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Published: February 20th 2006
The next morning - or midday … whenever it was, it was hot enough so that the tent, my sleeping-bag, and I became a sweaty bundle of sticky, humid surfaces. Like a fruit roll-up right out of the wrapper that still clings to the cellophane. Sort of.
Whatever. The point is that we had been lazing in our tents, waiting for the rain to stop so we wouldn´t have to pack wet gear, and in the mean-time been caught by the soft-lit drowsiness of a warm tent, like Ulysses on a lotus binge… but, as I said, we got driven out of our tents when the vegetable-steamer of nylon became too much Sort of like luke-warm bathwater, except in this case it was Too hot to stay in, two crazy Argentineans to get out.
Stretching in the sun, hopeing the other would offer breakfast, a little man that had been wandering aimlessy round the pitch, surreptitiously staring at us, finally came over to talk. He had a motor-boat, and offered to take us to the Isla for 60. Gabriel laughed. Well, let´s say 50 … Gabriel, scratching his balls, said Sure, take us for 30 or else we´re not interested. The man stalked off, muttering.
We packed up. The night before I had made one comment as to setting up their tent (otherwise they would have woken up in a foot of water), and it came out that I was a guide. It hardly seemed to matter that I´d guided one summer of bicycle tours, because I became the authority on all matters outdoorsy. This morning, they wanted me to adjust their packs for them. Although it was true that I know how to adjust a pack - but, um, only because Izzy had shown me a few days earlier, to my out-doorsman shame. Heh. So I adjusted their packs (It´s all the weight in the shoulder and chest, right?) … and we strolled down to the beach. A few ids were down there shepherding, which is a euphemism for tying up one leg of the sheep and then chilling in a big Bolivian way (also, I had forgotten how truly dumb sheep are. About every 30 seconds one would see something that made her want to get over there!, now!, OMG baaah everyone´s going that way! and boing the sheep would hit the end of the rope and end up flat on her back. The commotion would cause a few others to panic and inside of five minutes or so each member of the flock had found herself, bewilderingly, arse-over-empty head).
We sat down. Gabriel filled a bottle with lake water. He saw me eyeing the bottle and said Hey, don´t worry, I´m not going to drink straight lake-water, and to prove how out-doorsy and savvy he was, poured a packet of apple-flavoured juice mix in. Cool. Germ-free now!, but I took a big swig anyways.
Within 10 minutes an oarsman came hurrying down to the beach (I swear, this place made 1984 look like a big hippie commune. A gringo thinks fart and people laugh). We negotiated a price and he agreed to row us the half hour across the strait.
On the way, as F & G sprawled in the back of the boat, he told us about the union (socio) they had put together: 20 oarsmen, 10 lancheros (motor-boat guys), and about 23 boats. They each took turns ferrying tourists, and they had fixed the price at 15 Bs a head. He said that he only goes out once a month or so, because no tourists came to Yampupata, especially in low season. No one came because the road was bad - and the big motor-boat outfits in Copacabana were paying a lot of money to see that it never got finished, he said. I thought of the road-crew: a lot of accidents, delays in material delivery - connected? Maybe. On the other hand, I knew Belgian road projects that took decades, and they didn´t even have any convenient corrupt goings-on …
We talked about life in the village … Hard, he said. Not much money. He looked out across the water and heaved again at the splintery oars, dragging the 300kg worth of gringo through the water. Yes. It´s hard, he said again.
A few lanchas went by, the people sitting on the top staring enviously at our more ¨authentic¨ experience. We pulled up to the point of the Isla, paid our guy, and got off. I wanted to tip him, because he was taking us for 35 when by all rights he should have gotten 45 - but had no choice because if he passed he wouldn´t get another chance for a month. I could probably have spared the 60 cents. But I didn´t. F & G were right there, already believing they were paying too much, and I didn´t want to seem to be showy in front of them, and guilt them into tipping as well. But really I think it was just shame, or cowardice - and not wanting to shame him.
It ain´t easy being a gringo. Also - one thing you find out when you travel to a poor country: you are an unmitigated and shameful hypocrite. You believe one thing in a country where it´s easy to have pretty much whatever set of beliefs you choose to have, but when they´re actually put to the test, then they crumble like dry corn-bread. Every week I find myself changing position on what to do about beggar-children, or children selling something. But I diverge…
We hiked up the hillside, along one of the hundreds of terraces that were dug into the earth, fending off little kids asking (in order): Did we want a hostal or picture with the llam (these two were tied), Where we were from (to butter us up), then Do you have any caramelos (candy). Most of them already had cavities.
The island was olive-green, the lake and the sky were the same deep, rich, mystical, impossible blue. But - even though I know this is like coming back from a trip to the leaning Tower of Pisa and saying, Well, it was nice, but it was leaning over - the sun on the Isla del Sol was INTENSE. It was a constant, enveloping presence, not ´beating down,´ but thick pool of sun-rays, like being wet from cold water and rolling round in warm sand. The little UV bullets of radiation pelted down on my skin, bouncing like pin balls between the molecules of my epidermis, trying, like a bad bunch of Mormons, to pressure my melatonin to cut loose, Go forth thou and multiply as freckles. Someday, though, one will backslide and become melanoma …
Why are you putting that on? asked Gabriel, pointing to my SPF 55 sunscreen.
So I don´t look like a tomato…
Psh, gringos…
I asked if they wore any. Of course not! Argentineans don´t need to! (despite the fact that they were both first- generation Europeans)
I pointed out that Bob Marley, who was black, died of skin cancer.
Ferdinand gave me a pitying look.
- Bob Marley didn´t die of skin cancer, he said
- Oh no?
- Of course not. The CIA killed him.
We came up to a village. Ferdi went of in search of water, and I made my plans. I was feeling a little feverish, and really just wanted to relax on the water and swim and write. So I went to a restaurant and ordered a pile of rice, potatoes, and omelette, then went back down to F & G to tell them that I was just going to cut west to the bahía and camp there. They said they were going on. We embraced and kissed each other´s cheeks, and they went off up the path.
I was sad to see them go. True, they had eaten most of my food, drunk most of my water, and made pay more for the boat, but they were lively, kind, and a lot of fun.
But my food was ready, so I wrapped the Tupperware in a fleece, and took off for my little bay, getting more picturesque in my mind every minute.
On the ridge I saw a guy, sitting on a chair, overlooking the bay. He was ´disguised´ in ´local´ clothing, except that no bolivian would be caught dead looking like a mis-matched ´It´s a Small World After All´ puppet. American, of course… I decided to talk with him. Almost every gringo I´d met in SA so far had me convinced only really cool people were allowed to travel here.
First question - me - What state are you from? (Springfield, Mass)
Second question - me - How long are you here, was cut off by his First, and only, it turned out, question: Do you smoke? (for the geriats reading this, he meant pot).
For the next 30 minutes I listened to his smug and ´like´-afflicted rambling story about what he´d done in South America. He reminded me of CU kids … from a wealthy family, though desperately trying to hide it, half-listening to you only so as to know when a good point would be to jump in with his completely un-related but one-upping story. That would have been the case, except I never actually got a chance to talk. He made some pointed comment about not being able to afford sun-screen, so I lent him my tub and watched him squeeze half of my life-juice obliviously onto his over-developed biceps (which he made sure I noticed), as he Dude-ed about how Man, gotta tell ya, Viña del Mar was my least favourite part of South America.
Well, so much for company. He was the kind I was fleeing CU for … I wished him good luck and happy toking and sped off down the path.
The only people were fellow gringo back-packers (besides the black-toothed caramelo kids). The approach: pretending not to notice each other because we had come to this remote spot and sort of resented that other gringos were there, ashamed that we, too, tread the Lonely Planet path, resisting the urge to say hi simply because they were white, because that would go against your concept of equal persons not recognizing each other because of skin-colour but by their character content, wouldn´t it!
But then you´d get close and you didn´t want to be rude, so you´d quickly look up and the other gringo would do it simultaneously, and then you´d nod and say ¡Hola! Even if it was obvious you both spoke English.
Anyways - I came to a booth where they were charging 10 Bs to go to the north side of the island, cut round the hill, by a family washing their clothes in a stream a knew the booth-house flushed into, and then down to the lake-level of the Bahía Kona, almost Mediterranean-blue … which would be fitting, supposedly there´s an Incan Atlantis somewhere round the bay… I walked along the armpit of the bay, smoothly and unhurriedly, but glad to be down on the water, because the long-sleeve I had put on as protection from the sun was getting beastly hot.
Past a collection of huts, potato fields, the totora reeds the Indians dry and make boats with, and then to a stream.
First a little explanation: my father has a story from Africa where they waded a deep stream with their packs on their heads, only to find a dead bull-shark and a sign that said WARNING - Sharks and crocodiles - on the other side. I immediately decided that I too, had to wade the stream with my back-pack on my head, one arm steadying it and the other poised to fend off the bull-sharks or crocodiles should they appear. Or trout, at the very least; they have very sharp teeth. I think. Anyways, I wanted a wading-in-the-river-with-my-pack-on-my-head story too!
No crocodiles, as it turned out. But two near deaths: I came out on the other side, dripping and shimmering a brilliant glare off my alabaster-white skin. I was completely naked - just in case it was really deep! (it actually was a little over knee-high at the deepest), and saw two children crying with laughter, trying to hid or run away or something but completely overcome … eventually they collected themselves and scampered off into the brush.
Frankly, I was surprised they weren´t blinded, but I got the point, and chagrined, hopped into my clothes. Nobody else was going laugh at me - and besides, the water was cold, ok? Not my fault.
I curved left down the mile-long spit of rocks, red earth, and eucalyptus that formed the outside edge of the bay. There was no one there, and it was inaccessible enough so that it deterred anyone trying (rightly or no) from collecting a camping fee.
I found a flat spot right on the water, in the shade of a eucalyptus grove. I threw my pack down, and ate my still-warm dish from the restaurant, watching the ducks splash and strut in the totora. A fish plopped, and it began to drizzle… little riplets on the water, individuals at first, then thicker, and the ripples grew close together in a frantic crowd and overlapped and then the water was grey and frothy with wind and you couldn´t see the drops anymore.
I threw my tent together, and crawled in, wincing from the deep maroon flush of sunburn I´d gotten from my 2 minutes of ¨exposure¨, as it were, earlier.
A storm rolled over the ridge, exchanging volleys of belly-shaking thunder with the storm across the lake. The ducks, out-done, sulked in the reeds.
I sat and watched the water for a while, thinking about people I loved (funny how when you go off to be as alone as possible is when you have the most company).
Then I zipped close the flap and wrote for a while. Then I just lay down with my eyes open, and listened to the night sounds and the pat-tap pa-tat of the rain on the fabric of the tent.
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brad
non-member comment
1984
Patrick! this blog is copyrighted~! wierd, anyways, I am not fully understanding your 1984/hippie relation, maybe you can explain more?? all I can say about everything is wow, I wish I was experiencing this first hand, although reading a blog from studio in brooklyn is a pretty close second...we have a blog too : http://www.probelog.com/fitness/ I miss you like a brother