Saludos

“I see,” said Joe. “You mean that same mine where the Condor plane crashed a couple of months ago?”

“Yes,” the Peruvian returned in a soothing voice. “But you are Irish … you shouldn’t mind.”

“Well,” grinned Joe, “I guess I won’t if you”—he turned to me—“will be the mascot.”

“A bargain,” I returned, “if you’ll help me see what can be done about ice cream for the children’s party.”

Again the distinguished Spanish chef appeared. “Como no? Of course we could make ice cream for the Indian children of a jungle town.” He beamed benevolently. There was nothing more than to command him a few hours in advance. As well as I could in Spanish I explained that the ice cream must be packed to last the journey over the three mountain ranges. With a Latin gesture he dismissed the deed as done.

“You know, it’s queer,” said Joe, as we climbed into the plane, which this time carried no passengers, “what the tropics do to your mind. I like you all right, but I can’t remember your name.” I laughed, and he said, “It’s swell of you to help me take up that machinery.”

“Ah, but,” I returned, “you’re helping me get the ice cream.”

At the Trujillo airport a slight, dry Englishman of the type one used to find on rubber plantations in Malaya, or in mining enterprises anywhere in the world, was waiting. Joe heaved a sigh when he saw the huge steel wheel that was to be taken to the mine. He ordered all the seats removed, and sweating, panting Indians somehow managed to squeeze the heavy part into the plane. The Englishman and I climbed in over a huge roll of greasy cable.

It was mid-afternoon by the time we had soared over the foothills and straight up to the barren Sierra. Once over the first hills, the westering sun painted stark cliffs, barren soaring peaks, with a savage red. To the north, in majesty, rose one snow-capped peak. Joe pointed down to something that looked like the Great Wall of China in miniature. “The Great Wall of Peru,” he said. “Just recently discovered.” Anything, I thought, might lie hidden for centuries protected from the curiosity of the white man, not only by barriers of mountain and desert, but by the evasive Indian nature which guards well the Incan secrets.

We flew between two granite mountains, and there, cupped like a jewel of jade, was a deep green lake dotted with wild duck. On the near edge lay the crumpled silver wreck of the Condor plane. We landed on a sandy runway on the opposite shore—barren of anything except a tin-roofed shed. “Pretty desolate, no?” said Joe. “But after all, these hills are full of gold.”

Back at the Trujillo airport other commissions cropped up, and it wasn’t till late the next afternoon that we were back in Chiclayo, where we were greeled with open arms by the vivacious Spanish chef.

“If,” he begged, “you will dine at ten o’clock [all urban Latin America dines late], I will prepare for you my great especialidad. La gratonada,” he murmured reverently.

And truly la gratonada was a dish fit for royalty. Tender breasts of chicken are taken from the half-roasted fowl, and are the base for a species of ragout or fricassee. With this, to a meat broth are added crisp bacon, roasted almonds, eggs, spices, and greens. But like the higate potage, the canny chef was evasive as to the dish’s preparation.

After extravagant praise of the chef’s genius in all the flowery phrases I knew, I brought up the subject of the ice cream. I emphasized the packing that it might carry well. With bows and flourishes, the chef said the ice cream would be ready and waiting in the lobby at dawn the next morning. Everything would be done properly.

The ice cream as promised was in the lobby at dawn. It once evidently had been frozen hard, but it was innocent of packing. To my dismay, only a soupy pink liquid remained. Joe, sleepily rubbing his eyes, appeared, took one look at the mess, and said, “Well, I guess your little Indian friends will never know what ice cream is.”

Nevertheless, back in Moyobamba, down, down in the hot jungles in a forgotten world that is alien to coastal civilization, the party came off—and very successfully.