'A geography teacher,' I said, pausing in my note-taking. 'And, you see, this is rather unusual geography.'
'This?'
We stared out of the window.
That mountain, for example.'
'Ah, yes,' he said. 'That is a big mountain.'
It was Nevada de Illimani, four miles high, dark brutal bulk surmounted by wind-whipped snow. And it lay beyond the plain where grey grass had been trampled flat by storms.
Fernando smiled. He had not seen my point at all. He said, 'I am so glad you are happy in my country.' And he left the compartment.
The mountain was soon far behind us; we were sprinting towards an irregular wall of rainclouds and hills, past wheatfields and pepper patches. The eastern horizon was white and domed, like the skyline of an Arabian city idealized in a fable; it was the far edge of the high plains, this range of mosque-like peaks buried to their domes and squat minarets, and it was so thin and yet so marvellously shaped that at times it appeared as oddly beautiful as a mirage. Nearer the railway line — but very far apart — were small mud huts. They had mud-block courtyards and some had corrals, but none of them had any windows. They were shut; there were no lights; they were no more than hovels, and they looked forlorn. At Viacha, which was a village, we stopped to take on passengers. Now there was only standing room in Second Class, the battered green coaches were filled to overflowing, and on the curves I could see three or four faces at every window. I had tried to walk through the train to these coaches, but they were impassable — the Second Class corridors were jammed with people and their belongings. There was no greater contrast than this glow-worm stuffed with Bolivians and those empty plains.
It is equal to living in a tragic land
To live in a tragic time.
Regard now the sloping mountainous rocks
And the river that batters its way over stones,
Regard the hovels of those that live in this battered land.
There were no cars in the villages, no roads, no trees; only mud huts and cows, and Indians wrapped up against the cold. Except for the llamas which frisked when they saw the train, and the very shaggy mules which took no notice, travelling across the high plains was a bit like travelling through Texas. The hills were distant and slightly rounded — rain poured on one, the sun was setting on another — and the sky was enormous. The tracks from now on were perfectly straight, and just before the daylight was entirely gone the air became very cold. In this empty land an Indian pushed a bicycle along a path and then cut across a barren field, and later I saw a woman watching some still sheep. In the gathering dusk, some miles further on, an Indian woman and two small children laboured across the plain leading five mules which were carrying loads of farm tools, shovels and hoes. In a cloudy sunset, the village of Ayoayo — mud houses and a church — looked like a distant outpost from another age; it lay in the middle of the plain and it was so small the train did not stop.
The land became hillier, and a range of rugged bare mountains appeared — so high they were brightly lit by the setting sun, although we were travelling in near darkness. And the condors, too, flew so high they caught the light. The last Indian I saw that day was walking away from the train through a gulch. He wore sandals, but — in spite of the cold-no socks.
I saw what I thought at first was a Christ statue, but as we grew near it changed from the shape of a man to the shape of a bottle. It was a bottle, and it was twenty feet high and made of wood. It stood in utter emptiness and the large letters on its side said Inka-Cola.
By then, I had brought my diary up to date. I was pleased with myself: my work was done for the day, and I was well settled in this sleeping car and moving south towards the border. I went to the dining car, and there I found Fernando, who was drinking beer with his friend Victor and a third man — either drunk or naturally surly — whose name I did not catch. They invited me to join them and they asked me the usual South American questions: Where was I from? Where had I been? Was I a Catholic? What did I think of their country?
They hate to be criticized, the man in Ecuador had told me. Never criticize them. This advice had not worked in Peru, where praise only antagonized Peruvians and made them think that I sympathized with their rotten government. But Bolivians — if Fernando and his friends were anything to go by — clearly wanted to be praised.
'Bolivia's a wonderful country,' I said.
'It is, isn't it?' said Victor. He smiled coldly. The others agreed. Surely, we knew we were lying?
'Take Peru,' said Fernando.
The three Bolivians ran down Peru for a minute.
I said, 'Most Peruvians would agree with you.'
'Chile is the worst of all,' said Victor.
'What about Ecuador?' asked the surly man.
They have a military dictatorship,' said Fernando.
It was an uninspired remark. Every country that had been mentioned, including Bolivia, had a military dictatorship.
I said, 'Ecuador is going to hold an election.'
'So are we,' said Victor.
Four months later the Bolivian election was held. There were shootings all over the country, mysterious machine-gunnings, and stuffed ballot boxes. It was generally agreed that the election had been rigged, and then the head of state, General Banzer, 'annulled' the election. A state of siege was declared and a new government was formed in what was officially termed a 'bloodless coup'. Within five months there was a counter-coup and another promise to hold elections.
Peru was backward, said Fernando. Chile's black market was so bad you couldn't buy a tube of toothpaste, said Victor. The surly man said that they were massacring Indians in Brazil. Fernando said he knew a thing or two about newspapers: Bolivia's papers were the best in South America, but Argentina's seldom printed foreign news. The rest was hearsay: Paraguay was an unspeakable swamp, Colombia was full of thieves, and the Panamanians were so stupid and had such a tyrannical leader they didn't deserve the canal.
We went on drinking beer and the Bolivians went on belittling their neighbours. I suggested that they shared some national characteristics and recounted what the lady in Ecuador had told me about altitude being a factor in the South American consciousness. They said this was nonsense; they were insistent in exaggerating the differences. Oddest of all, they had not said much about Bolivia — and Bolivia could not have been nearer: it was this old-fashioned dining car and hurrying waiters; it was the Indians who were hunkered down in the doorway, and the cold downpour on the high plains out the window. Perhaps reading my mind, Victor said, 'We have one problem in Bolivia.'
'Only one?' I asked.
'One major problem,' he said. 'The sea. The Chileans ought to let us have a bit — or the Peruvians. We need a seaport of our own. It is because we don't have one that we have so many other problems. What can you do without a seaport?'
'He likes Bolivian beer,' said Fernando.
'Yes,' I said, 'it's very nice.'
'Lpok at that man,' said Victor.
At a side table a man was drinking beer. One look told me he was an American. He wore lumberjack shoes and the sort of woollen plaid forester's shirt that graduate students in state universities especially favour. His shirt-tails hung down, his beard was shaggy; he drank his beer straight from the bottle, tipping it up and then wiping his mouth with his forearm and belching.
‘That is ugly,' said Victor.
'He could have asked the waiter for a glass,' said Fernando.
The surly man had started to smile. 'Look at that! Glug-glug' — he mimicked with his thumb- 'right out of the bottle!'