At that juncture, Bruno, Joe’s Peruvian roommate, who was also his passenger, appeared, and Joe said, “Don’t you think it’s time for a drink? Can we get cold beer?”
“During the glacial period possibly there was ice here,” I replied, “but I haven’t seen any in nearly a year.”
By the time Joe had ordered us copitas of pisco at a tiny cantina in the main street, he, Bruno, and I were arguing as though we’d all gone to school together. And by the time little Indian Juanito, the pension slave, had come to look for me for dinner, we were fast friends. Juanito had long since adopted me, but Joe instantly became his god. His black liquid eyes glistened; he would become an aviador.
As if in honor of the occasion, Señor Rosa had a special dish that evening, the very special Peruvian causa, which is a mashed potato salad. The kind of potatoes used in causa are a delicate yellow, and of an even smoother texture than that of our common white potatoes. They are boiled and mashed thoroughly, then whipped patiently while a good cooking oil is put in drop by drop. To this mixture is added garlic juice—just a soupcon—a bit of chopped abi, the fiery native pepper, and onion, if desired, finely chopped. A mound of this golden salad is usually arranged on a big platter garnished with lettuce, radishes, olives, hard-boiled egg, cucumber, anchovies, or whatever the cook’s imagination dictates. Although the yellow potatoes cannot be obtained in the United States, our Irish ones make a good substitute.
At dawn the next morning Joe pounded furiously on my door. “I don’t like the look of this weather,” he announced, glumly scanning the billowing clouds. “And I’m sick of flying that old crate.” He paused a moment and said, “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Anything,” I said, “would be better than the boredom of being stuck here with nothing to do, but I can’t afford to go flying just for fun.”
“Señora,” Joe said with an extravagant bow, “haven’t you heard of the land of the Incas where gold was never used for money? Where you don’t need money?”
“Very well, then I’ll go. But I have to be back by Wednesday because I’m giving a party for Juanito and some other little Indians.”
“Get your hat,” said Joe. “God and weather permitting, we’ll be back in time for the party.” Bruno, giggling, waved off the two gringos locos.
“We’ll have breakfast in Cachapoyas,” said Joe, his cargo and passengers tucked away in the plane. Which was stranger I don’t know, for although the cargo consisted mainly of vanilla, parrots, and turkeys, the passengers were no less assorted. One dark, ponchoed and sombreroed gentleman looked like the movie version of a bandit, until he began to eat something from a dainty pink paper bag. An Indian woman with long black braids unabashedly nursed her baby, while a pathetic, ghost-like youth shivered in a heavy overcoat with malarial fever.
The tiny plane soared bravely from the ragged field on the village edge straight up past a jagged mountain and over the strangely poisonous green of the jungle. Higher and higher we rose, to clear the towering cloud banks that veil the Andes in the equinoctial season. Joe frowned.
He wiped mist from the windows and said, “I don’t like this. That’s ice on the wings.” At what altitude we were flying I don’t know, as there was no altimeter, but I knew that the effect of the ice on the wings was dangerous.
“Ice, ice,” I thought. “What a delicious word. Ice cream, ice cream,” I mused as we roared on through banks of cloud. How delicious would be ice cream in hot, steamy Moyobamba. Thinking farther, I said to myself—what a magnificent thing if I could bring back ice cream for the Indian children of Moyobamba, who have never seen snow or ice and have never heard of ice cream.
“Joe,” I said abruptly, “when we get to the coast—to Chiclayo, do you think we could find ice cream and get it packed to take back for Juanito and the children?”
“I don’t know,” replied Joe, trying to peer through dense cloud masses. “Just now I’m trying to find Chachapoyas. I’ve got passengers for that village, and I don’t know where the hell it is. Can you see anything?”
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