The Titans of the Pacific Page 8

  “Shit,” said John, as he gazed at the smoke towering onshore in the distance. “Holy shit.”

  “That’s where the IPC, has its oil wells. You know, the International Petroleum Company.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “The captain’s heard on the radio the oil workers are on strike. They’ve blown up an oil tank. But that’s not all. Up in the Andes, the miners are threatening to kill their American hostages.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not only that, in Lima the communists are calling for a revolution. They say in some cities people are breaking into shops, looking for weapons and food.”

  John stared, open mouthed.

  “So the government has declared a state of emergency. The USA has offered to send their marines. Anything could happen,” said Yolanda.

  “And where’s the president?” asked John – in the USA, in times of crisis, the president spoke to the nation by radio to appeal for calm. Yet, Sánchez-Cerro wasn’t a president given to dialogue or compromise.

  Next day, approaching the port of Callao, what on earth could John expect: riots; soldiers shooting demonstrators; corpses lying in the streets? Would the revolution have started? On the ship, nobody spoke. Dry throats gulped, but nobody wanted to share their worries. Just keep calm. In the worst event, stay on board. Someone’s stomach purred. Quiet.

  John knew Callao was a large port, but there weren’t many ships now – much international trade had ceased with the Great Depression.

  Callao was about twelve kilometres from Lima. Smoke was rising behind the first buildings on the shoreline, but not as thick and black as in Talara. What was that rumbling in the distance? Explosions? Shots? In Callao or further away in Lima? It was difficult to tell.

  John scratched his chin as the ship’s crew rushed to their positions, ready for docking. Passengers gathered their belongings. Would rioters come aboard to plunder the ship? Better rush ashore to safety? But, on the streets, police might confuse passengers with rioters and shoot them.

  As the Santa Clara approached port, John pondered if Yolanda’s cousin would be waiting for them? Perhaps Pedro Vargas would have stayed at home in Lima. The American embassy would be too far away to seek refuge. But if the communist revolution had started, they might have sacked the American embassy, as the ‘leading representation of international capitalism’. Being an American, the revolutionaries might kidnap him like the miners had done with the American engineers. Damn it – stay on board or disembark?

  When John came out of his cabin again, Yolanda was waving at someone on the quayside.

  “There he is: the big guy with the bushy beard. That’s my cousin, Manuel. I hope he’s come with his truck, so he can take us to Lima. Trams and buses won’t be running,” said Yolanda.

  John was looking forward to meeting this guy Manuel: would APRA supporters be a sect of fanatical communists, as Mr Randall believed?

  John relaxed as Yolanda smiled. She was back in her beloved Peru – the country John too had learned to love, but was visiting for the first time. He breathed deeply. At last, he was here.

  The southern hemisphere summer was beginning and a cool breeze off the sea kept the temperature pleasant.

  As they docked, John saw two islands off the coast from Callao: his map told him the largest was San Lorenzo, home to a naval base, and the smaller one was El Frontón, that lugubrious prison island he’d heard Peruvians in Boston mention with dread, if not horror.

  As they bid goodbye to the crew, some barefoot, ragged kids came on board and grabbed their luggage. Once ashore, the kids smiled, gazing at those strange foreign coins that landed in their hands – open palms immediately closed into fists, protecting their reward from marauders.

  Passengers lined up for customs and police control. Police were everywhere – heavily armed, tense and watchful; guns randomly pointed menacingly. A youth tried to get on board, but shrieked with pain when the butt of a policeman’s rifle cracked down on his head and he left, bleeding.

  “Documents – show me your documents,” ordered a tall, grumpy, senior policeman. Every passenger’s passport and luggage were checked thoroughly before allowing them ashore – anyone could be an undesirable alien. The process was so slow.

  Without any explanation, two Peruvian passengers were led away at gun point by the police following a nod from their superior.

  “Communist scum,” said the senior policeman under his breath. Nobody dared speak. John gulped and the knot in his throat only dissolved when the policeman nodded him through.

  On the quayside, utter chaos – a sea of people engulfed them, selling anything and everything, offering transport, lodging or whatever. John’s eyes darted around him, clutching his suitcases – beware of pickpockets, he’d been told. A barefoot kid tugged at his suitcases, “Sir, sir, I will help you.” John shook his head and wrestled his suitcases back. Then, a man jostled towards him, thrusting a piece of paper and announced, “Best hotel in Callao, clean sheets, young girls. You like nice girls, sir?” “No, no girls, thank you,” replied John. What next? A handful of small, cold packages poked in his face – probably ice cream lollies; and a lady waving skewers with pieces of spicy meat, smelling delicious. His arms occupied with his suitcases, John shook his head repeatedly, warding off all miscellaneous offers. He breathed a sigh of relief when they accosted other passengers.

  Ahead of John, Yolanda embraced her cousin Manuel – tall, built like a wrestler, with untidy hair, desperately needing a trim, a thick brown beard, fiery eyes and dressed carelessly. His loud voice and broad smile were overpowering but endearing. It was clear why he was nicknamed ‘Buffalo’.

  “John, this is my cousin Manuel.”

  “Who is this little gringo you’ve picked up, Yoly? Welcome to Peru, man,” said Buffalo, squashing – not shaking – John’s hand, smiling from ear to ear. “Hey, you look scared – take it easy. And you, Yoly, you’ve not changed a bit. Are you guys hungry?”

  “Starving… and I could do with some giggle juice too,” said John.

  “Uh… some… what…?” said Buffalo.

  “He means a drink… a stiff drink,” said Yolanda.

  “Oh yeah… let’s go to eat some fish nearby at my aunt’s place,” said Buffalo.

  At that moment, they were approached by a clean shaven, slim young man with black hair, combed backwards and set with abundant hair gel.

  “Hi, are you John Fitzgerald? I’m Pedro Vargas.” He couldn’t have missed John – the only foreign-looking passenger coming ashore from the Santa Clara.

  “Hi Pedro, thanks for coming. Mr Randall told me I’d be meeting you,” said John.

  “Randall? I don’t know any Randall but the USA embassy asked me to come. I’ll take you to my residence in Lima and help you with whatever you need. It’s your first time in Lima, right?” said Pedro.

  “Yeah, but fortunately I’ve met these great people,” said John, introducing Pedro to Yolanda and Buffalo.

  Pedro joined them for lunch at Buffalo’s aunt’s house. With his glass of giggle juice, John relaxed – no communist rebels, revolutionary kidnappers nor corpses on the streets.

  Aunt Eugenia sold fish in a street market and marinated the fish she’d been unable to sell, to prepare ceviche in her house. Her ground floor became an improvised restaurant. They were the only ones eating, along with two policemen. With the economic crisis, few could afford to eat out. The policemen ate for free – Aunt Eugenia was grateful they didn’t close down her little business.

  Buffalo’s name was Manuel Barreto. He’d never known his father and, as a teenager, went to work in an uncle’s restaurant in the city of Trujillo, 500 kilometres north of Lima. The uncle was rarely sober and frequently beat young Manuel, until the boy grew up and returned the beatings, almost sending the old man straight to his grave. Buffalo left to earn a living a
s a shoeshine boy. Now he was a lorry driver and took every opportunity to drive to Lima to see his mother.

  A tough life and the injustices he’d experienced led Buffalo to attend anarchist meetings in Trujillo, where he soon raised his voice in defence of the poor and the weak.

  “What are you up to in Trujillo, Manuel? Your mother is so worried about you. She doesn’t like you mixed up in politics, with those APRA people,” said Aunt Eugenia, lowering her voice so the policemen wouldn’t hear her.

  “No, Aunt, there’s nothing to worry about,” said Manuel, smiling and shaking his head once his aunt was on her way back to the kitchen.

  “Damn it, Pedro, you eat as hungrily as a political prisoner,” Buffalo joked on seeing Pedro gobble his food. Pedro had got up at the crack of dawn and, without time for breakfast, walked more than ten kilometres from Lima to Callao. The friend who was supposed to take him on his bicycle got cold feet on seeing demonstrators and police clashing on the streets. No public transport was running. A general strike had been called by the communist CGTP (Central General de Trabajadores del Perú – the General Workers Union of Peru).

  “Hey, officer, can I get to Lima with my truck?” Buffalo asked the policemen, who’d finished eating and were leaving.

  “Uh… a truck? Are you crazy, man? The police control Callao and the centre of Lima, but there are communists on strike blocking roads and burning vehicles. Wait until tomorrow. By then the army will have cleared the roads of that communist trash.” Buffalo smiled – nobody would stop him driving his truck into Lima.

  They finished eating, bid farewell to Buffalo’s aunt and left to find his truck. The president had decreed a curfew – if they arrived in Lima after dusk they’d be shot at by soldiers. The president wouldn’t allow anyone to defy him. The soldiers were young, nervous and had little training with their new rifles. Officers probably had machine guns – great tools to mow down a crowd in seconds. Instructions: shoot at the slightest provocation. A vehicle coming towards you: friend or foe? You don’t know. You don’t care. Don’t take any risks. Just shoot. Kill. Job done.

  President Sánchez-Cerro trusted his soldiers – the police were too weak when provoked by the CGTP strikers. Up in the Andes mountains, the police couldn’t prevent striking miners taking the two American engineers hostage. The police only freed the hostages in exchange for releasing some CGTP officials from prison. Useless; weaklings, Sánchez-Cerro had thundered. The army had to finish the job. Twenty striking miners killed. That taught them a lesson.

  After the CGTP declared the general strike, the communists paraded through the streets of Lima calling for a revolution and workers, peasants and soldiers to rebel against the government. But the president didn’t waver – how dare they confront him. His troops soon filled the streets and aimed their guns. The communists soon dispersed, not wanting to end up like those poor miners.

  Nevertheless, except for CGTP and APRA supporters, Sánchez-Cerro was popular in Lima. Many people in Peru had lost their jobs when the worldwide economic crisis arrived, but blamed former president Leguía and thought Sánchez-Cerro brought salvation. The president reacted to the general strike by distributing free food to the unemployed in Lima. People loved him.

  After his coup in Arequipa, Sánchez-Cerro had flown to Lima to a hero’s welcome by a third of Lima’s population. They’d lined the streets on his way to the presidential palace. When crowds had gathered, Sánchez-Cerro had relished appearing on the presidential palace balcony, waving as his people cheered.

  As Callao’s streets emptied, Buffalo’s truck headed towards Lima. John and Yolanda sat in the truck’s cabin, beside Buffalo. Two kids hitched a lift and climbed on the back with Pedro.

  Buffalo drove slowly, in case anyone shot to force them to stop. Half way to Lima, a group of men blocked the road with burning oil barrels filling the air with thick black smoke that clogged your lungs. Who the hell were they? Some were armed – rifles clicked, ready to shoot. Buffalo stopped his truck but didn’t get out.

  “Where the hell are you going? There’s a general strike – nobody is allowed into Lima. Go back to Callao or we’ll burn your damn truck,” said the strike picket leader.

  Nobody moved. Then, a striker pushed his rifle’s muzzle through the truck window and pressed it against Buffalo’s chest. Yolanda shrieked. John gasped. Buffalo just frowned.

  Then, a man in the crowd shouted, “Look, it’s Buffalo. He’s a comrade from APRA.”

  “Are you an Aprista?” Buffalo demanded to the man who’d recognised him. “What are you doing here? This strike has been called by the CGTP and our leader hasn’t instructed APRA to participate. All Apristas must go home,” ordered Buffalo, pushing away the rifle muzzle pointed at him, getting out of his truck and towering over the picketers.

  “Sorry, Buffalo, there are only a couple of us here who are Apristas. We just came to have a look. I swear.”

  Who wanted to confront Buffalo? The pickets pushed a burning barrel aside. Buffalo got back into his truck and continued the journey towards Lima. John and Yolanda exchanged relieved glances.

  On the outskirts of Lima, another road block. This time they were soldiers, armed to the teeth.

  “Where are you coming from?” said an angry army officer. “How did you get through? Wasn’t the road blocked?”

  “I’m coming from Callao with passengers from a ship that’s arrived from the USA. There’s no other transport so we’ve come in my truck,” said Buffalo.

  “Good. That’s what I like to see. Those communist bastards aren’t going to paralyse Peru. Go on. You’ll find Lima nice and quiet.”

  Surprisingly, they did find Lima quiet. Hardly anyone in sight, except policemen and soldiers – a good job done, clearing the streets of strikers, stone-throwing students and, indeed, citizens or vehicles of any kind.

  They drove into the city, passing Plaza San Martín, one of the two largest squares, under the stern statue of The Liberator, General José de San Martín, who’d declared Peru independent from Spain in 1821. Pedro directed Buffalo towards the street called Gallinazos – or ‘big hens’ as limeños called the ugly brown vultures scavenging around their city – where John would share lodgings with Pedro and other university students.

  Buffalo cursed: another police barrier – half a dozen rifles pointed at them. A police officer fired a shot in the air – shit, it whizzed just over John’s head above the truck. Keep your damn head down, he thought. When demanded, pull your passport out…very slowly – the police might think you’re drawing a gun. That would be the end.

  Although that first evening Lima was more like a ghost town, once he’d steadied his nerves John liked what he saw. Only about 350,000 limeños lived in the old Spanish colonial capital – less than half the size of John’s home city, Boston. Streets were fairly wide and most buildings had two or three storeys. Ground floors had diverse shops, restaurants and bars, with housing above – wooden balconies allowed residents to overlook the street. John imagined old ladies dropping their knitting to look down from their balconies to spy anything happening and fuel gossip.

  At first sight, John fell in love with those beautiful colonial buildings with impressive stone or marble façades and richly carved wooden balconies, to let passers-by know the status and wealth of the family inside. Some squares had gurgling fountains or splendid colonial churches.

  John longed to see one of those magnificent condors, which he’d heard glided down from the Andes to survey Lima.

  On an ordinary morning, a condor will open his eyes and flap his wings. As the dawn mist clears, he looks down from the barren foothills of the Andes, spreads his wings and majestically flies down towards the sea. Any ‘gallinazos’ bow out of the condor’s way.

  As the condor soars high above the banks of the rumbling, ‘talking river’, as natives call river Rímac, running through Lima, the Andes mountains give way to an urb
an sprawl. The city of Lima lies below him. On the right bank of the river he flies over the enormous, perfect circle of the 200-year old bullring, towering over its surroundings. Usually quiet, but bustling with excitement on bullfighting days, packed with the city’s gentry.

  The condor crosses the river and flies over the railway station. A train arrives from distant Andean valleys and mining towns, after crossing a snowy mountain pass at 5,000 metres above sea level – higher than the peaks of Mount Rainier in the USA or Mont Blanc in Europe.

  Colourfully dressed Indian peasants emerge from the station carrying enormous bags on their backs, full of clothes made from llama wool, to sell in the local market.

  Outside the station, a lady fries ‘picarones’ – rings of soft dough, she’ll serve with honey and syrup. The sweet, scented smoke rising from the frying pans surprises the condor – a delicious breakfast for the travellers, but not for the condor.

  After a short walk from the station, the peasants mingle with local creoles and arrive in the main square – the Plaza de Armas, the heart of the colonial city. The cobbled streets lead to a lovely, tall fountain in the centre of the square. The lively chatter of the fountain’s water is drowned by the noise of peasants, jostling with police, who move them on and not sell their wares in the magnificent square.

  No, the Plaza de Armas cannot become a vulgar market for peasants. Soon it will be busy with priests and friars, heading to the archbishop’s palace, a tall building with enormous and beautifully carved wooden balconies, covering one side of the square, beside the magnificent cathedral, built 400 years ago by Spanish conqueror Francisco Pizarro. The peasants look up, cross themselves and walk on.

  On the opposite side of the grand square, men in smart suits and elegant, cinnamon-skinned ladies in long skirts and fashionable hats hurry about their business to the city hall. Its wooden balconies are almost as impressive as those of the archbishop’s palace across the square.

  Everyone in the square suddenly stops. Peasants, priests, smart officials, elegant ladies, policemen, all look up in awe at the magnificent, black and white condor circling overhead. Of course, the condor ignores them. It decides to settle on another large building that fully occupies one side of the square. The building is designed to look impressive, but it’s really as grey and dull as a winter sky. The condor has found a building appropriate to its majesty – the presidential palace.