Escape Through the Andes

by Thomas M. Daniel

  “Well, that’s because it is native stone buildings set on native stone. The Spaniards came down this river valley without ever finding the Incas above them.”

  We were on one of the last buses to climb the twisting road up. Partway up, the driver stopped the bus and got out. Now what, I thought. Shortly he returned with a handful of wild orchids. Beautiful. Graciously and with a modest bow, he presented them to an attractive young woman seated beside a man of about her age. A honeymoon couple, I thought. And so, perhaps, did the bus driver.

  Descending from the bus, we paid our entrance fee and presented our American passports. There were many guides, huckstering and enrolling tourists in groups. We decided to tour the ruins on our own. The pamphlet we were handed at the entrance had a map.

  I overheard one of the guides talking about the “sacred site.” In fact, in Cuzco I had seen and heard repeated reference to the “sacred lost city” of the Incas and the “sacred valley” of the Urubamba River. Being a cynic—part of being a scientist—I was certain that no one really knew that Machu Picchu was a sacred site. In fact, I recalled reading that those who lived there and why they did so remained a mystery to archeologists despite many efforts to find clues. As for being lost, it certainly had not been lost to the Incans who lived there. And Hiram Bingham found it by paying a local boy to guide him, for it was known to local residents if not to adventurers from Yale. Yet, both “sacred” and “lost” were descriptors that promoters of tourism found useful. I knew and understood that Peru’s economy could use all the foreign tourist currency it could entrap.

  A buffet lunch had been set up at the small hotel next to the ruins, and we took advantage of it much earlier than we would usually have eaten, assuming that long lines would develop. Standing in a lunch line did not seem to us to be a profitable way to pass our limited time at Machu Picchu.

  Back in the ruins I realized Gonzalo was no longer with me. Oh well, I thought, we’ll find each other as the crowds depart. I wandered through the ancient city. If the stone work at the cathedral in Cuzco had been impressive, so much more so was this, I thought to myself. Enormous lintels; how did they ever get them in place? For that matter, how did these amazing builders cut these many stone blocks so precisely with no metal other than gold, silver, and copper? Soft metals. No steel. What were their tools?

  I saw the young couple from the bus standing near the erect stone said to be a sundial. They were holding hands. She still had the flowers.

  Then, in the older and less elaborate section of the ruins, I saw Gonzalo. He was standing near the edge of the mountain with its steep drop-off. The agent from ANSEB was there with him. The same one we had baptized in Lake Titicaca—twice. How did he get here? Gonzalo was gesticulating and speaking in English. A crowd was beginning to gather.

  I strode to the agent, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. “Listen to me. I don’t know who you are or why you are bothering us on our vacation. But if you don’t leave us alone, I’ll push you off the edge here. It’s not as wet as Lake Titicaca, but it’s a lot farther down.”

  He looked at me, glaring, not friendly. There was little he could do at this place, and English-speaking tourists were rapidly surrounding us. “I’ll be with you on the train back to Cuzco,” he said. “My colleagues will meet the train, and then we’ll get you and take you back to Bolivia.”

  “We’re not going back to Bolivia. Not now. And after you and all you’ve done following us, never. Never, ever. We’re going on to Arequipa, and we do not want to see you there.” He left, grumbling to himself. Too large a crowd had gathered for him to be able to do anything else.

  “Well, Gonzalo, the minute you leave my side you get in trouble. This can’t happen again. You have to stay with me; we have to stay together.”

  Gonzalo clearly was annoyed. “You know, Paul, I’m a big boy. And I know my way around South America better than you do. Get off my case!”

  “No, Gonzalo, being ‘on your case’ is what I am here for. We stay together. More than that, I call the shots.”

  “Screw it! Screw you! I’m not an idiot and I’m not helpless.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Calm down. We’re in this together now. But we’re both much safer if we’re together, not alone.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Gonzalo acknowledged reluctantly. “And, while I was off and out from under your watchful eyes, I did some good things.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re booked into the hotel here for the night.”

  “How in the world did you do that?”

  “Well, I offered to pay double, and in cash. You still have plenty of soles, don’t you? The extra tab will go into his pocket, of course. I hope he really did have the spare room he said he had. I would hate to see someone else displaced. And I offered to give him our sleeping bags, which he should be able to sell. So let’s go now and pick up our keys and claim our room. Trucha is on the dinner menu for tonight, but it won’t be very fresh.”

  The young couple from the bus and the sundial stone was in the dining room at dinner, seated at a table by themselves.

  32

  We boarded the train to return to Cuzco. Once again we marveled at the Urubamba River Valley. The train traveled slowly; it was uphill all the way.

  “Well,” I said to Gonzalo, “that was marvelous. I’m glad we fit it in. But now we have some planning to do.”

  “Yeah,” Gonzalo agreed. “They’ll be waiting for us at the station.”

  “I have an idea. See what you think of it.”

  “Whatever your idea is, it’s better than mine. I can’t figure out how we’ll escape them, and I’m getting more and more worried.”

  “I guess ‘worried’ is appropriate.”

  “Actually, I’m more than worried. I’m terrified!”

  “So this I what I suggest,” I continued. “When we arrive, I’ll head into the station along with the crowd. You go back to the bridge to the other platform. Hang out for a while—fifteen, twenty minutes or however long until the crowd has gone. The ANSEB men will recognize me and try to get me to lead them to you. I’ll brush them off, but I’ll lead them away and back toward the Hotel Terra Incaica, where we’re not really staying but they think we are.”

  “Sounds good,” Gonzalo said. “And I’ll meet you back at our room.”

  “Yeah.”

  As planned, I disembarked with the crowd of returning tourists. And as expected, I was greeted by one of the ANSEB agents as I left the platform. He took hold of my arm. “Where is he? Where is Mamani? We know you’re traveling with him.” I ignored him, walking on toward the hotel. But he persisted. “I don’t know who you are, but your companion, Mamani, is a dangerous man and he should be in our custody.”

  “Let go of me!” I said. “I’ve told you before, I am an American. So is my friend. We’re tourists. I have no idea who Mamani is or what you’re talking about. Now leave me alone.”

  “Where is he?” he persisted.

  “In Machu Picchu,” I said. “He’s staying there another day. But he is not whoever you think he is. We’re both Americans, from Ohio. Just tourists. So leave us alone.”

  I walked into the Terra Incaica Hotel and asked the desk clerk if there were any messages. None, of course. Then, seeming to hesitate and be making up my mind, I turned out back to the plaza. I strolled a bit, looking in windows. The ANSEB men seemed to lose interest in me, and I seized the opportunity to turn down a side street and make my way back to the boarding house.

  I greeted Gonzalo. “I guess we’ll have to spend another night here before going on to Lima. But we should still make Salaverry on schedule. At least I think so. Let’s get dinner at the Terra Incaica. Somehow they seem reluctant to try to drag us out of there forcibly.”

  “Yeah. When it comes down to it, they really have no authority here. They probably expect to put a gun in my back and encourage me to behave that way. But they don’t know what to do with you, and that screws up their plans.”

&n
bsp; “Right. So let’s go get dinner. If we catch a bus around midday tomorrow, we should be in Lima in the morning. It’s about a twenty hour ride, I believe. At least that’s what I can tell from the schedules we picked up.”

  33

  With heads full of memories of Machu Picchu, a fantastic and magical place for both of us, we were less than fully excited about spending the morning in Cuzco. Yet we had the morning open, and we wanted to do something that would take us out of view of our followers. Without revealing our departure plans, we interrupted our hostess as she was serving breakfast to ask her about places to visit in Cuzco. “Maybe there are things that most tourists don’t see—but should,” I said.

  “Of course,” she replied. She paused, perhaps thinking of alternatives, and then said, “I suggest you visit the Andean Textile Center. There is a small museum there with some exquisite pieces, and you can see weavers at work. You know, weaving goes back thousands of years here.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “my wife is an artist. She paints; she doesn’t weave. But she understands and loves art of all kinds. She has taken me to see some weaving exhibits. Before we left, she told me I should be sure to see Andean textiles.” I did not add that she had purchased some excellent examples during our year in Bolivia. “Let’s go there this morning,” I said, turning to Gonzalo.

  With new clothes on our backs and with old clothes left in our room, we set out. The museum was worth the visit, and it provided a peaceful refuge from ANSEB. In a quiet corner, I commented to my friend, “You know, Gonzalo, Susan became very interested in the artistry of Andean textiles when we lived here. Amazing, fine work. Some of it done on a back-strap loom. That’s nothing more than a warp wound between two poles, one attached to a tree, the other to a strap around the weaver’s waist. She, the weaver, can vary the tension by leaning back. And we’ve seen weaving being done on a warp wound between two poles staked to the ground. Awesome!”

  “One of the many extraordinary achievements of my ancestors. Some intricately woven funereal fragments dating back more than a thousand years have been recovered from mummies in Andean graves. I’ll have to go to a museum to see such things now, I guess.”

  “Some that Susan collected you can see in our house in Cleveland Heights. Probably as much there as you can find in most American museums.”

  “Interestingly, not all of the weaving is done by women,” Gonzalo continued. “Rugs and the packing sacks used for the backs of llamas are woven by men.”

  “Right. I know that.”

  Leaving the textile center, we went to the Terra Incaica Hotel, hoping to enjoy a leisurely lunch in the hotel café. We had ordered and our food had arrived at our table when two uniformed Peruvian police officers walked to our table. They were accompanied by the hotel manager and the ANSEB man who had most frequently harassed us in the Cuzco plaza. “Buenas tardes, Señores,” one of the officers said. “Could I trouble you for your passports, please?” We retrieved our passports from our pockets and presented them to the officer. “You have been to Bolivia?” We continued the fiction that Gonzalo did not speak Spanish, and the officer addressed his question to me.

  “Yes,” I replied. “We spent several days there.”

  “And what did you do in Bolivia, Señor Masterson?” He thumbed through the pages of my passport, checking the border crossing stamps.

  “The usual tourist things. I guess. We stayed at the Hotel Europa. We rested for a couple of days to adjust to the altitude. We went to the witches’ market on Calle Sagarnaga. We rented a car and drove out to Copacabana and to Tiahuanacu. Then we drove to Puno, where we left the car with a garage. We are going to Arequipa. We’ll recover the car and return it when we go back to La Paz.”

  “What sort of car, please?”

  “An ordinary one, a sedan.”

  “A Volkswagen?

  “No, a Datsun.”

  “And here in Cuzco? You are staying at this hotel?”

  The manager spoke up. “Yes, they are.”

  “And what have you done here in Cuzco?”

  “Well, we took a tour with Lima tours to Písac and Saksaywamon. And we went to Machu Picchu. We spent one night in the hotel there.”

  The officer turned to the ANSEB man. “They seem to be tourists as they say they are.”

  “No, they are terrorists, dangerous criminals. I need to arrest them and take them back to Bolivia.”

  “Their papers are in order. They are Americans, not Bolivians. I suggest you do not further disturb them, or I will arrest you.”

  “But I am an agent of the Agencia Nacional de la Seguridad de Boliviana.”

  “And this is el Peru, not Bolivia.” He took the ANSEB man by the arm and led him from the hotel.

  We resumed our lunch. “That was interesting,” Gonzalo commented. “I guess we passed.” We continued our lunch, not being sure when we would next have a leisurely meal.

  As the scheduled departure time for the Lima bus approached, we walked to the bus station. It was crowded. Buses were waiting to depart to Lima, Arequipa, Puno, and many other destinations. As we were making our way to the departure area, one of the ANSEB agents appeared. He strode toward us, then took out a hand gun and thrust it into Gonzalo’s back. “Gonzalo Mamani, you are under arrest for crimes against the government of Bolivia!”

  Gonzalo threw his arms up and screamed out in English, “Help! Help!”

  I joined in the cry, “Help, help us! Ayudanos!”

  A group of six back-packers, three young men and three young women, quickly surrounded us. Probably Americans, I thought. They succeeded in making it impossible for the ANSEB agent to do anything but announce in stentorian tones, “He is a dangerous criminal!”

  “I am an American,” Gonzalo called out loudly. “I am a tourist. I am not a criminal.”

  Two uniformed Peruvian police officers arrived within minutes. Two more followed a few minutes later. One of the Peruvian officers caught the ANSEB agent by the wrist and wrested the gun away from him. “He is a dangerous criminal. He is wanted for treason in Bolivia. I am an agent of the government of Bolivia,” the ANSEB agent protested as he was led away.

  “Now then,” said one of the Peruvian officers. “You are Americans?”

  “Si, yes.”

  “May I see your passports, please?”

  The Peruvian officer looked at our photos in the passports and carefully paged through both of the passports. “Señor Morrison y Señor Masterson, where are you going today?” he asked.

  “Lima,” I replied.

  “And what is your business in Lima?”

  “Tourism for two days,” I replied. “Then we fly home.”

  “Very good,” he said. “That is your bus there.”

  “Thank you, officer. I really do not know who that man with a gun was.”

  “We’ll take care of him. Have a good trip,” he said, and then he walked off.

  I turned to the young people who had been standing nearby. “You are Americans, perhaps?”

  “Yes,” one of them said. “We’re taking the bus to Arequipa.”

  “Thanks so much for coming to our help.”

  “Glad we could be helpful. The Lonely Planet guidebook said to watch out for petty thieves, but not this sort of thing.”

  “Where are you all from?” I asked.

  “Buffalo, and you?”

  “Cleveland. We’ll be headed home soon, but first we have to get to Lima.”

  “Have a good trip.”

  “We will, and many thanks again.”

  We boarded the bus and soon were on our way to Lima.

  34

  The Gran Hotel Bolivar fronts on Lima’s Plaza San Martin, more commonly called the Plaza Mayor. An older hostelry, it has retained its courtly demeanor. High ceilings, dark woodwork, brocade draperies. We checked in, presenting our American passports. “We’ll be here for two nights,” I said as I tendered the credit card Rosemary had given me. The clerk gave us our room key, a large, old-fashio
ned key, not a plastic card. “We plan to go to Trujillo,” I told the receptionist. “We would rather take a bus or train. We would like to see some of the countryside, rather than simply fly over it. By any chance do you have bus or train schedules?”

  “Let me see what I have here,” he responded. Presently he produced a bus schedule. “Here, take this. Keep it. No one else will want it. I’m not sure why we have it. Our guests do not generally ride buses.” I ignored his denigrating remark. “And here is a tourist map of Central Lima,” he added. “The walk from here to the Plaza de Armas goes through the old city and is worth a visit. The best restaurants are in Miraflores. You would have to take a taxi.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow night. We’ve traveled a lot today. What of your restaurant here?” I asked.

  “It’s very good,” he replied.

  “Do we need to make a dinner reservation?”

  “No, no. Not for tonight. Only on a major holiday, perhaps. Probably not even then. Miraflores has stolen most of our dining room business.”

  I thanked him for the map and the bus schedule, and we made our way to our second-floor room. Throwing our packs on a luggage rack, we sat down in comfortable arm chairs. “This is luxury,” Gonzalo commented. “I haven’t been this comfortable since leaving La Paz.”

  “Don’t get to used to it,” I said. “We’ll soon be back on a bus! But for the moment, we seem to be well set and out of the reach of ANSEB. And since we used the credit card to check in, our CIA friends should know where we are.”

  “Yes, and Rosa Maria,” Gonzalo commented.

  “Okay,” I said, spreading out the bus schedule. “There’s a bus to Trujillo leaving at nine this evening. Arrives in Trujillo at six tomorrow morning.”

  “Great,” said Gonzalo. “Another night on a bus.”

  “We need to keep moving,” I replied.

  “Yes, yes. So how about we go out and walk up to Plaza de Armas. We can get something to eat on the way. Then back here for a drink and early meal before checking out and taking a taxi to the bus terminal.”