The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  A few days passed while we waited to hear from the men. As soon as Héctor was busying himself with preparations, his morale picked up. He harangued us, declaring that we had been violated by the depravities of the West, that we could go nowhere without purifying our souls once again. For five days we sang hymns, prayed to Jesus and drank creamy tinned milk, which Doris assured us would chase the devil out from our hearts.

  A week after arriving at Héctor’s home, Julio turned up. He said the old team of porters were ready and willing to leave. They would come at dawn the next morning. We might have not had Pancho as a guide, but I was thrilled that the chainsaw gang was on board.

  That night Héctor locked his precious Bible into a tin chest, which he kept stowed under his bed, along with a photograph album, his father’s dentures and a rat-trap baited with a piece of dried fruit. I asked him what he was doing.

  “Llamaré a los espíritus, I will call the spirits,” he said.

  “But why lock up your Bible?”

  “There are some things Jesus should not see,” he replied.

  The Maestro lit as many candle stubs as he could find, placing them at equal spaces in diagonal lines across the dining-table. There must have been twenty of them, none more than an inch in height. The flames cast shadows across the bamboo walls like a warlock’s den. Outside, the long grass and shrubs rustled with cicadas.

  Doris locked Paolo and her daughter into the family’s bedroom. She was fuming that her husband would invite dark forces into their home. “He is a damn fool, that man!” she shouted, then joined her children.

  The Swedes, Boris, Marco and I sat at the table, waiting for Héctor. The moment he had locked away the Bible his character changed. Gone were his constant references to Jesus, replaced by more sinister subject matter, talk of phantoms, curses and witchcraft. His eyes had become frozen with a kind of wickedness, his expression switching from one of benevolence to one brooding with mistrust. We sat waiting while he prepared himself in the kitchen.

  After a long delay, the Maestro swept into the room. He was wearing his best cotton shirt, and had wetted his hair, as if he had been getting ready for church. I asked some unnecessary question, but he waved it aside and took his usual seat at the head of the table.

  “¡Oh espíritus sagrados! Oh sacred spirit!” he called, gazing at the shadows playing across the cobwebbed rafters. “Visit us, you are most welcome, visit us here.”

  There was no reply, of course, except for the sound of bats in the trees and a lone bamboo rat far away. Again, Héctor called: “Oh sacred spirit, talk to us!”

  I felt the old man had been trapped for far too long in the inflexible regime of Adventism. It was clear that he would rather have been a high priest of the witches. I made a mental note to discuss the matter with him later, but he had more to say: “Spirits, tell us where Paititi lies, where the ruins of the great city are hidden. Tell us and we will protect the secret!”

  The candles began to burn down, smoke, and then extinguish themselves one by one. Héctor called to the spirits one last time, but still there was no reply. He undid the top button of his shirt, signifying an end to the rite, and laughed at his own foolishness. “Why should the spirits reveal anything to a stupid old man like me?” he said.

  We moved the dining-table aside, unfurled our sleeping-bags and the film crew and I lay down on the floor in our usual positions. As I lay there, trying to make sense of the old man’s ceremony, I understood his motives. Héctor had long begged Jesus to take him to Paititi. He was a dreamer, but a believer. He knew very well that locating the lost city would transform his fortunes, and would save his face. In the years Héctor had lived at Panataua, Jesus had not been forthcoming with the co-ordinates of Paititi. His desire was now so great that he was willing to conspire with the forces of darkness to get results.

  The porters arrived at dawn, just as Julio had said they would. It was good to see their faces, all smiling and cheery like children home from school. Their memories of the previous journey had transformed into a picture of perfection, glazed over and false. They regarded the film crew and me as wise men, saviours from the routine of their everyday lives. I warned them that hardship and danger awaited us beyond the Gateway to Paititi. They could stay in the village and dream, I said boldly, or join the expedition and learn the truth. A roar of delight surged through their ranks, and they lined up to shake my hand and pat me on the back. For a brief moment, I felt like a hero. Only Francisco remained reserved. He stood behind the others, staring at me like a man with cruel intentions. I greeted him, saying how good it was to look at him again. He screwed up his face and let out a high-pitched sigh. Julio begged me to leave Crag-face behind but, as I reminded him, the village busybody had saved me from drowning in the place of negative energy.

  As always, there were problems to be addressed. The first was getting to the mouth of the Rio Palatoa. The Madre de Dios River was so much lower than before that it was no longer passable in peki-pekis. We would be forced to use rafts, the Zodiacs, and to carry much of the equipment.

  The greater problem was the official, Señor Franco. For five months he had been awaiting my return. His superiors in Cusco had recently commended him for catching a team of Spanish Paititi-hunters. Rumor said they had been deported, and Franco had been presented with a pension direct from the oil company. Héctor said that Franco’s elevated status had boosted his confidence, and heightened his desire to catch others sneaking into the restricted zone. Someone had apparently informed him that we had returned.

  Since our arrival in Peru a few days previously, the newspapers had been filled with stories about the government’s wish to exploit national oil reserves. The multinational petroleum firm with interests in the jungle was being heralded as the potential saviour of the country. The authorities would surely now be policing the restricted area more fervently than ever.

  My fear, of course, was that Franco would come after us. His recent success would have enlarged the resources at his disposal, perhaps including military assistance. There was no point in continuing upriver if Señor Franco and his cronies were going to follow. I spread the map on the cracked mud outside Héctor’s shack, and had a good look. The Madre de Dios River ran north—south, with a dog’s leg bend between Shintuya and another community, a gold-mining area named Bonanza. The Palatoa ran to the west, uniting with another branch of the Madre de Dios near Aboroa. The only road was the one running from Pillcopata down to Shintuya.

  As the film crew divided up their gear, I stared at the network of rivers and contours against a backdrop of green. Even though there were blank areas all over the map further up the Palatoa, there was good detail on the main branch of the Madre de Dios. I stared and stared, hoping a plan would emerge. Gradually an outline took shape.

  For Señor Franco to be assured we were not heading into the restricted area, he would have to see us traveling in another direction. My plan was to send the porters with Héctor and the gear upstream, towards the mouth of the Palatoa. They would wait for us in the shaded rushes where the Rio Negro flowed out into the Madre de Dios. Meanwhile, the film crew and I would travel downstream in a rented boat. We would make efforts to be seen by the officials, and would then backtrack, and rendezvous with the others.

  I explained the ruse to the film crew, Héctor and the men. None seemed convinced, except Francisco. He thought it was an excellent idea, a bad omen by any standards.

  The previous journey upriver had taught me the value of continuity of orders. To gain this sense of continuity, you need one man giving the instructions, just as in the military you must have a clear chain of command. The man in charge may make blunders or miscalculate from time to time, but at least he is consistent. The more time I spent in charge of the expedition, the better I understood the workings of a military machine. We were faced with a similar range of problems: transporting large amounts of equipment, feeding the men, keeping morale high and staving off illness. The only way to function with an
y degree of efficiency was for me to dish out the orders and to assume full responsibility for the misery they caused.

  I instructed the porters to haul the gear through the undergrowth as far as the second bend. There, they were to inflate the three rubber boats, and to construct a pair of rafts if they could find enough balsa trees. After that, they were to look out for Franco’s spies and, if the coast was clear, they could continue up to the rendezvous point.

  Héctor set out with the men, leaving Julio to guide us downriver. The water beyond Panataua was sufficiently high for peki-pekis so we hired two. I had brought fifteen woven nylon laundry sacks from England to give away as gifts. We filled them with inflated garbage bags, and stowed them on the boats. They looked suitably burdensome. Then, we pushed away.

  The grind of the primitive engines announced action on the river. As the boats rounded the bend near Santa Cruz, I saw a tall, straight-backed figure on the shore. He was squinting at us through field glasses, jolting them left and right. Then he let them swing down on their strap and shouted: “¡Hola! ¡Hola!” I ordered the motoristas to steer us into the shore. They arced to the right, but drew short of the bank, idling in the shallows. I called out enthusiastic greetings to Señor Franco. He was dripping with sweat, almost overcome by the sight of us.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, obviously surprised at our direction.

  “To Bonanza,” I said, “to look at the gold mines.”

  The official glanced an eye over the laundry bags. I thought it unlikely he would request to see inside them. Instead he asked how long we were expecting to remain downstream.

  “We’re planning to build rafts there and sail all the way down to Puerto Maldonado,” I lied.

  “Where is your friend Héctor?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t a clue,” I said, tapping the motorista on the shoulder. A moment later we were cruising back into the middle of the waterway.

  We stopped a few miles later, and camped for the night. It was hard to put myself in Franco’s mind, but I felt as if he believed the cover story. At least, there was no way for him to call Bonanza, as they did not have a radio at the outpost, which was why Héctor had suggested it in the first place.

  At first light we deflated the garbage sacks and set off upstream. Everyone who had ever crossed paths with Señor Franco despised him, and the motoristas were only too happy to conspire against him. They said he was always giving them trouble about permits. “One day,” said the elder of the boatmen, “someone will tie a big stone to his ankles and throw him in the river. Each morning when I get up I wonder if that glorious day has at last come.”

  As we neared Santa Cruz, we lay down in the boats, and covered ourselves with rotting sacking sheets. They ran wild with wolf spiders and stank of decomposing life. Minutes later we were heaving upriver towards the meeting point. I had expected the water to be too shallow for the boats, but the motoristas made good progress, easing their craft from one pool of deep water to the next. It was a fine day, the sky abundant with cumulus clouds, the sunlight dazzling as it reflected off the water’s surface.

  A dozen Machiguenga tribesmen were waiting for us at Mantacolla, armed with their short chonta bows and elongated arrows. They had seen the porters ferrying the equipment to the place of rendezvous, and knew instantly that a debt had been incurred. The tribesmen were restrained in their greetings; the eldest warrior grimaced when I ducked my head politely. He was frail and oyster-white, the tips of his fingers pale blue, as if he was about to expire. Unlike the others, he spoke good Spanish.

  This time our mutual friend, Héctor, was not present. I feared that negotiating without him would lead to us being overcharged, and forced to drink gallons of the wretched masato. I explained that we still intended to give them a rubber boat once we had finished with it, but that they would have to wait. The warriors didn’t like waiting. They mistrusted matters relating to the future.

  While in Cusco I had managed to get fifty dollars converted into the smallest Peruvian coin. I had thousands of them, heavy and jingling in a bag. I handed them over. The warriors shuffled forwards like cattle advancing to be fed. They seemed pleased.

  “Dinero en metálico, metal money,” said the elder.

  I nodded.

  “Bueno,” he said, spreading the neck of the bag to peer in. “Mejor que el papel, much better than paper.” The others crowded around and cackled.

  I said it would be easier for them to divide the money as it was in small denominations.

  “Yes,” said the elder, “and it is more useful than that paper you gave us last time. We used it to light a fire, but it was soon gone... These little pieces of metal, they have a hundred uses.”

  I was going to ask about Pancho’s death, or express my condolences, but something held me back. In Héctor’s absence I didn’t want to make a faux pas, or say something that might endanger us. I bowed again, and cued the film crew to show the same respect. Ducking our heads and smiling obsequiously, we walked backwards to the boats, leaving the tribesmen to their chips of metal.

  At the bend following Mantacolla, the water was no more than three feet deep. We were forced to jump out and walk the remaining few miles. I was filled with new energy, and was anxious to begin the trek beyond the great pongo. The only question was, who would be our guide? My plan of action was to petition Pancho’s mother to tell us what she knew. She must surely have had an inkling of where the ruins lay.

  At five that afternoon, we arrived at the designated meeting point. Héctor and the porters were waiting, their shirts soaked with sweat. I used the opportunity to chastise the film crew for their ridiculous amount of luggage. Then I singled out Marco. Hoping to make an example of him I emptied his bag. The hardship of the previous expedition had encouraged him to pack a few extra luxuries. These included an unopened box of Montecristo No. 5 cigars, a monogrammed bathrobe, a pair of black velvet bedroom slippers, and a bottle of vintage Armagnac. The porters looked on in wonder. None of them had brought anything except a change of shorts.

  Héctor cautioned us. He said that Señor Franco had a sixth sense, that he would soon work out the ruse and come after us. We had to make fast progress, he said, and get beyond the great rapids. Even then, Franco could search for us in a military helicopter, although the noise of its rotor blades would give us time to hide.

  We camped for the night beneath the branches of a magnificent mahogany tree. Morale was high, the men ready and willing for the big push. I rewarded them with Kendal Mint Cake. I had bought a huge quantity of it cheaply in London, as it had long passed its sell-by date. They loved it.

  That night, the flames flickered like orange ribbons touched by a breeze, sparks spitting into the darkness. I found myself reflecting on my life, my good fortune in being able to follow a path of my choosing. The porters told me they dreamed of traveling the world, but they had no documents or money to do so. I thought of my friends in Europe: they had the funds and permits to travel, but were trapped in comfortable lives.

  Héctor seemed to have pulled himself out of his melancholic state. I didn’t want to quiz him on the plan until we were further from his village. The same went for the porters: push them too hard at the outset of the journey and they were liable to scurry home at first light. I handed out more Mint Cake and droned on about how happy I was with their work.

  They sat on their haunches, chewing the peppermint squares. Sometimes they would talk about me after dinner, when they were alone. I could understand little of their conversations, as they tended to speak in their native Quechua, the language of the mountains. From what I could make out, they called me El Tormentoso, The Tormentor, and they referred to the mission to find Paititi as El Loco, The Madness.

  I rose early, and sat on a stone beside the smoldering fire, worrying. An expedition to find a lost city can fill its leader with terror: the terror of sickness and of injured men, of running out of food, of getting lost, of failure.

  Giovanni was up before the othe
rs. He stewed a dead bird, cooked some rice, and boiled some peekhwaya, a fibrous savoury jungle fruit. Out of all the porters, Giovanni was one of the best, always brimming with enthusiasm. “Será un buen día, it will be a good day,” he said, smiling, an honest smile.

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “With weather so fine only good things are possible.”

  I didn’t reply, but stared into the spiral of gray smoke, fretting to myself about the passage beyond the pongo. God knows how we’re going to pull this off, I thought. I took a deep breath, and was about to release it in a sigh, when I noticed a figure walking towards the camp through the water. It was a man, striding slowly against a curtain of morning light. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and torn blue shorts. In his hands he was carrying a bow and long arrows, preferred weaponry of the Machiguenga. I squinted hard. He looked familiar, his face vacant of expression.

  Giovanni had seen him too, and was also squinting in the man’s direction.

  “I hope it’s not the Machiguenga wanting more money,” I said.

  A moment passed. There was silence. The figure drew closer, his stout form now silhouetted against the river’s brilliant surface. Giovanni held a hand above his eyes and strained forward.

  “My God,” he said. “It’s Pancho.”

  FIFTEEN

  PITCHING A TENT

  A tent should never be pitched in a slovenly way: it is so far more roomy, secure and pretty, when tightly stretched out, that no pains should be spared in drilling the men to do it well.

  The Art of Travel

  We rolled out the red carpet for the warrior, and showered him with gifts. He was presented with a pair of sturdy walking-boots, an electric lantern and clothes, a digital watch, sewing kit, cigarettes and a big stiff drink. I even tied his shoelaces. The very sight of Pancho had boosted our spirits beyond all imagination. He crouched on the upturned cooking-pot, grinning.