SOUTH AMERICA 1966 - 6 COUNTRIES 4 of 4

CC p. 31

but finally we get on plane. Take off and T shouts out "Life the wing, lift the wing!" and she finds the window hot so she lets me sit at the window for a great view.

CCC p. 31

Then the announcement about the air brakes and the plane slows down. Why all the fuss? then some serrated prongs raise from the wing tip and the plane vibrates as it slows. The speed drops and the nose drops in a most frightening way, and there's a sullen roar in the ears. I fear the super-streamlined plane is dropping too fast and soon it will completely nosedive into the ground. I say nervously "Never went down so fast in a plane before." Hills come up and speed still drops, and it appears plane must really slow to get past the foothills. Climbing back out must be fairly harrowing, too. We land nicely and watch a man on horseback ride in the distance under the wing. Onto ground and see many people meeting many people, but none for us. C&T have coats on, which I jeered at, but in shirtsleeves I shiver in the 60 degree weather in the high wind. Wait and wait, inside and out, and finally the loudspeaker goes "Mr. Sonzerzak, Mr. Sonzerzak, please come to the counter."

Tall ski-type fellow takes our luggage tickets and waited for the third trunk, still in the blowing wind. but so clear and clean! Finally to the car and I get out my yellow sweater, UM, nice. Drive along Lake Nahuel Huapi and exclaim over the "sheeps" of waves out on the incredibly blue lake. The needles rise shockingly sharp against the clouded sky. Beautiful flowers are everywhere, daisies, roses, lupine, all colors lupine. Lovely. We gape and gawk and talk to the

ski-oriented fellow and get into the town square, with its beautifully hewn green rocks and hand-tailored timbers. Five or six nicely matched buildings, then to the tourist office, where he asks to get the tickets, and I give him the one and he insists I should have gotten DETAILED tickets in BA. I say no. He says they have to make them up (probably they were supposed to, anyway) and have them at the hotel for us at 9. I get three maps of Nahuel Huapi National Park (in Spanish) and back to car. No girls. Look down street and into stores and shops. No girls. I vaguely consider some extremely dirty work. No girls. Then, down the street they come, smiling and waving. "We took a picture of the Town Square. We thought you'd be a long time." I threaten not to give them the maps, but I do, natch. Resume ride on through snow-capped peaks and beautiful homes of lime-green stone and butterscotch varnished wood. Trimmed green lawns and thousands of flowers. Evergreen trees for the first time in a long time, and a fresh pine scent in the air. Along the waved shore and see "fishermen's shacks" of five and six rooms and well-kept gardens. Talk of skiing in the winter (in June and July) and the prices and the ski trails and his friends in "Vare-munt." Road is paved, as it was GOING to be between airport (being doubled in size) and town. There, striking, sprawled over a hilltop, is Hotel Llao-Llao. Fabulous Mittel-Europa style with banks of gardens and acres of lawns. Up the curved drives and into large lobby and get room keys. Quickly to room and change to warm clothes and I go into foyer to sink into chair and gaze in raptured peace out at the lovely lakes and mountains and trees and homes: the wonderful vista from the enormously glassed sitting room of the hotel. Absolutely magnificent. The snow is white and clean and there's no dirt anywhere. The sitting room is stark and clean and simple and comfortable and somewhat chilly. Get up to look around and girls come down in slacks and we go out back door. Both are cooing with delight and as we glimpse the side lakes with the banks of lupine, the backdrop of snowy peaks, the trimmed carpet of the landscape, T takes about six pictures without stopping. "Bob, I could KILL you---instead of BA, we could have been HERE." I almost feel sorry for her. We all exclaim about the wonder, and shout and groan with joy. There's beauty everywhere you look. Circle around front and climb a hill to look in helpless wonder and amazement at all the beauty. "It's a stage set. It's phony. It's too beautiful. It's Cecil B. DeMille, it's too perfect, it's bound to be spoiled soon, it's so clean, it's so unbelievable. Let's look at ALL of it." Down hill and C&I go to water's edge while T, not wanting to descend, stays above. Sand is large-grained and black, with bits of other colored pebbles mixed in. Almost bump into a sheep pelt hanging over a line. Wander absolutely drunk through fields of lupine. Back up to road past a police barracks and see if we can get out onto a beautiful peninsula, but an entranceway with a cattle-foil, leading to a lovely garden under a sprayer, announced "Particular Property, Beware of Dog," in Spanish. So much for THAT. Wander up stone steps hewn in hill and see T. Down slopes to refuse a woman who wants to rent us horses and ride around. If I'd been surer of them, I certainly would have taken her offer. Up the hill again and say I'll watch the sunset, at which point C&T say goodbye. The sun is mainly blocked by clouds, but such local clouds don't disturb the rose light waning on the peaks across the lake, 20 miles away. The line of night slowly advances up their sides. Marvelous birds fly on the lawn, and stand with wings furled for some moments before settling them around their bodies. They call back and forth to one another. The lakes are just as beautifully colored and uniform you would think they were always empty of boats, as they are now. Across the water the hotel is sinking already into the sunset, and for the people, tiny, wandering its lawns I must be invisible in the fire of the sun. It comes and goes through the clouds, and the lights change from cream to gold to silver. The winds are cold, but the beauty is warming to the heart and my yellow cashmere sweater is warming to the body so all is well. Gray dead trees stand out on the hillsides and make the scene even more savage. For some odd reason the sunsets haven't been absolutely spectacular while I've looked at them. No fiery reds or blazes of cloud color. Merely a butterscotch or caramel color, touches of red or pink, and the sun sinks into the lowest layer of clouds and gradually grows dim. Maybe the fact that there ARE always clouds around has something to do with it. The hotel is tiny in the distance, but it can still reveal white-jacketed waiters fussing in the dining room in the preparation for dinner. The yellow lamps of flowers on the far bank have gone out, the hill on which I stand eclipses it. There's a snowy mound between the two near peaks which I mistake for a far-distant Tronador, and only when I go down the hill toward the hotel do I look back and see an ENORMOUS mass against the sky which had been hidden by the side of the mountain on the right. Stare at THAT for a bit and regret that I hadn't seen the sun setting around it, but hurry back to the hotel to eat. Eat a meal filled with gaffes. Our first mistake was asking for a table by the window. They were all reserved. Then we sat down. That was the BIGGEST mistake. I say that we have a choice of soups, but there's only one soup. Soup is fine, but when waiter offers a knife and fork of odd design, T says "No" and it somehow ends up that only I get fish. Then C manages to make it understood that SHE wants some, so T sits without ANY. Finally when C&T are finished, T gets her fish. Then comes the asparagus and C's plate is piled high. T asks for hers and I ask for four and get about twelve. All stare in addled bewilderment at the asparagus prongs (what ELSE could you call the silver thing?). I try it backwards and get buttered cheese all over. Others try and drop the stalk on the table with a limp plop. we're laughing too hard to be quite sensible and it's sure that whole restaurant knows we're there. I vaguely master it, but practically choke trying to take the last of the stalk: then it dawns on T: you're only supposed to eat the TIP. After that all is fine, in fact C says in a few minutes that I even look like I know what I'm DOING. The meat and dessert go reasonably well. We're among the last to leave, and take a few steps out to look at the moon, but it's terribly cold and we all go quickly to bed.

Page 45

THURSDAY, JANUARY 6. I get wakened at 2:30 by the trucks and busses and cars noisily starting to putt-putt down the hill from the shift change, and wake at 7 to cocks crowing. The shutters are closed, but I can see it's a sunny day. Experience another type of toilet, this with a crazy SHELF onto which everything falls into about a half-inch of water, and it's then swept off with a quick spurt of water into a deeper hole in front. Dress and get out to soak in the morning scenery

DD p. 32

Back to breakfast room for rolls and pack and get to desk at 8:55. Guide is there with tickets, but puzzles us when he says meals at the Gran Hotel Puerto Varas are NOT included. Hash it back and forth and leave in a rather sour mood. Station wagon to boat, and I get in front standing position to gape down at the piers in the transparent water

FF, p. 32

After Porto Blest we hop into a bus and trundle down through a canyon road to green green Lago Frias. Walk catwalk to back of boat and stare out at sheer hills coming RIGHT down to water's edge. Quiet

END OF BOOK TWO------START OF BOOK THREE

JJ from p.53

Begin writing third book at 10 am, 1/9/66, sitting in the lobby of the Carrera Hilton in Santiago, Chile. The "mysterious" black market is not too terribly difficult to find. We worry about getting a change of 5 escudos for one dollar without getting deported or getting Kasai into trouble. But it's easy. After breakfast, having forgotten my notebook, I walked into the elevator and started up to 11. The elevator man said something, I looked askance. He said "Do you change your dollars?" I said, "At what rate?" He said, "Five escudos for a dollar." I said, "Yes, we'll start with 30 dollars." He takes out an enormous wallet (now I know why hotel uniforms always look so baggy) and picked off 3 50's. Then he opened the door (we had long since stopped), and I went to the room.

trip soaking in the wonderful changing perspectives of the mountains. Into Puerto Frias and get chased into Customs House for some unknown business (which prompts North Carolina fellow we're going with to give agent $1), then out to wait for bus. I investigate ruins of a fire-gutted hotel, exploring all levels, then watch as they pull down telephone wire from ONE pole to fix ANOTHER line. Bugs are bad at lakeside, so I take off up path into woods. It's quiet and green and majestic.

Go to p. 53 for sketch of end of trip.

KK from p. 53

The airport in Santiago is quite incredibly crowded as we wait for our Canadian Pacific flight. All seats long taken, all room in front of seats occupied by standing people talking to seated people, luggage everywhere, tripping people so they literally sprawl on the floor. Then the flight is announced and delayed in loading. The people density is unbelievable. Finish cards to NY, Maryland, California, and Ohio. Sit on railing outside in shade and cool breeze. Santiago had the best weather of all.

LL from p. 53

Esteriophonicos; Castro Asesino. Stop and go busy traffic; incredible stone huts built on a deep-roaring river on road into Lima.

MM from p. 53

Santiago Cathedral---like a marvelously large and well-proportioned French palace with ornately carved marble arches into which have been stuck, as an afterthought, religious icons. The major effect is secular, not religious.

NN from p. 53

La Merced---elaborately intertwined pattern on simply laid floor tile. Gross concrete-like construction, with MOST elaborate side altars of inlay and of tremendously carved, though too dark to see details, wood. Representation of Bethlehem about 30x30 feet, with child hidden in obscuring shadows. Paintings are better than ordinary, one Christ's head having the pain and luminosity of El Greco, another Christ in the Temple centered around a candle with the same skin tones as the candle-painter [de la Tour] in the Frick. Some rather terrible modern plaster statues look more terrible in the rich wood settings, but the old, dirty, yellowed with age statues fit in nicely. Side altars of wood and gold FAR surpass main altar. Clink of coins in boxes. Out side door to elaborate wood screens, robing room surrounded by paintings built into the molding, a large inner cloister with four or five solitary beautiful trees and large flowers, empty and placid, tiles around lower courses, paintings around upper. On upper levels the wooden balconies typical of the Plaza des Armas. Side altar PLASTERED with gold and silver hearts and plagues given to the Virgin of Mercy---a BODY below the altar. Whose? Architectural details of scrolls surmounted with heads. Ugh. (Body of St. Fortunato). Stone carvings on facade grotesque and clumsy. All looked like cast concrete outside. Colorless. If they'd painted it---. All doors on grand banks (and window gratings) are great---copper turning green and brass gleaming in the sun.

St. Augustine---odd angles on facade with HUGE baroque stone breasts. Again a wealth of detail with NO contrast. Life-size Spanish-style (covered with blood, wounds, and agony) of Christ after whipping. Newer church, big plastered outside; the side altars NEW and of white and gold, and modern statues and paintings and plastic flowers. The walls still have their share of saints' paintings so old and cracked it's almost impossible to see anything but a brown blur. Lilies and many candles glowing on bright altar. Church is much more simple and less ornate---more of the poor country than of the rich city. Odd to see paintings and crucifixes of a bloody Christ with golden, felt, velvet, and ivory loincloth. Into Convent to bird-chirping garden, a series of terribly destroyed paintings in elaborate green and gold frames. Sagging door led into musty choir with high ecclesiastical chairs along side, small chandeliers, and in one room an elaborately coffered wood ceiling and one piano. An old, now locked door led into the church. One painting taken down, revealing cracked wall. Statue of Death a living skeleton, bony and sinewy, tufts of hair on the drum-tight skull---eyes oddly malevolently smiling, mouth enormous in a rapacious grin--bow and arrow drawn.

Old priest, talking to old lady, hastily pushes us toward robing room scattered with cloths, surrounded by statues of saints. Old marble staircases with hinged balustrade a la Wayne State of grimy dirty marble---old wood, tiles cracked. Fluorescent lights turned on BEAUTIFUL ceiling, but partly restored. Part of cloisters being redone---into businesses or into a Cloister. Appear not to be used except for priests of church. Plain sort of furniture and royal sort of ceilings in the priest's rooms. Stairway leads ABOVE Bethlehem scene to church---magnificently carved folding choir stalls, made up for plainness of rest of top of church. Up ANOTHER double rickety wood flights to the roof, and up a dizzy ladder to the top of the bell tower. Lima below---cross on hill, La Merced plain yellow and stone a few blocks away, the undulating roof of the nave below. Our hotel in the distance against the modern office building across the street from it. Young man spreading compound asks if I speak Spanish. "No," I say, "Bella Vista," and he indicates I'm not allowed up. I bow and look smilingly chagrined. He's with me. We look at 1874 organ, he asks if I play. I say only listen. we smile and say goodbye.

San Francisco---Negro friar fusses with 100 escudo note, then takes $1 for 27/$1 after 5 each, gives back 12 soles. Inaugurated in 1963 under Paul VI. Huge square side columns concentrate attention on FRONT altar. Side altars and aisle ones small and mean in proportion. Side altars in same style as large, polished brown wood with gold highlights. Unified and attractive. Golden light filters in from dome under which I sit in front of rich altar with grill gate. At brightly lit Bethlehem scene a friar gives out loaves of bread to women in the ubiquitous black dresses. A man puts flowers in a cupola above the altar. All plasterwork is white with red-painted background. All looks bright and new. Skull of Francisco Sabrano in gold and glass case. CATACOMBS.

Cathedral---get to tomb as it's being closed. Open in half hour. Ceiling looks low and is garishly painted magenta and blue triangles and squares, lined with gold paint. Like an exposition hall. All side chapels behind ponderous wooden gates; sunken out of true during the years. Get a guide who makes us sit on the Silleria del Cor, and then up a crypt and the body of Pizarro is grotesque, stuffed with cotton with the jaws wired.

House of the Inquisition---is new except for the fantastic ceiling, like carved intricately from boxwood. Each 45 sections repeated 12 times---FANTASTIC, but with unobtrusive indirect lighting in an aluminum trough across ceiling.

San Pedro---funeral mass, beautifully lifelike Bethlehem, large wide chapel with typical upper course paintings so old that you can see the sags of the cloth more distinctly than the picture. Huge tulip-like poles contain procession candles. Main church magnificently light with small bright stars of light in groups of eight on beautiful little chandeliers hung by dozens on every side. The cupola is radiant with light from the sun, and thus the white and gold of the nave is BRIGHT with light. The side aisles give the major impression of gold scrolls through smaller and smaller arches, each surrounded by paintings and partitioning off a side altar of incredible richness. Possibly the RICHEST of all churches. Many hearts of silver and gold around what looks like a sleeping Christ, and there's a gold ring with a solitary large pearl on one finger. Each side chapel has a cupola that sheds an intense ray straight down on the altar. Each statue appears to be clothed in cloth of gold, and cherubs beam out from every finial and knob. Simple white coffered ceiling and glass black and white tiled floor set off the treasures of the altars and walls. Most altars have very elaborate scenes just behind where the tabernacle would be---some enclosed in glass. Little old ladies walk silently past on clicking heels, and the organ and few male voices of the Solemn High Requiem Mass blast through the spaces of the sun-lit church. Here, only here, is a German tourist with a flash camera, and every so often there is a quiet flash. The women's headgear seems to be typically a large square of black or white lace. Each pillar has a painting or two on each side, and I can feel that the woodwork is weak as I lean against the gold-plated red-backgrounded wood. Stations of the cross appear to be marked only by a red cross and number on the wall. The lowest walls are richly colored tiles. Each pillar has a confessional in the front, and I hide in the alcove behind the confessional and pillar and write out each altar. People from the Mass silently file past. Bits of mirrors are used on some altars to reflect light even more. Tiny paintings like cameos garland some archways. Some statues are clean, but some look as if they hadn't been dusted for years. Other tourists, a French-looking couple wander past with the ever-present guides handed out at the airport. Altar of St. Ignatius 50 feet high, richly carved wood, seven chandeliers dangling from the jutting column capitals. An Immaculate Conception chapel glows magenta and gold from its alcove. The main altar, though rich in gold, pales in its simplicity beside many of the hugely ornate side altars, but still has enough trumpery to let it lack the monumental simplicity of unadorned greatness. Gold replicas of the typical wooden Spanish balconies grace the side of the altar, and some startlingly 3-D heads of Christ on Veils of Veronica are stopping-in-tracks real.

PP from p. 53

400 AD, Chavin--calendar stele, very like Tiahuanaco, but figures different. Puma, jaguar, rhino carved in early Peru. Chavin had puma and jaguar and people's heads from Tiahuanaco. Paracas is oldest---500 BC. Their ware is glazed and beautiful, those after are unglazed. Paracas has museum and fields with numbers in to be read from PLANE to attract attention. Paracas on coast. Nasca at same time, but inland. Museum, then through San Ysidro and Miraflores. Chicha is both hard and soft drink. Pachacamac abandoned in 1535, OLD temple is 2000 years old.

QQ from p. 53

Flight Lima-Cuzco over MANY terrains. First clouds over the lowlands, then clouds parted for sandy hills, with ancient erosion rilling the valleys, then the mountains were dusted with snow, and the remains of OLD terracing could be seen. Then the terracing got newer, and they appeared to be on current farms, and some sort of walled enclosures on tops of hills. At this point we appeared to be crossing over the roofs of the highest hills. Little vegetation. Then the mountains grew steeper, and there were farms in the valleys, then the valleys increased in height and there was a jumbled area of hills with large and small lakes. Many signs of habitation. Then, to a higher area without life where even the lakes were frozen. Then to a lesser range, again of hills and valleys, and snow disappeared completely. Then clouds, and I could see through one to a series of crags with a deep blue lake nestled in the wild surroundings. The clouds closed in again. Clouds had been level, but 3/4 through the flight the distant clouds formed peaks, and through rifts could be faintly seen black bulks of mountains. We flew at 19,000 feet, the greatest activity was every two breaths wiping the window, and trying to remember to inhale through the plastic nozzle in the mouth and exhale through the nose. They seemed so easy to get mixed up, and then was the subsidiary operation of swallowing to clear the ears and keeping the mouthy moist from the cool dry blast of oxygen. 80% oxygen, through tubes of "Commercial oxygen." Clouds broken by huge sun-flecked mountains, crags and bluffs and enormous heaps of snow. Then clouds and then gaily a patchwork of farms and fields and towns and rivers. Rivers are red, the windows needed wiping less often and the ears popped---we're going down.

RR from p. 53

Cathedral---fantastic, dark, sagging doors, over 372 paintings everywhere. Out to Puka Pukara---red fort. Campo Sachare---Inca bath---a spring and a soft, thick wet llama--large eyes, and he smelled hands and nibbled my watch and shiny buttons.

Vilcabamba was in National Geographic in 1913, April---"rediscovered" in 196?. Guide recommended "Socialist Empire of the Incas," by Louis Baudin. Kenko, temple from niche in rock, steps, niches, jointed rocks.

Sachsuhaman---Three levels, 5 levels, 1200 feet long, 25 foot stones. FANTASTIC.

In one valley, bodies found 2500BC-3200BC, in Santa Ana.
Lauric-Hocha---11,000 years old
Isogonic is REGULARLY angular, other is ????? Inca never built straight walls. Meson means "inn." Cathy gets sick in front of Archbishop's Palace.

SS from p. 51

My disgust with the Autocarril almost makes me forget my gut problems---ALL tourists, babbling in French and English, smoking, putting windows up after I put them down, target for all the maps and magazine and newspaper sellers.

TT from p. 53

Yucca 20 feet high, pigs squealing off the road, mud walls with holes around which small flying insects swarm. Farms giving way to cactus and rocks, rushing current of Urubamba reminding of the rivers of Sete Quedas. Enormous fields of herds of cattle: burros, goats, cows, horses, stretching away to foot of huge mountains wreathed in clouds. Striking yellow and black small birds flying in corn fields. A stop where Indians are selling green strawberries and yellow-green peaches. There were footbridges over the river and small platforms rolling on pulleys from one side to another, one, as if accidentally, stuck in midstream. Sheer cliffs arched over the railway and the river, two sets of switchbacks above Cuzco and another along the way, great way of handling it; fellow jumps off, turns switch, car goes backwards over the switch, guy turns it again and jumps on, and car travels to next switch. Fight with Mr. Allemande, old with blond hair and bushy eyebrows and cheeks scratched from shaving, who CERTAINLY looks like HITLER and with a name like Mr. Allemande? Even though he spoke French? He talks with balding man who has an enormous pimple on his cheek, emphasized by an unshaved patch of a square inch around it. Sun comes in and out from clouds, shedding dark and light over the green grass and gray rocks on the slopes. Autocarril 7:15-10:20, then bus 10:25-10:45, through one of the more FANTASTIC mountain roads. One of the funnier sights is a llama sneezing.

UU from p. 53

Students of CUZCO University came in 1887 and PLUNDERED mummies---they KNEW it, but didn't give it it's historical significance. FIFTEEN switchbacks on road from station to HOTEL. FIFTEEN miles STRAIGHT UP.

VV from p. 53

8 am on the small hill---through tunnels of gray cloud I can see bright white clouds over incredibly green treetops, where sun shines slantwise. Curls and wisps and clumps of cloud go every which way streaming up from valley, forming on a level and sweeping over hills, diving laterally and curving up or under as it hits a conflicting current, forming lateral wave crests which break and continue to break until there is a slow majestic vortex in the air, sucked up, warmed, as the sun shines on them, sinking, cooled, as other clouds hide the sun. Fragments of imagined rainbow float everywhere. As a background noise is the constant roar of the river; on it are birds, insects, a few confused cricket chirps. Gone from below is the rackety crew. Once a shout, or possibly a sneeze, probably from the two guys who went out before me and lit a fire in one of the thatched houses, and a combination of smoke and steam rose from the heated roof rushes. Vistas seem immense as near fog parts to reveal near hills, then clouds behind that frame near mountains, which are surmounted by high clouds which part of give a glimpse of distant peaks, all against the intense blue of an occasional piece of sky. The side of Huanya Picchu glows golden in the sun. Seldom the white and black steeps start out in the brightness. Below on the right the valley is clear. The brown rushing river turns and turns to foam on the rocks, craggy heights stand erect and tall in the grayness of morning. From the far hill comes a group of shouts, followed by a single, loud crash. There's a distant toot of horn and clash of rails and a silver autocarril crosses the red truss bridge over the river. The fog clears on the station side and I catch a glimpse of the road, the river, and a few of the curves on the road up to the hotel. Suddenly the sun reaches over the fog and the whole hillside behind me leaps into green light. Small patches of cloud cling to the slopes, but inhumanly make no distinction whether they grip the sheer rock abyss or the sloping treed heights. Distant views are stupendous as near shadowed hills are backed with luminous white, lit green peaks, but with dark gray clouds behind them. All the curtains have risen from behind the city, and it remains visible before me. Green areas only beginning to turn brown as the summer wears on. The hotel appears with its incongruous orange roofs and blue walls. Look at the nearby rocks, flowered with white fungus, patched with bright red veined fungus, dusted with sulfur-yellow fungus, mottled with maroon fungus, mixed with green moss, splotched with black, only patches of gray rock remaining. The terraces, seeming to glow from within, lit up a brilliant green, making the gray yellow rocks seem darker by contrast, the modern stele in the middle of the open ground casts a shadow for the first time. Then the sun hits and I can feel the warmth on my trousers and hands. All clouds below me turn dead white, but the peak of new mountains behind me is completely invisible in a milky haze. Ranges of white clouds with marble edges flank up to the sun, now a glowing globe behind a gorge of cloud. Far ranges of peaks are silhouetted against silver halos of clouds. A bright red and black bodied spider walks across my leg. The trees and the snaggle-toothed growth is again visible and blue patches of sky can be seen everywhere except around Huanya Picchu. Clouds soar upward, warmed by the now HEAVY heat of the sun. The gnats and flies, which had been pestering me till now, seemed to move away. My pen tip glints sharply in the sun. Now the right valley, once the brightest, becomes the only land visible, is now dark and sober as the rightful shadows fill it and the near peaks glow with the sun. What fantastic transformations in such a short time. Peaks are visible in clouds like rocks peaking through a rolling stream. Black tops seem to be everywhere in the white cloud masses. Every so often a bug flies into my ear with a great buzz. The mountain of Macchu Picchu, mostly shaded, is strikingly regular in its pattern of vertical ledges, cloud, ledge, cloud, repeated possibly six times. The two faces of Huanya Picchu form a strange contrast---the sunside glows, but is shrouded in fog, is thus the BRIGHT but indistinct. The shadowside has no fog, but is not lit, yet has the lovely ruff of bright cloud, and though dark, it's distinct. In the bright sun, sadly, the bugs get worse, landing on my face and hands and neck. A frantic red butterfly loops about me and the peak. Bees appear near the flowers. The butterfly travels so fast I think there must be two, but can only see one at a time. Now 8:20 (came here at 7 am) and for the first time most of the sky is blue, but paradoxically EVERYthing of the hills to the left have vanished and what I hoped to be the last gasp of dozing fog sends huge sheets of damp mist up over the hotel, the city, and the hill on which I sit. Two birds moving fast wing past startlingly close. The sun pulls an enormous cool coverlet of fog up over the whole range of my vision. The scope of the single uniform sweep up the hill of the fog is incredible, I can hardly wait to see how and when it ends. The climb up was harder than I'd expected, getting into the finger-nail gripping stage over a large slanting rock too steep to trust my damp sneakers to. The easy steps turned into a tough climb and I felt a slight bit uneasy leaning into the hill and placing my feet on the damp footholds only inches wide over the abyss. The top of the mountain well trodden (a stupid fly lands on my glasses) and I sit on the pinnacle and write. The coverlet has passed the zenith and curls over into the right valley. The blue sky and the fluffy clouds on the right horizon are threatened by the fog---what was hoped to be the dying gasps might turn into a final victory! The shadows of the hills grow vague on the lit hills as the sun dims, and I unwillingly step over what I hope are NOT snake holes. My rear hurts from sitting on the sharp rock, and I walk to the edge

and look down at the incredible rock-garden effect of these hills: ledges and juttings and outcrops of naked rock, and very little growth visible that's over a foot high. A few greens are three feet high, like rhododendron bushes, but most are curly ferns, spiked grasses, two and three inch gray-green mosses, flat leaves like lily of the valley, succulent leaves four inches around like dark spinach, spiked tops like heads of pineapple, small plump leaves like ice plant, low buses like heather and sweet William, all are pleasantly spaced among huge rocks all bearing the incredible profusion of fungus described before. Sometimes it's hard to say where plant ends and rock begins. But now I turn back and the left valley is clear. The sun glints off the rippled river and all bends of the river are clear. The far peaks stand clear and sheer with their striped faces, but their tops, blades still fringed with white clouds for a painterly beauty. Thomas Cole could do WONDERS with the clouds and sun's rays and shadows and beams and peaks and cliffs and rivers and contrasts and the tumbled chaos of cloud and peak. Lateral clouds lift bodily from the valley, and as I stand I straddle the two very highest tips. The last wisps of gray fog are completely leaving the level below which I stand. Like an enormous gauze curtain is being lifted by the sun to display the stage for another glorious day at Macchu Picchu. Faster the mists rise and faster they're formed, until again the sun is clouded, a celestial battle with gains and retreats, but the near fog, moisture-dank, swirls and boils to get out of the way of the vaporizing sun. Far clouds are white and tranquil above the roil of the dispelling fog of dawn. I rake dead flies from my hair. Strangely, there has been no real SMELL to the morning. Just a fresh air that doesn't change in the fog or the sun; a bird whistles quietly as its wings slice the air. As the fog was removed from the river, its sound came up clearer. A train, chuffing before, now blows its horn---but I can't see it. Now the peak of Macchu Picchu is visible, quilting a shawl of cloud rising around its shoulders. Still the steam rises as if the entire valley was sublimating. Wisps rise directly between me and Huanya Picchu, so it has never yet been truly clear. The near small hill now stands stark in its sun-shed light and shadow. Even in distant solid clouds a definite upward motion can be seen, and I can only hope the sun stays strong enough to drive out, or draw all to itself, and remove the cold from the hills around. Now the whole RIGHT range of hills is clear except for one thick cloud around Macchu Picchu, but still, inexorably, it rises higher. A line of sun advances slowly, lighting the river and the hotel and the road and the terraces---in a few minutes it will light the lost city of the Incas in the first clear light of day. I can now see fantastic flights of stairs up the near side of Huanya Picchu, and it looks like a toy: straight diagonal levels off the odd lower ridge at the far corner. A fly goes, tickling and terrifying, directly into my ear. Clouds can be seen riding and coiling from behind the next range of hills. A long straight streak of green shows where the slope is straight under the sun. The top turning seemingly covering the top, one area clear on the new mountain, but the old one is still shrouded. The train, all six cars, is finally visible and chugs toward me and the bridge. It EXACTLY fills the bridge: engine, tender, three cars, and caboose. I swat fragments of flies from my ears. It's now 9, and the whole area is clear, and I'd love to watch till the clearing climax as ALL hills show, but I'd better get down to breakfast. I'm STARVED: a four inch lizard startles by skittling around the rock I lean against.

WW from p. 53

I guy three bells for 70 soles, and three animals for 36 soles: with the pack is the llama, the tall one is the vicuna, the other is the alpaca.

YY from p. 53

Fabulous "Archangel del Arcabus" angel dressed in viceregal clothes, rainbow wings out behind, cleaning the bore of a rifle. Bacaflor is GREAT. A cabinet 15 feet wide by 8 feet high, with fantastic drawers and carving. A. Lynch imitated the "Joan of Arc" painter, the "Salome" painter, and Monet.

And that's the recorded END.

Page 53

This is a temporary page, written only to fill out the framework of the trip and to serve as a reference for the remaining "jottings" taken from the notebooks.

Bus comes finally and we're up over the rocky road in an open-topped truck for one of the most incredible entrances to any country: the pass in the Andes linking Puerto Frias and Peulla. Tronador stands overwhelming in its snowy grandeur as we pass through Chilean customs. Continue to the small Hotel Peulla in Peulla, and it gets dark very quickly, so there's only time for supper and bed in a chilly Alpine setting and spartan bedrooms.

Friday, January 7.

After breakfast we scramble up stream as T&C squirm under fly attacks, and later, off on my own, I wet shoes and trousers thoroughly by slipping off a rock into the bubbly. Loaf around hotel sending postcards and writing until bus comes to take us to boat across Todos Los Santos Lake, a cold, windy, rainy day which hides all sight of Osorno. Into bus at the other end of the lake and C begins a conversation with a member of a class, and finally we're trying to sing songs for them, get talked about anomalously by their chaperone, and we end up with the Chilean and American National Anthems. Wonderful spirit in those kids. Get into Puerto Varas in rain, and settled into odd rooms. Dinner is shoddily elegant and the food is interesting, to be kindest. Again there seems to be nothing to do but get to bed, to the sound of dogs and cows.

Sat, Jan 8

Walk through rain the next day to see the town, but aside from the seaside and a tiny park, tiny rose trees all in glorious bloom, a church on a hill, and "ferocious dogs," there's nothing to see. Back to hotel where I write

HH p. 39

quite a lot, and send more postcards, shop for souvenirs, which I can't get interested in, and finally it's time for the station wagon to Puerto Montt, way early at the airport for the flight to Santiago. The flight takes us above the clouds and for the whole trip I gape out the window at Tronador, Osorno, the lakes, and other peaks, through a good airlines meal, and into Santiago after a breathless flight over the lit town, to meet the Kasai's, who follow us to hotel as we change, then walk us to Pollo D'Oro for the Quaka and singing and other entertainments, along with good golden chicken.

Sun, Jan 9

Worry about incriminating Kasai by changing Escudos at black-market rates,

JJ p. 46

but the next day have no problems changing money, and we grab a taxi to Vina del Mar, eroded from the storms of last year, where I get swamped by enormous spray and foot-sore trying to swim in the rocky South Pacific. Anyway we all got WET by the South Pacific. Long ride back, and we relax before dinner, terrible, in the hotel and get to bed early.

Mon, Jan 10

The next day

MM p. 46

We're out in time for the changing of the guard, then to a fantastically

KK p. 46

crowded airport for the flight to Lima, sadly mostly over water. Fly over huge numbers in the sand, and land at an empty but futuristic Lima airport.

LL p. 41

One of the first things I do is check for a tour of Pachacamac, and we stop

PP. p. 48

by the museum first, then the ruins. Back to hotel and dress and dine at Trece Monedas, one of the few consensuses on the trip---it should be seen. Very tired to bed.

Tue, Jan 11

Wake to break fast in the Edwardian elegance of the white breakfast room, then we begin the church circuit, taking in La Merced,

NN p. 41

St. Augustine, San Francisco, the Cathedral, the House of the Inquisition, and San Pedro. Tonight I feel terrible (or it may have been last night), so I go to bed early, hoping to feel ready for the flight to Cuzco.

Wed, Jan 12

Wake up terribly early, but feel fairly fit, and the flight to Cuzco was certainly

QQ, p. 48

One for the memory-books. We get a quick tour of many of the surrounding

RR, p. 49

ruins, I walk around a bit, but Cathy isn't feeling well, and I don't eat

UU, p. 50

dinner, either.

Thurs, Jan 13

But all of us are up to Macchu-Picchu the next day, and the

SS, p. 49

Autocarril carries us through farmland and gorges and sets us at the foot

TT, p. 49

of the Picchus. The bus ride to the hotel was a gem. Quickly out on tour of the ruins, and C&I try the Inca road. Dinner and to bed.

Fri, Jan 14

Next morning I climb the small hill for a fantastic fog-battle, then I climb Huanyu Picchu,

VV, p. 50

then lunch and back to Cuzco, where we manage to eat dinner.

Sat, Jan 15

The next day

WW, p. 52

we buy ALL our souvenirs and fly to Lima, walk the streets to the museum,

YY, p. 52

And eat expensively at the Crillon, and stay for the show. Bed late and

Sun, Jan 16

Up for mass, fly back by way of Montego Bay, Jamaica, booze, bumpy flight, and New York City.

EXPURGATED MATERIAL

....while another woman (bane of my existence) sidled up and got HER family's luggage on....

....monosyllabalism when the company doesn't excite my libido. Cathy took an age///

....the first impression of people was of the dark handsome men, most looking PRECISELY like soft pampered gigolos who kept their fine shape through HOURS of lovemaking. But they all gazed at the women and took NO interest in the men, and this was to remain true through the first few days in Rio. Simply EXQUISITE eyes would be turned to catch the swish contours of a passing female ass. Pity. We....

....talked away, and I kept noticing the NUMBER of tanned, muscled young men working and shining without shirts, or even in bathing trunks. Down the....

....except for debris and a fabulous fellow in a LOW bikini with a darkly sculptured body and in front. GREAT. Wander the park....

...through the meal, furnishing a nice backdrop for the meal. The waiter is a VERY handsome clean-cup chap with an eagerness to please and a melting smile. I'm...

....rest of the meal, and the facial and eye-beauty of the fellows passing gives a glow to the meal. The meat is tough....

....talking to the beautiful waiter and in a flash....

....Walk back, but can find nothing like the "Hey, doll, don't walk so fast," that gave the impression the beach might be interesting. Walk back up to Copacabana, and find interest at 200 and at 800 and then above 1000, but it poops out above 1200. The walk is TREMENDOUSLY frustrating since there are MANY nice thighs and things to look at, but they seem to be looking for girls. I keep thinking I want Prince Charming to come up to me and vow eternal love while kneeling at my feet. Every time I think I see someone interesting, they stare at some girl. A few look like ruffians who would as soon clunk you as kiss you. Tony says that the main topic of conversation among the boys is the girls. What a SAD amount of possible sex is missing because they happen to like girls. What a wonderful place for color photography of the wonderful bronze skins. ANYWAY, I get back to hotel room, VERY tired, about 10, and arrange the triangular mirrors to come to a fantastically multiple orgasm with the light at my feet shedding agreeable light on the predominant subject. ((Get onto LOWER road at....

...Lay around with an erection for only a short time, then come again, and Cathy....

...sit on it. To end of beach, seeing NOTHING that could be constructed as gay, and MUCH that would be construed as LOVELY, either batting...

...hand stands, but many only a lot of tanned miracles, looking avidly...

to see fellow urinating on a rock ledge, then diving off...

...arms folded back on his large chest, barreling...

...covered hills and fellows in bathing suits, LOVELY. As the sky...

...are hanging around, notably two early-bearded guys who look like SA hustlers who are lounging in front of Schiave, slave, who's the only thing even approaching nudity in the lot. And it looks as if someone rammed a piece of splintery driftwood up his box, not COVERING it, but REMOVING it. Walk back up....

....I go and take a crap-more-watery-than-yesterday-but-not-quite-so-bad-as-the-day-I-took-the-pills, try to see....

...watch surfing (STILL the fellows, STILL the fellows---Rio certainly outdoes ANY other city, because not only are they YOUNG and TANNED and MUSCLED and HANDSOME, and every POSSIBLE type from light blond to black, but they go around as nearly nude as the law allows. AND I saw an erection PLAINLY visible under one fellow's loose shorts, and I climb way out to watch surf breaking. Again it's hopeless to try to describe the fascination of WATCHING the surf and HEARING the roar. FABULOUS sport. Cathy....

....Chief of Police, but he ONLY looks like an old auntie who's been keeping Tony for years. Another fey fellow tries to get in, but Tony cuts him dead. By this time....

...Tony to sleep at my place(!), but he says....

...How's THAT for suggestive incest! Also nibble....

...but except for the gay American conversing with a butch sailor, and the fact that...

...under Freds, and I GASP (inwardly, I hope) about INCREDIBLY beautiful blond with those odd huge CALVES that drive me nuts, with PERFECT green trunks on. Gasp, gasp. Anyway, we get out to...

..."no" at the same time---JUST like me) and a girl....

...disgusting him) just like a lot of others. We eat....

...liquor, relieved only by a salesman who looked like Rod Taylor and had a beautiful blond body and HUGE veins on his muscled biceps. German couple...

...Two boy scouts, one about 13 with ENORMOUS hairy legs for his age, says they'll....

...climax (!)---an oldish man in too-tight silver lame suit....

...REALTUR. Handsome chap who speaks good English...

...do Sul. Even did some soul-searching about the gay life, and of course found myself to be blameless. Finally lands....

...to stable to be fun and not NEARLY nude enough to be interesting. I begin...

...beat his cute breast and mumble....

...I drop bitchy hints about how great....

...beer supply. Thin gangly fellows who were probably mascots mugged and aped dancing and hugged the players like the fiercely suppressed homosexuals they probably were. The band would....

...black boots and black hair on head, around eyes, in nose, and on chest. He and more normally dressed girl went through a sick series of pirouettes (mainly him) and leaps (mainly her) and lifts (both, stupid) to music like "The Orgasm of Faust." At one point his blue silk split, but he wore black somethings underneath, so nothing could be seen. Damn. Carlos "knew"....

...offered me a girl (YUGH), and after...

...much good, had HUGE pendulous breasts and probably....

...were fat and of the three boys, the lead was straight (amazing) and the faggot was thin to the point of disinterest, and the youngest was unpracticed and onstage little, but had a lot to show and has a great future when he's older than 15. Carlos' AFTER....

...around a bit and am staring at the four fellows who turn out to belong to the Peace Corps for a bit, and wonder about the girl and she turns out to be MARRIED to one of them. Makes it LOOK....

...German couple and in FRONT of the cutest one of the Peace Corps boys, whose name turns out to be Wilson (I find out three days later). Turns out....

...After lovely midnight swim I get to room at 12:15 and get to bed at 12:30, but at 1 I'm still awake and tossing. Decide I need to shit and I'm thirsty, so based on what fellows say last night, I drink tap water and pass itty-bitty hard stools. To bed feeling better and fall asleep. Wake at 5:30....

....had a ball. I'd rather a soccer team. Unfortunately....

...Montevideo. Very nice nude David in front of Municipia. Italian....

...that if some great guy found me.....with the city (and with him).....

...at 2:30. Also, there are VERY FEW good-looking guys in the streets, maybe 5. A bronze copy of that gonady archer across from the school of law. Palermo.....

...sounds pretty. Italian gigolo type with two Chinese girls sits in back of boat, lays with legs stretched wide, exulting in the calm glory of sheer physical beauty. Young girl, probably PERISHING with boredom, gazes long and longingly at the Italian chattering away in Spanish with the Chinese. Talk about Fellini's love of groups of foreigners all together? Sunken ship....

Ho hum. WHY is Avenida San Martin, JUST the other side of Vincente Lopez, JAMMED with young men hitchhiking to BA? Army base? Also, ON Avenida San Martin, an Olatunji restaurant. To stop this....

...seemed a bit better for male beauty. There was a bellboy type confirming tickets who was at LEAST 6'8"; though this didn't come up to the 7' of the fellow on the street last night (that we passed just before passing a dwarf who was just under four feet), he made up for it with very good proportions---his head was in proportion, long and lean and handsome, with level dark eyes, nicely trimmed hair, and an elegantly erect posture, slender splendor in his uniform. Fabulous to imagine his length naked! Stop into Feria.....

...staring into space. The quartet of four Peace Corps fellows is handsome and animated. It's not so much I'd like to eat WITH them as I'd like to eat THEM. The German...

...12:10. Envy the girls living it up with the Peace Corps fellows---wonder where they EAT half the time, since half the time they're not in the restaurant. Up....

..current, tie it like this and the current pushes it across. Tie it the other way and it goes the other way. Today, when.....

...bit, still staring at the lovely face of the fellow they call Wilson, and a newcomer, a tall plain fellow with glasses who wears a tee-shirt which he fills with a very handsome V-shaped torso, a magnificent strong back, and appealingly defined pectorals. If he had WILSON'S face on THAT body, the combination would be devastating. Eat the....

..Oh??---but they want to get some girls to go TOO. SHIT. But it turns out the girls don't want to go, and I have the five to myself...We trek...I feel young, leading them, yet old, because I'm puffing and they're right on my heels---but of course I'm leading the way in the dark. Down, down,....

..from here, but in the pause I lose the initiative and someone ELSE leads the way down the path to the observatory. The lead three....

... Feel a bit disgusted at the fellow's fluttering around the few ugly girls like the fabulous moths....high voltage lamps. Then the girls go to the truck and point out the "Three Mary's, the "A," and are told that the Southern Cross was too low in the sky to see. Then they got into the truck and the driver wouldn't let those who walked DOWN ride back. So we five....

...girl situation (yugh). We get sopping wandering back to the hotel, and I'm very conscious of the smell I have for not having had a shower this AM. Another....

56a

...look forward to some fine bodies lounging in the lighted...

56b

...to try again. They DO look good swimming in the lit pool....

..frog-kick around. They try swimming the length of the pool underwater, and it's fun to watch them, though the haziness due to distance and the distortion of the water make it impossible to appreciate their bodies, except that Wilson has a TERRIBLE pot, very much like his dark-haired look-alike on the Brumas pictures, and the tee-shirted one looks less spectacular in the buff. All end up standing around in the water talking about languages and diseases and girls. There's much body consciousness as they spread their legs apart in a manly way and rub their chests. Still the distortion makes them look like heads atop wavery legs. It's reasonably satisfying to look merely at the naked flesh, but it's only like a drop of water in an absolute desert of masculine beauty since Rio, relieved only a moment by the guide in Bariloche. Get back...

...newspaper stands, but though one tabloid has a fellow nude from pubic hair up, and there are a few "legit" US muscle books, there still appears to be no real gay interest in the naked human male body. Pity. Many awnings....

...motley. Side satyrs are naked, but appeared to be covered, though it was hard to be sure in the dark. C&T went on and I skirted around to look at the other nudity, but it was not pleasant, so I joined C&T to laugh....

..T starts bitching about walking. We get...

...MEANING it, then harboring a grudge if we don't act on it. The hit of....

...waving fans and tight silk hose and powdered wigs...

..to the counter." Am cut off by a tall, large faced, gray eyed doll of a fellow with large hands and a large body handled so well you were hardly aware of it. Good English, lovely smile, beautiful teeth and profile. Fantasies sprang up in my sex-starved mind. He took our luggage...

..talk to the uncommunicative fellow (except about skiing), and get to the...

...arrow drawn, loincloth pointing down as if hiding a hideous downward erection. Old....

...watch and shiny buttons (and crotch). Villcabamba....

...snake-holes. My ass hurts from sitting on the sharp rock, and my limp cock throbs with sensitivity as I've probably sat on my now-unused prostate. The feeling is at once appealing, and desirous of being handled, and painful and repellant to the touch. I walk to the edge....

Hans H. Cervinka; 336 E. 86 St. New York 28, N.Y.; TR 9-9347; End of February.

Serabaya---74th Street, south side, between Lexington and Park, for "good" restaurant.

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SOUTH AMERICA 1966 - 6 COUNTRIES 4 of 4