by Maggie Downs
Exasperated, my dad pulls me into their argument. I’ve never been privy to the inner workings of their marriage before, and now I am submerged. We sit at the kitchen table, me acting as the mediator, and suddenly I don’t feel grown-up at all. My mom says she and my dad haven’t been making love; it has been a long time since she was desired. She is growing old and feels unloved and believes she is going to die alone, and meanwhile these people keep calling. Why are they calling?! The people on the other end say they are wrong numbers, but she is confident they are lying.
They are wrong numbers. This is something else I know.
The local Big Lots once published our phone number instead of their own. The mistake was corrected as soon as it was discovered, but the damage was already done. Our line has received years of wrong numbers. They came frequently enough that I learned the Big Lots store hours; it is easier to give people what they want than explain why they are wrong.
Comforting my mom, I learn that lesson all over again. I can’t say her piles of notes frighten me and that I think she’s going crazy, but I can’t indulge her stories either. So I don’t tell her she’s wrong; I also don’t tell her she’s right. I only reassure her.
Of course the phone calls are unsettling, I say. Of course dad still loves you. He always has. Of course you’re not old. Of course you are still lovable. Of course you are not going to die alone. You are not going to die.
It is a precarious thing to hold a family together, an elaborate system of knots and lines.
Eventually the argument changes from a rapid boil to a low simmer. My dad goes to bed. My mom sits in the yellow rocking chair in the living room, rocking back and forth in the darkness. There is one electric candle in the window, and the glow from that casts an eerie shadow over her face. I go to her. I’m too big to sit on her lap, but I try to hold her anyway. She scoots the chair so that I cannot.
“Just go,” she says. “Leave me alone.”
This is one of the last things I remember her saying to me.
Right now in the Amazon, my limbs are warm where the insects have chewed my skin, and I already feel lumps forming in response. The itch is maddening. But this also provides its own strange comfort. If my heart is going to hurt all the way around the world, my flesh might as well feel it too.
Earlier today, Jason and I paused on that suspension bridge across the rainforest canopy. I was somewhere near the middle, but Jason hung back at the beginning. He might be a skydiver, but he is also afraid of heights like this—edges and ledges and bridges, the kind of heights where you are certain how high you are.
He took one tentative step toward me. His hands gripped the ropes on either side until his knuckles bulged.
“Don’t look down,” I said.
He took a few more steps. Baby ones. As his confidence built, his hands loosened. For one moment, he didn’t hold on to anything. He moved forward with the trust that the bridge would hold.
That’s when I jumped up and down. I shook the whole thing for no good reason.
Sleep Always Comes
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, JASON AND I ARE BACK IN LIMA. IT is Fiestas Patrias, when Peruvians celebrate their independence. Revelers dance and shout on the street, and the discos stay open well past dawn. Jason and I walk around the city as long as we can bear to be around other people; then we retreat to our hotel. It is our last night together.
Our hotel is a place that looks like a dollhouse, a tiny wooden structure painted in vivid green, red, and yellow. It’s perched on the roof of an apartment building in Barranco, an artsy section of downtown Lima. The rooftop is crowded with wooden awnings and climbing vines, potted palms, a cage full of finches, wind chimes made of seashells. Jason and I warm our hands at the fire pit and drink dark Peruvian beer from the bottle. From the rooftop, it’s easy to feel removed from the rest of this world, as if the thing I’ve been dreading will never happen.
“I don’t want you to go,” I say.
“I don’t want to go either, but we knew this was part of it,” Jason says. “I have to go away in order to get you back home again.”
I have a hat woven from alpaca wool, a gift Jason bought from one of the vendors at the Independence Day festival. I pull it down over my icy ears. I am cold, cold all over, like my blood has stopped moving.
We could go out and dance our fears away. We could get completely smashed and forget that we won’t be able to hold each other again for one year. Instead, we step inside our dollhouse, this perfectly constructed toy version of a home, and burrow into bed. We cling to each other, making love on itchy blankets. When I cry, my tears roll down his bare shoulders.
Jason decides we should pretend he’s not leaving in the morning, so we try to create some sense of normalcy. There’s a small TV near the bed, and we wiggle the knobs until we find something that reminds us of home: Los Simpsons. We split another beer and laugh at the show, even though we have no idea what the characters are saying.
We are smiling, but the moment feels false. I know what’s coming. I can’t tune out the fact that I’m going to spend tomorrow—and 364 more tomorrows—without him.
Jason holds me close to his body until I fall asleep, but I never make it to a dream state, and the rest of the night feels half-lived. My eyes are closed, but I hear the throbbing bass of the music at the discotheque. I wish I could run downstairs and lose myself in the noisy ocean of people, so I wouldn’t have to live through the loss I’ve constructed for myself.
In the morning, the cab arrives right on schedule. Jason gives me a kiss and walks out the door, as if he’s leaving for work. I punch the pillow and shove my face in the divot. Keki, the Peruvian woman who owns the bed-and-breakfast, creeps up the stairs and leaves a tray of food. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything but a flight back to California with Jason, and a mom who isn’t dying, and a family that feels whole again.
Keki grows concerned when I don’t leave the dollhouse for a full day. The following morning she tries to bring me breakfast. Today it’s coffee and a dry pastry. I can’t imagine trying to choke it down my sad, raw throat.
“He’s gone,” she says. “Now you must continue. The year will pass quickly. Come on, you are stronger than this.”
Her words sound like a mother’s scolding, and they remind me of how I’ve already accomplished things on this trip I never thought I could do. I made it to Dead Woman’s Pass. I’ve crept past snakes in the Amazon. Surely I can get dressed and go outside. Keki gives me directions to a vegetarian restaurant inside an old train car, a place known to be lively with young people.
“Will make you happy,” she says.
The restaurant doesn’t make me happy. There are couples at every table, piles of couples upon couples, and I feel woefully alone. I know the idea of this trip was to assert my independence, to blaze my own path while honoring the one my mother couldn’t take for herself, but now it feels stupid and simple. Worse, I wonder if I’m even allowed to feel this sad over a decision I made.
When the waiter comes to my table, I order quinoa soup, and then I begin to cry. I remember the quinoa soup Jason and I ate on the Inca Trail, the way the rich broth warmed me, the way we delighted over the simple flavors.
The waiter leans over me and looks puzzled, which only makes me cry harder.
“My husband left me,” I say. I consider trying to explain further. I could tell him that this was all part of a plan. That I am not getting a divorce. That this is me, asserting my place in the world while coming to terms with the profound loss of my mother. But those words won’t make any sense, and they don’t matter anyway. The truth of this moment is that my husband left me. I am alone. That is what’s real.
“What can I do?” the helpless waiter asks. Nothing. He can’t do anything for me.
I return to the dollhouse, thank Keki for her kindness and generosity, and carefully pack my backpack. Peru is like an amber stone, suspending all the beautiful memories of my honeymoon with Jason. I can’t look at it any
longer. It’s time to head to Bolivia.
I BOARD A BUS IN THE MORNING, UNSURE OF WHAT AWAITS me. Before I cross into Bolivia, I pause in the border town of Puno. The region is all dry plains and pale grasses that stop short at the shore of Lake Titicaca.
The lake is magnificent, expansive and dramatic, like looking out over a still ocean. The water is the color of the sky at home in Palm Springs, a fierce, ferocious blue. Unapologetic. At once I am entranced at the purity of this place; I have never seen anything so clear before. I want to grab fistfuls of water, carry it around in my pocket, save it.
Of course, I can’t. But I can stay here for a few days and soak it in with my eyes.
At a nearby hostel, I ask about the islands of the lake. The most popular destination for tourists is Los Uros, floating islands constructed from totora reeds. The residents here are the Uros, the pre-Incan people—some legends even claim they are older than the sun.
Nobody knows exactly when the Uros moved into the middle of the lake, just that they have lived there for centuries on land they created with the cattail-type reeds, which rot and must be replaced regularly with more reeds. Now only a few hundred Uros remain full-time on the islands, where they live in thatched houses, also made from totora. The majority of the Uros have moved to the mainland.
I’m interested in the more populated islands in Lake Titicaca, each of which functions like an autonomous country with its own rules, governing body, and culture.
Isla Taquile, once seized by the Incan empire in the fifteenth century, is now a small island populated with about 2,000 Taquileños who speak Quechua and Spanish. Most of the men speak Quechua, and most of the women speak Spanish, which is baffling but fascinating. I’ve always marveled at how relationships work, especially when the individuals seem to combine like oil and water. My mom and my dad, for instance, are such different people—he’s hard-nosed and loud; she’s soft and quick with a golden laugh. If you saw them in a room full of people, you’d never make that match.
My father grew up among the alfalfa and cornfields of small-town Indiana, a jock who entered the U.S. Air Force just out of high school. He learned about the world through military deployments. On the other hand, my mother’s birthplace is no longer a country. Her family left East Prussia during World War II, then worked their way toward what was then known as West Germany, where they finally settled. As a child, she picked potatoes to feed her family.
My dad met my mom in Germany, where she was working as a civilian secretary at Sembach Air Force Base, where he was stationed. With their marriage, two cultures intertwined.
Isla Taquile is full of those confounding relationships—couples who make it work even when they don’t inhabit the same language.
The hilly island, roped with gray paths, is distinctive for a few other reasons: It has no police, no prison, and no dogs (which are viewed as a sign of security). The island does not have cars or electricity. Running water is rare. The people follow just three laws: Ama sua. Ama llulla. Ama qhilla. Do not steal. Do not lie. Do not be lazy.
Even more appealing to me is that the people of Taquile eat a plant-based diet. I’ve had some terrific meals in Peru, but so many of the vegetarian dishes are exactly the same: French fries, omelets, quinoa soup, brown bread. Though the Taquile people supplement their diet with trout from the lake, they are mostly vegetarian. I expect their food to be inventive and delicious, using the agricultural gifts of the island—something beyond eggs, fried potatoes, and bread.
My intention is to do a homestay for at least one night on the island. There are companies that put together cultural homestay tours, promising an authentic taste of life on Taquile, but they are too expensive for my budget. I’m also unsure if the extra money actually goes to the residents who open their homes to tourists, so I cobble the trip together myself.
I find a boat headed from Puno to Taquile, with a quick stop at a floating Uros island. It is a queasy, four-hour ride with more passengers than life jackets. When the boat finally docks, the entire island seems to be uphill. The land is lush and green, threaded with stone paths.
About half of the people from the boat are day visitors, and we struggle to hike the demanding hills to the town square. The other boat passengers are Taquileños, who chew the hills with their feet, running ahead.
Though the island has tried to maintain their traditions, there are immediately signs that tourism has affected the tiny community. Some of the markets sell expensive Snickers bars and bottles of Coca-Cola, imported from Puno for the tourists. A small restaurant advertises “American food” along with traditional dishes. Then a small boy follows me, chanting, “Photo, photo.” I assume he simply wants to see his image on the digital display, the reason many children along the Inca Trail and in the Amazon approached me, so I stop and take a quick snap. The boy shoves his hand at me.
“Five dollars,” he says. “One Abraham Lincoln.” I am shocked but also impressed by his knowledge of American currency.
It’s tough to shake that moment, though. As someone who has traveled mostly within my own country, I’ve never considered this ethical situation before. Is it possible to visit a unique place, learn about the culture, and support the economy without changing what makes the place special? I hope so. Because there’s a lot that makes this place special.
Among them, the island is home to the most delicate, beautiful handicrafts, recognized by UNESCO as the best in all of South America.
The women of Taquile spin wool, dyed vivid primary colors using local materials. The men are knitters. Boys learn to knit at a young age, around six or seven, and their skill eventually becomes a sign of masculinity. For instance, when a couple intends to marry, the woman takes her love interest’s hat and fills it with water. The longer it takes for the water to leak through, the tighter the knit and the better the man.
Once a couple agrees to marry, the woman then cuts off most of her hair to be woven with heavy wool into a thick belt, about eight to ten inches wide. It is long enough to wrap around the man’s waist a couple of times.
The wide, thick belt serves two purposes: It is a sign to others that the man is betrothed and is now off the market, kind of like an engagement ring. On a more practical note, the belt also works as a lower back brace—the assumption is that married men carry more burdens than single ones, and they can use the extra support.
Tourists mostly come for the knitted goods, which are displayed around the main plaza. The hats are strung up from ropes like colorful prayer flags. Scarves and sweaters are folded into neat piles. There is no haggling at this market—everything is a fixed price—and each piece has a tag that says the name of the family that made it, so the money goes directly to them.
I inquire about a homestay inside the craft market, and one man immediately nods, then hands me off to a thin man who doesn’t even glance in my direction. He wordlessly leads me through a zigzag of alleyways and streets and passes me off to another friend. The men here all dress the same—black trousers, white shirt, cropped black vest, wide woven belt—and this begins to feel like a blur of the same person. Finally, I meet Thomas.
His face is umber with ruddy spots on his cheeks, and he does not smile. I’m nervous, but I also feel that I’m living under new rules now. I have to squash the anxious part of myself in order to continue moving forward.
When I ask Thomas if I can stay with him for the night, he nods. In exchange for about seventeen dollars, he will provide me with a room for the night, a home-cooked dinner, and breakfast the next day. I follow him about a mile, maybe more, until we reach a property clinging to the side of a mountain.
“Casa de Thomas,” he says, and he motions for me to follow him through a low-slung wooden gate.
The house is about the size of a 700-square-foot apartment, built on a plot of gravel and straw. Chickens wobble and cluck, both inside the building and outside.
My room is located in a structure built on stilts adjacent to Thomas’s main home. The walls are
roughly hewn wood. The ceiling is a blue tarp, pulled tightly and stapled down. There are two simple beds, each topped by five wool blankets. For light, Thomas hands me a small candle in a wooden holder and a box of matches.
There are three other people staying with Thomas that night in a different part of his house. I expected this, knowing that most of the islanders now make a living through such homestays. In the evening, we gather in another room of tarp and wood, where we eat together. Thomas’s two young children are also there, but they do not eat—they laugh and play with sticks on the dirt floor. The sun sinks quickly, and though it’s only 5 or 6 p.m., it feels like midnight.
Thomas’s apple-cheeked wife, Inez, has cooked the food, and I almost laugh when I see what she brings to the table: omelets and French fries, quinoa soup, and bread, the same meal I’ve had almost every day since I arrived in South America. But the food is rich and hearty and good, and I can’t complain. While the wind whips furious outside, I am grateful for my seat at this table and the hot food on my plate.
The moment feels like one from my youth. The sober-faced Thomas, a determined family provider, vaguely resembles my dad. Inez’s warmth and willingness to please almost painfully recalls my mom. Whenever I had friends over for dinner as a kid, my mom trotted out pizza and soda and anything to please, as if she could buy my friends’ affection with grease and sugar. I was an awkward kid, a total nerd, and she believed that food could fix almost anything, even smooth over my social missteps.
After I finish dinner, I retire to the simple bedroom. It’s cold and there’s no heat, so I crawl under the thick, wool blankets. It’s like the fairy tale of the princess and the pea, if the princess had slept with the pile of mattresses on top of her instead of the other way around.
I long to call home now, simply for a moment of contact in the middle of this vast night, if only someone was there on the other end to answer. I know my dad is at the nursing home this evening, the way he is every night, holding my mom’s hand until visiting hours are over and the nurses kick him out.