News from Ted
Still following my notes from 48 years ago in Cartagena on the Caribbean coast. Trying to get to Panama, but with no idea how to get there, I took my bike on a boat to a pirate island, San Andrés.
At sea
There were flying fish, but no albatross this time. It was a fairly easy sea. Ship was “Ciudad de Zap … something or other.” Captain talked to me once. Said his grandmother was Indian. He looked fairly Indian too. The ship was putting up its entire stock of pennants in a grand show. I asked why. He said, “This is the first visit of the ship to San Andrés.”
How did we get on to drugs?
“I refused to carry them. I have a family in Baranquilla. I have been offered $15,000 just to take one packet, but I value my tranquility too dearly. Some others who went to the naval school with me are already millionaires – but they have no tranquility. Once you carry drugs you can’t stop. They would kill you.”
I can imagine Denis Nahum’s scepticism, but this captain seemed honest to me.
We were two days and nights at sea. The third night we spent anchored on the lee side of the island and then drew in. (One of the ties snapped and the boat crunched on the quayside. No rubbers, either).
9th April
There were two ships at the dockside waiting to leave when I arrived. Both were going to Panama. I felt unhappy about having to leave again within hours but knew I should try. (The explanation of these fits of urgency, interspersed by periods of timelessness must be explored somewhere.)
However the bigger of the boats was going to Bocca de Torres, the United Fruit Company port from which there is no exit other than by boat or by plane. The smaller boat would not take me.
San Andrés. – ten miles long, seven miles wide, reputed haven of Capt. Morgan. Some beaches of crushed white shell and coral – rest, ugly black coral. Two little islands – perfectly round with coconuts, – cartoon desert islands – called Johnny Cay and Aquarium.
Found Amigo Pepa sitting on his lot, watching his new house go up. He said he wanted to preserve the style of the original islanders. Talked about the days before the island got crowded – quoted cheap prices and said nobody used money.
Amigo Pepa’s new house on San Andrés
Said he was building his house out of all natural materials. I was a bit uneasy – it sounded too pat, as though he’d been taking ecology lessons from visiting gringos. He had a carpenter making the frame of the house – a little man with bloodshot eyes called Brachman – named after Dr. Brachman who strode out of the mists of legend to give his name and then apparently disappeared again. Brachman gave an impassioned and drunken eulogy of Dr. Brachman on my second night which was impressively eloquent.
[But I’m still no closer to knowing who this mysterious doctor was].
Slept in hammock between coconuts – the splashes of black against the sky.
Gringo lady with little son – shrieking with anxiety and unaware of it – talking of Pepa as great man – fending me off (for no reason).
The English couple on the boat – he thin, gaunt, bespectacled, looking helpless, but innately tough, she plump, baggy – like babes-in-the-wood. Talking about the fish we were going to grill on the beach.
We got ourselves a four -and-a-half-pound bonito, failing red snapper. Then two huge black men telling us the fire was illegal – move to Pepa’s – the iron bedstead torn out from under a fallen palm to grill on.
Pepa’s green jump suit – his huge son, “I have found bottles in the sea. I have found several bottles in the sea. Yes, several, several, several. I have found several bottles with messages. Sad messages, man. Yes, sad messages. I saw a message in a bottle that broke my heart.”
Pepa said he smoked a lot of dope. He has letters from people in England and USA. Showed me one from Trinity College, Bristol. All charter holiday people to Trinidad, I expect.
The town of San Andrés seems to be called San Luis. In the middle it’s smart cement shops; then up the side of the island past the port, it’s wood. Tarmac, then dirt. Pepa’s is at the beginning of the dirt. You can get into the sea there, over flat rocks, with sea buds growing, and urchins lurking in crevices. Green water, blue sea. So clear. On the Aquarium – looking at fish – glorious.
I spent two nights on San Andrés. Through Skip I met the Argentine couples, Jeanine and Malcolm Donaldson, and Manuel Pedro Peña and his honeymoon wife Pixie – the last with his easy laugh, and easy claim to supreme court judgeship, which is so embarrassing.
Malcolm is a doctor, Jeanine an architect. She has some incurable weakness which makes her unsteady. She can’t drink alcohol. She is very attractive (Skip was aflame). They met in hospital and she wanted to tell me what a very good man he was. He probably is too – but in South America any man who is free of the worst traits of machismo will seem like Christ to any intelligent woman.
I’m back again, after three weeks in California and another week recovering from my first dose of Covid: but I’ve had five vaccinations and apart from one day of sickness and a few other days just feeling tired and unbalanced, I’m fine. So as promised I’m going to plunge you back into my diaries of 1975, and I am just leaving Medellin, Colombia, hoping to find a way to get past the Darien Gap to Panama.
Even today, just as then fifty years ago, the Darien Gap is considered an obstacle to human progress. It’s a large area of swamp between Colombia and Panama inhabited, I was told, by primitive tribes. I am very happy for it to be there and resent all those foolish efforts to drive Jeeps and Corsairs and Land Rovers through it. Leave it alone I say, but all the same it was an obstacle to my progress, and I had no idea how I was going to get around it. The only shipping line turned out to be useless, so now I was headed for Cartagena, a port on the Gulf of Mexico, where I hoped to find a solution.
April 3
Start out for Cartagena. High mountains to cross. Get caught in rainstorm and let bike slide into a gulley at roadside. Can’t get it out again and have to wait till rain stops and passing lorry driver helps me lift it out. Very foolish.
Down into Cauca valley – and find that my petrol consumption has dropped to a very satisfying 74 kms per litre, or more. Texaco Special. Apparently, according to Andrès, the octane figures for Esso Extra and the others are phony – not 94 at all, but in the low eighties. Texaco alone have one which corresponds to European two-star, and with this I get the original European results.
Beyond Caucasia – and 30 kms before Planeta Rica – I stop at a hacienda called Aguas Vivas. Looks very nice¬. Building laid out round a garden, with religious statues in middle. All neat, with every imaginable animal. Well, turkeys, ducks, chickens, pigs, dogs and cats. Mango trees, lemons, gourd tree. Big open barn behind, where I put my hammock. Four young farm hands are very good company – until one of them suggests I take him out on the bike to a village 2kms away.
In fact, it’s an endless journey to Planeta Rica – and nothing there anyway but a glass of beer. Coming back we go past the hacienda and he insists it’s further on but he means another village. He’s determined to ride all over Colombia to get another beer. Thank goodness I realise in time and refuse to go any further. We’ve already finished two bottles of Aguardiente and half a bottle of rum, and we’ve been out on this aimless ride for two hours. But it was very pleasant on the hacienda talking, watching the toads catch “grillos” under the lights – with the two maimed turkeys flopping about. One on a stump where his foot should be (a cow trod on both of them two months ago) and walks like a person with a peg leg.
April 4
Given a breakfast of coffee, lemon juice, rice, platanos, beef and egg. Can’t complain. Hot ride to Cartagena. Cattle Ibis, heavy hot air. Like Mombasa. Hit on the lip by a bee. Swells and makes a villainous expression. Cross marshy river by a bridge that seems oddly derelict. Cluster of thatched huts on the riverbank. Fine birds, people floating about in piroguas – but looks very poor and primitive – poorer even than Iguatú.
(It was visiting Iguatú, in Brazil, that got me locked up.)
Cartegena
Come into Cartagena about 4 pm, past Torices (a district of Cartagena) and through wall to old city. Stop for two glasses of flora juice and directions. Ride to Club de Pesca with letter from Chris (a Royal Navy officer I got to know in Bogotá gave me an introduction to Denis Nahum). But Nahum isn’t there.
At the old wall
Looking around I get a slight recollection of Venice – more in the disposition of things – perhaps the Piazza Roma area more – the Manga Bridge – and the atmosphere. Telephone to Nahum’s house. Penny Lernoux, his wife, answers. Go to hotel Plaza Bolivar. Wander about a bit looking for restaurant.
April 5th, Thursday
Visit Dennis Nahum. He is suspicious at first. Asks for a Sunday Times identification.
Fortunately I’m carrying newspaper cuttings with me and I turn the tables on him rather by exposing his suspicions.
“The quickest way to a free meal is to claim that you’re a journalist,” he explains afterwards. “Don’t know how good they are in the Navy (at sorting people out). Was in Naval Intelligence myself so I’m perhaps more suspicious for that reason.”
Thereafter much hospitality, lunch at his home, meet Penny – read her piece about Chile (she is apparently a well-known journalist writing on South American Economy and Politics.)
House is attractive and holds many enviable objects. The cat-o-nine tails and a marlin spike. There’s a toucan, a parrot, a macaw, two monkeys and a bush-baby.
On the quay at Cartegena
April 6th
In morning walk down quayside to find a ship to San Andrés. None to Panama from here it seems.
(San Andrés is an island in the Carribean that used to be called Saint Andrews, a notorious hang out for pirates. It’s not much closer to Panama than Cartagena. I have no idea why I thought going there would get me to Panama.)
Sent to (a man called) Giraldo at Torices. He wants 1,400 pesos. 400 for the passage, 1000 for the bike. Boat is supposed to leave next day. Dinner that night – alone – at club. Penny is finishing outline on a book about the Church in South American politics.
Back to quayside to try to get the price down. Nobody seems interested. Boat should leave at midnight. Then at 4 am. Lunch at club with Denis. Take pictures in afternoon. Eat at Italian place in the evening. Old man and drunken wife who cooks. The Manhattens cost a fortune.
Afterwards back to their place to talk for a while. They go to bed and leave me to while away the hours. After a scotch I decide I must lie down on couch, sleep and wake at 4 sharp. Walk down to quayside, but ship won’t sail they say before 12. Go back to hotel, sleep on couch in lobby.
April 7th
Borrow my old room and get a shower. Walk around a bit on the fortifications with my camera. Call Penny to tell her our lottery tickets won. Ten pesos for seven. Go there for lunch. In middle of the meal there’s an earthquake – a considerable tremor lasting for ten seconds or more – we eventually walk outside by small pool, in case. The maid in the kitchen comes out screaming that everything is falling down (nothing did) but it became quite frightening during the last moments. The damage is done more by the duration than the intensity I’m told.
Eventually, at about 4pm, go back to the ship and wait many hours.
Then Giraldo tries to duck out of the deal, says it’s up to the captain, that there’s no room for the bike, etc He’s very evasive. I have to raise my voice and insist that G. take a moment to settle this matter. (What I tried to say was – “for once, will you speak to me, man to man,” but heaven knows how it came over in Spanish.) He took me on to the ship. The captain turned out to be one of the men I’d seen coming and going with Giraldo. A youngish man, short, sturdy, with a stony face.
G. told him that he’d agreed a price, all told, of 1000 pesos – 600 for the bike, 400 for the passage. I was astounded and had a job hiding it, for G. had resolutely refused to take less than 1000 for the bike alone. Why? Was it a slip?
Seems improbable he would make such a mistake. His livelihood depended on these prices.
Was it too sentimental to suppose that he’d reduced it in respect for the way I’d spoken up to him at last?
(Yes. Most likely he’d hoped to keep the extra 400 for himself).
The Captain demanded to see my passport and saw that I was five days over my visa time. I told him about my enquiries in Medellin, and they sounded very feeble. In fact he refused to believe that a police chief had given me verbal permission to overstay my welcome. A Frenchman who was also going to San Andrés was several months expired, and the captain was sure we would be checked by immigration at San Andrés.
At last he made us promise that if we were sent back on his boat we would pay the fare. We both promptly agreed but I knew the Frenchman didn’t have the money, and later he decided not to risk it. Cheerfully he announced he would go to Ecuador instead.
He was a slim, good-looking man but in a rather old-fashioned Bohemian way, with a little beard and hair brushed back long.
Then there was Skip Kaltenhauser from Kansas University – with the anxious, celluloid smile, overwhelmed by his experiences but quite unable to react naturally to them. Quite unable, too, to express an opinion or a true feeling – but suddenly shattered to find that he had to. He was on a two-month holiday before signing into law school. Now, that prospect seemed deadly, although he couldn’t quite rid himself of the need to achieve more security. I surprised myself by my eloquent condemnation of law school and what it represented.
We walked over to the market together to get some fruit juice – maracaju – he in his strangely baggy shirt and trousers – the former with an intricate pattern in shades of beige, lined with green. He wore a hat too. In his language everything was “neat,” and he strove for a quip constantly. Later, in San Andrés, he thanked me for “showing me some pretty good times” and hoped “he wouldn’t disappoint me.”
The boat went out shortly before midnight, but with none of the magic I’d felt at Laurenco Marques. I got my hammock across the ironwork on the upper deck and gave Skip my foam rubber. He was getting progressively more sick. (We’d eaten tuna fish and mustard on old rolls, perhaps not the best preparation). During the day there were three times I came within an ace of being sick but with a great effort, swallowing the great quantity of saliva that flooded into my mouth, was able to keep it down – and I’m sure it was the best thing to do.
A rooster at dawn in the Caribbean
Well, I’ve got my work cut out. Hundreds of you came out of the woodwork to tell me to keep at it, so in deference to my readers here is a bumper edition from my South American notebook of 1975.
Good trips, bad trips – the road to Medellin
After Bruno’s unfortunate meeting with the front of a lorry, which reduced his Renault to a shambling wreck, he packed what possessions he could in a duffel bag and took the bus to Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, where he could catch a plane to Mexico City.
Bogotá was half a day’s ride for me and the logical next stop on my way north. He said he’d leave a message for me at the French Embassy.
Bogotá, Tuesday 18
Arrived at 1pm to find the French embassy closed and empty but for a manager who says come back at 3pm and sends me to a café called “The Parasol”. Woman who owns it warms to me as I wait. Eventually she proposes marriage. Says it’s the only way she can get out of Colombia to work in the USA. Doesn’t seem sure of her facts. Afterwards, I’m told all a Colombian needs is a paid-up tax certificate. But she touched me and let me off a few pesos on my bill.
At 3.30 got Bruno’s message; to find him at Jane’s flat, but there’s no room for me. Her ample cousin Nicole has arrived to wait for her passport (stolen) to be replaced.
Ring British Embassy and shamelessly ask to be put up.
David Lloyd makes an effort (I think) but eventually sends me to Pension Allemana (50 pesos + 10 for garage).
Wednesday 19
Next day I visit him [David Lloyd] – he’s your all-English smooth man, but with a slightly crooked mouth. Has Information & Intelligence function.
Friday eve. Meet Tim & Sorita Ross [Observer newspaper]. Fled from Brazil where Govt. has warrant for his arrest, for denigration and incitement of insurrection. Also meet a stringer for Sunday Times. Eat churrasco at Indiana – very good – open grill on charcoal. Sorita was moved to tell me she was raped in Brazil by carload of police (in Salvador) and I feel like touching her, but don’t. He [Tim] is impelled to pursue risky, violent stories. Much understated bravado about tear gas (CS & CN) and mob violence. Emeralds.
All the usual stories of robbery and violence in Bogotá. I’ve escaped so far.
Tim calls me later to ask if I’d like to have lunch with the Defense Attache next day (Saturday). He fetches me in a car. Chris Jenne, Commander, Royal Navy, tall, shock of white hair. Suburban stye house, wife Elizabeth, sons Charles & Edward, daughter Tina.
Chris Jenne and co very kind, hospitable, informal. Spend best part of two days with them at Sports club. Roped into a game of cricket. Take two catches and score five. Never did so well at school. Very enjoyable.
Visited the Gold Museum. Astonishing.
ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT THE BOGOTA GOLD MUSEUM
Tremendous evolution of form to classic perfection. Continue to wonder why certain variations of anthropomorphism are current in certain societies. Alex Bright (No.2 at the museum) talks about hallucinations being common to all takers of some drugs – only interpretations vary. He is not very convincing – either unwilling or unable to let his mind range over possibilities. A disappointment to Chris and myself.
British Council has [copies of] Sunday Times except for Jan 19, Feb 16, March 9. But nothing of mine anywhere. Suspect that I’ve been squeezed out of the revamped Holiday Section and have no place elsewhere.
[There was a period of many months when certain editors at the paper thought my stories were inappropriate and wanted to cut me loose. Although my expenses were very low I was dependent on the connection.]
Bruno has sent the bulk of his luggage back to France including my stuff from Peru. On Saturday evening, coming back with Chris to Pension Alleman we found him outside hotel door trying to get in. He had left his luggage in my room. So far had I sunk into British Sporting Life that seeing him there was like being reminded of a forgotten episode in one’s life.
Before leaving Bogotá I wanted to arrange some kind of passage around the Darien Gap. The first possibility that presented itself was to go round by ship with the Italian Line which sailed from a Pacific port called Bonaventura to Panama.
I visited their office in Bogotá.
First, they insisted that a carry a plane ticket out of Panama.
I got the Panamanian consulate to call them and say it wasn’t necessary, but they called my hotel to cancel my booking, with gratuitous abuse to one of the guests.
When I called them to protest they said they had sent to Panama for instructions.
The next day they said I had to leave a $200 deposit (that would be $2000 today) against being refused entry to Panama. Traveller’s cheques will do, they said, but when I arrive at the office only dollar bills would satisfy them.
But it’s not at all clear how I would retrieve the money if I miss the boat, and time is already short. I decided to continue North to Cartagena and hope for the best.
It was with a note of triumph that Señor Torrenegra cancelled my booking.
Wednesday 26th
Leave Bogotá at 1.30 after wasting time on Italian Line. Arrived that evening in Fresno – just after Honda – a small town in mountains. Hotel Bella Vista (no view) at 25 peso a night. Dinner in small place on square, where they try to serve me an old beer with a swig taken out if it. Two small children come in at the end of my dinner and point silently at my plate which has a potato and 3 slices of tomato left on it. I nod, and swiftly but politely they gather the remains in their fingers and dart off. It was the most telling incident so far in my encounters with hunger – and quite unexpected.
Easter Thursday 27th
Leave for Medellin.
The church (an exceptionally ugly cement one) broadcasts cracked recordings of bad songs through loudspeakers at 7, and again at 8. Ride off into mountains. Apart from a short, but terrible stretch it’s all paved to Medellin.
A RURAL IDYLL, FROM THE ROAD TO MEDELLIN
Arrive at 4.30 looking for British Consul. but can’t remember her name. And all offices closed. After long search I look in the [telephone] book for any English name and ring a family called Smith.
“Fantastic” says girl, when I explain, and they invite me to visit because they know Ampora Villa [the consul]. When I get there they fetch another motorcyclist round called Antonio, who is a dentist and paints. He is smoking pot all the time we talk, with no apparent effect. He takes me off to Andres, but I don’t realise till later that it’s the same person I rang earlier (as given me by Matt and Andy and Cleo [in Otavalo] who spent several nights there).
Mrs Smith is an interpreter. She will work at the first International Congress of Sorcery, to be held in Bogotá in August. Her electric typewriter was stolen and she is willing it to return. She says she thinks she’s got it – but it’s not quite there yet.
Her daughter, MaryJo, writes tender verses about love, grief and springtime. Has very good grey eyes and a busy life of arts and crafts, all macramé and pottery, flutes and drums and drawings. Very Hampstead, or Gloucester Crescent.
Andres Ceballos is a curious man. Seems very alive and dead at the same time. Advises textile firms on selling lines. Intellectually developed but physically unresolved. Wife, Eleanor, returns from Cartagena with four-year-old daughter, Catalina. He encourages her freedom – to study, to live apart from him. Was 15 when she married him. Now a passion for learning and travel. But all their energies seem focused on external things.
[I remember one day I smoked one joint of the stuff Andres smoked incessantly without effect, and I had a truly terrible trip which I thought was going to fry my brain.]
March 31st
Spent two nights at Andres’ home. Went to see Ampora at hotel, then to the Cuerpa de Bomberos [fire service] for free hospitality – a room, bed, clean sheets – amazing. They have old fire engines from the Twenties, beautifully preserved. Nice, gentle men, very poorly paid, it seems, but dedicated.
MY BIKE AT THE MEDELLIN FIRE STATION
A FIRE ENGINE FROM THE TWENTIES
April 3
Leave for Cartagena.
That’s all I can manage for today. Thanks again for taking an interest. I won’t be back for a few weeks. I have to go to California to take care of a few things, so I’ll see you again in April when you’ll learn how I caught a boat to a pirate island and flew to Panama with the bike in the cabin.
Feb 4
Into the Cauca valley. Tropical. Bananas. Music. Good asphalt road. I flew. Up a mountain. Down again. Up again, and then sat there watching Bruno’s van appear over the previous summit.
(The van had a damaged cardan, or half-axle)
Went on to Popayan. Pretty town. Colonial Facades. Churches with beautiful carved wood, gilt and maroon on white. Remember the pulpit of San Francisco.
Found a hotel – Los Balcones.
Feb 5
Moved to another hotel, El Monasterio. Superb. Only 240 pesos (eight dollars) for two. Pleasant day walking in town. B has his cardan repaired for next to nothing. Remember chapel of Encarnacion in convent. Had lunch and dinner at hotel. Excellent.
Feb 6
Hotel breakfast (Fabulous – remember it to this day) Laundry. Supermarket. On to La Plata again.
(We were heading inland into the mountains to San Agostìn where – we had heard – a large number of statues had been recently discovered underground)
Bruno leaves before me. I get out at 12.30. Lovely weather. Then a fuse blows. Waste time trying to trace the fault. Then give up and put in a temporary circuit. Meanwhile a storm blows up. Find myself in a terrific downpour. Makes me very unhappy. But later, in good weather, on very dry roads, ride fast – and slide uncontrollably right across one bend.
(There were lorries driving fast downhill and filling the road. To meet one unexpectedly on a bend could be fatal)
Catch up with Bruno just before La Plata. He’s had another bash with a lorry.
(Lorry drivers surrounded him, insisting it was his fault.)
The end of the road
Paid 600 pesos damages. His other half-axle is broken. Has a Quebecois hitch-hiker with him.
(Looking for a place to camp I spot a lovely green field)
I lead us all into a bog. Struggle to escape – ploughing up the field. Ride into La Plata. Find the Residencia Berlin. Jesus and Domitila Clavijo and their ten children. Parrot called Roberto.
Ten kids and a parrot
Feb 7
(Bruno’s van is now lozenge-shaped and undrivable. It is illegal to sell a foreign registered vehicle in Colombia)
Still in La Plata. Bruno sells his car to a policeman. Auctions the contents. (See full description in Jupiter’s Travels)
Feb 8th
To San Agustin. Two rivers to cross. Take first one very seriously, barefoot. Fast but not too deep. On last stretch from Pitalito to San Agustin – dirt – fall off. Break strap on pannier and crack spark plug in half.
Bruno arrived half an hour before by bus. Is finding out about horses already.
(Bruno is devoted to horses and rode steeplechase. I know nothing about horses)
Have mixed feelings about it – still think of horses as potentially dangerous. But excited by idea also. He walks for hours and says he has found two good ones for the next day. I begin to get a feeling for San Agustin and the hotel.
Fuzzy rider
By horse to Alto de los Idolos. Tremendous ride down the side of a ravine. Only loss of my raincoat spoils the trip, but soon get over that. Staggering descent and climb. Statues don’t measure up to the experience. (Why should they?)
Feb 10
Idle day – last hours at park (Parque de los Idolos)
Feb 11
Horses again – to Pamela’s Hacienda. Spiky reception but ends well with banana bread. She has an enormous bottom but carries it quite well. There are two children there. Whose? Pamela and Harry get paid ($100 a month) to keep them for the summer months. They also get money sending Colombian stuff to her mother’s shop in New England. They spent eight months – she says – scraping old lime wash of the woodwork. No animals, except chickens. She is very defensive about their position. The only ones, she says, who stuck it out.
Feb 12 to 14
Back to La Plata. Bruno leaves for Mexico. End of a chapter.
PS: It’s interesting transcribing these old notes, but it’s an effort and I want to be sure it’s worth the trouble. A precious few faithful readers have shown their appreciation, but not enough. If you want me to go on doing this, please let me know.
Feb 21
Leave Quito. Too late. Fantastic downpour & hail. Inches of water on roads. Bike fails on way out, but only for a short time. Reach Otavalo at nightfall. Frozen. Indian café. Find Peace Corps house. Ray (Raimundo) receives us. Sleep in kitchen. Ray illustrates textbooks to help Quetchua-speaking Indians to learn Spanish. Very pleased with progress of program.
Feb 22
Saturday. Market at Otavalo. Very Indian – and quite unlike Peru or Bolivia. Indian dress is sombre. Navy blue wool ponchos, pigtails. Characteristic diamond shape of men, short cotton trousers, women wear hats of piled up shawls, straight dark dresses, white blouses. Almost all are barefoot. Gold bead necklaces (glass from Czechoslovakia).
Much more communicative than other Indians. Sellers line up in two facing rows – with their blankets in front of them – shoulder to shoulder – while buyers walk between them. Permanent kiosks of masonry for stallholders. Many Gringos taking pictures. One of my cameras has failed (light meter) after soaking on Peruvian beach.
The Gringo café – pancakes US style – granola for sale – like refectory at Berkeley. Bruno is astonished. Ride out to hacienda to meet Matt coming the other way.
[Matt Handbury is Rupert Murdoch’s young nephew, riding a BMW, trying to decide what to do with his life]
The Hacienda
Went to see hacienda, then back to Otavalo – where Andy and Cleo arrive at Ray’s. Together return to hacienda, by old Pan-American route – cobbles, then grass slide down past precipice. Andy at first strikes me as quite strange. Thin – gaunt – blonde, moustache, tight leather trousers, orange satin smock. BMW. Front teeth missing on left side. Cramps his smile. Easy to underestimate, as I do at chess.
Feb 23 – 27 at Hacienda
Bob and Annie there too. They’ve decided to stay and get married. Play card game called hearts. Marathon session till 4am. Vegetarian meals. Indian family very close. Girls just come and sit. Fascinating and lovely to watch. Always smiling, greeting. Maria says photos steal her spirit – her father told her so.
Andy becomes ever more interesting. His dead-pan manner, slow uneasy smile, would fit a Western hero. The missing teeth could explain it, but there seems to be more. With his specs on he seems quite innocuous, small-minded, hard to imagine him fishing tuna – $500 in one day off ‘Two-fold Bay’ in Australia. Tells story of killer whales and fishermen combining to catch blue whales. Also of his hero, the Irish Australian skipper he has sent me to see.
So we went out to dinner on the last night and coming back Bruno drove into a foot of plastic mud on the old highway and was stuck there for the night. Took two hours of digging to get him out in the morning.
[I also remember that Andy, inexplicably, accused me of stealing his camera body by switching it surreptitiously for one of mine. Could not disabuse him. Bob and Annie gave me an address of friends in California, leading me eventually to the commune that played a huge part in my life.]
Feb 28
Rode off to Colombia in the rain. Wet but easy. Got to border at 4.30. But customs is back in Tulcan. Bruno is furious. Then, on Colombian side, ride up hill to Ipiales to find that passport control was at the frontier. And while we stop to talk to frontier guards a section of hillside falls on the road we were about to take.
Roast chicken at Ipiales, then into night to find place to stop.
Getting ready to leave
On the road the Ipiales
March 1
Woke up to beautiful scenery and sun. A curious dip in road, against a grassy hummock. On other side a valley, cultivated, and mountain beyond. A bus has been abandoned down the road – one of those fairground vehicles without doors, common in Ecuador & Colombia. A small house nestles in the ground beside us, smoke oozing through the roof. Took many pictures. Left about midday on switchback road to Pasto. Most impressed by countryside. On smaller scale than Peru, greener, less bare stone, but spectacular. Waterfalls, trees, much cultivated land. White house, L-shaped with porches, tiled with clay or wood. Found a patch of flat grass, near a mountain top to camp on, about halfway to Pasto. Spent much effort, both nights, preparing for prospective assaults by delinquent Colombians. Arsenal included my knife, machete, Bruno’s pistol. Seen by many lorry drivers and imagined the gossip at nearby hamlet, but a peaceful night.
March 2
In Pasto I was a sensation
To Pasto – ordinary town with some big modern municipal buildings. Searched uselessly for (spark) plugs. Bought food. Took road to lake. Not so impressive. Slept in car outside rustic hotel owned by Germans (Swiss?) who said they’d come to Colombia 20 years before, after being soldiers – to supervise the opening of a number of hotels. Then opened their own. We ate, bought wine (Chianti at 180 – in shops 130). Played chess.
March 3
Renault failed to get up hill. Towed by lorry, into Pasto and out, to eat in a rainstorm on the road. Bruno develops a passion for porridge and bacon & eggs, but I still don’t dunk my bread and strawberry jam in my coffee. Who’s the chauvinist?
Where did we spend the night?
Four days on the road to Quito
Feb 14, 1975
We Left Guayaquil in the rain, over the bridge again and back along the same road to El Triumfo, a busy, muddy cross-roads with roadside stalls selling bananas, pineapples, small mangoes, and muddy-looking juice. Bought two pineapples for 4 sucres (7p). These stalls always look crammed with a variety of foods until you look closely – also striking how hard it is to get vegetables in the countryside.
Passed some enormous banana plantations – kilometres long. Thickest, lushest vegetation I’ve seen. Then the rapid rise into the Andes again, and soon we are up to 2,500 metres, but the hills here are smoother than in Peru, the countryside more ordered, better worked, with some large houses. Had the idea of being invited at a hacienda and chose a large white house, below the main road, to the right shortly before Riobamba.
Met in the yard by a peon (but in Western clothes) who invited us to sleep inside. Building seemed deserted. In fact it is used as a school (one room) filthy and bare, as was our room. B wanted to use the hammocks, and pulled up a gate post, under the appreciative gaze of the custodian and his family – an Indian woman and tots. The post went on the windowsill against the steel frame windows. Another post went inside the cupboard, diagonally across the room and the hammocks were slung between them. Four eggs lay in some grass in the cupboard.
The Indian woman with her tots
We asked if we could buy some food – eggs or meat. They said there was a tienda (shop) cercita (nearby) down the road. We decided to walk there and we walked forever down the hill and eventually met the custodian coming back on his horse. He pointed out a house and we asked for a chicken. They were dubious at first (three men and a woman) then tried to decide which bird to sacrifice. At first they went for a cock but it was too expensive so we settled on a mottled pullet for 50 sucres and had a fine chase all around the yard to catch it.
The walk back took me over an hour. It would have been shorter if I had been as enterprising as Bruno and caught the back of a passing bus. I tried to wring the chicken’s neck and failed. B chopped the head off with his machete. The family plucked it, I gutted it, and we boiled it. It was a stringy bird but the legs were tender. The family also gave us a plate of pork, but it was too much after all for one meal. There was still the chicken’s carcass in the pot.
Feb 15
Woken in the morning by a hen at the window, anxious to get to its nest and bewildered by the change of scenery. It stood on the windowsill observing us from every conceivable angle and clucking. At last it managed to edge its way along my hammock and with much floundering and shattering made its way to the cupboard, but failed to lay.
Before leaving I at last took the trouble to examine my rear axle. The bike had been wobbling strangely since Lima where I had aligned the wheels (i.e it was much worse than before when the wheels had been really out of line). Found to my stupefaction that both spindle nuts were loose and presumable had been for 1000 miles or so. What I get away with! Terrifying what omissions I’m capable of. Got the wheels straight and tight, and of course the wobble is no more.
Getting out was an ordeal for Bruno. His van couldn’t make the climb up the dirt path. He had to take a series of dives from off the road to get enough speed up but eventually he got out.
Riobamba was a pleasant town. People seemed more relaxed here – less aggressive. Many plazas, a few nice buildings, a nice working market, helpful shopkeepers, little attempt to sell things to us. Went on until dusk when I found an inviting field by the side of the road. Children all said we should stay there, so we went in. Then adults arrived. Owner’s wife and her sister. Sister was very inquisitive and aggressive but invited us in to talk. They were enraptured by Bruno, gasped at his exploits, plagued him with questions and took no notice of me at all. For me a very unusual evening since I have become used to being the focus of curiosity and attention. Most of all it astounded them that he insisted on sleeping out. They were sure he would freeze to death, and I thought he’d find it chilly (he did).
Bruno and his audience
Feb 16
I was up an hour before Bruno, who lay cocooned in his hammock, still as death. The sun was hot and bright. I turned the chicken into soup and saved the rest of the breast meat. Washed and shaved. Bruno was visited by his audience at about 7.30, who watched carefully as he got up, dressed, etc.
By breakfast time he was thoroughly pissed off by the young woman who insisted on examining every item in his car, opening every tin, endlessly questioning him on every detail.
The road to Quito was good and we made good time. Crossing through Ambato into the Quito valley we were both stopped by a pair of splendid cops mounted on shiny 1200cc Motoguzzis, but after a short period of mutual admiration, we went on to find ourselves on a pleasant grassy ledge above the capital.
Comforted by the chicken soup I had made that morning, we looked down on city lights which were unusually pretty – veins of gold in silver. A party of dogs serenaded us, and after dark a sound like chopsticks rattling which we thought must be frogs. I was particularly pleased with a new lighting system I had rigged up using indicator bulbs – brilliant, and allowed me to write in my tent.
Just before going to bed we watched rivers of mist flow down and engulf the city. Then came a chorus of distant shouts, sounding like a political demonstration. The P.C.M.L.E (Partida Communista Marxista Leninista de Ecuador) was busy agitating for oil nationalisation without compensation to ensure a bright future for everybody. But it turned out to be a football crowd.
Feb 17
Bruno hoped that some French volunteers in Quito would put us up, so the following morning in light rain we went down to the city. Well, I slithered down, and went over twice in the mud.
By the time I got to the bottom Bruno had disappeared. I found the central plaza and tried to find the friend of a friend who was supposed to be famous, but nobody had heard of him, and he wasn’t in the phone book.
It took me two hours to find Bruno at the French Embassy. Every other street in Quito is named after a date – incredibly difficult to tell one from another – and in South America the traditional revolutionism is reflected in an absence of signs.
Bruno did find a place for us both to stay, with Emile and Claude, who also had a gramophone, and we spent half a day just playing, again and again, at top volume, the overture to Tannhäuser. Our conversation with the two volunteers was inevitably about our experiences and frustrations. Emile had not benefited by his time in Ecuador and thought its inhabitants should be put down. “Il faut les supprimer.” After a while we realised he wasn’t joking, which made us uneasy.
Bob and Annie, from California on their Norton
The following day, riding around Quito, I came across an American couple on a Norton 850. Of course we stopped and talked. Bob and Annie were from California. They told me about a hacienda near Otavalo where we would be welcome. They were on their way to Cuzco and I told them to take the road from Huancayo. They introduced me to Lee Guzman and his garage, where I took up the play in my steering head, and changed my 140 jet for 150, 140 being too lean.
Quito would be a pretty city in better circumstances – nice buildings, plaza, etc – but rain too heavy for appreciation. Next day we leave for Otavalo.
I’ve been reading my old notebooks again and enjoying the memories. There is so much that never made it into the book. Sometimes the story is written out in enough detail so that I could lift whole episodes straight onto the computer as I did a couple of weeks ago, with the story from Sri Lanka. At other times the notes are very brief but I can reassemble the story from memory. That is the case with my visit to Gauyaquil.
Forty-eight years ago this week I was still travelling in the company of Bruno, a young Frenchman with a much-battered white Renault van. His own companion, Antoine, had left him to fly back to Paris from Lima. Now we were making our way up the coast of Peru towards Ecuador and we had just spent two glorious days on a perfect beach, feeding off the sea.
Without the fish the impoverished people living on this arid coast could not survive. It never rains and water has to be delivered by tanker. But the sea off the coast of Peru was said to be among the richest fishing waters in the world, and we took full advantage.
Not that we caught anything ourselves, for all our efforts, but two fishermen who had brightly painted boats anchored there were happy to sell us a big, beautiful sierra and another fish they called a lenguada which we grilled and ate with tea and cigarettes.
The beach was scarcely visited but as I was packing up to leave three men and a woman came down to the sea. I was some distance from the water’s edge, just able to see their faces, and I saw the men ducking the woman in the water.
She was fully dressed in a short black skirt, a yellow blouse and a pink scarf round her hair.
She scrambled out of the water and appeared to be laughing, but they threw her in again. I went on packing but every time I looked up they were doing the same thing and as I rode off the last thing I saw was the men throwing the woman into the sea again. Needless to say I felt uneasy.
SAN JOSÉ, PERU
It took us two days to reach the frontier with Ecuador, passing through an oil field at Tumbez where we ate enormous oysters, and suffering a hot, sticky mosquito-ridden night at Puerto Pizzarro on our way. The border at Aguas Verdes was extraordinary – quite unreal. On one side, everything was dry as bones: on the other side a profusion of humid vegetation as though nature had conspired to create this barrier between two nations. Thick banks of tall grass interspersed with banana trees extended from the roadside into the surrounding hills, making any thought of camping difficult, and rising up from the grass, here and there were wooden houses on stilts, some quite lovely, all wreathed in air misty with moisture.
The road left the coast and climbed up into the Andes again, but there were wearying police controls, six of them, before we got to Durán and the bridge that took us back down to the coast and the important port of Guayaqil.
Quite why we went there escapes me now. Perhaps Bruno was hoping to do something useful with the French consul. We found a hotel that rejoiced in the name of a five-star Parisian hotel, the Crillon, but there the resemblance stopped. As I entered my room I heard the stampede of cockroaches making a dash for the shadows, and the ceiling plaster over the shower had fallen away to reveal the plumbing of the shower above. Even so, with the help of a Sanyo Widemaster fan I spent two nights without too much discomfort.
Before leaving England two years earlier a friend who was also an Olympic yachtsman had told me that if I should ever find myself among sailors the mere mention of his name, Tony Morgan, would guarantee that they would take me to their hearts. I noticed on a folder for tourists that there was a Yacht Club in Guayaquil so in the afternoon we trod the boards of the port to find the massive carved door of the club firmly shut. I persisted, ringing and knocking, until a porter came to open it, and I explained that I wanted to meet some yachtsmen. He appeared to be bewildered and it took him a minute to register. Then he said, “Señor, there are no yachtsmen here. Nobody sails. They only come here to drink.”
We were equally disappointed in our efforts to find the beautiful part of old Guayquil promised by the tourist flyer, and after tramping around some mouldering but far from charming neighbourhoods we thought we would at the very least find the lobster that had eluded us since Lima. We found a restaurant with lobster on the menu and paid a rather high price for lobster that was not especially good. Furthermore, there was no wine. It must have been all these disappointments that made me particularly vulnerable. When a boy of about 12 came to the table to offer me (and it’s interesting that he chose me and not Bruno) a bottle of Dubonnet at an absurd price. At first I laughed at it, but as the price began to come down to something almost reasonable my scepticism dissolved in the pool of my greed and I bought it. As soon as I’d given the boy the money I opened it. The seal was in perfect condition, but by the time I’d tasted it he had gone. It was a bottle of vinegar.
I was mortified by my gullibility, but Bruno was outraged. He dashed out of the restaurant and seizing two of the boys always loitering in the streets he charged them with the job of finding the miscreant for a reward and sent them off in opposite directions. They came back after a while and both said they’d found him, but one was more credible than the other. Bruno followed him, but instead of a boy he found himself facing a man who looked so villainous that Bruno decided justice could wait for a more worthy object.
The following day we met a man who thought our “wine” was delicious. But that’s another story.
Last Sunday I joined a small group of bike riders on Zoom to talk about depression, not everyone’s favourite subject but a difficult one to ignore. I met with Eva Strehler, who is translating my latest book into German, and Claudio Gnypek, who was recording the meeting for a podcast, but the main man was Dieter Schneider. Dieter is in his youthful sixties but he had a son who suffered from depression and committed suicide, an unimaginable tragedy no less awful for being one of many thousands.
He found he couldn’t simply accept it. He felt he had to do something, and after long journeys looking for a solution he appealed to his friends to join him in a ride, to focus attention on the problem. He discovered, of course, that he was far from alone, and his ride is now a regular thing with hundreds of bikers taking part. He thinks of it as a fellowship and calls it the Fellows Ride. There is even a film going the rounds in Germany.
I have never been depressive and like most people, however deep in the dumps I might be, I can generally find pleasure in just being alive. But in my early life there were aspects of my personality that I did find depressing. I was self-conscious to a fault, convinced that I was always being judged and found wanting. I went to unnecessary lengths to please, and I was timid in the face of authority. I rehearsed all my important meetings ahead of time and never really learned to think on my feet. I was quite aware of all this and it sickened me, but I couldn’t overcome it. I relied almost entirely on my intelligence to make progress in life.
My big journey, the one that crystalised out as Jupiter’s Travels, changed all that, even though the change was totally unexpected. It never crossed my mind that the journey would have any effect on me. I was driven by curiosity, not self-improvement, and yet the effect it did have on me was life-changing. I have spent a good deal of time since trying to extract from the experience the elements that brought this about and released me from my earlier inhibitions.
First of all, I was alone, with nobody to judge me or help me or take over. I was on a machine that I had only recently learned to manage, and only in quite easy circumstances. I knew that, as a novice, I was in danger and that the danger would increase as I moved into ever more unfamiliar surroundings. Inevitably there was always a degree of fear to overcome, and I found a way to work with it and learn from it.
Then there was the machine itself. I had only basic mechanical knowledge, a few tools and a workshop manual. I had to keep it going, meaning I had to learn about it, be aware of it all the time, check it out every night looking for problems. It was all I had for the next 50,000 miles.
The travelling itself was demanding; finding shelter and food, managing currencies and borders, learning the rudiments of languages, learning how to avoid accidents, and of course keeping notes of everything. And to balance against all this drudgery was the sheer excitement of it all and, at first, the wonder that I was actually able to make it all work, that it was really me here in the desert where I once as a child read about Rommel’s Afrika Korps battling with Montgomery.
There was no time or reason to think about I how looked; I was unique, a traveller on a motorcycle, a phenomenon and I set the standard. Who would care how I was dressed, whether I was clean or dirty, shaven or bearded. So I soon forgot about myself and found that I could see others much more clearly. And all those hours alone with myself inside my helmet? They were busy with thoughts about what I had seen and what lay ahead, people I had met, the scene I was passing by and how I would describe it.
What I am trying to demonstrate is that I was so physically and mentally stretched by the enterprise that there was no room for negative thoughts about the meaning of life. I am convinced that by being voluntarily exposed to great physical and mental effort I defeated my old mindset.
I am afraid this may all sound naïve and boastful. Would it be impossible for someone suffering from clinical depression to launch themselves into such a project? I don’t know. But I have had letters (via email) from people thanking me, profusely, for helping them fight off depression simply through reading my book.
Is there a way . . .?
I’ve been asked for more raw notes from my notebooks. Here are my last days in Ceylon, as Sri Lanka was still called, 47 years ago.
Puttalam: On shore of a lagoon. Junction town. Single row of huts. Some thatched, some tiled. Small veg market has chilis, kohl rabi, cabbage, carrot, tomato, limes, eggplant, potatoes, yams, etc. In short, an excellent variety. Fish market, a small, raised cement platform, thatched, had good fish too. Some puppies stood around it. One was so thin and failing it was scarcely more than a head. Watched some crows on a roof – one had a fruit in its beak but could hardly eat it, since as soon as it put the thing down to grip it with a claw another bird, unencumbered, would threaten possession. It had a younger companion also which simply screeched with open beak , and got a couple of morsels for its pains.
By the shore was a thin strand of sand littered with all kinds of rubbish. Again the crows attracted my attention, and one – obviously physically inferior – was hanging about behind the others.
At one point it raised a claw and put it pleadingly on another bird’s back – twice. The other bird flew away – the mangy crow was left alone. Then I noticed a dog – a bitch with distended udders – licking something between its front paws. It was a puppy stretched out on the rubbish, head back and oozing blood. The mother looked up so mournfully. These small examples of life and death on the rubbish heap moved me and depressed me profoundly. Since Colombo I’d been viewing the world through discomfort and fever, with a deliberately jaundiced view. I saw the profusion and luxuriance of the tropics as just a terrible mess, buildings as mildewed wrecks, human effort as futile. The people seemed tedious to me – an endless procession of Marks & Spencer shirt tails hanging over sheets – with facile smiles signifying nothing if not envy and ingratiation. Only the older women impressed me, in spite of myself, with the fineness of their features and slim handsome carriage. The road was murderously bumpy, the traffic foolish. Several times in Ceylon I’ve saved my life by noticing another driver when it was his obligation to notice me. People stop quite suddenly in the road for no apparent reason and without indication. I think there is a powerful amount to be said against “tropical paradise” and should be grateful for these fevers perhaps. The yearning for temperate home must have been overpowering in early adventurers when they fell sick.
At the Puttalam Rest House I got hot tea and an extra sheet [for the bed] and tried to sweat it out. There was plenty of sweat and in the morning I thought I’d won.
I rode the 46 miles to Anaradhapura (after photographing a cobra) – and sat among the ruins for a while. A young man came, and by the brilliant tactic of NOT asking me for anything led me to offer him my address. I walked barefoot to the big Dagoba (or whatever). The dome is solid and covered with cement – has little to say to me. There’s a crack where it was once struck by lightning, and a new lightning conductor runs down the side. There’s also a maze of granite pillars sticking out of the ground. The lad says this is the ground floor of seven story building in which a hundred monks prayed on each floor, all in their solitary cells. If true it’s an amazing notion – what a hum must have gone out from that box. Enjoyed the moonstone outside the temple. Elephant, horse, lion, buffalo. From A on the road to Mannar, and at the main junction was already feeling the fever again. Had a drink and some Disprin. Disprin is becoming part of my diet. Rest of journey went well. No more rain. In the morning I rode through a maximum downpour for maybe 15 mins – and the [new Belstaff] jacket is a success.
Got the same room at the [Puttalam] rest house. Went straight out to fish off bridge, thinking how nice to be alone, but a great company of betel chewers l;ined up alongside me. I managed to live with it however, and got the great excitement of a catch. The fish felt very strong, and for a while I couldn’t move it at all – after its first run – then slowly I inched it in. It was a stingray. Very exciting to see it come out of the water. Not really so big – maybe 4 lbs – with beautiful mottled brown back, a rather human mouth, and two eyes on top. One of the men cut off the tail and showed me the spike which lies alongside it close to the root (not as I imagined it at all). Took it back proudly to the Rest House. The cook said he would fry it for me, but as a fish, he said “it is not famous.”
Two men passing on the bridge started talking to me. It annoyed me at the time, and I must have showed it.
“Your native land, please?”
“Are you a university graduate?”
“How much does this – or that cost?”
They came afterwards to the Rest House and I had to sit and take tea with them. One was the Medical Officer for the area – the other. Mr. Ratnavale, is a clerk of some sort. They have so little to say, and understand so little of what I say, that it’s largely a ritual. Whatever I said, Mr. R’s face would express perfect wonder and enlightenment and say “I see” as though everything was now clear. But the MO did describe symptoms of typhoid [nausea, among others] which gave me a bit of a scare next day.
Rest House manager told me of a series of superstitions. If a monk crosses your path when you aet out – forget it. If the gekko chatters as you step out of the house – also forget it. If you run over a cat you’ll have an accident. Woodpecker’s noise is a bad omen.
He also says Tamils smell different. If they use a towel, you won’t be able to. Sinhalese and Europeans are much closer [he says].
14 October
Rain is really pounding down in the night. The garden has become a lake. The varnish on all the chairs is sticky. Pools of water on the floor. Write home and walk to the post office. Get back, to feel feverish again. Decide to take tetracycline [which I carried with me]. Soon afterwards, vomit {having drunk Coca-Cola). Think I might have typhoid. Get scared and get driven to hospital as emergency. Doctor greets me with great amusement.
“What do you want – he asks – medicine or to be admitted?”
“I want to know what’s wrong.”
He can’t stop grinning. “Cough,” he says.
I essay a couple of coughs.
“There you are you see. You’ve got a cough.”
I deny it, but he just laughs. “You’ve got a fever.”
“Why,” I ask? It’s so ridiculous I have to smile too.
“The climate,” he answers. “Take a Disprin and it will go.
“That’s what I’ve been doing for three days.”
He still thinks it’s a huge joke. He asks several questions but doesn’t listen to the answers. But he’s convinced there’s nothing wrong with me, so I begin to believe that at least it’s nothing very much. Back to the Rest House, much embarrassed. Soon afterwards astonish them by going fishing in the rain. A fish takes away the hook. Later it comes down in a torrent and I slosh back to change. Through afternoon, two more Disprins, begin to feel better.
Mr. Ratnavale calls on me. My heart sinks, but he’s better today – not so overawed by his weighty companion. Eventually he walks off into the rain and comes back, unsolicited, with a packet of five Capstan cigarettes. Very sweet. Has wife and three kids in Jaffna. Means to travel overland to Europe.
Now great wind blows up outside. Will tomorrow be stormy? Walked around the Portuguese fort. 17th century. Impressive size.
Busy night. Great storm blowing, with sounds like gunshots, among others. Between nine and midnight I must have sweated a lake. Both sheets wringing wet, and mattress too. Had to change the mattress and put on trousers and vest. Both damp in the morning. The tetracycline must have helped me to chase the fever out so I’ll go on with it for 4 days. It occurred to me that the ferry would hardly have been able to dock last night and this morning, at the bus depot someone confirms that it was anchored a mile off shore. Maybe in the afternoon, maybe in the morning. I imagine I’ll be here another night yet.
Go to pier. Sea very rough. One fishing boat breaks anchor line – tossing about on the other line, spewing out broken fittings which poor owners are combing off beach. Ferry is in, discharging passengers, but customs is very slow. Capt. puts to sea empty, afraid that sea may cause ship to break the pier. No ferry today.
Forty-eight years ago this week, I was about to leave La Paz, the capital of Bolivia. Travelling with me but separately were Bruno and Antoine, two Frenchmen in a small white four-horse Renault van whom I’d met coming into Bolivia a week earlier. These are my notes.
January 14
Bruno, Antoine and I agree to meet at 7am to leave. I wake at five. It’s pouring. The sound of the rain drumming down on the tin roof depresses me. In my dozing state I even slip and lose my footing – in bed. I walk over to their flat [we were in separate houses] at seven. 12 Frenchmen in it. It’s got a terrible rancid smell. Filthy mess. They agree it’s better to leave later. At 10am the rain stops and there’s some sun. But the Renault won’t start. When at last, after changing the oil, cleaning the carburetor and plugs, it does start, it begins to rain again. There’s bread to buy, money to change. Then up to the big bus and lorry concourse on the altiplano, 800 meters up. There’s fog and rain and mud everywhere. The [government] controls are even harder to endure.
The road is semi-ripio [gravel] but plenty of mud. I begin to get the hang of it, but it’s hard work. All combinations of surface present themselves, Then cloud thins and eventually, as we approach lake Titicaca and the hills, the sky clears a bit. Beautiful light as we follow the lake shore. Reeds in the water, many rich-looking plots of irrigated land, sailing boats. Come down at last to the ferry. Long boats with Johnson outboards. Some trouble maneouvering off the boat backwards. Costs me ten pesos, then another 45. More riding through mountains and along the lake. The water is a glorious blue. The contours are very appealing, The grandest lake and mountain combination yet – though Bariloche was more hospitable, having trees. No trees here, just surfaces interacting.
Round one corner an extraordinary sight: A man bending over flinging stones off the road, arms like windmills, cloak flying. Three handfuls, then he stands up, takes his hat off and holds it out to me with the most sly and ingratiating grin. But he was too slow to start his pantomime. I was just in time to see him stoop He was not young, but vigorous. The Frenchmen, after me, got the same performance but this time he stood in their path, with menacing gestures, and they felt obliged to give him bread.
Indian women, still with bowler hats (why?) and shawls, rather than ponchos, fully pleated skirts in blue and crimson to below the knee with many petticoats also coloured, thick woolen stockings, leather sandals, usually a coloured blanket flung over their backs with some kind of burden, or baby, in it. And often spinning yarn as they go, from a handful of raw yarn onto a spindle in the other hand.
After following the shore we cut across a promontory to come down to Copacabana, a small town between two hills on the lake shore – oddly similar to the one at Rio at a distance. Nice looking town, but all the hotels are dreadful. The most luxurious-looking hotel is like a barracks inside – 25 pesos. We cooked a huge dinner in the room, regardless of regulations. Next day the promised hot water never materialised. The manager, a strangely shambling Indian, wanted us to pay for the garage. With some bad feeling we parted.
January 15th
The road from Copacabana went straight up a steep hill. The Renault couldn’t make it – even with a mighty run-up, even in reverse – so they took a long diversion, got stuck in a bog, and eventually reappeared round the hill 45 minutes later. After a short way we met a police control. He told us we were not allowed to leave without a stamp from the police at Copacabana. Engagingly he produced the stamp we should have. Alas, he said, if we didn’t want to go back to Copacabana (Heaven forbid) we would have to pay 10 pesos. We had no pesos. A dollar would do. A very neat trap, but not very expensive.
Eventually we got to Peru and waited endlessly for immigration. Here is where we first met the raft of Germans who were to hound us all the way to Puno and beyond, filling the hotels, eating all the food, and covering me with mud from their taxis as they passed. There were two rivers to ford. The second, by far the fastest and deepest so far (about two feet) was too much for me. I stopped halfway across but managed to stand the bike upright. Then some police drove past me, sending tidal waves. I waded to the shore with camera and bags, and back. Then a driver threw me a piece of cord. I tied another one to it. Two Peruvians and a German helped to haul me out. As the Frenchmen arrived I was wringing out my socks and emptying my boots. They got across the river but couldn’t get out. So I had to get back in the water and pull.
We drove the last 20K in the dark, but fortunately here it was dry. In Puno great difficulty finding hotel rooms – the Germans had them all. Someone did find us a hotel. The courtyard was an extraordinary labyrinth of makeshift constructions, rickety steps and drums of water. There was one room and three beds. The bike was outside in the passage. We felt like having a grand meal to offset the horrible hotel, but the Germans had eaten all the food. We found a chicken take-away and ate like savages – but with two bottles of good wine.
The hotel manager had a nightwatchman who slept just inside the door. He came into the room when we were fast asleep, switched on the light and said the bike had to be moved. I told him to move it then and went back to sleep. At six he came back, switched on the light to say he was “revisando” everything. We cursed and tried to sleep again.
January 16th
From Puno next day was fine most of the way, then a hailstorm. I left B&A behind me with a punctured tyre.
65 km to Sicuani. First 35 km were fast and dry – the last 30 km were the worst ever. Deep red mud, mostly in the dark, with corrugations. Reminded me of World War I battlefield. Craters everywhere with just a lacework of road showing. In one village it looked impassable. I tried riding on rough ground but fell and couldn’t pick it up because ground just slipped away under my feet. With help got going again.
B&A turned up late. To our surprise Sicuani had the beginnings of a luxury hotel. There was hot water (a little), a separate dining room, a llama, two gorgeous parrots. We did quite well, though the food was less than brilliant. Next day, to Cuzco…
PICTURES BY BRUNO BOUVERY
