The Motorcycle Diaries by Ernesto Che Guevara

Author:Ernesto Che Guevara [Guevara, Ernesto Che]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 0007172338
Amazon: B006T3MBPY
Publisher: Ocean Press
Published: 2003-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

*Spanish-speaking Latin Americans, often used to refer to Indians who adopt Spanish ways.

*The Inca Garcilaso, son of an Inca princess and a conquistador, was one of the chroniclers of the conquest.

*A local political boss.

EL LAGO DEL SOL

lake of the sun

The sacred lake revealed only a small part of its grandeur. The narrow tongue of land surrounding the bay Puno is built on hid it from view. Reed canoes bobbed here and there in the tranquil water and a few fishing boats filed out through the lake’s entrance. The wind was very cold and the smothering, leaden sky seemed to replicate our state of mind. Although we had come directly to Puno without stopping in Ilave, and had secured temporary lodging and a good meal at the local barracks, our luck seemed to have run out. Very politely the commanding officer had shown us the door, explaining that as this was a border checkpoint foreign civilians were strictly forbidden from staying overnight.

We didn’t want to go without exploring the lake, so we went to the pier to see if anyone would take us out in a boat, where we could admire the lake in all its magnitude. We used an interpreter to advance the operation because none of the fishermen, all pure Aymara, knew any Spanish at all. For a modest sum of five soles, we managed to get them to take both of us and the intrusive guide who was sticking to us. We considered swimming in the lake, but after testing the temperature with the tips of our little fingers we thought better of it (Alberto made a big show of taking off his clothes and boots, only to put them back on again, of course).

Like tiny pinpoints dispersed across the vast, gray surface of the lake, a group of islands emerged in the distance. Our interpreter described the lives of the fishermen there, some of whom have barely ever seen a white man, and who live according to the old ways, eating the same food, fishing with 500-year-old techniques and keeping their costumes, rituals and traditions alive.

When we returned to the port, we walked over to one of the boats running between Puno and a Bolivian port to try and get some mate, which we were low on. But they drink almost no mate in the north of Bolivia, in fact they’d hardly heard of it, and we couldn’t even get a half-kilo. We examined the boat which had been designed in England and built here; its lavishness clashed with the general poverty of the whole region.

Our problem of lodging found its solution at the Civil Guard post, where a very friendly lieutenant let us stay in the infirmary, the two of us in one bed but at least we were cosy and warm. After a pretty interesting visit to the cathedral the following day, we found a truck heading for Cuzco. The doctor in Puno had given us letter of introduction for Dr. Hermosa — an ex-leprologist now living in Cuzco.

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