The Travel Writer (18 page)

“That’s a small coca plantation. Traditional family growers are still permitted by law in Los Yungas, you know. That plot has been run by the local villagers for three centuries. We can take you there by jeep tomorrow morning, if you’d like.”

A llama trotting across the grounds caught my eye. It pulled up suddenly and lowered its long neck to the ground to graze. I knew the Matamoros kept these animals, as well as alpacas and even vicuñas, about the grounds, both for the guests’ amusement and to keep the grass short. An animal keeping the grounds, sustaining itself, and amusing the guests with its exoticism, all in one motion. Most people struggle all their lives to find just one useful task to perform.

“We’re so pleased that you and your colleague could join us,” said Soldán. “We have your
Caravan Guide to Bolivia and Ecuador
in our library. I often recommend it.”

“Thank you. I’ll need to speak to your publicist, Pilar Rojas, as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen her today. I’ll let her know as soon as I do. I’m told she’s staying in La Paz for a few days, but I’m sure she’ll wish to speak to you.”

He shepherded us across the room to a nook of leather sofas and mahogany-colored coffee tables. I peered above the sofa back and through the palm and banana tree groves to observe the staff. Women in indigenous outfits were cleaning the stainless-steel panels that lined the nonwindow wall; men at wooden tables were plaiting reeds for the tourists’ benefit; meanwhile, guards dressed in sporty white uniforms nodded and grinned. There’s no reason for us to be here, they seemed to say, but how could we resist stopping by? Soldán pressed a button on the coffee table, and a flat-screened monitor unfolded from the tabletop to list the day’s excursions. Helicopter tour to Lake Titicaca 2:00. Coroico River kayak adventure 2:15. Coca village tour and sampling 2:30. Helicopter tour to Lake Titicaca 3:15. And more.

Our Orientation Specialist arrived at our nook, bearing another press packet, local and hotel maps, and various informational and promotional leaflets, all of which she promised both to deliver to my room and to FedEx to my apartment in New York. Her name was Gabriela, and she was breathtaking. Her nose was sharp and pointed, like the end of a box cutter. She kissed Kenny and me both on the cheeks, which made him blush. “Are you suffering at all from the altitude?” she asked, in a vaguely British accent. “We’re much lower than La Paz here, but still high above sea level. Would you like the traditional remedy for altitude sickness, or soroche, as we call it?”

A woman in full
chola
regalia disengaged herself from a clump of curious Germans and presented us with a picnic basket full of green leaves. A bowl in the center held an ice cream scoop of dark mush.

“Permit me,” said Soldán. He wrapped five or six green leaves around a pinch of mush, handed me the package, and then produced a replica for Kenny. I inserted mine between my cheek and gum, and glanced at the Orientation Supermodel to see if she noticed my expertise. But she was staring at Kenny’s sneakers, perhaps wondering if they were as shabby as they looked or if limp, grit-crusted footwear was the new fashion among young American
photographers.

Kenny looked at the package as if it were a cockroach.

“Coca,” I said.

“As in cocaine?” he asked.

“But coca is not cocaine!” assured Soldán. “Coca leaf is an ancient and legal component of the indigenous diet. The leaf contains nutrients that have protected Bolivians from malnutrition for hundreds of years. And no modern soroche remedy is as effective, despite all the advancements in medical technology.”

Kenny popped the leaves into his mouth and swished them to the side with his tongue and forefinger. “Tastes like—” He paused. “Like doo,” he said, not wanting to offend the Orientation Specialist.

She didn’t know that word. “You’ll find local Yungas coca tastes much richer and less bitter than Chapare coca, though the leaves are not so large,” she said.

“It’s good for your headache,” I told him.

“Would you like to meet with your Kallawaya now, or wait until you’re settled in?” Gabriela asked.

“Our what?” asked Kenny.

“A Kallawaya is a traditional Bolivian wise man,” Soldán explained. “A healer and an adviser. And a bit of a fortune-teller.” He winked. Some guests would take the Kallawaya achingly seriously; he knew I wouldn’t. He couldn’t tell about Kenny and probably didn’t care. “The hotel employs a total of about thirty Kallawayas in residence,” he informed me, speaking slowly, in case I wanted to take notes, “all chosen carefully from Quechua and Aymara altiplano communities. Our Kallawaya recruiters, being purists, tend to select the Aymara, which is an older tradition, but since some guests prefer to have services conducted in the language of the Incas, we have some Quechua as well. There’s no accounting for taste! We also employ a handful of Amazonian medicine men, for a splash of color.” He smiled again, as if he took the issue so seriously he had to fake whimsy to avoid embarrassment. “Perhaps you would prefer a massage first.”

“We want to see the Kallawaya now,” I said, remembering Pilar’s instructions.

“Exactly!” said Kenny. He smacked the bottom of his fist into his palm, like a judge banging a gavel, to add authority to his shaky voice. “We got to start getting answers. If a Kaya–wise man doesn’t know what happened to Hilary, who does? Unless he does.” He jabbed his finger in Soldán’s direction. How could he be so bold in such a strange environment? I admired his forthrightness almost as much as I despised his ignorance.

Soldán smiled the wide smile of someone who doesn’t know what else to do with his
face. I glanced at the supermodel. Her smile had faded, but she quickly reinforced her sagging cheek muscles.

“As you can imagine, many New Yorkers are still very concerned with the case of Hilary Pearson,” I said, as if following up Kenny’s thrust was all part of my plan of interrogation. “I’m sure I’ll be asked about it when I return. Perhaps we could discuss how the hotel’s investigation is proceeding—off the record, of course.”

“I believe the matter would best be discussed with Mr. Barrientos, our general manager,” said Soldán. “He shall be in his office shortly. Perhaps you would like to meet with your Kallawaya first?”

Gabriela handed Soldán a Nextel walkie-talkie.

As Soldán made the arrangements, I fixed my glare on Kenny, who was staring off across the room.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“You ever think you see someone you know?” he said. “See that guy? I think I know that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The guard over there, behind that big leaf. Wait. He’s gone. Maybe it was somebody else.”

“They all look alike to you, don’t they?”

“They do not! I know a shitload of Spanish guys. Like half my high school.”

“Listen to me.” I bent my head to him. “If you ever ask another question like that,” I whispered, “I’ll kill you. You’ve got to stop talking to people about Hilary.”

“How come?”

“Because gathering information at a luxury resort requires delicacy and tact and perception, and you’re a buffoon. You’re not even smart enough to be embarrassed by your sneakers. Investigating is not a collaborative sport. I’ll handle it.”

He wasn’t fazed. “Sure. You’ve done great so far, hotshot.” He thought of himself as the loose-cannon cop on television, the one who gets results while his prissy partner cites department regulations by the subsection. I never bought the stereotype. Sometimes the loose-cannon cop is twisted and corrupt; more often he’s quick-witted, bold, and golden-hearted. Why isn’t he ever just a moron?

Soldán announced that our Kallawaya was ready to receive us.

The Kallawaya’s aerie was set on the other side of the mountain. To spare his guests the ignominy of having to skirt or scramble over the peak, Matamoros had drilled a Tunnel of Anticipation straight through the rock. Torches lined the tunnel, their flames lapping gloomily at the air. Kenny paused, mesmerized by one of the Sacred Cultural Artifacts fixed to the wall. It appeared to be an Amazonian blowpipe. Its neighbors included a jaguar fur, baskets of coca leaves, a few dried piranhas, a jungle orchid, and various green plants whose medicinal properties were explained in little placards in Spanish, English, German, French, and Japanese. Soldán’s footsteps echoed ahead.

We emerged onto a mountain terrace that had been steamrolled preternaturally flat. In its center was a hut made of stones cut in the Inca style, fit as tight as ice bricks in an igloo. Surrounding the hut was a ring of ten stone altars.

The Kallawaya presided behind one of the altars upon a massive throne of rock carved to accommodate his eminent butt. His eyes were closed in sacred meditation. Strings dangled from his wool hat like a Hasid’s side curls and danced in the breeze, but their motion only emphasized the impassivity of his face. A boyish attendant watched him carefully, as if he might leap from his perch and hurl a lightning bolt at any moment. The other altars sat lonely and forlorn. Perhaps all ten were occupied at once on busy days in the high season.

“When you’re finished we can share a chat in my office, if you wish,” said Soldán. He gave us a thumbs-up and disappeared back down the tunnel, whistling a tune distorted by the rock walls and the wind to a high-pitched moaning.

“Please sit, gentlemen,” the attendant intoned in English and stretched his arms toward two cushions before the altar. Kenny tried to sit cross-legged, couldn’t manage it, and instead folded up his knees in front of him and bound his legs with his arms.

From the stone igloo behind the Kallawaya, half a head poked out, along with a few wisps of long hair, and an arm extended and waved. Then the image was sucked back into the hut. I stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and stepped forward.

The attendant frowned and held up both hands, like a mime pushing back an invisible wall. “It is customary to hear the Kallawaya speak before you retire to the Temple of Contemplation.”

The disembodied arm reappeared with an okay sign. I clapped my mouth shut and sat down. “Carry on,” I said. The Kallawaya remained frozen, his eyes shut.

The attendant dropped a hand on the Kallawaya’s shoulder, as gently as a leaf falling. We waited. The breeze died, as if it too were holding its breath in anticipation. Finally the attendant poked the Kallawaya in the kidney, and the older man’s fingers flew up like leaping spiders. He
descended from his throne and crouched before us, wincing slightly as he bent his knees. He dipped his hand into a basket of coca and arranged his handful of leaves in a tic-tac-toe formation.

“The Kallawaya was reflecting on the wisdom of the Pachamama, our Earth Mother,” explained the attendant, with a little sigh. “Would you like to ask him any questions?”

Do people really fall for this? I wanted to ask. But I knew that everybody likes fortunes, especially when, as paying guests, they can reasonably expect good news. I glanced at the hut and hoped the fake good tidings would be brief.

“What kind of questions?” asked Kenny.

The attendant paused, to give the inquiry due consideration. “Any kind,” he announced at last. “The Kallawaya will do his best—which is the best that the spirits of the mountains and the Pachamama will allow him.” I thought of Hilary seated here for her consultation, inwardly rolling her eyes and wondering if they’d comp the wine at her next meal. She was a pro like me and would be unimpressed with New Age foolery. She would have let her mind scamper about the terrace as she pretended to listen. Perhaps she recalled the face of a certain bellhop. Perhaps she focused on the slow cramping of her folded legs. Was the hidden greeter—it
had
to be Pilar—comfortable in the stone hut?

“Okay,” Kenny said. “Here it is: Am I going to find”—I charley-horsed him with my elbow—“fuck! What I’m looking for! That’s all! Dickwad. Am I going to find what I’m looking for?”

The attendant translated the query into Aymara.

The Kallawaya tossed a few leaves before him with an arthritic spasm. A coca leaf has a glossy side and a dull side; most of the tossed leaves landed glossy side up. The Kallawaya grunted, satisfied, and tossed again. He said something in Aymara.

“The Kallawaya requires more information,” the attendant told him. “He believes you are speaking of matters of the heart.”

“He’s got it,” said Kenny. “I’m talking about a girl. A girlfriend. Maybe. Does she have feelings for me? Would he know that?”

The attendant relayed; the Kallawaya tossed, and spoke.

“She has deep feelings for you,” said the attendant.

“Congrats,” I said.

The Kallawaya glanced over at me and frowned down at the coca leaves, as if some malevolent nuance of their message had only now become apparent to him.

“What’s in the future?” asked Kenny. “Will we make it? Will we get together?”

The relay; the throw; the rumble of indecipherable syllables.

“The Kallawaya would like to be invited to your wedding.”

The attendant chuckled, inviting Kenny to chuckle. He did, his whole body shaking in relief. He even played the bongos on the tops of his thighs and shimmied his shoulders. The attendant roared, and even the Kallawaya contorted his earth-brown, wrinkled face into a grin. I could suddenly see the charming older guy from the village who liked to kick back with a beer after a hard day of Kallawayaing. When Kenny calmed down, the Kallawaya shed the grin and extended his gnarled hand slowly across the tic-tac-toe board until he finally let it rest on Kenny’s shoulder. He murmured something comforting in his language. Like the best fortunetellers and psychiatrists, he knew instinctively what Kenny needed from him.

“Kids?” said Kenny softly. “What about kids?”

The attendant spoke, and the Kallawaya tossed again. It took several tries to get a leaf landing glossy side up.

“It will be difficult, and may require some time, but you will have a little girl,” the attendant said.

Kenny pumped his fist. “That’s what I want,” he said. “Someday. Boys are trouble. What about Jake? My buddy. The writer. He’s trying to find my girl, Hilary Pearson, you heard of her. But keep that on the hush-hush, right? Jake’s got his own girl. So what do you see? Wedding bells for him too?” Kenny cackled mischievously and scooted off the cushion, out of my reach.