform the machines surrounding it -- and my courage to make it do so when the opportunity presented itself. Toward that end, I purposefully rode at a slow speed, exaggerating incompetence to control the bike on even the most gradual of turns while demonstrating a lack of confidence when permitted to step it up along straightaways. By camouflaging my skill, I aimed to lull my escorts to complacency, thereby creating an exploitable fracture in their rolling security.
The thought disappeared when wrestling the bike on a downhill pitch consisting of severe washout. Pebbles and stones piled beneath the front tire, knocking it sideways so the wheel pointed toward the gully on the right. I leaned hard to my left bringing the frame and its weight with me, releasing the foot brake and popping the clutch in a timed maneuver. With the forward wheel slightly airborne I dug my heel into the rocky gravel and pivoted the Hodaka as it slid into a blind turn, nearly tipping the rig over when coming to an abrupt halt against the blockade created by the bikers ahead of me.
"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted in anger, which doubled when the leader rounded the corner and drove his front tire into my dangling leg, pinning it to the frame of my bike. I wriggled it back and forth frantically, trying to avoid the searing heat of the engine. "Hey!"
Two more bikes swung in behind the leader, followed by much bantering back and forth. In my struggle to avoid an unwanted scar, I barely caught the directive that we would circle north around the village of Zurite and stop for refueling somewhere beyond the settlement.
"Haul ass, gringo," the leader said, pushing the tire tighter against my leg. "No let up now. No funny business. Follow the hombres."
I scowled at him and shook my leg free, believing more than ever the balance and value of my life was inextricably connected to my trail riding proficiency. The gradual descent into the valley coincided with our passing east of the village. Above and to the right rose a dramatic series of angular cliffs, placid and serene with the occasional stone jutting from its verdant vegetation. Our pathway wound in a broad circular fashion around the outer edges of the settlement where the train tracks came into view through the sparse treetops. After a half-mile of exceptionally rough terrain, we stopped on a small plateau overlooking the railway.
"Shut down your motor. Sit still." The leader pulled his bike back on its kickstand and stepped to the edge of the brush to relieve himself. "We stay here until the train passes."
"And when she passes?"
"We cross the river and tracks. Head north," he said, laughing. "You should be glad we supplied transportation. Otherwise, a long day for your feet."
"I wouldn't have complained." If I could turn the bike around quickly, I felt confident I could outrun this lot back to Cuzco. But to what?
"No," he said, zipping up his business, "you're right señor. You wouldn't."
"¡El tren!"
"Take a good look, amigo. Smile and say 'cheeseburger' to the turistas."
If I did not feel so mortally threatened -- and frustrated with myself for having carelessly ambled into this ensnarement -- I would have thoroughly relished the lush panoramic scene unfolding out into the valley. Through the tips of the trees I watched the glass-enclosed train, four cars long, clank and squeal its way down the gentle gradient like a reluctant caterpillar inching a
long a plant's drooping stem. The train rumbled slowly past at a short distance of twenty yards away, its occupants pressed against the large windows like captive members of a mobile ant farm with their large black telescopic camera lenses serving as probing antennae pointing in every direction.
Suddenly there was Angel, her face to the glass with an expression of alarm that contrasted sharply against her bright yellow wool sweater. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, intensifying my sensation of worry before my gaze fell to the rear of the car and directly upon the ponytailed graybeard who accosted me two days earlier at Logan Airport. With no attempt to mask his glee, he waved and proceeded to take a series of pictures through an impressively sized camera. My astonishment was such I was unable to compose myself in a respectable manner -- which would be dutifully apparent to me at a future date -- and compounded by the sight of Wayland and Ethelene Bridgework sharing a juice box while sitting comfortably together on the padded bench seat in the last row.
"Jesús, Maria and José," I whispered to myself. The Bridgeworks must have made the arrangement for me to join this ghoul ride, assisted by the confused autograph hunter turned photographer. How is it Angel's trapped with them in the same car? And where's Chip/Silly?
"You say what, señor?"
"Stifling a sneeze, is all."
All six member of the posse were in various stages of enjoying smokes, seemingly in no rush to pursue the train. Indeed, they had collapsed into a state of euphoria, as though the hometown football team had taken a two-goal lead with just minutes remaining. The clock was indeed ticking down and I made the decision to exit the pitch before the final whistle. I bit my lower lip amid the casual small talk, watching as the group lit another round of fresh smokes and tinkered with their bikes. The clacking of the train vanished and an uneasy serenity returned to the remote country trail. Feigning a yawn and a stretch, I brought my heel down on the kick-starter and gunned the throttle, popping the clutch while holding on tightly as the Hodaka ripped into the soft dirt, spraying a rain of debris behind me. Veering to the right, I avoided a halfhearted attempt by one of the belligerent thugs to grab me and worked my way through the gears until hitting fourth at maximum RPM. The real contest of the day was now officially on.
Not possessing much of a plan but for putting distance between myself and the gang, I raced at a dangerous speed over the unpredictable and irregular terrain. Jamming the gears from fourth through second and back up the scale again, I leaned into turns ducking limbs and leaves, bracing a leg against the ground on tight corners over loose gravel, coaxing the old machine to rocket-like responses when and where the pathway permitted. There was no need to look behind for the pursuers I knew were there. Several rounds from a firearm framed my space in rapid succession, evidenced by the rustling of foliage around my head and the small explosions of earth just beyond my front tire. The attack increased my motivation to abscond from these ruffians, as being shot in the back while motor-biking in South America was not an aspiration I sought to achieve.
The trail leveled off, narrowing into a dried out sluice canopied by thick growth creating the appearance of a tunnel. Seizing the chance to loose the horses, I twisted the throttle, drew the clutch and boldly stepped the cycle into fourth gear. The Hodaka responded with a verve reminiscent of my youthful riding days, casting a jubilance within me just as the planks of a wooden bridge came into view. The river! Once across it, I would overtake the train and meet it entering Ollantaytambo, ridding myself of the outlaws and reuniting with Angel.
The recognition of impending disaster arrived within a breath when I realized there was no extension on the bridge beyond the rise of six weathered planks forming a quasi springboard. Beyond the point of reconsidering my trajectory, and inside a tick of the sweep hand on my watch, I arced into flight over the Rio Pomatales, soaring as free and unencumbered as a bird -- except, of course, for the Hodaka beneath me. I made the quick and painful decision to jettison the bike, as it was clear both of us would not be successful in making the crossing. I released the handlebars and focused upon the approaching lip of the gorge, debating which diving position -- jack knife or front pike -- would be most conducive to a safe landing. Time ran out on my deliberation and I was flung heels-over-teakettle cannonball style into the puckerbrush lining the edge of the drop off, where I tumbled into a pocket of small boulders and dead limbs, coming to rest in the fetal position against a crumbling ancient Spanish cairn.
In the silence following, excited voices and the whine of revving motorbikes echoed from across the divide. Laying still in the patch of overgrown weeds, hidden from view, I took inventory of my general banged-up being while resting my head against the handiwork of stone constructed so long ago. Eventually moving my extremities in a clockwise manner, I was thankful for an aching feeling in the tips of all fingers and toes. With the exception of two very sore knees, a skinned right palm and a throbbing back, I considered myself in top shape and -- even at this excessive elevation -- ready to face the world once more.
The riders on the opposing side of the gorge departed one by one , fading away toward Cuzco and leaving me in Hillarian contemplation as to how I would make my ascension up Machu Picchu.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 11