They also kept the prices down. They did not tip or buy anything that was very expensive. They haggled in the market like the Peruvians themselves, buying tomatoes or fruit at the going rate and not paying a centavo more than they had to. Their very presence in a place indicated that there was cheap food and lodging to be had: they kept to one district in Lima, they stayed away from Huancayo, they were numerous in Cuzco. The tourist will pay any price, if forced to: he does not plan to stay long. These other travellers were unshakable skinflints; they had no marked effect on Peru, they certainly did not improve it, but perhaps this was better than a bungling attempt to colonize it with expensive hotels. The argument that five-star hotels benefit a country by producing employment is a silly and even subversive one – it turns nationals into waiters and scullery maids, and that is about all.
The rucksack brigade was very ruin-conscious. It was for many of them one of the justifications of Cuzco. I wondered what it was about the ruins that attracted them. They were not archaeologists and, despite their protestations to the contrary, they were not students either. From their conversations I concluded that they felt a spiritual affinity with the sun-worshipping Incas, and a kind of social affinity – this was almost pure fakery – with the Indians. The Indians made baskets and pots and wove cloth; these were the enthusiasms, either real or imagined, of their well-wishers. In one respect were they un-Indian: they did not go to church. Not only did they not to to mass – all the Indians did so – but also they did not tour the Catholic convents, the cloisters or chapels. The cloisters could be interesting. Apart from the paintings and statues there were instruments of flagellation, whips, iron lashes, the cat, bracelets of barbed wire and steel headbands that had been worn by Santa Catalina and Rose of Lima in painful and bloody mortification (the band was tightened until it drew blood). But the freebooters and tough, bearded students did not go to the cloisters. They preferred to walk six dizzying miles to see the Fortress of Sacsahuaman – a fort designed to imitate the shape of a puma’s jaws – or the Amphitheatre of Qengo with its dark interior altars (‘Far out’), or the bubbling spring at the shrine of Tambo Machay farther up the road. The tourists went by bus; these other people used the Inca road, a precipitous path along the mountains north of Cuzco. They came not to reflect on the Spaniards but to live among the remnants of the Incas. It is to them still an Inca city. The Plaza de Armas is not the site of two magnificent churches, but the spot where during ‘Corpse Carrying Month’ the Incas displayed the mummies they hauled out of the Temple of the Sun. It is no use pointing out that there is no Temple of the Sun in the plaza, for the stones are there: they were incorporated into the Church of Santo Domingo. Every Spanish building was once an Inca building, the roads Inca walkways, the grand houses Inca palaces.
I had neither a tourist badge nor a rucksack. I trod a narrow implausible line between the two and found myself in the company of Mexicans, who considered themselves tourists but who were taken for hippies or, even worse, for Peruvians. ‘Take a good look, Paul,’ a Mexican said to me one evening. ‘Do I look like a Peruvian?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
‘What is wrong with these people? I am in Cuzco for two days and they stop me in the street and ask me directions! I will tell you one thing – two more days and I am back in Mexico. It may be dirty, but it is not dirty like this.’
The next day, just before nightfall, the Mexicans and I were taking a short cut through some back streets in Cuzco and found ourselves in a damp shadowy courtyard. There were no lights in the low buildings; some laundry hung on a rope. A limping puppy made its way to a puddle and drank, a large tom turkey chortled at us, and two Indian women sat on a bench, drinking maize beer out of plastic beakers.
‘I hear music,’ said one Mexican. His face lit up, and he went closer to the sound: a dark doorway at the side of the courtyard. He entered, but a moment later he he hurried out. ‘It is a typical bar.’
‘Shall we go in?’ I said.
‘There are no seats,’ he said. He seemed anxious to leave. ‘I will have my beer at the hotel.’
Off they went, the three Mexicans. I entered the bar, and I understood their hurry. The bar was almost underground; it had a low ceiling and was lighted by six sooty lanterns. In this lantern light I could see ragged Indians, grinning drunkenly and guzzling maize beer from dented tankards. The bar was shaped like a trough. At one end an old man and a very small boy were playing stringed instruments; the boy was singing sweetly in Quechua. At the other end of the trough, a fat Indian woman was frying meat over a log fire – the smoke circled in the room. She cooked with her hands, throwing the meat in, turning it with her hands, picking it up to examine it, then taking a cooked hunk in each hand and carrying it to a plate. An infant crawled near the fire; it was nearly naked, not more than six months old, and like a soft toy. I had had my look, but before I could leave I noticed three men beckoning to me.
‘Here is a seat,’ said one in Spanish, and he made room on the bench.
That man was drinking maize beer. He urged me to try some. I said I had had some in Huancayo. It was different here, he said. But it did not taste any different to me. It was the same sour taste of rancid porridge.
‘It is like African beer,’ I said.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘This is good stuff.’
I ordered a regular beer and introduced myself, privately justifying the lie that I was a teacher by telling myself that it was easier to explain what a teacher teaches than what a writer writes. Writing is an impossible profession to describe. And even when the disclosure does not produce bewilderment, it causes exaggerated respect and tends to make conversations into interviews. A geography teacher has a harmless excuse for being practically anywhere.
They were, they said, from the Ministry of Works. Gustavo and Abelardo were architects, and the third, whose name was Napoleon Prentice (‘It is a good English name, but I cannot speak English’) was a civil engineer. The jobs sounded impressive, but the men were poorly dressed and looked rather gloomy.
‘You may not speak English,’ I said to Napoleon, ‘but I am sure your Quechua is better than mine.’
‘I cannot speak Quechua,’ said Napoleon.
Gustavo said, ‘I know a few words, but that is all. You will have no touble learning it. It is just like English.’
‘Quechua is like English?’
‘The grammar is exactly the same. For example, in Spanish we say “a book red”, but in Quechua they say “a red book”. Like English. Go ahead, say it.’
‘Red book,’ I said in English.
They smiled at the phrase, an English stutter in this sonorous Spanish conversation.
Gustavo said, ‘You will have no touble with Quechua.’
They were not from Cuzco. They were, all three, from Lima. They had been sent here by their ministry to design a housing scheme at Quillabamba, beyond Machu Picchu, on the Urubamba River. Abelardo had just arrived; the other two had been in Cuzco for some months.
‘How long will you be here, Abelardo?’ I asked.
‘A year,’ he said, and glanced at the others, shaking his head. Without much conviction he added, ‘It is not too bad.’
Napoleon said, ‘All the ruins! Interesting!’
I said, ‘Are you interested in ruins?’
‘No,’ said Napoleon. I could tell from their laughter that he spoke for all of them.
‘What do your wives think of your being away for so long?’ I asked. It was the question everyone asked me. I wondered whether they had a clever reply that I might use later on.
‘We are not married,’ said Gustavo. ‘Do you think married people would go to places like Cuzco and Quillabamba?’
‘I am married and I went to Huancayo.’
‘That is your affair, my friend. If I was married I would stay home.’
I said, ‘I do – more or less.’
‘More or less!’ screamed Gustavo. He was shaking with laughter. ‘That is really funny.’
Abelardo said, ‘It is only single fellows like us who get sent to the terrible places, like Iquitos and Puerto Maldonado.’
‘Isn’t Iquitos in Ecuador?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t,’ said Gustavo, laughing. ‘These days it is.’
‘I was in Maldonado,’ said Napoleon. ‘It was awful – hotter than Brazil.’
Abelardo said, ‘Lima is nice. Did you like Lima? Yes? There is always something to do in Lima.’
It was clearly going to be a long year for him in Quillabamba.
But think of all the ruins in Cuzco,’ said Napoleon.
Abelardo uttered an obscenity, something like, ‘Oh, piss on God’s balls!’
‘What other countries do you know?’ asked Gustavo. ‘What about France? Look, how much would I need to live in Paris? How many dollars a day?’
I said, ‘About forty.’
He looked discouraged. ‘How about London?’
‘Maybe thirty,’ I said.
‘Go to Lima,’ said Abelardo. ‘It will only cost four.’
‘Go to Maldonado,’ said Napoleon. ‘It will only cost one.’
‘And the girls in Lima,’ said Abelardo, mournfully.
‘There are plenty of girls here,’ said Gustavo. ‘American, German, Japanese. Pretty ones, too. Take your pick.’
‘You will be all right,’ I said.
‘Certainly,’ said Gustavo. ‘We will be happy in Quillabamba. We will exchange ideas.’
The small boy and the old man had been playing sad twanging music. It seemed so melancholy, this barefoot boy singing in such a low-down place. The music stopped. The boy took off his cloth cap and went among the tables, collecting coins. We gave him. He bowed, then returned to his songs.
‘He is poor,’ I said.
‘Seventy percent of Peru is poor,’ said Gustavo. ‘Like that boy.’
We continued to drink, but at this altitude alcohol has a paralysing effect. I felt leaden and stupid, and refused a third bottle of beer. The others began to eat plates of fried meat. I tasted some, but I saved my appetite for later; I had been in Cuzco long enough to know that I could get a good steak and a stuffed avocado for a dollar fifty. I left the men discussing Peru’s chances in the World Cup. ‘We are not very good,’ said Napoleon. ‘I think we will lose.’ I did not argue with him; the only way to handle a Peruvian is to agree with his pessimism.
After dinner, I felt too ill to go for a walk. I went back to my hotel – which was not a hotel but only a few rooms above the plaza; and nosing around the dining room I found an old phonograph. It was literally a Victrola, a 1904 Victor, and near it was a stack of 78 rpm records. Most of them were cracked. I found one that was not cracked and read the label: Ben Bernie and the Lads, it said, Shanghai Lil (Warner Bros., ‘Footlight Parade’). I turned the crank and set the disc in motion.
I’ve travelled every little highway,
I’ve climbed every little hill;
I’ve been looking high,
I’ve been looking low,
Looking for my Shanghai Lil.
There were lights on in the plaza. The leper I had seen that afternoon shuffling on bleeding feet, like the Pobble who had no toes, was curled up near the fountain. On the far side was the beautiful Jesuit church, and beyond that the Andes as black and high-crowned as the hats of the Indians who were also bunking down in the plaza.
I’ve been trying to forget her,
But what’s the use – I never will.
I’ve been looking high,
I’ve been looking low –
It was cold. My leather coat was not enough, and I was indoors. But it was quiet: no honking horns, no cars, no radios, no screams; only the church bells and the Victrola.
Looking for my Shanghai Lil.
At four o’clock every weekday morning the Cuzco church bells ring. They ring again at 4:15 and 4:30. Because there are so many churches, and the valley is walled-in by mountains, the tolling of church bells, from four to five in the morning, has a celebratory sound. They summon all people to mass, but only Indians respond. They flock to five o’clock mass in the Cathedral, and just before six the great doors of the Cathedral open on the cold cloudy mountain dawn and hundreds of Indians pour into the plaza, so many of them in bright red ponchos that the visual effect is of a fiesta about to begin. They look happy; they have performed a sacrament. All Catholics leave mass feeling light-hearted, and though these Indians are habitually dour – their faces wrinkled into frowns – at this early hour after mass most of them are smiling.
The tourists wake with the Indians, but the tourists head for Santa Ana Station to catch the train to Machu Picchu. They carry packed lunches, umbrellas, raincoats and cameras. They are disgusted, and they have every right to be so. They were led to believe that if they got to the station at six, they would have a seat on the seven o’clock train. But now it was seven and the station doors had not opened. A light rain had started and the crowd of tourists numbered two hundred or more. There is no order at the station.
The tourists know this and they hate it. They were woken early yesterday for the Cuzco flight and found a mob at the airport. They were woken early for the Machu Picchu train, and this mob is worse. They do not jostle or push. They stand in the grey dawn, clutching their lunches and muttering. Most are on a twelve-day tour of South America; they have spent much of the time just like this, waiting for something to happen, and they don’t like it one bit. They don’t want to complain because they know Americans are famous for complaining. But they are disgusted. I stand in the mob and wait for a chance to say I don’t blame you.
‘You’d think they’d at least open the doors and let us into the station,’ says one of the Goodchucks.
‘That’s too simple for them. They’d rather keep us waiting,’ says Charles P. Clapp.
‘I’m awful sick of this,’ says Hildy, who really does look ill. The poor woman is over seventy and here she is in the middle of the Andes, standing behind the filthy Cuzco market on the steps of the station. At her feet is an Indian woman with a crying child, selling Chiclets and cigarettes, and another pitifully dirty man with a pile of bruised peaches. Hildy is from – where? A neat suburb in the mid-West, where the trains run on time and polite people offer her their seat. She did not know how hard it would be here. She has my sympathy, even my admiration; at her age this counts as bravery. ‘If they don’t open the doors pretty quick I’m going straight back to the hotel.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
She says, ‘I haven’t been right since La Paz.’
‘Marquette got beat,’ says Morrie Upbraid, a stout man from Baton Rouge, who talks with his teeth locked together.
‘Texas got a real good team this year,’ says Jack Hammerman.
‘What happened to Notre Dame?’
They talk about football: wins, losses, and the coloured fella who is over six foot eight. This is contentment of sorts and takes the curse off waiting in the drizzle in Cuzco. Men talk to men; the women stand and fret.
‘I want to see L S U knock the stew out of them,’ says Mr Hammerman.
‘You’d think they’d at least open the doors,’ says Mrs Good-chuck.
At last the station doors open. There is a general surge forward. The elderly tourists shuffle but do not push. A mob is awkward, and they feel they are being tested, as if too violent a response on their part will turn them into Peruvians. Shame and disapproval make them exercise some restraint, and it is only an Argentine honeymoon couple – a dark unapologetic man and his skinny clinging wife – who shove their way to the front. It is easy for them. They elbow past the gentler Americans and are probably surprised that they are through the door so quickly.
‘Just sort of lean back,’ cautions Charles P. Clapp. ‘That way you won’t get trampled.’
Hearing this, the Americans lean back.
There were seats for everyone except three Indian women with papooses and cloth bundles, and two freeboote
rs dressed as Indians, in slouch hats and ponchos. The rest of us sat with our box lunches on our laps. An hour of this, and as it passed the timid speculation as to whether the train was going to leave at all became loud discouragement. There was a general sigh of relief as the train started out of the station. It was still cloudy, the mountainsides softened in greeny mist. The motor road is high, but the train stays low, circling the mountains through a series of gorges in which rushing water runs alongside the tracks. There were few vistas here: we were too deep in the mountains to see anything but overhanging cliffs. Where a gorge floor was flat there were mud huts built near the ingenious Inca walls, the careful stonework of neatly fitted boulders, Inca terraces which had become Indian villages. The mud-block huts were recent, the Inca walls were old, and yet the walls had been built without the use of wheels, the surfaces smoothed and joined with stone tools.
Seeing this stonework, Bert Howie chants, ‘Inca! Inca! Inca! Everywhere you look – Inca!’
‘Now this reminds me of Wyoming,’ says Harold Casey. He directs our attention to the rocky bluffs, the falling water, the green hillsides.
It reminds the Lewgards of parts of Maine. The Prells say it is nothing like Indiana and raise a laugh. Someone else says it is similar to Ecuador. The rest are annoyed: Ecuador is their next stop.
Bert and Elvera Howie listen to these comparisons and then say it is like Africa. Parts of Africa are just like this. We look out of the window and see llamas and smaller fluffier alpacas and very hairy pigs and women in tall hats and shawls and kneesocks gathering firewood. Africa? Elvera insists that it is so. She is surprised, she says, because Bert was saying that morning that their hotel – out of the window of the cocktail lounge on the top floor – reminds them of Florence, Italy: all the orange-tiled roofs, all the churches, the light.