Escape Through the Andes

by Thomas M. Daniel

  “Yes, I know that. I told you. I am a spy, and she is my contact person.”

  “Right, and the CIA wants to rescue you, to get you out of Bolivia, to get you safely to America. That’s why I am here. That’s what we’re trying to do now. That’s why we have to get to Salaverry. You’ll be picked up there somehow.”

  “Yes, I know that. At least I hope that is so.”

  “And you ought to be wondering why the CIA wants to rescue you. Well, there are a couple of reasons. For one thing, I am sure that they’ll want to talk with you, to ‘pick your brain,’ as the current slang expression goes. Find out what you know about Bolivia’s government under Morales. From what you have said, I would guess they want to know as much as you can tell them about General Suarez. He seems to me to be a key player. Suppose the military decides it is time for Morales to go. Would Suarez then become president?”

  “Yes, I think he might. And what you suggest is not really far fetched. The Bolivian army is the country’s main political party, if you want to think about it that way. And Suarez is a top dog in the army.”

  “Okay,” I continued. “There is also the fact that the CIA is an American agency staffed by Americans. It simply does not sacrifice its agents. Not an American thing to do. And also, who knows what you might reveal if captured. You might compromise Rosa Maria and the entire CIA intelligence operation here in Bolivia. The other reason, a major reason—important to them, I understand—is lithium.”

  “Lithium!” Gonzalo’s face expressed surprise.

  “Yes, lithium. It is a key element in all light-weight, long-lasting batteries. Important to America’s space program. Important to our defense systems.”

  “So?”

  “So, the major sources of lithium in the world are Bolivia, North Korea, and China,” I said. “The U.S. has some, but not in lodes worth mining.”

  “China,” Gonzalo said. “Okay. I get it. I can see that Morales’ developing liaisons with China are important to America. I wish Rosa Maria had told me this. I might have found out more.”

  “She probably didn’t know,” I said. I rose to leave, ending our conversation, our confessions.

  “So, now,” Gonzalo said, “while we’re being religious, let’s go do the Stations of the Cross.”

  “Really? I thought we would skip them.”

  “Yes. I understand—well, I think I was told in one of those high school wonderful Bolivia classes—that the Stations of the Cross here are world famous. So you must have heard of them, No?”

  “Maybe I was home sick from school that day!”

  “Well, they’re here, not far from the cathedral. They are located along a trail that climbs some hill, and the view from the top is supposed to be great.”

  “Okay,” I said, “for the view. But I think we might skip the religious icons or whatever of that sort there is. So I guess we should ask someone and see where they are.”

  A woman selling religious trinkets pointed to a hill. “Over there. Up the Cerro Calvario, Calvary Hill.” We found the trail and dutifully noted the twelve sculptured representations of Christ’s journey to crucifixion. At the top we looked out at the lake. A magnificent, panoramic vista. Both the Isla del Sol and the Isla de la Luna were easily seen. “Isla del Sol next,” I said.

  We walked back to our rooms, intending to use the lavatory there before taking a boat to the Isla del Sol. I was in the upstairs hall when two men entered the rooming house and talked to our hostess.

  “Buenas tardes, Señora, we are from ANSEB, the Bolivian National Security Agency.” They presented credentials to her. “We are looking for two men who are dangerous escaped criminals. We think they may be here in Copacabana.”

  She replied, “My only guests today are a young couple from Argentina and two American men who are tourists.”

  “These American men, what kind of car are they driving?”

  “Just an ordinary car. Green, I think. It’s parked out back. You can look at it, if you want.”

  “Not a Volkswagen?”

  “You mean one of those humpy things people call bichus?”

  “Exactly. Bugs.”

  “No, it’s not one of those.”

  “Are you sure these men are not Bolivian?”

  “Well, only one of them speaks Spanish,” she said, “and it is pretty rough. And they have American passports. Here, this is my registry with their passport information.”

  They looked at the registry and wrote down our passport numbers. They thanked our hostess and left.

  Gonzalo returned from the lavatory. “They’re here.” I recounted what I had overheard to Gonzalo. “The good news, I guess, is that they seem to think we’re still driving the VW.”

  “Well,” he said, “we have to hope they are not the same men who saw us in La Paz. Then they might know what we look like. And I guess we should just go on behaving like tourists.”

  “Let’s go find a boat to take us to the Isla del Sol.”

  The beach was shingle, rather than sand. Boatmen had their craft drawn up on the shore. Small boats with outboard motors. We wandered among them, choosing one that seemed—or at least we hoped—might be water-tight. After some bargaining, we agreed on a price. Our skipper called to a teen-aged boy, who would evidently serve as crew, and we were soon under way. The role of the boy signed on as crew soon became apparent. His duty was bailing, which he did assiduously and constantly with a battered coffee can.

  “So,” I said to Gonzalo, “tell me about the Incas. And why are we going to the Island of the Sun? Why is it important? What’s interesting there?”

  “Okay, but understand that what I know is pretty much what I remember from grade school history classes. And that’s not much.”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than I know.”

  “Well, the first Inca was born on this island. Maybe. If I remember what I was told in third grade. Inca, that is, the Inca, the ruler of the people we now call Incas. But back then, Inca meant the person, the chief. His father was Inti, the Sun God; his mother was Pacha Mama, the earth goddess. His name was Manco Capac, I think. Anyway, he collected his followers and led them to Cuzco. With subsequent rulers—all called Incas—they conquered everyone in the Andes and established an empire reaching from modern Colombia to Chile. They lasted until the Spaniards—Pizarro—conquered them. These people we call Incas today were remarkable. They built roads everywhere.”

  “Yes,” I interjected, “you took us to one when we lived here.”

  “And they had a system of mathematics and language of a sort that used knots tied in cords. You know, I should know more about Incan history, but I’m afraid I don’t.”

  We were about halfway to the island when I noticed that we were being followed by the two men who had presented themselves at the rooming house as agents of ANSEB. They were not close, but would surely catch up with us on the island.

  “We have an escort,” I said to Gonzalo as I pointed to the boat following us.

  “Hmm.”

  We pulled up to the small dock at the island. Rising up from the shore was a broad stairway. “Go up to the top, and wait for me there,” said Gonzalo “Take a good look at the stone work of the stair. It’s Incan. But now, give me two hundred bolivianos.”

  As directed, I climbed the stair and waited at the top. The stone work was truly impressive. Worth the boat trip, I thought, although it would have been better had we not been accompanied by our followers. At the dock, Gonzalo was talking animatedly with our boatman. Gonzalo gave him the bolivianos I had provided and then raced up the stairs. “Follow me,” he said, catching his breath. We ran along a path that went off to the right and then down to another dock, a smaller dock, clearly not the principal one. Our boat was there. We tumbled in and headed back to shore. Looking back, we saw the other boat at the dock, waiting for its passengers.

  “So what’s going on? What have you done that cost two hundred bolivianos?” I asked Gonzalo.

  “Well,” Gonzalo said
with a smile, “I gave up being a tourist. I explained to our boatman that the wife of one of the two men behind us prefers to sleep with me rather than her husband. He is angry and is now chasing us. And I thought he might have a pistol. He works as a file clerk at the ANSEB headquarters and has managed to make some phony but authentic-looking credentials, which he might present. I have no idea whether our skipper believes any of that, but for one hundred bolivianos he is ready to accept it as the Gospel truth.”

  “And the other one hundred bolivianos?”

  “Ah, yes. Well it seems the other boat with the ANSEB men is going to have a major problem with its outboard motor on the way back. They will have to row back to shore!”

  22

  We found a restaurant fronting on the plaza and took a table near a window where we could watch the plaza. As suggested, we ordered trout. It came and looked delicious. Then I noticed the ANSEB agents in the plaza. “Look,” I said to Gonzalo, “there are now four of them.” They walked slowly around the plaza, and it was apparent that they were looking into restaurants. “Uh-oh! Bad news. Dinner will have to wait.”

  “Or we’ll go hungry,” Gonzalo commented.

  I put some bolivianos at our place, and we walked back past a restroom into the kitchen. “Stop, you can’t come in here!” But we did and hastily made our way out a back door.

  “Now what do we do?” I said.

  “Come,” Gonzalo said. I followed him.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I asked.

  “No, but neither do they!”

  We wandered in and out of Copacabana’s streets, eventually finding our way back to the beach. It was getting dark, and we sat on a bench, hoping night would make it easier to get back to the rooming house unobserved. Presently two of the ANSEB men appeared. We scuttled off the bench and lay down in a pile of trash at the base of some bushes. They searched the area, waving their flashlights. In fact, the beam of one of them crossed us, but we were not noticed, and the men walked away. Maybe they’re getting tired and less attentive, I hoped to myself.

  We were about to get up from our hiding place, when the two men returned. Once again we lay still in the trash under the bushes. Once again the flashlight beam swept across us. Once again we escaped notice. I have had enough of this, I thought to myself. But there was more to come. One of the ANSEB men returned yet again. Turning his flashlight on our hiding place under the bushes, he spotted us. “I thought I saw you there. Out! Now!”

  “Don’t move,” I whispered to Gonzalo, and I rolled out onto the beach. I got up, stumbling as I did so, then catching myself.

  “I’m hiding from my wife,” I said to the agent, slurring my words.

  “Your wife!”

  “Si. I was in town. At a bar. I had some chicha (an Andean drink brewed from corn). Then some more chicha,” I added with a grin, staggering down to the water’s edge so as to lead him away from still hidden Gonzalo. “Then some pisco. Maybe more pisco, I think, maybe. Now I’m too drunk to go home and face my wife. And she is certainly out looking for me. So I came here to hide. And it seemed like a good idea to lie down and rest. Maybe sober up. Maybe sleep.”

  The agent seemed confused. He appeared not to have noticed Gonzalo still hidden under the bush. He scratched his head. I was pretty sure he had no real reason to suspect me. He didn’t know who I was nor what I looked like, and I clearly was not Gonzalo. But I was also pretty sure that he didn’t believe my story.

  Suddenly Gonzalo burst forth from under the bushes and charged into the agent with a force that could have earned him respect on a North American football field. The hapless agent collapsed and fell into the water. Gonzalo and I took off running until we reached the plaza, where we settled down to a leisurely stroll. It was becoming dark. Two local men out for an evening walk, perhaps.

  “I hope he didn’t get too good a look at you,” Gonzalo said.

  “Well, we can’t do much about that now,” I replied. “You were magnificent.”

  “I saw that sort of stuff in American football while I was in Cleveland. Never thought I’d be doing it myself. Our sport, our futbol, is not that rough.”

  “Well,” I said, “things have changed a bit. They now know that there are two of us, that they are not just searching for you. That is, if those guys talk to one another.”

  Watching our surroundings, we made our way back to the rooming house.

  “Did you have a good day?” our hostess greeted us.

  “Si, claro,” I replied.

  “And did you get out to the Isla del Sol?”

  “Yes. Very impressive. The Inca steps there are amazing. And we went to the cathedral.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll have breakfast for you at six in the morning.”

  We retired to our room. I slept soundly, and I was sure Gonzalo did as well.

  23

  We had put Copacabana but a short distance behind us on the road to Peru, when we found all traffic stopped. I got out of the car and walked ahead. The ANSEB men were there, all four of them. I returned to Gonzalo. “They’re examining everybody and searching all the cars,” I reported. “Do we brave it? Can we bluff our way through?” I asked with doubt in my voice.

  “We’ll never get through this way. We have to turn back. We don’t have a choice.”

  I pulled the Datsun out of the line, backed and turned once, and headed back to Copacabana. “I think all of them are there, checking cars,” I said. “That means we should have a clear shot at getting out of town the other way. I guess we’re going back the way we came.”

  “Okay,” rejoined Gonzalo. “But not to Peru today, I think. Let’s go back to Huatahata and my friend Luis Quispe. We can spend another night there and go out around the lake tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure we have any other alternative. Then I guess around the south end of the lake tomorrow to Desaguadero. I would have thought that would be the riskier way to approach Peru. But if all the ANSEB focus is here on Copacabana, it may be okay. It will have to be! We don’t have much of a choice. We’ll lose a day that way, but we should still make Salaverry on time.”

  “Lunch time,” I said, as I pulled the Datsun to a stop in front of a low adobe brick building displaying a Pepsi-Cola sign.

  “Do you think it’s safe to leave the car out in view?” Gonzalo asked.

  “I hope so. There’s not much else we can do with it. Hopefully, they’re still looking for a VW.”

  We walked in and greeted a woman behind a counter. There were four tables surrounded by chairs. “What do you have for almuerzo?” I asked.

  “Today, lunch is chicken soup.” Then she chuckled. “Of course, I have chicken soup every day. My menu never changes.”

  “Perfect. A bowl for each of us, please. And some bread. And beer.”

  The soup was delicious, with large pieces of chicken in it. And the bread was still warm from the oven.

  After our meal we drove on to Huatahata, once again to impose on Señor Quispe and his wife. We found Quispe mending fishing nets. “Well, my friends, welcome back. Not yet in Peru?”

  We explained about the blockade on the road out of Copacabana. “So we find ourselves once again imposing on your kindness.”

  “Not at all. Not a problem.”

  Once again we secured the Datsun with a neighbor. Once again our host offered us beer, which we gladly accepted. As we sat on a bench, Gonzalo began to recount his tale—our tale—to Quispe. “You know,” he said, “that I am a wanted man. They are saying that I am a dangerous criminal. That’s to scare you. I am not dangerous. I am not a criminal, at least in the usual sense. What I am, what I have been, is an American spy passing what information I can gather to the American CIA. I am paid for doing that, but the money is not important. I spent a year in Los Estados. America is more prosperous than Bolivia, a better place for ordinary people to live. Bolivia has natural resources, lots of them. But Bolivia has corrupt politics, and that is why we get nowhere. America has honest politi
cians.”

  “Mostly,” I interjected.

  “America is a democracy, maybe not perfect, but pretty good. I want America to have as much influence in Bolivia and on our politicians as it can. That is why I am an American spy. Not for America, but for Bolivia.”

  “Well,” said Quispe, “I am with you. In fact, I’m like an American. I have a business. Not just my farm here, but my launch. I take tourists out to the islands, out to see reed boats being built. And,” he continued, “my daughter is in America. She’s a student at UCLA in California. She studies economics, whatever that means. She has a novio there. I hope she marries him, but even if she does and invites me, I will stay in Bolivia. I belong here. But it is good for young people to get out—if they are smart enough to do something other than pick strawberries in California.”

  “Maybe some of them should come back to help Bolivia,” Gonzalo said.

  “Yes. That’s true. But not my daughter.

  “Bueno,” Quispe continued, “it’s early afternoon. There are some interesting ruins on small islands that almost no one ever visits. I’ll take you to see them. Then dinner and after that back to your hiding place in the hay.” Señor Quispe led us down to his launch and soon we arrived at the island of Calauta. “Everyone goes to Suriqui to see the reed boats being made. You’ve both been there, no?”

  We both indicated we had.

  “I take many tourists to Suriqui, but nobody wants to go to Calauta. But it is very interesting, very old, long before the Incas.” We wandered about the island, awed by the mostly intact ancient ruins. Buildings, houses perhaps, now lacking only roofs that were probably thatch. We encountered a boy herding sheep, using an honda to keep them from wandering. Señor Quispe put a stone on top of a rock pillar about four feet high. He pointed to it while motioning to the boy. The boy picked up a stone, put it in his sling, and hit the stone squarely, knocking it off of the pillar. Well, I thought, he could have joined David against Goliath!