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in no time we were all acquainted, talking and joking like him.

‘Are you German?’ I asked him.

‘Swiss,’ he replied.

We were almost to the island when the boat broke down. The engine just went dead. The boatman quickly located the trouble, and before long he had the engine running again. Marcus noticed that he had injured his finger during the repair, however, and whipped a first-aid kit out of his pack. He disinfected the Indian’s finger and asked me to cut a strip of adhesive tape. But, no, my efforts weren’t precise enough. He took the roll himself and cut a neater strip — just so — then went back to his bandaging. The man thanked him with a wide smile.

Moments later we were in Taquile. From the dock we climbed up toward the village along a steep path cut into solid rock. The higher we went, the more my lungs fought for air. I climbed two steps and stopped. Climbed and stopped.

‘Take it easy,’ Marcus encouraged me. ‘We’re in no hurry.’

‘And what about you?’ I asked.

‘Ah, Swiss Alps,’ he said with a smile. ‘I was in the services over there.’

We found ourselves a room in the village, with mud walls and a wooden platform for a bed. We spread our sleeping bags out and prepared a meal. Marcus made coffee on a small kerosene burner he carried; I split the rolls and carefully assembled