The amiable Dr. Revilla very kindly invited us to his home. We set off at 4:00, taking advantage of a truck. We spent the night in a small town called Palca, and arrived in La Paz early.
Now we are waiting for an [illegible] in order to be on our way.
Gustavo Torlincheri is a great photographic artist. Apart from a public exhibition and some work in his private collection, we had an opportunity to see him at work. His simple technique supports a more important, methodical composition, resulting in remarkably good photos. We joined him on an Andean Club trip from La Paz that went to Chacaltaya and then the water sources of the electricity company that supplies La Paz.
Another day I visited the Ministry of Peasant Affairs, where they treated me with extreme politeness. It’s a strange place where masses of Indians from different highland groups wait their turn for an audience. Each group has a unique costume and a leader—or indoctrinator—who addresses them in their particular language. Employees spray them with DDT as they enter.
Finally, everything was ready for us to leave; each of us had a romantic contact to leave behind. My farewell was more on an intellectual level, without too much sentiment, but I think there is something between us, she and I.
The last evening saw toasts at Nougués’s house—so many that I left my camera there. In all the confusion, Calica left for Copacabana alone, while I stayed another day, using it to sleep and to retrieve my camera.
After a very beautiful journey beside the lake, I scrounged my way to Tiquina and then made it to Copacabana. We stayed in the best hotel and the following day hired a boat to take us to Isla del Sol.
They woke us at 5 a.m. and we set off for the island. There was very little wind so we had to do some rowing. We reached the island at 11 a.m. and visited an Inca site. I heard about some more ruins, so we urged the boatman to take us there. It was interesting, especially scratching around in the ruins where we found some relics, including an idol representing a woman who pretty much fulfilled all my dreams. The boatman didn’t seem eager to return, but we convinced him to set sail. He made a complete hash of it, however, and we had to spend the night in a miserable little hut with straw for mattresses.
We rowed back the next morning, working like mules against the exhaustion that overcame us. We lost the day sleeping and resting, and resolved to leave the following morning by donkey; we then had second thoughts and decided to postpone our departure until the afternoon. I booked a ride on a truck, but it left before we arrived with our bags, leaving us stranded until we finally managed to get a ride in a van. Then our odyssey began: a two-kilometer walk carting hefty bags. Eventually we found ourselves two porters and amid laughter and cursing we reached our lodgings. One of the Indians, whom we nicknamed Túpac Amaru, was an unhappy sight: Each time he sat down to rest we had to help him back to his feet, as he could not stand up alone. We slept like logs.
The next day we met with the unpleasant surprise that the policeman was not in his office, so we watched the trucks leave, unable to do a thing. The day passed in total boredom.
The next day, comfortably installed in a “couchette,” we traveled beside the lake toward Puno.8 Nearby, some tolora blossoms were flowering—we hadn’t seen any since Tiquina. At Puno we passed through the last customs post, where I had two books confiscated: Men and Women in the Soviet Union, and a Ministry of Peasant Affairs publication, which they loudly proclaimed as “red, red, red.” After some banter with the chief of police I agreed to look for a copy for him in Lima. We slept in a little hotel near the railway station.
We were about to climb into a second-class carriage with all our gear when a policeman proposed (with an air of intrigue) that we could travel free to Cuzco in first class using two of their badges. So, of course, we agreed. We therefore had a very comfortable ride, paying them the cost of our second-class tickets. That night, arriving at the station in Cuzco, one of them disappeared without his badge, leaving it in my possession. We stayed in a small dump of a hotel and had a good night’s sleep.
Peru
The next day we went to lodge our passports and stumbled across a secret policeman who asked (in that professional tone they have) where the badge was that I had been given the night before. I explained what had happened and handed back the badge. The rest of the day we spent visiting churches, and the next day as well. We have now seen Cuzco’s most important sights, if a little superficially, and are waiting for an Argentine lady to change some of our money into sols so we can go to Machu-Picchu as soon as possible.
Now we have our sols, but for 1,000 pesos they’ve only given us 600. I don’t know how much this was due to the Argentine woman, because the intermediary did not appear. Anyway, for the moment at least, we are safe from hunger.
Cuzco, 22 [August 1953]
Pay attention here, mami.
This second trip has been most enjoyable, and I almost feel like a rich man, but the impact is different. Where Alberto entertained me with talk about marrying Inca princesses and restoring empires, Calica curses the filth and every time he steps on one of the innumerable [human] turds that line the streets, he looks at his dirty shoes instead of the sky or the silhouette of some cathedral. He does not smell the intangible, evocative things about Cuzco, but only the stink of stew and shit. It’s a matter of temperament. All this apparent incoherence—I’m going, I went, I didn’t go, etc.—was because we needed them to believe we had left Bolivia. A revolt was expected at any moment and we had the solemn intention to stay and see what happened close up. To our disappointment, nothing eventuated; all we saw were shows of strength from the government which, contrary to everything that is said, seems to me to be fairly secure.
I was thinking of getting work in a mine, but didn’t want to stay more than a month; they offered me a minimum of three so I didn’t stick to that plan.
Afterward we went to the shores of Lake Titicaca, or Copacabana, and spent a day on the Isla del Sol, the famous sanctuary of Inca times where I achieved one of my most cherished ambitions as an explorer: I found a little statue of a woman in an indigenous burial ground, the size of a little finger but an idol all the same, made of the famous chompi, the alloy used by the Incas.
On reaching the border, we had to walk two kilometers without transport; and for one kilometer it fell to me to carry my suitcase filled with books, which nearly broke my back. The two of us and the two laborers had our tongues on the ground by the time we arrived.
At Puno I had a hell of a fight with customs, because they took a Bolivian book from me, claiming it was “red.” There was no persuading them that these were scientific publications.
Of my future life I can tell you nothing, because I know nothing, not even how things will go in Venezuela. But we have now got the visa through an intermediary […]. As to the more distant future, I can say I haven’t changed my mind about the US$10,000, and that I may do another trip through Latin America, only this time in a North-South direction with Alberto, and this might be by helicopter. Then Europe and then who knows. […]
In these days of waiting we have exhausted Cuzco’s supply of churches and interesting monuments. Again my head is full of a motet of altars, large paintings and pulpits. The simple serenity of the pulpit in the Church of San Francisco was impressive, its sobriety contrasting with the grandiosity of nearly all the colonial buildings here.
Belén certainly has nice towers, but the brilliant white of the two bell towers here is stunning, set off by the dark colors of the old nave.
My little Inca statue—her new name is Martha—is authentic, and made of tunyana, the Incan alloy. One of the museum staff confirmed this. It’s a pity the vessel fragments seem bizarre to us, considering they represent that former civilization. We have been eating better since the payment.
Machu-Picchu does not disappoint; I don’t know how many times I can go on admiring it. Those gray clouds and purple-colored peaks, against which the gray ruins stand out, are one of the most marvelous sights I can imagine
.
Don Soto received us very well and then only charged us half the cost of our accommodation. But despite Calica’s enthusiasm for this place, I’m forever missing Alberto’s company. Especially here in Machu-Picchu, I’m always remembering how well our characters complemented each other.
We’re back in Cuzco to take a look at a church and wait for a truck to leave. One by one our hopes are dismantled, as the days pass and the pesos and sols dwindle. We had already found a truck, just what we needed, when, with all the bags loaded, there was a huge row over two pounds in weight we honestly did not have. If we had been willing to compromise, we might have come to a deal, but as it was we were stranded until the next day, Saturday. Our first calculation suggests it would have cost us 40 sols more than the bus.
Here in Cuzco we met a spirit medium. It happened like this: In a conversation with the Argentine woman and Pacheco, the Peruvian engineer, the talk turned to spiritualism. We had to suppress our laughter, putting on serious faces, and the next day they took us to meet him. The guy pronounced he could see some strange lights within us—the green light of sympathy and that of egoism in Calica, and the dark green of adaptability within me. He then asked me if something was wrong with my stomach, as my radiations were fading, which left me thinking as my stomach was definitely churning from the Peruvian peas and all the tinned food. A pity I wasn’t able to have a proper session with him.
Now we have left Cuzco behind us and after an endless three-day bus journey we reached Lima. For the entire trip from Abancoy, the road followed the ever-narrowing ravine of the Apurimac river. We washed in a small pool barely deep enough to cover us, and the cold was so intense that for me it was no fun.
The journey became interminable. The chickens shat all over the place beneath our seats, and the smell of duck was so unbearably thick you could cut it with a knife. A few punctures dragged the journey out even further, and when we finally reached Lima we slept like logs in a small dive of a hotel.
On the bus we met a French explorer who had been sailing on the Apurimac River when his boat sunk and the current took his companion. At first he said she was a teacher, but it turned out she was a student, running away from her parents’ home, and that she didn’t know how to swim. The guy is going to face a few troubles ahead.
I went to visit Dr. Pesce and the people from the leprosy colony.9 Everyone greeted me most cordially.
Nine days have passed in Lima, although due to various engage ments with friends we still haven’t seen anything extra special. We found a university diner that charges 1.30 a meal, which suits us perfectly.
Zoraida Boluarte invited us to her place, and from there we went to the famous 3-D cinema. It doesn’t seem all that revolutionary to me and the films are just the same. The real fun came later, when we found ourselves with two cops who turned the place upside down and carted us down to the police station. After a few hours there, we were released and told to come back the next day— today. We’ll see.
The police stuff came to nothing: After a mild interrogation and a few apologies, they let us go. The next day they called us back in with some questions about a couple who had kidnapped a boy. They bore some resemblance to the Roy couple in La Paz.
The days succeed each other with nothing new and no opportunities. The only event of any import has been our change of residence, which enables us to live totally gratis.
The new house has worked out magnificently. We were invited to a party, and although I couldn’t drink because of my asthma, Calica used the opportunity to get smashed once again.
Dr. Pesce honored us with one of his rambling, genial chats in which he touches with such assurance on so many diverse topics.
Our tickets for Tumbes are almost a sure thing—they’re being arranged by a brother of Sra. de Peirano. So here we are, waiting, with practically nothing more to see in Lima.
Empty days continue to go by, and our own inertia ensures we remain in this city longer than we had hoped. Perhaps the ticket question will be resolved tomorrow, Monday, so we can set a definite departure date. The Pasos have made an appearance, saying they have good work prospects here.
We’re almost on our way, with only a few minutes left to look over dreamy Lima again. Its churches are filled with an interior magnificence that doesn’t extend to their exteriors—my opinion— they don’t have the dignified sobriety of Cuzco’s temples. The cathedral has several scenes of the Passion of great artistic worth, which seem like they have been done by a painter from the Dutch school. But I don’t like its nave, or its stylistically amorphous exterior, which looks as if it was built in the transition period when Spain’s martial fury was on the wane and a decadent love of ease and luxury was rising. San Pedro has a number of valuable paintings, but I don’t like its interior either.
We ran into Rojo, who had had the same trouble as us, only more so owing to the particular books he was carrying. He is traveling to Guayaquil, where we will meet up.
To farewell Lima we saw “The Big Concert,” a Russian film dangerously like US cinema, although better, considering its color and musical quality. Saying good-bye to the patients was really quite emotional, I think I will write about it.
Lima, September 3 [1953]
Dear Tita,10
Sadly, I have to write to you in my beautiful handwriting, as I haven’t been able to get hold of a typewriter to remedy the situation. At any rate, I hope you have a day free to dedicate to reading this letter.
Let’s get to the point. Thank your friend Ferreira for the letter of introduction to the Bolivian college. Dr. Molina was very kind to me and seemed enchanted with both me and my traveling companion, the one you met at home. He subsequently offered me a job as a doctor and Calica work as a nurse in a mine; we accepted, but wanted to reduce the three months he wanted us to stay to one. Everything was settled and amicable and we were to report the next day to finalize details. Imagine our surprise when the next day we found out Dr. Molina had left to inspect the mines and wouldn’t be back for two or three days. So we presented ourselves then, and still no Molina, although they believed he would be back in another couple of days. It would take too long to recount the times we went looking for him; the fact is that 20 days passed before he returned, and by then we could no longer agree to a month—the lost time would have made it two—so he gave us some introductory letters for the director of a tungsten mine, where we went for two or three days. Very interesting, especially because the mine is in a magnificent location. Overall the trip was worthwhile.
I should tell you that in La Paz I ignored my diet and all that nonsense, and nevertheless felt wonderful for the month and a half I spent there. We traveled quite a bit into the surrounding area— to Las Yungas, for example, very pretty tropical valleys—but one of the most interesting things we did was to study the intriguing political scene. Bolivia has been a particularly important example for the American continent. We saw exactly where the struggles had taken place, the holes left by bullets and even the remains of a man killed in the revolution and recently discovered in the cornice of a building—the lower part of his body had been blown away by one of those dynamite belts they wear around their waists. In the end, they fought without holding back. The revolutions here are not like those in Buenos Aires—two or three thousand (no one knows for sure how many) were left dead on the battlefield.
Even now the fighting continues, and almost every night people are wounded by gunfire on one side or the other. But the government is supported by an armed people, and there is no possibility of liquidating an armed movement from outside. It can, however, succumb to internal conflicts.
The MNR [Nationalist Revolutionary Movement] is a coalition with three more or less clear tendencies: the right, represented by Siles Suazo, vice-president and hero of the revolution; the center, represented by Paz Estenssoro, shiftier and probably as right-wing as the first; and the left, represented by Lechín, the visible head of a serious protest movement, but who himself is an unknown g
iven to partying and chasing women. Power is likely to remain in the hands of Lechín’s group, which counts on the powerful support of the armed miners, but resistance from their colleagues in government may prove serious, particularly as the army is going to be reorganized.
Well, I’ve told you something about the Bolivian situation. I’ll tell you about Peru later, when I’ve lived here for a little longer, but in general I think that Yankee domination in Peru has not even created the fiction of economic well-being that can be seen in Venezuela, for example.
Of my future life, I know little about where I am headed and even less when. We have been thinking of going to Quito and from there to Bogotá and Caracas, but of the intermediary steps we haven’t got much of an idea. I’ve only recently arrived here in Lima from Cuzco.
I won’t tire of urging you to visit there if possible, especially Machu-Picchu. I promise you won’t regret it.
I guess that since I left you must have taken at least five subjects, and I imagine you still go fishing for worms in the muck heap. There’s little or nothing to write you about vocations, but if one day you change your tune and want to see the world,
remember this friend
who would risk his skin
to help you however he can
when the occasion arises
A hug. Until it occurs to you, and we’re in the same place when it does,
Ernesto
The first leg of the journey got us to Piura without a break, where we arrived at lunchtime. Sick with asthma, I locked myself in my room, and only went out for a while in the evening to see a bit of the town, which is like a typical Argentine provincial city, but with more new cars.
Convincing the driver that we should pay less, the next day we took the bus to Tumbes and got there as night was falling. Among other towns, the journey took us through Talara, a rather picturesque oil port.