DEA & Macaws (5 of 8)
Plane Ride
Although Cochabamba is a delightful and relaxing place with friendly people, it was not the destination we sought. So, on the morning of the third day we forfeited our remaining bus tickets, and boarded a plane for Trinidad. Forty-five minutes after takeoff the prop-driven plane banked and circled our destination. We were presented a bird’s-eye view of the town and its dominating Catholic church.
Leveling out, the plane passed over the single-runway airport. Banking, our aircraft circled town again. This routine continued for several more circles and passovers. Looking down on the third or fourth fly-by, I recognized the problem. A plane was stalled on the runway.
Suddenly I realized that my mate was neither talking nor reading her book. Looking at her, my eyes took in the flawless contours of her face, and the sensuality of her full lips. Returning my gaze, her well-known smile was absent.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Not very good.”
“You sick.”
“Yes.”
“The plane?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna vomit?”
“Not yet,” she murmured grimly.
Because our plane carried minimal fuel, we had to backtrack to Cochabamba. After landing, no one was permitted out of the holding area as the plane took on fuel. In short order, we were again airborne. Stoically, Donna sat with her seat in the upright position, staring vacantly at nothing. Having personally endured days of seasickness during four trans-Pacific sailings aboard military vessels, I silently commiserated with her.
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Trinidad Airport
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We circled Trinidad only once on the return trip. The runway was clear. We landed safely. My wife retained her breakfast. But just barely, she said. After disembarking, and while walking towards the terminal, I snapped a photo of Donna. Her somber expression spoke louder than words.
DEA
After locating a hotel suited to our modest budget, we bathed and changed into summer-weight clothes. In the evening, after the sun sank below the horizon, we took an elevator to the open-air bar and lounge atop the Hotel Ganadero (Hotel Cattlemen). From six or seven stories up, we enjoyed a three hundred and sixty degree unrestricted view of the town. The late winter evening (August) was t-shirt warm. A friendly breeze of soft humid air caressed our bare arms and cooled our warm faces.
Seating ourselves at a square table with four chairs, we casually looked around as we decided what to drink. The decisions made, I went to the bar and ordered a Tom Collins for Donna and a cuba libre (rum and coke) for myself. As I leaned on the bar waiting for our drinks, a fair-skinned man approached and ordered several drinks in rapid-fire Spanish. He was from a table with four other men, all dressed casually in short-sleeved shirts and slacks. Making eye contact, the man and I nodded to each other and exchanged the early evening greeting of buenas tardes.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“Sure, where you from in the States?” he asked, recognizing my accent.
“California.”
“Are you two alone here in Trinidad?”
“Yeah, we are.”
“Why don’t you join us at our table? I’ll introduce you to the crew.”
After pushing two tables together, and seating ourselves, introductions were made. In their twenties and thirties, the men were a carefree lot. It was a pleasure to converse with them in colloquial American English.
“What are you doing way out here in Trinidad?” we were asked.
“It’s cattle country. We have beef cattle backgrounds, and we’re checking land and cattle prices. But mainly we just want to see the grasslands. And, hopefully, see some wildlife. What about you guys?”
“We’re DEA,” one of them answered. (Two pilots, two mechanics, a communications expert, and one man who did not specify his job.) “Did you just get into town today?” the group inquired.
“Yeah, we flew in from Cochabamba.” Then I told them about not being able to land, and having to return to Cochabamba for additional fuel, during which time Donna verged on emptying her stomach.
Looking at each other, the guys chuckled. “That was our plane on the runway,” one of them explained. “Sorry you got sick Donna, but we blew a tire and the airport did not have a jack strong enough to lift the plane. We had to call and have one flown in aboard a small plane”
The DEA ownership of the plane that blocked the runway was a surprise to us. But we returned the surprise by telling them that we had met their boss, and he and I had gotten half-stewed and attempted to play ping-pong at the U.S. Embassy in La Paz.
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