Between Extremes Read online

  About the Book

  From a friendship born out of adversity comes an extraordinary story by two extraordinary men. For four years, Brian Keenan and John Mccarthy were incarcerated in a Lebanese dungeon. From the blank outlook of a tiny cell, with just each other and a few volumes of an ancient American encyclopaedia to sustain them, they could only wander the wide open spaces of their imagination. To displace the ugly confines of their existence, they envisaged walking in the High Andes and across the wastes of Patagonia.

  Five years after their release, Brian and John chose to travel together again to see how the reality of Chile matched their imagination and to revisit their past experiences. Between Extremes is the story of that journey, which once more found them far from home, in an unfamiliar landscape, but which for the first time allowed them to live by their own rules.

  About the Authors

  Brian Keenan and John McCarthy’s four years’ shared captivity in Beirut gave the world two remarkable books, An Evil Cradling and Some Other Rainbow, which are recognized as non-fiction classics. This is their first book together.

  www.booksattransworld.co.uk

  Brian Keenan & John McCarthy

  BETWEEN

  EXTREMES

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781446422113

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  BETWEEN EXTREMES

  A BLACK SWAN BOOK : 0 552 14595 5

  Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Bantam Press edition published 1999

  Black Swan edition published 2000

  11 13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14 12

  Copyright © John McCarthy and Brian Keenan 1999

  The right of John McCarthy and Brian Keenan to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Black Swan Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

  a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

  in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

  in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,

  Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.

  For Anna and Audrey, and for Jack the Lad who was descending to earth while we were on top of the world

  In calling up images of the past, I find that the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced by all wretched and useless. They can be described only by negative characters; without habitations, without water, without trees, without mountains, they support only a few dwarf plants. Why, then, and the case is not peculiar to myself, have these arid wastes taken so firm a hold of my memory? Why have not the still more level, the greener and more fertile Pampas, which are serviceable to mankind, produced an equal impression? I can scarcely analyse these feelings; but it must be partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of Patagonia are boundless, for they are scarcely passable, and hence unknown; they bear the stamp of having thus lasted, as they are now, for ages, and there appears no limit to their duration through future time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth was surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these last boundaries to man’s knowledge with deep but ill-defined sensations?

  CHARLES DARWIN

  The Voyage of the Beagle (London, 1902)

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Authors

  Between Extremes

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Maps

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Three

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Text Acknowledgements

  Pictures

  Acknowledgements

  Many people helped and encouraged us in fulfilling our Chilean fantasy. Our thanks go to:

  Bill Scott-Kerr who, with great charm and patience, did so much to realize our accounts of our Chilean experiences. Jane Parritt, who picked up on a brief mention about Patagonia and yaks. Without her our great adventure might have remained a captive daydream. Katie Hickman and her parents, John and Jenny, who gave us much advice on where to go and what to see and introductions to their many Chilean friends. Tom Owen Edmunds, who as well as sharing his own insights on the country joined us for our time in and around Santiago and on the horse trek high into the Andes. Not only did he take many fine photographs but his companionship and good humour eased our saddle sores. Chris Parrott and Sally Rich at Journey Latin America for turning our outline plans into a feasible itinerary. Frank Murray and Noni McClure for their hospitality and generous loan of a quiet haven in Santiago. Jorge López Sotomayor and Jueni Valdés López, who opened up their hearts and home to us. Alfonso and Isabel Campos, for welcoming us in Patagonia and appreciating the genius of Keenan’s yakic inspiration. David Ottewill for his valuable comments on John’s text. A special thanks to Noleen Gernon, who traipsed around Chile on her fingertips to type up Brian’s story.

  Prologue

  BEIRUT, SUMMER 1990

  The midday heat is intense. Sounds drift up from the street a few floors below and filter through heavy metal shutters fixed across the inside of the window. Any hint of natural light is overwhelmed by the bare electric bulb shining above the centre of our stark room.

  Brian is sitting cross-legged on a thin mattress, rocking gently back and forth as he reads intently from one of the bulky volumes of our incomplete set of the Encyclopaedia Americana. Both his hands move methodically, ruffling and smoothing his shaggy beard.

  I am lying back on my mattress which shares the same wall as Brian’s, smoking a cigarette, occasionally puffing a cloud of smoke at a mosquito when it drones too close.

  ‘Take that, you little bastard!’

  ‘What?’ asks Brian.

  ‘Eh? Oh, nothing. Puff?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m all smoked out.’

  The mosquito buzzes over to Brian. Without looking up from his text, he snakes his hand out and snaps it shut. He holds it before him and carefully opens the fist, smiling as he sees the offending creature smeared on his fingers. Idly he flicks the remains off his hand, wipes it on the edge of the mattress and continues reading.

  I turn round and, as I move, one of my legs is stopped short by the chain that runs from the ankle to a bolt in the wall.

  ‘Bri, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Oh God! What now, Mastermind?’

  ‘Look, I know you think this is stupid but . . . You remember Frank Reed was released on the thirtieth of April, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah.
Something like that.’

  ‘Well, that was just two weeks after Friday the thirteenth.’

  ‘Oh God, no, John, not that again,’ Brian cuts in, snorting with a mix of irritation and amusement. ‘Let me guess. I’ve been locked up one thousand, three hundred and twelve days, you’ve been locked up one thousand, three hundred and six days. If you divide that by the number of stinking holes we’ve been dumped in and multiply that by the number of spots on a turkey’s arse, we will have the final, definitive date for our release. Am I right, my mathematical Englishman?’ We are both laughing.

  ‘Look, just because elementary figures have your dim Irish brain confused, it does not mean that I am talking bollocks!’

  ‘OK, OK, just get on with it. I know I’m gonna have to hear about Friday the thirteenth. I’m all ears!’ he says, cupping his spread hands behind his head and waggling the fingers like crazy antennae.

  ‘We’ve been moved every time there’s been a Friday the thirteenth. There’s another one coming up in July – so something’s bound to happen!’

  ‘Sure, John, sure.’

  ‘Well, bugger you! I’ll just go home on my own then.’

  The key rattles in the lock and we don our blindfolds. It is a guard, Bilal, delivering our daily ration of food.

  ‘Hello, Brian. Hello, John. How are you?’

  ‘OK, Bilal.’

  ‘You hungry?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Today very good food.’ He puts down plastic plates containing felafel, hummus, chips, pitta bread and tomatoes.

  ‘Ah, very good,’ I say, peeking beneath my blindfold.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ says Bilal, delighted with his treat, then he leaves.

  As I cut a tomato my small plastic picnic-knife snaps.

  ‘Bugger!’

  ‘Just too eager to get at your eatings, eh!’ says Brian. He roots through his paltry collection of belongings – a spare well-worn T-shirt, a pair of cheap white shorts in which the elasticated waist has given up the ghost, a few tissues and a sweatshirt, so faded through many, many washings that it is little more than a dishcloth.

  ‘Ah ha! There it is!’ He beams victoriously and presents me with another plastic knife, also broken but retaining an inch of usable blade.

  ‘Thanks, Bri. At times your nefarious hoarding instincts are of real value.’

  ‘You said it! Now don’t go breaking that one. There’s no more.’

  After eating we lie flat, stretched out as far as the chains allow, and share a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say.

  ‘My, my, we have been busy!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway I’m coming round to the idea that Patagonia might be better than Peru.’

  Brian looks at me intently.

  ‘Do you think so? Really? Why?’

  ‘Well, although those eastern slopes of the Andes appear to have the right climate for vicuña, sheep and cattle farming – and plenty of space – they are just so remote. Shipping out the wool might be tricky.’

  ‘Mm, I see what you mean, but couldn’t we use mule trains or something?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Bri. You and me riding about in the mountains? I’ve been on a horse twice and fell off once, and what about you and Billy?’

  ‘Ahh, fuck Billy. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That’ll be us.’

  ‘Well maybe, but Patagonia is flat.’

  ‘But it’s pretty remote too.’

  ‘OK, but the city there, Punta Arenas, has a serious port – even an airport. There is one drawback with Patagonia though.’

  ‘Howling winds?’

  ‘No. The Welsh.’

  ‘The Welsh. What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘After four years of the Celtic fringe I’m not sure I could take any more.’

  ‘Racist Brit bastard. The Welsh are only in the Argentine part of Patagonia. The Chilean bit’s got Scots and English.’

  ‘English. Excellent! Chilean Patagonia it has to be. No Irish?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know . . . but don’t forget Bernardo.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bernardo O’Higgins, the Great Liberator – son of an Irishman, set Chile free from the yoke of Imperial Spain, established a—’

  ‘OK, OK! So I’d forgotten bloody Bernardo. Still, I reckon Patagonia makes sense. Plenty of space and no-one to come bothering us.’

  ‘What about Pinochet?’

  ‘Don’t you remember that Time magazine we got a couple of years ago? Said he’d had a plebiscite and was going to hand power back to the civilians.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Yes, so that should be all right then.’

  We spend the afternoon and evening reading, occasionally swapping notes and sharing a cigarette. Bilal reappears with some black tea and pitta sandwiches containing cheese and olives. Then we are left in peace, unlikely to be disturbed again before morning. But we do not relax totally for fear of being too mentally vulnerable should there be a sudden jolt of activity, with guards stomping everywhere before carting us out, bound and gagged as well as blind-folded, and heaving us into the boot of a car for an uncomfortable drive to yet another location.

  I am suddenly conscious of Brian tensing.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask urgently. ‘You all right? Did you hear something?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine. Listen to this: “Yak. A wild and domesticated ox, with a long shaggy coat of silken hair used in weaving.” Big beasts. They’d be ideal for Patagonia.’

  This last, triumphant phrase echoes in the sudden silence of a power cut. Within a second a guard raps on the door and hisses for quiet.

  ‘All right! All right!’ mutters Brian and starts going through his belongings again. He turns to me in the darkness.

  ‘Got the matches?’

  ‘Here,’ I whisper, striking one and reaching to light the candle in his hand. He sets the candle down and once the flame has strengthened pulls the volume up close to him.

  ‘I thought yaks came from Mongolia or somewhere.’

  ‘Aye, Tibet it says here. Listen:

  YAK: an animal (Bos grunniens) of the Bovidae family, distributed in the high bleak plateaus and mountains of Central Asia. It is found in Tibet, Kansu (northwest China), and the Chang Chenmo Valley of Ladakh (eastern Kashmir). It ranges from the lower valleys to 20,000-foot levels, feeding on coarse grasses. The wild yak moves in winter from the snow-covered slopes to the valleys.

  The yak is exceptionally well adapted to endurance of cold and shows superb stamina, which makes it an excellent animal for carrying people and other burdens. Its numbers are decreasing, although it once was as abundant as the American bison. Old bulls wander about in twos or threes, but females and calves herd together for protection.’

  ‘How would we get them to Patagonia?’

  ‘Easy. When we get out of here, we’ll just write to the People’s Republic of China and the Dalai Lama and say we want some yaks, and they’ll send us half a dozen cows and a few bulls. We spend a few years breeding them and increasing our herd size . . .’

  ‘OK, then what?’

  ‘Listen to this:

  The domesticated forms, although used principally for transportation, are valued also for their meat. This is of excellent quality, and calf meat is especially tasty. The cows provide quantities of rich milk. The Tibetans also extract good yields of butter, which they use to flavour their tea or to burn in religious shrines. The long hair of the yak is made into ropes, while hides with hair are used as coverings for tents. The tails are sometimes dyed bright red and sold as flyflappers in the cities of India.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So then we set up “Paddygonia Enterprises Inc.”, that’s P-a-d-d-y-gonia, and we corner the world market in yak products. Imagine it, we’ll be shipping out tons of yak yoghurt and butter. Yak steaks will be the speciality of every top restaurant in the world. Then there’s yak burgers, yak sausages . . . And I haven’t even started on the hide and wool yet. Think of it – we could
be millionaires.’

  ‘I’m convinced, but what about the flyflappers?’

  ‘Fuck the flyflappers . . . we could sell them as a fashion accessory.’

  We look at each other, pondering the possibilities, silently sharing the realization that one day we must go there. But there’s no denying our present situation. Whatever our dreams, Patagonia might as well be a million miles away. For the moment at least, we are not going anywhere.

  Part One

  Arica

  •

  Atacama

  •

  Santiago

  Chapter One

  A gentle shaking wakes me. Brian is leaning across to point out of the window: ‘There they are. The Andes!’

  From our bird’s eye perspective the first ridges and valleys look rusty and dusty, the hide of an elephant close up. Then we are among snow-capped peaks for a minute or two before starting our descent on the other side. Above us, clear blue sky, and from the plane’s wing-tip a small vapour trail streams, an effete cigar whiff compared to the monstrous clouds that swirl like steam from a boiling cauldron.

  As quickly as they appear, the mountains vanish and we make our final approach to the capital, Santiago de Chile. The land is flat and wide with roads, irrigation ditches and fields as neatly laid out as any in Europe except here they are on a vast scale. There are no houses, as though the place has been planned, basic development started and no-one has taken up the estate agent’s offer.

  Chile’s physical boundaries – the Andes in the east, the Pacific to the west, desert in the north and the ice of Antarctica to the south – create a natural island. Certainly these borders, before the advent of big ships and aircraft, meant that only the most determined came here. Although Magellan discovered in 1520 the channel from the Atlantic to the Pacific that now bears his name, it was not until 1536 that the first Europeans entered Chile.

  Led by the Spanish conquistador Diego de Almagro – who with Francisco Pizarro had conquered the Incas in Peru – a force of 400 men made their way over the Andes into Chile. The expedition was a disaster and many died or suffered cruelly in the harsh, cold, mountainous conditions. Looking down from the plane, I wonder at the ambition of people like Almagro. Had they known what lay ahead, would they have persevered?