Conquistadors: The Stories: Michael Wood
Why do it? Well, they are first and foremost great stories; fantastic adventures too- amazing journeys. They are also events which changed the course of history. Good enough reasons to do history on TV. But above all, great stories. Imagine young Robert de Niro as Cortes! Pacino as Pizarro?
But was there more to it than that, you ask? Remember the opening of Apocalypse Now? Martin Sheen on his bed in some seedy Saigon hotel room? 'Whenever I was in the jungle I just wanted to get back home; whenever I was home I couldn't wait to get back in the jungle?' For me it was like that. I felt like that in the Hotel Trujillo in Lima, just as I had in the aptly named Hotel Wonderland on Alexander the Great. Too long away from those lousy rooms, those smelly damp tents with David Wallace's socks and Peter Harvey's boots, and I get restless. Restless for those moments: the mad bellringer, the gunmen of the Speaking Cross; the emergency landing in the northern Peruvian desert: ( not to mention the great elevenses in the restaurant Salas in Cajamarca: the luscious olive sandwiches; the crumbly white cheese with cane syrup; the cafe con leche.)
Yup, I admit it, back in rainy New Oxford Street I miss that rush of blind panic crashing backwards down the Coca rapids without lifejackets or helmets with Dr John Collee next to me roaring his head off: 'Don't worry I'm a doctor!!!' Even the sandflies:( they warned us about malaria, but why didn't they mention the sandflies? But then just when the bites were driving you mad there was the emerald forest to look at , and a swim off glittering strands of whitened boulders where the current raced down from the mountains, ice blue and cold. See what I mean?
And then there was the glacier at Quoyllur Riti and those snatched moments of sleep while the drummers hammered away, and the brassbands trumped and clashed the same old tune all night, to a background of howling microphones, exploding fireworks and the shattering blast of gunpowder charges blown up with irritating regularity by a bunch of lunatics dressed up like the Bolivian 'Come Dancing' champions, in sequins, fake pearls and gilt tassles- who thought it great fun to keep everyone awake all night. Ah, take me back to that open latrine which was our campsite under the fairy grotto!
And that's not to mention those moments when it all goes wrong. On this website other members of the crew have recalled our escapade at the Lost City of the Incas, three or four days march away from our base at the Cobos house in Huancacalle. What follows, is an extract from my diary to give you an uncensored flavour of what it feels like when a film crew realises that things haven't worked out the way you planned them in London: Where we take up the story, after our long trek on foot through the forest, the rescue helicopter has failed to find us:
Suddenly we realise we have cut everything rather fine.. We still have the horses with us, but at this moment no one can face the prospect of turning right round and going through what we've just done all over again. Best to stay put for now, we all agree. Our food is pretty much gone. But we unpack the stove, heat some water and make some black tea. Then lay out the silver boxes in the clearing in the shape of an H, to make ourselves a bit more obvious from the air.
For the next few hours we wait while clouds swirl over the surrounding hills. If the helicopter is relying on seeing us with the naked eye, we could be in for a long wait.
Early afternoon they call back: weather now too bad for them to come.
4ish. We have a football match with the horse handlers, Porphyrio, Raoul and Carlos: Great fun, if hot and sweaty. Carlos and my team- the 'oldies' scrape through 6-5. (Carlos used to play in the Peruvian professional league!!) I bathe in the stream afterwards: great. Jude looks worried: 'arent you afraid of microbes?' 'Microbes?' I reply ' If I bothered about microbes I'd have given up this job years ago!!'
Porphyrio goes into the forest to barter some food: cassava, eggs bananas, rice.
Its Jude's birthday and she is tending her sore feet and drying her boots. Porphyrio makes pisco sours with pisco, bitter lemons, egg whites, sugar, and cold water from the stream instead of ice. We toast her: but I don't think she feels much like making a fuss about it. 'I think I hate camping' she says, squeezing her socks out, and then roars her wonderful laugh.
'You've got to laugh haven't you?' she says. 'And to think the last show I worked on was the Good Sex Guide!!'
Night: The rainstorm has cleared the sky. Outside the tent is a wonderful Milky Way and we wander across the clearing, picking out the Southern Cross with the two big stars to its left, Mars very clear; and Scorpio too. And what shooting stars. No wonder the Incas were astronomers. A perfect night: looks set fair for the morning.
6am. Wrong again! It's been pouring again for several hours: my tent is on a slope, and a trickle of water has come in at one corner and made a little river between my boots and my sleeping bag. The whole clearing is completely sodden. Oh dear!
Over breakfast Don Juvenal outlines the escape possibilities. First the journey back to Huancacalle: 3 or 4 days on foot, with all its ups and downs, but uphill now, rising 9000 feet. The heavy rains will have made the paths horrendous, and we will be wading through deep water and mud by now; areas where the path had already gone with landslides will be streams of mud. For food we would have to make do with what we can find. Second alternative is the roadhead to the north: this is eight hours march with horses providing the path is not flooded. There we may find a vehicle to take us on another 8 hours to somewhere where we might find a better vehicle to take us in another day's drive to the Sacred Valley via Quillabamba.
'But it all depends if you can find a vehicle' says Don J.
Too many ifs for my liking.
'Its funny' says Don J, watching the rain stream off the tents:
'This is the dry season'
I'd hate to see the wet.'
Never trust the guidebooks! But looking back on those days in the forest as on all our adventures making Conquistadors, I have to say I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
A last memory? The last day in Lima in our little hotel on the shore: again from my diary:
'Pots of tea, and sandwiches arrive as we split the gear, some to go with us, some to go freight. Jude is counting her batteries, Dave is in the shower; Pete (resplendent in the black kimono he reserves for those rare days off) is boxing the gear, while Debs(our wonderful Peruvian fixer, without whom none of this would have happened) was out at the airport dealing with the excess baggage.
Peter pours the tea and put on a Ray Charles tape: 'Making Whoopee'
I guess that sums it up!
Next stop: Snitterfield and Temple Grafton-and no more malaria pills!!!