The natives of Moyobamba were celebrating the first day of Spring, although my journal put the date as the twenty-first of September. But then, when you are four or five degrees below the equator, naturally everything is upside down.
It was Sunday morning, and whole families emerged for mid-morning mass after a breakfast of café con leche and sweet rice cakes, which the panadero had been preparing since dawn in his great adobe outdoor oven, toasting them in the ashes below, while the bread baked above.
The women, who had stayed at home properly all week, wore freshly washed dresses; and even though many were barefoot, they all wore black lace mantillas that partially shaded their dark Indian faces. Little boys and girls stiffly dressed marched to the crumbling adobe cathedral on the parched and barren square, carrying great bunches of flowers—gardenias, camellias, fabulous orchids, and calla lilies as tall as they were. From a hidden balcony somewhere on the cobbled street came the strumming of a guitar playing Rubinstein’s Melody in F.
Perhaps Moyobamba is one of the most interesting small towns in the two Americas, for certainly it is one of the oldest. It was founded nearly half a century before our own ancient St. Augustine, by Alanzo Alvarado, who with Pizarro swept over mountains, rivers, and jungles in the invasion of the land of the Incas.
But to me, Moyobamba was not a very impressive relic of the conquistadores’ might. Because of a rather severe attack of malaria, I could not continue my expedition with Sandoval, who was scouring the surrounding territory for information about the rare little bear we sought—and I was trapped in Moyobamba … for how long, I didn’t know.
By the second day I knew every nook and cranny of the village, and every shop. One couldn’t buy a newspaper or a book. I did manage to purchase a Japanese toothbrush which bore the legend “A Clean Tooth Is Sign of Culture.”
But more than that, the townspeople were hostile. They knew little of Gringos or Gringas, and wanted to know less. An American woman on a zoological expedition was completely beyond their comprehension … a woman’s place was in the home, preferably bearing babies.
September is the month of equinoctial storms that rage through the tropical Andes. That Sunday afternoon the first of these tempests thundered down from the blue, jungled mountains; it swept in a wall of white water the patio of the rustic inn. Gardenia and camellia shrubs were blown flat, and an old rotting tree swathed in draperies of purple bougainvillea came crashing to earth.
Somewhat vaguely I wondered about the airplane whose motor I’d heard earlier in the afternoon. The little one-motored planes that served the remote and lonely jungle towns certainly couldn’t survive such weather. To crash in the forests even a short distance from a settlement would be to disappear from the world forever.
The storm passed; the late afternoon sky, blue and brilliant, again vaulted the lonely jungle village. Drearily I washed my face and combed my hair to go across the street to Señora Rosa’s pension to eat a dinner of the inevitable tough chicken, innocent of all flavor, condiment, or sauce.
Suddenly an unmistakably American voice boomed in the patio, and then came murmured Spanish in the room next to mine. Even to hear the voice of a countryman after not having seen one for many months is an exciting thing. Hurriedly I scrambled in my duffle bag and got out my one clean dress … I even used my fast-dwindling lipstick.
Emerging a little later, I almost stumbled over a big, curly-haired giant who, tip-tilted in a chair against the wall, was reading an ancient magazine. The expression of astonishment that spread over his wide Irish face changed rapidly to an amiable grin. Holding out a hearty paw, he asked, “What in God’s name are you doing in Moyobamba?”
My explanation finished, he said, “I’m grounded for at least the night … maybe days. Quien sabe? Couldn’t possibly fly that storm to the coast.”
It developed that during the rainy season the pilots of the commercial airline (whose schedule was, at best, uncertain enough) often had to stay in jungle towns for days waiting for the weather to clear. Frequently they made as many as six or eight attempts to cross the Andes to the coastal cities before succeeding. Then said Joe (“My name’s Russell, but most people call me Joe”), “Lots of times we run out of gas trying to get to the coast, and have to wait till a plane can get through from the coast to bring gas to us.” Worst of all, it seemed that the villages ran short of beer in the interim.
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?”
I peered from my window, and suddenly through a ragged little hole in the mist I saw something that almost took my breath away. “Yes,” I said, “we just passed the most beautiful waterfall I’ve ever seen.”
“Then here goes,” he said, a little grimly, and down we plunged through the cloud banks. Suddenly we were in a deep, narrow canyon, our wing tips almost seeming to touch the stark walls. No look of recognition crossed Joe’s face, and he said, “Hell.”
“There it is,” I shouted in excitement, pointing backward to the waterfall. Joe slowly banked and smiled when he saw it. “Now I know where we are. Not much fun flying blind when these clouds puff up to twenty-two thousand feet and more every day.”
He brought the plane up out of the canyon and circled slowly over the top of a barren mountain. “To give them time to chase all the cows off the field,” explained Joe.
We had flown over the second jungle cordillera, and now there remained the barren range to cross before we reached the desert coast. Joe had forgotten, apparently, anything as trivial as breakfast, and after depositing our passengers we took off from the barren mountain top. Gone was the lush green of the lowlands; we flew at about 17,000 feet with a sea of cloud below us.
With a sudden jerk we began to lose altitude. Joe said, “Now hang on, because we’re leaving the mountains and coming to the desert. When we hit the coastal plains the heat makes the air damned bumpy.”
I did hang on with all my strength while the little plane was tossed and buffeted as if she were a ship at sea. Before us stretched the narrow coastal desert, white in the glaring sun, and in the distance, the blue line of the Pacific.
“Now,” said Joe, as he gently deposited the ship on the runway, “I know she loves me.”
“Meaning, I suppose, your wife?” I asked. It startled me to realize how unquestionably one American can accept another in an alien land. I'd known Joe for about fourteen hours—I still knew nothing more than that I was hugely enjoying my junket with a boyish, barnstorming aviator such as only America seems to produce. He showed me a picture of his three-year-old son, who was a small replica of himself.
Chiclayo is a small coastal city that looks probably like many another Spanish town with its palm trees and flowers, its plazas. It looked like heaven to me, after lonely months in the jungle and its hostile villages. This was civilization, and there would be civilized food.
In the cool patio of the Chiclayo hotel, with its white-covered tables under the palms, the distinguished Spanish chef who, with his pointed little beard, looked more like a grand seigneur than a cook, did us the honor of personally advising us about luncheon.
“First, Señora,” he said, with a little secret smile, “I offer a very special Spanish potage, higate. It is, we think, exquisita.” He emphasized its quality by an equally exquisite little gesture.
He came back after the potage was half finished for our verdict on it. We had both guessed again and again as to what might be the ingredients of the dark rich sopa, with its evasive flavor.
“Of what,” I inquired, “do you make this rara avis of potages?”
“Ah, Señora,” he smiled, “I cannot give you the exact recipe of its making because it is my secret … even in Spain few chefs know how to prepare this delicacy. But,” with an expansive gesture of both hands, “I will tell you that in it there are figs and almonds; there are also young chickens and Guinea fowl boiled together. There are,” he counted them off on his fingers, “sugar, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, pimiento, cloves, and a dash of garlic.”
He smiled with a flash of white teeth and said, “And for the next course, Señora, may I suggest cabrito asado? It is rather corriente, but I can safely recommend it.”
Roast kid is a rather common dish in many parts of South America and Mexico, but it is usually excellent. In fact, one often eats kid chops and mistakes them for lamb.
The delicious flan, which is a caramel pudding, had just disappeared down our appreciative throats when the local manager of the airline joined us and said, “Joe, the regular schedule is off. We’ve got a little job for you at Trujillo. The Englishman who has the mine up in the mountains wants you to fly up some machinery for him.”
“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.
From Trujillo I had brought the kind of candy famous to the region—manjar blanca—a glorified marshmallow paste. With the help of the Indian cook from the inn, we made various sweet cakes, including the carteras, so called because they look like pocketbooks. She concocted a drink of crushed papayas sweetened with cbancaca, which is the residue of sugar cane from which is made the powerful aguardiente.
Juanito was graciousness itself as host. My few possessions—particularly the typewriter—were an enormous source of entertainment, and I doubt whether my small Indian guests would have been any happier if they’d had real ice cream.