Or
maybe it was just the rain. The twelve hour bus ride from Arequipa
had been unusually prompt, lasting but a scant seventeen hours. And
of that, a mere eleven were spent devising methods to guard against the
icy wind which found its way through the cracks in the window pane to his
left. By far the most satisfying brace against the wind was the embrace
of Ms. Cusco to his right. Less fortunate passengers stuck news print
in the cracks or piled on the blankets. El Gringo thought of the
double weight blanket he'd left in Cusco, of the poncho he'd left on a
bus in La Paz, of the heavy coat she'd left in her luggage which was secure
atop the bus, enjoying the morning drizzle.
The transition from the beachfront town of Arica, Chile to the 15,000 Andees had been abrupt. El Gringo's mind drifted back through the preceding month. It had started in late January when once again, his ninety day visa for Peru was due to expire. Seven months in South America had drained him of any further interest in travel. The only saving grace was that Ms. Cusco had agreed to join him in his latest sojourn.
Peru was in no hurry to watch Ms. Cusco depart, and so roadblocks a plethora they put in the path of her passport procurement. Although women have never been drafted into noble Peruvian armed forces, they must register for the draft along with all the green young farm boys.
The fine cardboard parchment of Ms. Cusco's libreta militar had
long since dissolved away to nothing and so another was petitioned.
A pole tax was paid for a missed election-- Citizens are so patriotic in
Peru that they face a fine if they don't vote. A pilgrimage was made
to the lakeside town of Urcos to solicit a copy of the birth record.
The mayor duly signed the document, as she does in every such case attest
to her presence at the birth of each Urcos resident regardless as to whether
the claimant was thirty years her junior or senior (although El Gringo
had to applaud Urcos as possibly the only town on the continent to
elect a female mayor).
Proof having been secured that Ms. Cusco had indeed been lawfully begotten, the motley collection of documents was forwarded to the office of migraciones, placed neatly in a pile of similar requests where they sat for a period of weeks.
In the meantime, El Gringo raced across the frontier to Bolivia, where like Butch and Sundance before him, he hid out in the border town of Copacabana just ahead of the friendly migracion officials whose paper and pencil calculations had been at variance with his own calculations of eighty-nine days spent in the wonderland of El Peru.
Despite a distance of less than two hundred miles, Copacabana was indeed a country away from Ms. Cusco and requied a hefty dollar and a half a minute for E.G. to phone home. Every three days, another call would be placed, another dejected response from Ms. Cusco that amazingly migraciones had not yet processed her passport application.
Then one magical morning as El Gringo grappled with the challenge of laundering a sock or two in the courtyard of the glamorous resort he had come to call his home away from home away from home, two warm soft hands covered his eyes from behind. El Gringo struggled to recall any friends he'd made in Copacabana who might act so brazen. There was the old, toothless fisherman with whom he'd negotiated a boat ride, a half dozen young men who'd served him drinks each afternoon as he watched the sun set over the giant lake, another five or six old women who served fifty cent meals at the central market, and a myriad of seven year old children who took delight in water balloon bombing unsuspecting tourists. But the children's hands were too rough, the old fisherman's palms too smooth. El Gringo had grown fond of his eighty year old Indian landlady but not that fond. He threw up his own hands in surrender, pulled the soft warm hands from his eyes and peered into the dazzling eyes of Ms. Cusco.
She had taken the first bus for Bolivia after receiving her distinctive, hand engraved-- almost legible --passport from migraciones. El Gringo loved the surprise but felt a bit shy taking her up to his fancy resort apartment. True, there were eight beds in the barnlike room with half a dozen windows looking out over the cathedral courtyard to the lake shore beyond, but aside from the electric outlet for his computer, there was little else.
Amongst
the few amenities was an electric shower, a clever invention becoming more
and more popular in Andean regions where hot water heaters seldom fuction.
The temperature of the water is determined by how open one turns the faucet.
Fully open, the water has no chance to warm. Half open, a delightful
warm shower can be had. One quarter open and you can boil coffee.
In the hotel Illimani, water ran in the mornings from 7:30 till 9. Electricity typically got revving around noon so El Gringo got used to dressing in a towel and making his way to the neighboring hotel which for a scant forty cents offered a shower both hot and wet. Ms. Cusco proved quite the trooper and made no demands to move to the Sheraton across town (not that there was one).
Reunited at last, the lovely couple
made their
way to the Island of the sun to pay homage to the birthplace of the Manco
Capac and Mama Fufu (not her real name) the mythical founders of the Inca
Empire. After a twenty minute hike straight up to the top of the
island, a magnificent view-- if not magnificent hotel --was encountered,
offering a downward view of the lake on both sides of the island.
The hotel also offered a delightful rice and fried egg dinner after only
a two hour wait. What it didn't offer was either running water or
electricity (sound familiar?) Two days and three sprained ankles
later, the couple made their way back down the winding trail for a windswept
ninety minute boat ride back to the relative civilization of Copacabana.
From there it was on to La Paz and the earliest warnings of Carneval, which in English means "We can't compete with Brazil so let's just throw water balloons". The best food in all of South America is to be found in La Paz, i.e., imports of McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC and tacos that taste like tacos. A rare hotel room WITH bath was procured and between the couple, seventeen hot showers were taken in a space of two days. La Paz boasts several fine museums, view points, romantic walkways, theaters and plazas-- none of which was seen by the couple who were too busy enjoying McDonalds, Pizza Hut, et.al.
Don't miss the next exciting installment (if I ever get it written) including our descent into the mines of Potosi in...
Kiss the devil