When the town of Supia came into view it should have been another town. Only after the sign saying Supia, the public swimming pool of Supia, numerous shops claiming to have something to do with Supia, and finally a man who told me we were in Supia, was I finally convinced that I´d taken a wrong turn about 15 kilometres ago. It was too late to turn around though, and I stood looking across the debris, at the place I would likely spend the night.
A man passed and I asked him about other places to stay.
"You don´t want to stay there, " he said, "You´ll be robbed!"
His name was Humberto and he walked me up the road to a hotel at which I wouldn´t be robbed and arranged to meet me later.
We walked round the plaza and looked at the church, stopping to talk to friends of Humberto that we happened to bump into. This was a much longer process than you might imagine though, as everybody we bumped into appeared to be Humberto´s friend.
A group of ladies sat on stools around a shop front, eating from paper plates. Humberto introduced me, told me it was the birthday of one of the ladies, and after offering our congratulations we sat down to eat.
"I´m twenty-one," she told me, in mock confidentiality, and the ensuing laughter proved that the joke travels well, not just across international boundaries, but through decades as well.
At Humberto´s house we ate again, the dining room open to the cool night air, and I talked with his family. An hour or two later, perhaps tiring of saying everything slowly for my benefit, or sensing that we had very nearly exhausted my vocabulary, Humberto stood up. "Let´s go and see Brent, and Marta and her parents. Brent´s Canadian - he´s a cyclist as well."
Twenty three years ago Brent had cycled from Canada to Peru. He had met Humberto in the same way I had; an irreparable puncture, rather than a misguided sense of direction, leading him to Supia, and Humberto had taken him to the same hotel by the plaza,to which he had taken me.
Brent and Marta met, and had lived in Canada for several years. Recently they had returned to Supia, and were living with Marta´s parents, Don Humberto and Doña Muriela.
The house had wooden beams, white walls and high ceilings. Antique clocks hung on the walls, ticking and unticking. Some would chime on the hour, and others would rotate their hands in silence. Some mechanisms required winding and one was operated by a long rope and two weights - one falling slowly to the floor. Don Humberto had made that one himself. There were clocks on tables and a clock standing on the floor. Beautiful, wooden antique clocks - more clocks than I had ever seen in a house before. One thing was noticeable though; the hands pointed to each other, or to the sky or floor, at almost as many differnt angles as there were clocks. Just two, I found, were in accordance, and I felt quite comfortable to be in the house of someone who had such a fascination with clocks, but an apparent disinterest in timekeeping. I was very happy when Don Humberto invited me to stay.
The next afternoon we went for a walk. A muddy path cut through the sugar cane, growing above our heads, and a light rain fell from a light grey sky. All across the mountains a deep and glistening green.
Small buildings sat on the hillsides; bamboo skeletons, stuffed with dry sugar cane. From one steam escaped and the sound of voices could be heard.
A man fed the fire with dried cane, and in huge metal bowls a golden liquid bubbled and shone. Caramel and hot. A furious boiling let steam fill the air and huge ladles of hot water were added to the cauldron-like bowls. As we left, with a clear plastic bag full of warm and crumbling panela, a weak and hazy sunlight shone through the bamboo walls. And the bubbling water shone again, light and silver now.
Marta told me they used to wrap the crumbs of panela in banana leaves when they were children.
The first night we went out we started drinking rum. Then creme de ron. Then aguardiente. And then I woke up in a bed I´d never seen before.
When I opened the door I thought that perhaps I´d been kidnapped by the mafia. The brightness of the day glinted off perfectly polished black and white tiles. A stone statue stood in the hall, and everything else that my gaze haggardly encountered seemed to be made of glass or marble. I felt my head spin and I felt scared to touch anything at all.
I clicked the door behind me and a uniformed maid appeared. She seemed unsurprised at my hungover state. And much less surprised at me in general than I was at her. I think I managed a "Buenos dias", but nothing more. What do you say to a maid you have never met in a house you have no memory of entering?
The girl led me to a glass table, and brought me coffee and fruit. I wanted to ask something, but I had no idea what. Instead I looked, quite drunkenly I´m sure, but in a generally questioning and puzzled manner towards the girl in the white apron, placing a silver pot of sugar in front of me.
"Salió" she says. He left. Or she left. No. I don´t think so. He. But for the next half-hour I had no idea who.
Diego came back a little while later. He laughed at me. Filled me in on the previous evening. Laughed at me again. And restored me to the house of Don Humberto and Doña Muriela.
I remember the rest of my time in Supia almost completely. A day by the swimming pool with Diego´s friends and family and the next night out, when I drank much less. Going to Las Piedras, some beautiful waterfalls, with Brent, Norely and Marta. Riding on the back of Norely`s motorbike to do an interview with telesupia. And the lovely meals and evenings on the veranda, drinking coffee, and talking with new friends.
It was hard to leave Supia, and I was both uplifted and sad, rolling the15km down the hill, to correct one of the most wonderful mistakes I can remember ever making.
My bike.. don´t think I´ve taken a photo of it for a while...
No comments:
Post a Comment