The other night I sat through a speech of Evo Morales, the Bolivian president. He spoke in Spanish. His native language is that of the indigenous people of his landlocked nation. Quechua or Aymara. As a child Evo worked communal field where property belong to the village. He supports Socialism as the only social system dedicated to the betterment of mankind. The diplomatic mission for his country espouses the same thought and champion the liberation of coca as a medicine rather than a drug. His ambassador and consul general are 100% behind the policies of their president. I’ve chewed coca leaves with both. It is quite agreeable, as it was when I walked the Inca trail with Mrs. Carolina.

We had traveled to Peru in 1995 from LA. Our relationship was in the final stages of love. I wanted it to end and thought that there was no better way to say ‘I don’t love you anymore’ than going on a cocaine binge in Lima.

One problem.

No one would sell me blow.

Not even in the slums. The dealers thought I was DEA. In truth I do look like a cop. I explained to the dealers that I was doing this to break up with my mistress. They thought that I was crazy. Maybe I was, because Mrs. Carolina was a good person. Still is, but I grew more and more frustrated by the dealers’ rejection in every city of Peru.

Finally we arrived in Cuzco. The Navel of the Incan Empire. Quechua women sold coca leaves in the main square. I bought several pounds. Mrs. Carolina chewed them as a remedy for high-altitude sickness. We booked two train tickets to Maachu Pichu. The lost city of the Incas. Hikers detrained at kilometer 88 to hike the Incan Trail. A three-day journey to the ruins hovering above Urabama River. Mrs. Carolina and I had treked in the Rockies, Cascades, and Guatemala. We stayed on the train with the colonel of the DEA and his two sons. His haircut was military. His spine straight as a Kansas highway.

I had a ball of coca leaves in my cheek.

The lack of oxygen under control.

The colonel complained about a shortness of breath. His sons were sucking every oxygen molecule in the compartment. I offered them the coca leaves. All the Peruvians were chewing them. The colonel refused my offer.

“It’s a plague.”

“I don’t know. I have a bad knee from playing basketball and I don’t feel a thing.” His sons were 14 and 16. A little young to introduce to a serious herb, however I had lived in Tibet for 3 months. The teenagers were in the first stage of AMS or acute mountain sickness.

“I spent every minute of my day trying to stop cocaine from reaching America.”

His boys were listless. The train had hit the highest point of the journey. They would revive with the descent to Agua Calientes.

“And you failed. You can get cocaine anywhere in America. New York, Chicago, Iowa, Utah. Sorry, but the war is lost. Cocaine is everywhere.” 90% of the dollar bills at a GOP convention were tainted with the drug.

“I will not accept defeat.”

“Okay.” I was happy sucking on the juice from the leaves. So was Mrs. Carolina. Our relationship was solid for the moment. It was based on coca leaves and a place to stay in Agua Calientes.

That night we sat by the rushing river. Trout and more coca leaves. We bathed in the hot springs. Afterward we made love in our cheap hotel room. No phones. No TV. No room service. Only coca leaves.

In the morning we rode a bus to Macchu Pichu. The DEA colonel was seated in the back. He didn’t say ‘good morning’. We were the enemy. The greater enemy was the altitude. 7,970 feet above sea level. Mrs. Carolina and I ventured far from the ruins. The colonel suffered from oxygen deprivation. Mrs. Carolina and I held hands at the Inca Gate. Trekkers filed through the narrow passage.

Short of breath.

Mrs. Carolina and I looked at each other and shrugged like a Quechua.

“Coca.” She pointed to the snow-tipped Andes distant to the east.

It was a morning that said forever and we were slow to leave that spot.

Mrs. Carolina, me, and a bag of leaves.

“Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow.”

Omar of Khayyam.

Different worlds. Same thoughts.