Night Light

t is dark in the little van, the streets of Puno ablaze in the radiant light of acetylene lamps. Shadow play, it all seems, Indian faces emerging from nothingness, half formed in smile or scowl by a flickering of the flame, to disappear again promptly in the moving shapes of the marketplace huddle. Patiently waiting for business transactions, we sit watchful, weary and wishful, in the small space of personal comfort and isolation, while outside the chill of the Altiplano evening packs the human figures into bundles of woolen togs. Mocking eyes inquisitive glow in the shadow of the long brimmed hats, flashing for a fraction of a second and then again gone. The migraine is returning.

I lean back, closing the eyes and recalling details of today's train journey, from Cuzco, crossing the Altiplano, to Puno and lake Titicaca. It is the light and the untamed beauty, that have left me in a daze.

- Hurry up she murmurs trying to shave in the cavernous bathroom with little light towels perpetually emanating smell of frying with cottonseed oil noises from the inner courtyard - the cooks are here time for breakfast books are spilling on the floor - you think you 'll need glucosa coramina sweat from climbing the stairs heart pounding and the dreadful sense of being strangled I used to hold my breath as a child a game to no end as it could not be found in the shadows of the fathomless well distant voices ascent from the depths I enjoy the flight of heights magical sounds mysterious walled gardens the coca tea - you may not have any of the street food dripping grease smells of defecation and urine around Inca walls praying for rain at the cost of mudslides ruins at the border of the jungle filled our eyes bromeliads and orchids solid granite and open azure spaces to dream the world of the barbarians from the east the barbarians from the west - the guide will be here in fifteen minutes stuffing books and pills in pockets and carry-on you remembered a moment of peace after the clouds wandered over the high peak the path is leading east and south - i will have café con leche fruit golden rolls on white linen the deer in the courtyard awakens and waits the guardian Illimani dreams over La Paz white peak of the napkin carefully folded we have hardly time to taste the steaming bread jump up pack run - hurry up Señores to get seats reservations connections first class the meal included cooked on board best seats to those who come first - your driver is here - not a minute to spare she says mockingly blue skies red earth red muddy earth copper of Urumbamba discharge of Cuzco blood that dripped on the sacrificial umbilical stone what who if any other than the defenders of this monument to the sky over the gates of the Amazon jungle - your tickets he points a pair of envelopes towards the chest of a long lost golden statue - your guide will meet you at Puno. . .

Well, we are here after all, I think, glancing through the dusty panes of a consciousness, shattered by the migraine. The little man in the corner of the street is warming up stepping back and forth, comical little steps of a purposeful dance, occasionally changing orientation, yet I am not sure anything at all is happening. This is exactly it! No one is certain about any events, caught up in the web of timelessness, lost in the spinning of souls that have resided here since the beginning of time.

The train stopped at Juliaca - you should get off here also pointed out the German guide of the group we traveled together through the high pass sense of humor all the blond heads in the train car another aspect of the human race here how it seems out of place yet surrounding and protective a bit of Europe - prosit bottles open i am thinking of our pisco bistro in Lima double twinkle of spirits hunger for lost memories the bones of the mummies spilt white on the fine desert sand that infests the streets of the old capital another sip the ice of the passing glacier - the guide will wait for you here - listen he says Puno by train is another couple of hours afternoon fleeting faces group retreating - remember no hot water in Puno guffaws with a wave of the hand sun a strand of eucalyptus golden light people standing around what seems as it had grown into the largest train station of the world friendly smiles hands help with the suitcases the van rolls quietly on the narrow straight highway to Puno grand peaks at eye level snow reflecting starlight new moon vanished under a fleeting cloud here at the end of the world.

- We are all set, now, says the driver of the van, slamming the door closed, while the guide hops in the right side.

- The schedule for tomorrow, he continues, we pick you up at the motel at 7:30 in the morning.

- Why so early?

The question remains unanswered, as he starts up the motor and picks up the conversation with the guide, exactly where they left it half an hour ago. The streets of Puno roll by slowly, the cold of the night has become noticeable. Lights, half swallowed by the shadows, project monstrous creatures on the walls. There go three young men following a group of girls. I feel like wrapping myself up with a poncho and going to sleep in any warm corner.

- I am getting very hungry, she smiles at me.

A well lit dining room, a fireplace crackling, a waiter coming out of the kitchen with a smile and a laden bountiful tray steaming, flashes in front of my eyes. I remember, there is hot water and a dining room at the motel Tambo Titicaca.

- The menu for tonight, I drawl, has to be fresh local fish. Of course we should not have any wine, but we could order beer. My head is about to split open. I try to catch threads from the conversation of our crew, but in vain.

We are out of Puno, by now, cruising on the main highway which runs the length of the Titicaca shore. Fireflies the lights of Puno in the dark night, accentuate the shape of the hill it rests on. Yet the stars above sparkle brightly inviting you to wander under their celestial glow. On the lake there are little reflections of light that seem to come and go as we roll by the dark shadows of the trees and reeds. I am forgetting my migraine, as I try to pick out the mysterious shapes that all things assume in the night. Oh Titicaca mother lake of austere beauty, here we are at last! We hold hands as she discovers the stars of constellations never seen before. The headlights illuminate the highway rushing towards the vehicle while it ignores the rest of the world.

- Checkpoint, the driver warns as he steps on his brakes, slowing to a crawl. Shadows of men with guns at ready drift by. We don't stop.

- What for?

- Contraband, smuggling produce from Bolivia, manufactured goods from Peru, he grins.

I grin, also. Could those little lights in the lake be those fearful beings carrying boat loads of beans, cabbages and shaving blades, evading the shadow of the state? Would the shadows, so mysterious, we barely discern in the darkness of the night, be smugglers running from the law on ancient footpaths? Comfortably sitting in the back of the van counting shadows following the immeasurable drift of the stars on the black velvet time has lost its meaning and purpose a certain bliss runs through the veins the feeling of distance from the rest of the world a good sense as if we are separated but linked by the invisible threads of civilization some newspapers that arrive weeks later the electromagnetic waves of radio the same sun and stars yet remote from all injury and excitement of the big cities as here the human presence becomes valuable and welcome the yearning for the center of power insatiable a sweet reminiscence pervading the soft glow of the dimly lit night. . .

- We are almost there, the guide said.

There are some lights quite a distance away, at least another ten minutes ride, when a sudden turn of the wheel throw us to the side and the sound of tires over pebbles announces our arrival to the motel parking lot. The lights are here, a glowing multitude strung out over the garden and the byways of the parking area, only it is dark, very dark. The electrical power as it reaches this remote bastion has dropped most of its two hundred volts on the way. The buildings seem much like a modern motel in the U.S., the landscaping the same and the lake somewhere near, we can hear it splash lightly on the shore. The doors opened and we carefully descend, not being able to orient ourselves in any way.

- This way, Señores, says our driver, picking his way through the shrubbery.

Hand in hand trying not to lose track of our guide and driver leading with our luggage, vainly we try to make out the details of the place. Cloaked in mystery the shrubs and the buildings hold onto their secrets. There seemed to be a garden with a lot of bungalows, but no sign of people. Somewhere a radio is playing music with lots of static. I tightened my grip on her hand; a faint smile rose on her worried face. We turn right again towards what seemed to be the main building. We enter the main office, equipped by some five lightbulbs vaguely giving the impression of light. The owner, a tall lean and somber Aymara Indian who welcomes us in Spanish, was ensconced behind the reception desk. Evidently he did not speak English and he seemed to be a man of few words, as he proceeded to pick up our luggage single-handedly, leading us to our bungalow. We barely had time to make amends to our friends of the van and reconfirm our plans for tomorrow.

The bungalow, fortunately, was only a few yards away from the reception. He pulls out an enormous key, which he hands to me with a flourish. I took a quick look at his broad dark face as I smile my thanks. Impassive and gloomy, refusing to yield a sign of recognition to my expression.

- The dining room will be open until ten o'clock, says in a guttural vice while letting down our luggage. If you would like to dine, please come in through the reception area.

We thanked him and assured him eagerly that we would very much like to dine. As he leaves I set to the task of unlocking an unfamiliar lock in almost total darkness. The room is pleasant enough, what we can see of it, modern and clean, but the two lightbulbs hardly make a mark in the darkness that hangs in sheets from the ceiling. Two paraffin candles and matches were set on the night tables. Our host explained to us later that at eleven o'clock the electrical power is shut off. I light one of them. The effect is amazing. We can at least see each other clearly! The bed was made and adorned by a heavy quilt, the little writing desk in front has a vase and some dried flowers. With the candle in hand we explore the bathroom and anteroom, the light switches here, the shower there, water coming out of the faucets. A sense of overwhelming fatigue wells up slowly and drowns my desperate hunger. I look at the bed beckoning us with promises of blissful sleep and I am ready to surrender but for my companion's determination to sit down to a meal. We set the luggage down, unlock it, pull out a more formal attire and busy ourselves with getting ready for the dining room. By the time we step out into the dark night and the maze of the Tambo Titicaca garden, we are looking forward to the meal.

The owner wordlessly ushered us through the office into the dining room, modest, clean and strongly smelling of petrol used for a few lamps that livened the place. He brought us the modest menu, handwritten with about a dozen items. Voices and music emanate from the surrounding quarters; we realized we are the only guests at this hour, but the family of our host is present all around us. His wife laboring in the kitchen, one of their sons serving our table, the younger son could be seen, through a low counter in another room behind the reception, studying. Surprisingly, there is a fireplace in the dining area, small but lit, crackling and emanating pleasant feelings and measurable warmth. We order what we had planned, local fish and a couple of bottles of beer, then we sit back to relax and recount the day's events.

We speak quietly barely hearing each other almost dreaming in this country of bewitching darkness with the strange smells melding and expanding with the quality of honey oozing through the sounds and discrete light patches startling sizzling in the kitchen fish overboard another fragrance wafting by as silently listened to uncanny music rising and falling in intensity at uneven peaks throughout its spectrum shortwave radio in the wilderness of the Altiplano and not one but two receivers pitting the world of Brazil to that of the provincial Peru clinging to the past the sounds strange fascinated the gloomy Indians of the motel dreaming now of solitude under the moon of Titicaca under the moon of Altiplano escaping the harsh cold under the roof which the world barely reached and scarcely mattered evocative of other times and wistful. . .

When the dinner arrived, we ate everything, the fish, the fried potatoes with the strong scent of mud, savoring this divine gift, enchanted, as if a pair of apparitions from a different world, lost and re-discovered in this luminous darkness, never ending and never coalescing.