From the second I got off the bus in Puno I knew I’d be unamazing there. I only chose it because the bus to Copacabana was full, and still I waited hours at a bus stop for the morning route in case at night the roads were too dangerous. I shared the other end of my big soft backpack with an older Quechua lady who at some point rubbed my prickly bald head in her sleep. We were on the floor, and I almost held her hand; black mountainous cold around us.
There were no taxis or trolleys or even bike cabs, nothing, everyone off the bus just walked in all directions. I followed mine along some train rails to my hostel, white people everywhere. I almost believed they didn’t go there. But it had me thinking, what was there to do in Puno then? I knew there was the lake. And I might score an Inca vs. Spain chess set for cheap.
My dullness first showed when I walked to the boardwalk that afternoon. In the sun my head glowed, in this part of the world it was usually my height that got to them, if not my accent, if not my camo pants, if not my army hat— come on. Nothing was working. No one even looked over. The ice cream lady didn’t even wonder if I was Venezuelan, or Brazilian.
The water catches light with reverence in Puno, two lake hands together in the sky receiving the sun’s heat. Every color belongs to it I hear the Titicaca say. Each one. I found the perfect bench to sit on, near a group of kids playing soccer in the marshes, so close to the water that I watched just to see if they’d throw the ball into the lake because maybe then in the cold one of them would swim for it. There were two brown horses in the marshes too and they played very softly, pushing their side-heads into each other’s bodies.
Yes, yes, this is what life is about I thought, the high, masterful lake reflecting the sky back into space, hiding the kids in its folds horse after nautical horse—
“Ah! No! Jueputa! That shot was so close!” A man about my height in half an army uniform had been sharing the bench with me.
“Hey, you’re Colombian?” I knew the answer already.
“Oh shit, yeah I am. What ship are you on? I haven’t seen you at any meetings yet. For a second I thought you were one of the Chileans.”
I just stared at him with nothing in my eyes. Maybe two whole minutes. I didn’t know how to even begin to understand what he had just said to me. In the middle of his second ¿Y, entonces? it strikes me that the army pants and boots might be for real.
“Are you in the army?”
“In the Navy, actually. But they let us wear army pants too. You’re in the army?”
“No, no.” I let out a laugh like one lets out an I’m scared. “I am Colombian though. Thank you for your service.”
Apparently, many of the South American countries station military ships and personnel in Titicaca to hold war games, training drills and other nautical exercises in this, the highest and possibly coldest navigable lake in the world. The lake forces light into space from its metal pieces, too.
“Why are you dressed like that then?” I still didn’t feel like an impostor.
“I don’t know. These pants are Carhartt WIP, which is ten times more expensive than regular Carhartt. They fit nice, and can handle me falling from my skateboard. And they’re also just cool, a lot of people where I’m from wear camo.”
“Where you’re from must be the only place in the world that thinks looking like a soldier is cool.” He has a point. “Where are you from?”
“Cali.” The truth didn’t feel right with him. “You?”
“Florencia, in Caquetá.”
“That’s like, the Amazon isn’t it?”
“Did you fail second grade geography?” He crossed his legs and drew open his arms on the bench. “It’s close.”
I know that in that part of the country is where all the things you think happen in Colombia, the coca cultivation, gangs and paramilitary groups, actually happen. No one from there just joins the Navy. So I didn’t ask any of those questions. But I started to think, why were we going back and forth? Was it having someone in your same clothes, with your same skin and nose, and same voice on your bench and having them be nothing you are? Like a good American I asked:
“What are you gonna do, you know, after all this?”
“All this, you mean, the Navy?” It sounded stupid when he said it. “Personally protect my parents’ lands. They own so much of it that the ELN hasn’t found a way to terrorize the whole thing at once.”
“Well then, have some kids and build yourself a little army of your own.”
“That’s how gangs start.” I couldn’t tell if that was a joke.
“Right. In Cali the rich people have men guarding their properties with machine guns behind big walls and gates.”
“Those are narcs.” Definitely not a joke. The tan of his face took perfectly the colors of the sunset, sucking it in. If I’d met him then I’d think he had red eyes. The horses still played in the marshes, not owned by anyone in Puno. Like the fish in the lake they ate, drank and lived in it, and when one climbed onto the other and stayed there the wind stood still too— until they started to run again through the grasses.
“Parce, you ever tamed a horse?” Excuse me? “All you do is jump on them and try to keep them steady.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works. I’m not doing that.”
“Come on! Don’t be a faggot. Come on. Come on.”
We ran to them, herding them to where the kids had been playing soccer. The marshes were huge once you were in them. He told me we were going for the bigger horse with darker hide, and to never get behind it. The horse was calm but running in small circles. We finally got on both ends of the horse, and walked toward it slowly with our arms open. I didn’t know what was supposed to happen then, what did we do now that we actually cornered this wild animal? Then he screamed ¡ya! So I rounded its neck, and shot my body onto it’s hard back. He landed behind me, clutching hard on my waist. The horse stood and neighed, jumped a little, trying to push us off. But quickly it stopped, and just faced the lake with heavy breaths. Their bodies were the warmest thing I’d felt since ascending the black mountains, so I just stayed there with my face on the horse’s neck, and his face on my back, until someone else was ready to move.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He spoke into my sweatshirt. “Now you can tell the people where you’re from that a Florense taught you how to mount a beast.”
“What’s your name?”
“Danilo.” He put his hands on my sides to lift himself up. “What’s yours?”
The night in Puno was purple, magnificent, like the sunset never stops pouring into the lake. I wanted to sit there with Danilo all night, maybe dip our feet in the water and have them freeze off, two soldiers injured by the battlefield and honorably sent back to our families. But I hadn’t eaten all day, and it was time for me to venture into a market.
“Oh okay, well, do you have a phone?” That question would be offensive where I’m from. “Take my number. I have an Airbnb by the university over there. We could hang out after dinner if you’d like.”
He put his number in my phone. It was a Peruvian number, so I knew it wouldn’t work once he was in Colombia. Our similarities, too, would’ve been unamazing in our country.
At the market no one saw me but now that I knew why it felt powerful, I was a warm soldier swimming through mountain people trying to get some eggs. Some tomatoes. Some bread. I remember wanting to make the most boring sandwich.
Back at the hostel a big group of them were watching the Bachelor. I realized most of the hostel was Anglo, probably British. I can’t tell most those accents apart. Three girls were in the kitchen while I cooked. I had my headphones in and didn’t care to say anything the whole time there, not even it’s cool after an excuse me. They sat together at a table, and I waited for my bread to finish toasting. I saw them look at me and then talk, so I paused my music and heard he smells like a wet horse. It was obvious they didn’t think I spoke English, and I felt sorry for them, how would their parents feel if they heard them speaking of someone in the Navy like that? I walked over with my plate and stopped at their table.
“Excuse me, can I borrow that pepper shaker over there.” The proudest American accent. George Washington leading the Continental Army to Lake Titicaca. Their dumb faces moved back as I leaned my musket body over their food. “Thank you so much.”
That was it, I just needed to cover myself in the lake to finally be amazing.
1/27/2020 12:49PM