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In Puno I went back to my old hotel, and Marcus moved in with me. Again he brewed tea on his kerosene burner.

‘So what do you say, Yossi? Are you really leaving for Cuzco tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve already got the schedule for the morning train.’

‘I don’t get you,’ he argued. ‘Why not come along to La Paz, just for a week, and then you can come back to Peru?’

‘I would like to come along, I really would,’ I said, ‘but I can’t change my plans. I don’t want to miss Machu Picchu, and I don’t have enough money to do both.’

Marcus wouldn’t give in. ‘Look, Yossi. You shared food with me before you even knew me. Now let me treat you to a visit to La Paz.’ He stuck two fingers into the hem of his pants leg, pulled a few bills out, and held thirty dollars up to me. ‘Please, take the money, Yossi. It means nothing to me. It will only be worth something if you use it to come along.’

‘I couldn’t take it, Marcus,’ I answered, embarrassed. ‘I appreciate it. I do. But you have nothing but the pack on your back, the same as me, and there’s no reason in the world why I should take your money.’

Marcus began reciting a poem. I don’t remember the title or the poet’s name, but I’ll never forget its content or the way he recited it. It was about a man who never wanted to take