“Gracias, muchisimas gracias,” I thanked the conductor.
We followed the conductor’s advice and soon found ourselves in Cuzco’s central plaza. “There’s a tourist information center over there,” I said pointing across the plaza. “I have some thoughts about what we should do next.”
“Okay,” replied Gonzalo. “What’s your master plan?”
“I think,” I said, “that we should go into the information center. While I browse racks for possibly useful folders and schedules, you should go to the desk. In fluent Spanish, you should explain that we have just arrived by train from Bolivia and need a place to stay. Tell them we are Bolivians, if you have the chance. Ask about hotels, good ones, upscale ones, but maybe not the very best, not the most expensive. If they offer to make a reservation, say ‘No, we’d rather look first.’ Get a map of Cuzco. And ask about bus or train travel to Arequipa. Let them think we are headed there. And about international airport connections in Arequipa. Arequipa is an interesting place we would like to see, maybe spend a day, but then we will want to fly out, perhaps to Chile or Ecuador. Ask if there are direct flights. Can we avoid Lima? We want to get to Arequipa, but we would like to avoid Lima.”
“We’re not going to Arequipa, are we?” Gonzalo asked. “It’s not on the way to Salaverry.”
“No, no, no. We are trying to lay a false trail. That’s all. As I browse folders in racks, I’ll try to pick up bus schedules to Lima. I think we’ll have to go there and then on from there to Trujillo and Salaverry.”
“That sounds right to me,” Gonzalo commented. “We’ll need someplace to stay tonight. Someplace other than one of the hotels they recommend.”
“Hopefully, I can find something useful in a brochure while you’re at the desk.”
Outside the visitor center and carrying a bundle of brochures and tourist information, we ambled across the plaza. The square was ringed with outfitters whose window placards urged tourists to book a hike to Machu Picchu with them. Hiking the old Inca ridge-top trail seemed to be the favored way to reach the old Inca site. Judging by the young people we saw in the plaza, many of the hikers would be German.
There were many shops selling souvenirs. “Look at all the beads,” I said to Gonzalo, commenting on the impressive variety of beads offered by street-side vendors. “They are amazing.”
“Yes,” he replied, “Cuzco is known for its beads.”
Looking across the plaza, we saw the two ANSEB agents enter the tourist office. “Okay,” I said, “time to get out of here. What did you find out about hotels?”
“I guess I would choose the Hotel Terra Incaica,” Gonzalo said. “It’s close. Just off the plaza. But we’re not going to stay in a hotel.”
“No, of course not. But the ANSEB men don’t know that.”
We registered at the Terra Incaica, showing our passports and once again explaining that we were American tourists. “We’ll visit Machu Picchu and then go to Arequipa,” I said. Taking our room key, we went to the attractive double room the hotel had given us.
“Let’s mess up the bed and towels. Make this room look used,” I said.
Gonzalo then spread out the Cuzco map while I opened a brochure listing guest houses. “It looks like there are a couple of possible places two or three blocks down the next street.”
“Okay, let’s check them out.” We left the hotel, dropping the key at the desk, and set out to find our accommodations for the night.
We chose the second of the guest houses we encountered. We were welcomed by a friendly, middle-aged woman who greeted us and offered us coca tea. “It will help with the altitude sickness,” she said, pouring the green tea into cups. “The hotels offer oxygen, but that only delays the symptoms. Coca tea is the best thing to take.”
As we sipped the coca tea, I told our hostess that we had just flown from Lima. And I told her that LAN had left our luggage behind. We had only the small packs we had carried on. “They promise the rest of it tomorrow,” I added.
“Yes,” she said, “I know. It is often like that. LAN is our national airlines, and it is a disgrace. It is always late, and luggage is often left behind. They will tell you it’s because of the altitude, but that is nonsense. Planes fly much higher than Cuzco.”
“We were an hour late leaving Lima,” I commented. “No reason why, that we were told.”
“Of course,” she said. “It is always like that. Practically every day.”
I told our hostess we would spend the next day in Cuzco and take the morning train to Machu Picchu the following day. We would return to her place the subsequent day after a night in Machu Picchu. We booked a room for three nights, and I paid her for three nights, I told her I would pay for subsequent nights when we returned. “We plan to be in Cuzco for two or three additional days before going to Arequipa,” I said.
“The train is really the best way to go to Machu Picchu,” she said. “It’s a beautiful ride along the Urubamba River. There are buses,” she said, “cheaper, but I don’t recommend them.”
“We are looking forward to the train ride. I have read about it.”
“Machu Picchu is a wonderful place. Magical,” she said. “It’s lower than Cuzco. You won’t have altitude problems there, I think. Be sure to see the sundial. Well, it’s not really a sundial. It’s the upright stone where the Inca priests hitched the sun so they could call it back after the solstice.”
“Winter or summer solstice?” I wondered aloud. “Maybe both,” I continued, musing. “We’re not far from the equator. You know, I have actually stood on the equator. Twice, in fact. Once in Ecuador and once in Uganda.” Then, again to our hostess, I asked, “Should we climb Huayna Picchu, the mountain? I have heard that it offers spectacular views.”
“No. That is a very difficult, almost impossible trail up a very steep mountain. It is for people much younger than you. There is lots else to see.”
Changing the subject, I asked about places in Cuzco to eat. “You shouldn’t eat much until you are adjusted to the altitude,” she warned.
“Yes, but we need something,” I responded. “Is there not a quiet place near here where we can get a light supper?”
“Claro,” she said. “But do not go back to the plaza or any of the hotels there. They would serve you too much and charge you a lot. Just down the street in the next block there is a small, neighborhood restaurant. Eat there—but just a little! And no alcohol—no wine, no beer!”
Upstairs in our room, Gonzalo asked, “Why did you pay for three nights? We’re not going to Machu Picchu.”
“Will ANSEB find her?” I asked. “Probably not. But if they do, I don’t want her to know our real plans or to think of us as anything other than two American tourists.”
“Right. Of course. Somehow I keep forgetting who we are!”
“And maybe we should go to Machu Picchu. I think we have time.”
We spread out the brochures we had acquired and began going through them. “Look at this,” I said. “There are Tepsa buses to Lima leaving every few hours. It looks like it takes about twenty hours to reach Lima. How are you at sleeping on a bus?”
“Better than sleeping in a Bolivian jail!” Gonzalo replied. “Let’s do it.”
29
After breakfast, we walked to the central plaza. Cuzco’s cathedral was erected atop an Inca temple. Many of the temple’s stones were used in building the cathedral, and the foundations and lower walls of the cathedral walls simply incorporated preexisting temple stone-work. We stopped in a street that ran along the side of the cathedral and admired the amazing remnants of Inca walls. Working without tempered metals for tools and without mortar, the early stone masons had cut and fitted together enormous blocks of granite, so closely positioned that a piece of paper could not be inserted between them. I was impressed.
“Look,” Gonzalo said as he clutched my arm and pointed down the street to the plaza. “There they are.” Two of the now familiar ANSEB agents were in the plaza, walking slowly and
scanning the surrounding buildings. They seemed to be most interested in hotel entrances. They talked to a doorman at one of the hotels. One of them entered the hotel.
“Quick,” I said. I grabbed Gonzalo’s arm and hastily steered him into the cathedral.”
But a short minute later, the two ANSEB agents followed us into the sanctuary.
“Over here,” Gonzalo said as he led me to a confessional at the side of the sanctuary. As he entered the priest’s side and pulled the dark curtain around him, he said to me, “Kneel there. You are a penitent asking forgiveness.” I knelt at the penitent’s place as directed.
“Father, I have sinned,” I said in a low voice. “I have sheltered and aided a dangerous criminal. I have helped him escape.”
“You are forgiven,” Gonzalo responded. Then I started on a litany of imagined sins that made it difficult for Gonzalo not to laugh.
Our two ANSEB followers walked past us without giving attention to us, apparently not suspecting us. They left through a side door.
Abandoning the confessional, we found seats in a dark corner. “We need a plan. We need to figure out how to spend today without being caught.”
“I think,” Gonzalo began.
“Good,” I interrupted. “We really do need some heavy-duty thinking! We have a major problem.”
“Listen, my friend,” Gonzalo said. “This is a tourist place. There’s a lot to see in the neighborhood. We should do some big-time sight-seeing. Let’s find a tourist agency and book a tour for the day, not here, but at some of the nearby tourist places. Places that will get us out of town.”
“Yeah, okay, good,” I responded.
“I noticed a Lima Tours office practically next door to the cathedral,” Gonzalo commented. “Let’s become American tourists again and see what they can do for us.”
The staff at Lima Tours was eager to help two probably well-heeled American tourists. “I speak only a little Spanish,” I said to a man at a desk, “and Mr. Morrison speaks none. We’ll need an English-speaking guide.”
“No problem. Not a problem at all.”
“It’s now what—about ten in the morning. We have most of the day, but we have to be back here for an important meeting at four this afternoon. Perhaps we should be back about three-thirty.” I invented this meeting, for I wanted to be back in good time to figure out what we might be able to do about dinner without ANSEB. The local café again, perhaps.
“No problem. Not a problem at all. When do you want to leave? Where would you like to go? What would you like to see?”
“Well,” Gonzalo said, “we can leave now—or as soon as you can find a guide who speaks English. And we have only arrived yesterday. So you should tell us what to see.”
“We are going to Machu Picchu tomorrow,” I added, “and then we will go next to Arequipa.”
“Very good.” Then he turned his head and called, “Eduardo, Edward.”
A young man—about thirty, I guessed—came from a back room carrying a cup of coffee. “These two American gentlemen would like a tour, returning here by three-thirty. What would you think of Písac and Sacsaywaman?”
“Well, it’s Friday, so there won’t be too much activity at the Písac market. But the ruins there are interesting. And there are places to get lunch in Písac, if we were to leave now. It’s about a forty-five minute drive, maybe only half an hour since today is not a market day. Then after lunch, Sacsaywaman. The immense red granite ruins there are well worth a visit.”
With a driver and English-speaking Edward, we were soon under way. Out of the reach of ANSEB for the day, we hoped. “We’re still going to have to figure out how to handle the bus station,” Gonzalo whispered into my ear.
“For now, let’s relax and enjoy being tourists,” I whispered back.
And so we did. The ruins at Písac were awesome. The land was terraced, and structures had been erected upon the terraces. As we had been at the cathedral in Cuzco, we were impressed by the stone work with carved blocks tightly abutting one another. “But you will be even more impressed when you visit Machu Picchu,” Edward told us.
After about an hour at Písac, we drove to Sacsaywaman. We were awed. Gigantic stones formed the wall of what seemed to be a fortress. “Yes,” said Edward, “it does seem to be a fortress. But the archeologists are not sure about that. Actually, its origins are pretty much unknown. It goes back to before Incan times. However, it was used as a military post by the Incas.”
Ambling along beside the gigantic rock face of the fortress or whatever it was, I suddenly saw a man who I thought might be one of the ANSEB agents. I pointed him out to Gonzalo. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. Well, probably.”
I walked over to Edward. “Amazing,” I said. “I guess we might go on back now.”
“Okay, if you’ve seen enough.”
We climbed into the Lima Tours car. As we did, I noticed the ANSEB man running toward us.
30
“We have told everyone we are going to Machu Picchu,” I said to Gonzalos. “I think we should do it. We’ve been moving right along, and we have a day to spare. I’d rather spend it in Machu Picchu than Salaverry.”
“I’m for it,” said my friend. “Have you been there?
“No. Have you?”
“Once long ago, when I was a university student. With some other students.”
“Can we spend the whole day there?’ I asked.
“Not so simple,” Gonzalo replied, “at least as I understand it. The return buses to catch the train leave from the ruins by about three o’clock.”
“Hmm.”
“But I have an idea,” Gonzalo offered. “Campers hike in there. They must sleep somewhere. Not in the ruins, but back on the trail, I suppose. Let’s buy sleeping bags at one of the outfitting stores here and plan to spend the night on the trail. Shouldn’t be much worse than Señor Quispe’s barn.” We stopped at an outfitting store on a corner of the plaza, one of many such emporiums. “Let me see what I can find for sleeping bags,” Gonzalo said, and he entered the store. I stood outside, the ever-watchful sentry. Then, almost suddenly, one of the ANSEB men came around the corner and took hold of my arm.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? How are you connected to Mamani? Don’t you know he’s a dangerous man, a criminal?”
I shook him off and started walking across the plaza away from the store and Gonzalo. “And who are you?’ I asked angrily. “Leave me alone.”
“I am a Bolivian security agent. We’re tracking a dangerous criminal. I’ve seen him with you. In Copacabana, in Puno, now here.”
“Nonsense. I’m an American. I don’t know what you are talking about. Leave me alone.” I walked on across the plaza, heading toward the city hall, where I assumed I could find a Peruvian police officer. He let go of my arm, obviously a bit concerned as we neared a point where he might have to justify himself. Then, unable to restrain myself, I taunted, “Vete a friar monos” (Go fry monkeys), a schoolyard put-down my kids had learned during our year living in La Paz. I walked into the city hall. He did not follow me.
I wanted to reconnect with Gonzalo, but I did not want to lead the ANSEB man to him or to the boarding house where we were staying. So I walked along the side of the plaza and entered the Terra Incaica. As I hoped it would, the hotel had a street level café just off of its lobby. I picked up a newspaper from a rack in the lobby, went in to the café, and ordered coffee. I watched the ANSEB agent as he entered the hotel and talked to the clerk at the reception desk. Another hotel man came from a back office, perhaps a manager, I thought. The manager went back into the office and returned with what I supposed was a registry of guests. He and the ANSEB agent went through it carefully, line by line. The agent pointed to me. The manager nodded. I sipped my coffee and read the newspaper. The agent left the hotel—to wait outside, I presumed.
Leaving the hotel, I wandered about the plaza, looking into shops. I bought some beads. Susan would like t
hem, if I could get them back with me. Somehow I had to lose the agent before reconnecting with Gonzalo. I returned to the information office we had visited when we first arrived in Cuzco. Keeping my eye on my follower, I browsed through pamphlets. I talked to the person at the desk about the best way to go to Machu Picchu. Buses or the train, which I already knew. No, they did not need to book the train for me, but many thanks. I picked up a map of the city and plotted out a side-street route back to the boarding house. Finally—it seemed forever to me—the ANSEB man wandered back into the plaza and out of direct sight of the office entrance. I hurried out, turned away from the plaza, and made my way back to our lodging.
I admired the bags Gonzalo had purchased. “But,” I said, “I think we need to buy some more things. I’ve been in this same shirt and pants for what seems like forever. Sleeping in them sometimes—in the straw, on the ground. I think it’s time to buy some new clothes.”
“Absolutely,” Gonzalo replied. “Let’s go do it.” And so we did, managing not to become entangled with the ANSEB agents. I bought khaki pants with lots of pockets, including a couple of inner ones with zippers. All the money I was carrying would probably be safe there. Gonzalo bought Levis. We both purchased new shirts. We also purchased underwear. We felt no need to burden ourselves with washing out underwear when we could afford to buy new and clean.
“I suppose we could see if the woman at the guest house would wash the old clothes for us,” Gonzalo said.
“Not mine,” I said. “I never want to see them again. Besides, our small packs have no extra room. Out with the old!”
“Right.”
31
The next morning found us boarding the train with our small packs and newly acquired sleeping bags to descend down the valley of the Urubamba River to Aguas Calientes. It was a spectacular trip. Steep cliffs rose up on each side, cradling the tumbling, cascading river.
Off the train, we joined a line waiting for one of the jitney buses to take us up about 1,000 feet to Machu Picchu. “No wonder it is called the ‘lost city of the Incas,’” I said to Gonzalo. “Even knowing that it’s there, it really disappears into the mountain.”
Escape Through the Andes Page 14