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or at least a lot longer than you do now... THE QUEST Many, many years ago I stuck my head out into the roaring blackness outside of the aircraft, with a death grip on the door frame.  "Jump, boy, do you want to live for ever?  Go Now."  I was swinging back and forth in the blackness of the night before I could mouth an appropriate answer, "too bloody true I do!"  A jarring thump cleared these thoughts from my head.   From now on, I was going to be very busy staying alive from the next minute to minute. This question popped into my head with increasing frequency as I approached the sixty eight years calculated as a normal life span by the life insurance actuaries, then the biblical three score years and ten.  "Did I want to live for ever?" the answer was not quite so vehemently "too true," but I certainly could use another forty to fifty years.  I watched as my associates and co-workers collected their gold watches and moved away to retirement asylums in Florida, Arizona and California.  I heard that an unacceptable proportion of them just dried up and withered away.  Men and women who, but months or a few years before, had been in the prime of life. As a Scientist, a strange label, that translates to 'one who knows', for someone who has no idea, but is fishing around for knowledge, I wanted to know why a few individuals lived vigorous, productive lives for well over a century, whereas, most degenerated into doddering senility more than twenty years earlier.  Although reams had been written by the gerontologic branch of the medical profession, most of the gobble-de-gook could be boiled down to the simple statement, "Who knows?" The question was, where to start?  Logically with the people who had lived such long lives, but the media, the gerontologists, in fact everybody and his dog had already tried that approach.  Next question, why only a few individuals, scattered over 'hells half acre', were so long-lived?  Surely, what pertained to them, also acted upon the people around them.  Not so, in both large families and small, only one would out live his or her siblings or parents.  Puzzlement upon puzzlement! The chance reading of a long since forgotten treatise written by an equally long forgotten academic, rekindled the fires of enquiry.  In the early years of this century, the author had been traveling in the foot hills of the Andes, (where else?) and had visited a number of villages where the useful life span of the inhabitants was over ninety years and often surpassed one hundred and twenty.  Longevity being outside his sphere of interest, he was a botanist, little more was reported.  But, being a thorough reporter and typical of his time, he had added a bibliography of other manuscripts mentioning longevity.  A veritable gold mine of dusty information.  Islands of people living in excess of a century appeared to exist in many places on the face of the globe and were reported by professionals hiking about seeking new and exotic plants and animals, or geological phenomena, practically every academic discipline other than medicine.   Apparently, this branch of science treated such reports with lofty disdain.   One factor was common to most of the reports.  A man provably claiming to be in excess of seventy years old, had the appearance and vigour of a man half that age.  After ploughing through stacks of reports and treatise, it appeared that no one had bothered to ask "why", or if they did, they did not make note of the reply.  One other fact emerged from these writings.  The villages and towns mentioned were, at the time, isolated from the main stream and from the current maps, still were. Standard research tools were employed, letters and where feasible, telephone calls.   From those who deigned to reply, the response ran the gamut from a polite, "Really, how interesting" via, "So what?" to "Don't talk so bloody silly."  One and only one, University Department of Anthropology commented that "We have a number of reports of this mythical ability to tap a fountain of youth, but isolation and language problems have hindered any attempt to locate such a phenomenon.  Should you decide to undertake a further search, under your own auspices, we would be most interested in reviewing your report."  I'll bet you would! Some months and a few thousand miles later I was perched on the knobbley back of Pedrocito.  An unusually intelligent burro, he understood Spanish quite fluently and was rapidly acquiring a rudimentary knowledge of barrack-room English.  In addition, he had displayed a sense of humour, albeit some what satanine.  For nearly a week we had been making our solitary way towards the blue foothills of the mighty Andes that reared their snow caps to the heavens in the far distance.  I had been offered the services of a guide / interpreter, but of those that I met, most would guide me from tavern to tavern and all of them would have robbed me blind in the first three days.  As to interpreting, from bitter experience I had learned that most of them would tell you only that which they thought you wanted to hear.  So Pedrocito and I started our journey alone, even though we had been treated to harrowing stories of Banditos, the Federale Militia and assorted miscreants that preyed upon the solitary traveler.  So far neither of us had seen a thing.  Village succeeded village, each one almost a carbon copy of the one before.  Dried out, wizened women draped in black sitting at their doorways, spinning, weaving or making lace.  So apathetic that they seemed not have the energy to gossip, or even to raise their heads to look at the passing stranger.  Scruffy children played in the dust and spavined dogs competed with pigs and goats for scraps of garbage strewn along the roadside.  An air of desolation hung over the place.  The village square boasted one, or two cantinas where the men congregated and played a game that resembled 'Go Fish", with greasy cards.  Rheumy eyes, appalling, corroded teeth and exposed skin tanned to wrinkled leather, made it obvious that these villages did not enjoy the benefits of a "Fountain of Youth".   A fact confirmed by a quick look at the pitiful little cemeteries.  The average life expectancy was in the order of forty five to fifty years. After almost a month of traversing an arid plain, during which time not one motor vehicle had passed, in fact the number of other travelers encountered could be counted upon one hand.  The occasional herd of llamas in the distance was often the only proof that we were not alone in this world.  The scenery suddenly changed.  The cart track we had been following ended abruptly, where the carts went to is still a mystery. Firstly, low bushes and cactus gave way to stunted trees, the hawks and vultures were replaced by small song birds and rustlings in the under brush announced the presence of other living beings.  Two days along the goat track that had replaced the cart wheel ruts, Pedrocito had visibly brightened, he tiptoed along with his head up and his ears erect, sniffing the breeze laden with the scents of heather and other flowering plants.  His girl friend, Juanita, a pretty little burrita who carried our worldly goods, also had a spring in her step.  But anything that made Pedrocito happy was alright by her.  At night they slept together, a tangle of ears, legs and tails, oblivious to the world. We spent the night camped in the lee of a large rock that jutted out into the trail.  In the morning the scent laden breeze carried another passenger, the sound of a distant church bell.  It can't be said that the two animals actually helped to break camp, but, unlike their usual practice of dancing about and being obstructive, they moved from bundle to bundle, at least easing the strain on my back.  Once around the rock, we could see the source of the sound.  About five hundred feet above us and less than a half days journey away, was a small town that seemed to twinkle in the clear cool air.  Within an hour, the track had joined an acceptable road that ran across the face of the hill.  With the change of surface, Pedrocio decided on a change of pace and was off at an ungainly gallop.  The donkey is designed to be ridden at the walk, never any faster than a trot, at the gallop, it becomes excruciatingly painful.  Fortunately, Juanita didn't like this change of pace either and made it abundantly clear.  After considerable argument, in Spanish, English and Burro, we settled down into a much more dignified trot.  The sun was high by the time we arrived at the edge of the town.  There were no wizened crones spinning by the doorways, Church bells, it must be Sunday, that could explain it.  There was no garbage, no pigs, no goats, a couple of dogs came to bark at us, one had the temerity to snap at Juanita's heels, it is doubtful if he will do that again.  The village square was similar to all the others with the exception that there was a large shade tree in the centre.  The burros found a patch of shade with a running water trough, conveniently close to the cantina.  They needed a drink and I could use a cup of coffee, or even a cold beer.  At first glance the place was deserted.  Sounds from the church at the far end of the square confirmed that it was Sunday.  A splash of water from the trough and I sat down under the awning in front of the cantina to wait.  I didn't have long to wait, I had hardly stretched the kinks out of my back before a waitress was at my side.  A typical example of the Indio descendent of the Incas, short and stocky, but there the resemblance ended, those that I had seen before, were scruffy, shuffling individuals, to whom a good bath and a meal would do no harm.  This one was striking, not beautiful, in my eyes, but from the top of her raven black shiney hair, twinkling eyes and perfect teeth, to her smooth, copper coloured skin, she was an excellent example of a forty year old native woman.  Yes, she was striking.  "A beer, if you please."  "We do not have any."  "Coffee?"  "No."  She was carrying a large earthenware stein which she placed on the table before me.  The contents looked wet and cold.  A tentative sip, followed by a good swallow, confirmed both.  The taste was definitely lemon, or some similar citrus, modified by another herb or herbs.  The first sensation was that of an angry dog attacking my parched mouth and throat, within moments the feeling changed to an after taste redolent of honey and wild flowers.  By the time that I had drained the mug, I felt like a new man.  I sat back thinking how nice a cigarette would be at this juncture, but I had run out of tailor-mades ten days back and nothing would induce me to set fire to the abominations available in the villages I had passed through.  "Are you hungry?"  Her Spanish was heavily accented, but comprehendable.  "What is this?"  I asked indicating the empty mug.  "Pamawahl."  That didn't help much.  Within minutes the waitress was back with a glazed earthenware tray, with compartments arranged around a central bowl, like the petals of a flower.  Each compartment contained a quantity of assorted vegetation and the bowl received a sauce or dip.  Separate dishes carried a coarse bread, pickled germinated corn kernels and a soft cheese, rather like a greek feta, not surprising as they were both made from goats milk.  No utensils were made available, so this was a "fingers before forks" society.  Since I was here on a research project, I might as well start researching.  The sauce / dip proved to be a powerful mixture of horseradish, garlic, macerated cucumber and sour cream.  Most of the other dishes were recognizable, but what had happened to them was not.  Even so they were in the most part delicious, I have no doubt that, in time, a taste could be acquired for the rest.  Accompanied by another mug of pamawahl, it was a very satisfying meal.  Halfway through, the church service ended and a herd of youngsters surged past, some still in their choristers vestments, followed more decorously by the town matrons, most in the colourful local dress, but a few swathed in black, although none of them seemed to be much over fifty-five to sixty years old, most were a lot younger.  The stream of men following seemed to be split by the shade tree, one group making it's way to the tables and chairs surrounding me.  A nod of greeting was all that I got from those passing my table.  A covert look around at the men and remembering the women that had passed, late fifties to sixty seemed to be the maximum age of these villagers.  Although far healthier and more contented, their life span was about the same as the pampas villagers.  So much for a Fountain of Youth.  While I ate, the other tables were involved in a complicated board game that required much slapping of the table and stamping of feet.  From where I sat, it looked like a cross between chess and backgammon.  Later I learned that it dated back to the Inca Empire and the murderous Spanish rogues, later beatified as Conquistadores.  I sat back more than replete, had a satisfying burp and again missed the post-prandial pleasure of a cigarette.  I noticed that no one around me was smoking.  A twinge of conscience made me look across the square to my travailing companions, they were both contentedly chowing down on some fresh hay laced with their favourite scotch type thistles.  Someone had even had the courtesy to take the load off the back of la Juanita and the padding off the back of Pedrocito. I was more than half asleep, when a shadow blocked out the sun.  "Good day, sir.  Is there anything we can do to help you?  We rarely get visitors here."  I forced one eye open.  "My name is Jorje."  His Spanish was heavily accented, but comprehensible.  I had successfully convinced myself that my search was either a debacle, or at best, not to be concluded in this village.  I had just decided to say that I was just passing through, when Jorje changed my mind by asking, "Which University I was from, Lima, Bogota, or Quito?"  I denied association with any centre of learning and that my inquiries were purely on my own behalf.  Surely, my lack of fluency and mixture of Mexican and Castillian Spanish made that obvious.  I realized that the chatter had subsided, the games abandoned and chairs had been shuffled into a semi-circle in front of me.  What's to loose?  I launched into a recantation of the events that had brought me here.  From time to time the query "Que?"  gave me respite, whilst what I had said was transposed into a language that seemed to be composed of a series of "L's", "H's", "X's" and long drawn out vowels.  Often, too often, these breaks were met with chuckles, once or twice, outright guffaws of laughter.  I ended with the observation that the life span of these villagers was little different from that of the pampas villagers.  No more then fifty-five to sixty-five years.  In Spanish, Jorje asked the audience if anyone had reached fifty-five?  A young man in his early thirties, stood and said that he thought that he was just over fifty-two.  Would that do?  Alright, pull my leg, I had asked for it.  I was busily engaged in composing a suitable reply, when the waitress came out to collect the dishes and announce that she was closing for siesta.  Jorje asked her, in Spanish so that I would understand that there was no collusion, "Trilja, how old are you?"  With a tiny blush, she replied, "I shall be sixty-eight in two weeks."  Jorje looked me straight in the eye and said, "I was ninety-four, two months ago".  Jorje rose and said, "we rarely get visitors and those we have, we don't encourage to stay, so we have no hotel.  I have had your gear moved to my house and your animals to the stables.  My family would be honoured if you would stay with us for as long as your research takes.  Anyway, you look as if a quiet siesta would be welcome."  A short walk brought us to a door in an otherwise unbroken wall, up some stairs into a dimly lighted room.  Both my stomach and my mind had so much to digest that I had only enough time to remove my outer clothing and boots before my head hit the pillow and I was asleep. I was awakened, much refreshed, by a small boy delivering a jug of hot water.  I took stock of my surroundings.  The furnishings were spartan to the point of being sparse, in fact I have seen more lavishly furnished monastic cells.  My clothes and boots had disappeared, to be replaced by the baggy pantaloons favoured by the villagers, a beautifully embroidered serape and sandals.  I must admit that the whole costume was remarkably comfortable.  A small girl tapped on the door, "Dinner is serve-ed, Senhor." and she was off, covered in confusion and girlish giggles.  Dinner was indeed served, in the courtyard.  The house was a two story building around three sides of a courtyard or atrium.  The third side was the wall pierced only by the entry door.  The shadows had lengthened into full dusk, the courtyard was lighted by torches in sconces set in the pillars supporting the upstairs balcony and lanterns burning an aromatic oil.  The heavy wooden table was flanked by backless wooden benches.  The adult family was assembled by the time I arrived.  The children had been fed and bedded, leaving eight adults, four of each sex, plus me.  Jorje's wife, Rehevah, a charming woman apparently in her early sixties, in actuality, eighty-one years old, her daughter and two daughters in law, loaded the table with earthenware tureens and dishes, finally, two platters bearing whole fish, one, a gigantic animal that looked like a catfish, at least two feet long.  The other of equal size was of the carp family, judging by the scales.  Various vegetables, some recognizable, most not, both hot and cold were available.  The sauce / dip of horseradish, garlic etc. was served, as was the pickled germinated corn and the round loaves of bread.  Mugs of a different drink, Pamaracht, had the angry dogs on a leash and tasted like a cold mulled mead.  The family table manners would most definitely not have passed muster with Emily Post, but there was a definite pecking order.  Mother, Father, Me, the three boys according to age, then the three girls.  The only utensils available were beautifully carved obsidian spoons, used only to transfer food from the dishes to the plate.  Each spoon was carved with an individual cypher and restricted to one bowl.  I noticed that, like the French, only one dish was eaten at a time, there was no particular order, the only dishes mixed with another were the pickled corn, the sauce / dip and bread.  I also noted that only the right hand was use to convey food to the mouth, in the Arab manner, probably a habit learned from the 'mercantores', many of whom were Moors, dispatched by the Spanish Government to tabulate the treasures plundered by Pisaro and his band of villans.  That evening, I made no attempt to analyse the food I ate.  I just pigged out and enjoyed it.  While the women cleared the table, the men relaxed with glasses of hot green tea, redolent of mint.  "Helps the digestion" commented Jorje.  I had a feeling that I was going to need it.  Good nights were said by the women, I glanced at my watch, an action that generated grins on the faces of the younger men, it was close to eight thirty.  Again, I had little difficulty in falling asleep. The following morning I was awakened by the most unusual noise.  A long drawn out grunt about every ten seconds.  It was just after dawn, but I swung my legs out of bed anyway, feeling far more refreshed than I had in many a year.  Looking over the balcony into the courtyard below, I saw the entire family performing their morning calisthenics.  It was fascinating, an exercise very reminiscent of the Chinese ti chee, they would perform five movements, at the end of each movement they would exhale making the grunting sound.  At the end of five movements they executed five clockwise pirouettes, then another five ti chee movements, this went on for about twenty minutes.  Done in unison, it was quite beautiful.  So engrossing was it that for a while I was unaware that the entire family was stark naked.  Obviously, modesty was not held in high esteem, I wondered what the Mother Church thought about that.  At the end Jorje looked up, "Morning, sleep well?  Come and join us for shower."  I am not cursed by an over active sense of modesty, but the idea of parading my paunchy, pale pink torso with these copper coloured demi-gods, gave me a little pause.  I needed a shower and now was as good a time as any, so down I went.  The shower room was as spartan as everything else.  Just a series of pipes running across the ceiling spraying water, icy cold water on the bathers beneath.  Everybody was having a wonderful time, except me.  I could hardly breathe.  My pale pink paunch rapidly turned pale blue and I began to feel like a perambulating popsicle.  A coarse but very efficient towel soon restored the circulation and my well being.  As I watched the family happily cavorting about in the icy water, I realized that the men had very little body hair.  I hadn't seen one of the drooping mustachios so beloved by the peasant of the pampas.  Where as the women sprouted luxurious growths of hair in their armpits and a thick mat of pubic hair.  Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice and so did I.  Clean pantaloons and a less ornate serape had been laid out for me, so off to breakfast.  This meal was taken on the run, as in so many "civilized" households, the children were packed off to school, the adults to their various jobs, I was left to my own devices.  After a couple of glasses of green tea, without the mint, bread and fruit and a honey and ginger dip, I looked closely at the fruit.  Lemons the size of pigeons eggs, oranges no larger than an oversized golf ball, both of which were eaten thin skin and all.  Softball sized, quite tasteless melons, the ginger dip helped immeasurably, Oversweet grapes with a skin like kevlar and a funny shaped but very tasty fruit, possibly of the pawpaw family.  Gigantic tomatoes were also, quite rightly considered fruit.  How fruit like this could be grown 3,000 feet up in the foothills of the Andes, was a mystery.  I was just about to leave when Rehvah handed me a small leather wine sack and the admonition not to drink the water, rubbing her stomach and pantomiming vomiting.  Montezuma was working overtime when he took out his revenge on the natives too.  Firstly, I wanted to see how my two traveling companions were faring.  The Animal Shelter was not difficult to find, just inside the entrance arch, up against the town wall.  Just inside was a loose box, currently the home of Pedrocito and Juanita.  As soon as he saw me Pedrocito was up against the fence, neck stretched out, ears straight up, telling me in great detail all that had happened to them both.  Juanita stood still, her head slightly to one side and a look in her eyes that I have rarely seen in the eyes of young ladies with whom I have spent a night.  All the braying brought a custodian at the run, he introduced himself as the Caretaker of the Animals and he was the first "elderly" man I had seen, greying hair, a few wrinkles and loose skin, he looked about my age.  Even so, I had just seen him run well over a hundred yards, yet he wasn't even breathing heavily.  I would have been out of breath just thinking about it.  His name was almost unpronounceable, some thing like Tixtarchi, but since his Spanish was far worse than mine conversation was limited to mime.  Firstly, he showed me five families of pigs, each in it's own spotlessly clean sty, then a loose box with twenty-five to thirty burros, one of which, to its obvious pleasure, was being vigorously curried by one of the custodians.  On to the maternity wing, where a dozen llamas were chewing their cud and looking superciliously down their collective noses.  One had already had her calf and would be going back out on the range within a week.  Another one decided to perform a natural function, no sooner had she finished than a girl popped out from behind a pile of straw with a brush and a bucket of water, within seconds everything had been flushed away through a grating.  The whole place was immaculate.  We finished the tour at the living quarters at the back of the compound.  There I was introduced to the courtesy ritual, first he produced a wine sack, identical to mine, lifted it above his face about twelve inches away and squirted a drink straight into his mouth, bulls eye.  Then he handed the flask to me, nothing to it, the first shot was a bulls eye, only the eye was mine.  Second shot found its mark, it was cold green tea just like mine.  Now for the acid test, but how did I ask him how old he actually was?  I asked him bluntly and all I got was a blank stare.  The llama girl, who just "happened" to be passing said "On the feast day of St. Martino he says he was one hundred and twenty-nine years old.  I think he is a bit older than that, so do some others.  But Tixtarchi is a vain man."  With that gem of information she walked away.  On the way out, as I passed their loose box, Pedrocito was busily nibbling on Juanita's neck, he desisted long enough to give me a couple of snickers and to wiggle his ears in a very suggestive manner, then go back to what ever he was doing.  I had no reason to worry about my two lovebirds, they were in very capable hands. I walked through the arch and down the slope towards the road.  Coming towards me was a cart loaded with hay pulled by two well groomed burros.  I decided not to interrogate the middle aged man walking beside the animals.  I was still having difficulty accepting that a man twice my age could bounce around like a boy half my age.  "Daaaaz." obviously a corruption of the Spanish greeting, Buona Dias.  He lifted his tea flask in enquiry, I waved mine in reply.  "The courier comes in three days." he looked up and down the road, "By the grace of God, no sign of the Federales."  This seemed to be as much a ritualistic performance as the offering of refreshment.  I though that "Praise be." was appropriate so I said it.  He agreed and with a nod of his head he caught up with the burros.  It wasn't until I looked back, that I realized that the cart carried not only hay, but baskets of fruit.  Not to worry, there will be plenty of opportunity to pursue that line of enquiry.  I stood for awhile looking out over the pampas, I could see tiny dots that was probably a herd of llamas, I thought I could see the cart track I had followed, even in the haze the last village I had passed through.  The thought that I had to make that journey again didn't inspire me one bit. I turned back through the arch, but took the right hand branch around the shade tree and there almost in the same position was the second cantina.  A mug of pamawahl would have gone down well, right then, but I had no money on me, in fact I didn't have any pockets to put money in.  This fact didn't even suggest or hint at the fact that these people didn't use money.  So I kept on walking.  Sitting at a table were four men all of whom showed flecks of grey in their hair, one was as grey as I was.  It was this one who rose and called "Daaaz, would you do us the honour of joining us?"  Without the accent he spoke excellent Spanish.  Names were exchanged, I noticed that the annoying habit of shaking hands, so beloved by western civilizations was not practiced here.  Mugs were refilled and raised in salute, I took a good draught and nearly died, the angry dog had brought along a pack of his friends.  This was real fire water.  After my eyes had stopped running and the burning had given way to the pleasant after taste, I realized that my companions were not laughing not even smiling, in fact they looked most contrite.  "You thought that this is pamawahl?"  I nodded there wasn't enough throat left to speak.  "Oh no, this is pamatexchul, you only sip it."  Now he tells me.  A glass of goats milk put things back into perspective.  "You have met Tixtarchi, the Animal Caretaker?"  I nodded, "How old did he claim to be this time?"  "One hundred and twenty-nine, but the girls said that this was an underestimate."  "More likely an over estimate, he is actually only one hundred and eighteen.  We keep very accurate records.  We have to, we are the Healers, that is why we can sit around during the day time."  This was more like it, they should know, if anybody could, why everyone lived so long.  His next remark made me gasp almost as much as the drink.  "About a year ago, we suffered an epidemic that killed over fifty of the children and we were powerless to do anything about it."  This really shocked me.  "But you are Medical Practitioners, couldn't you get help from the Federal Medical System?"  "Firstly, we are not Doctors, in the old days we would have been called priests, we only have a knowledge of herbs and few useless incantations, secondly, the nearest clinic with one doctor and a couple of nurses is nearly one hundred and fifty miles away.  As to the Federales, we keep as far away from them as possible.  Remember we have no electricity, telephone or television.  We do have a radio but the Feds only answer us if and when they feel like it, or when they themselves want something."  I had a nasty feeling that some how these people had the wrong idea about me and were going to ask questions, the answers to which, I had less than a nodding acquaintance.  "We had a similar outbreak about twenty years ago, with similar results."  My train of thought was broken by two clangs of the church bell.  "Ah, mid-day, lunch time."  The cantina rapidly filled, most of the men showed flecks of grey in their hair and that there were two distinct physical types, there was the moonfaced Indio, with a wide nose and there was a much leaner type with much narrower features, more European and with skin a dozen shades lighter than the Indios and the aquiline nose associated with the Incas and the patrician Castilian.  What did intrigue me was that there didn't seem to be an intermediate type.  As if there was a taboo against interbreeding.  Lunch consisted of bowls of tortillas, reminiscent of the homogenised corn chips offered for sale in my local Supermarket and unleavened bread, the staple diet of the middle east.  These breads were used to shovel the contents of the two large communal bowls directly to the mouth.  The tortillas were used on the bowl containing a hot cheese based concoction and the small bread was restricted to the bowl of macerated fruits.  All washed down with draughts of mint tea.  Again, clearly reminiscent of the Arab way of life.  Two more clangs of the church bell and lunch was over.  A surreptitious glance at my watch showed that exactly thirty minutes had passed since the lunch break began.  How these people could tell time so exactly was still a mystery.  I had seen no sign of a clock or a watch, not even an hour glass since I had arrived.  Repleat and more than ready for the prospect of a quiet siesta, my hopes were dashed by the first question.  "If we recount the behaviour of the dying children, can you tell us what to do when there is the next outbreak?"  Right then, I fervently wished that I had paid more attention to the lectures on pediatrics that I had attended close to twenty five years before.  Just another addition to my ever growing list of 'things I wish I had done when I had the chance'.  I asked for a few sheets of paper and a pencil to take notes.  "We don't have any writing materials.  Our records are purely oral."  One of the little serving girls ran to Jorjes house to collect my note pad.  I was determined not to form an opinion before I had heard the whole story.  Three hours later, I had six pages of scribbles detailing every twitch, cough, sneeze and burble covering practically every one of the unfortunate children taken in each of the epidemics.  One hour into this raccontage, a single tone of the church bell signified the end of the post prandial siesta. My nervous habit of fidgeting with my reading glasses seemed to fascinate my companions, then I realised that it wasn't the fidgeting but the glasses themselves that intrigued them.  Since they had no written records, I jumped to the erroneous conclusion that they didn't read, therefore would have no need of visual assistance.  More to gain respite from the flood of information than anything else, I passed my spectacles to the older of the Healers, whom I had named Fred, a close approximation of his real name, to satisfy his curiosity.  Using them to look at the cover of my note book, then without, again with, then without, he passed them to his associates.  An excited gabble of the local language suggested that these people were not perfect, that they too suffered from presbyopia, the long sight of the elderly.  I began to wonder what other imperfections they harboured.  Myopia? Diabetes? Cardiopathy?  What actually killed them and when? First, I had to try and determine what killed the children.  I sat in the peace and quiet of Jorjes guest room, a cool jug of pamawahl at my elbow and a monumental task on the table before me.  A quarter of a century ago, as a diagnostician I was a first class darts player and that was with all the contemporary hospital gadgets to help me.  Now all I had was the questionable memories of a group of untrained observers to complement my little more than nodding acquaintance with childhood diseases.  The more I looked, the less of a pattern could I see.  Even if I could solve this riddle, I failed to see how it would advance my search for the "Fountain of Youth".  Nor, for that matter, would a name be of much help if and when there is another outbreak. In the middle of dinner, I asked the question that I should have asked at the outset.  "Were there any survivors?"  Answer, "Yes, one was sitting across the table from me, another was asleep upstairs."  Now the problem arose.  How to pose the questions and understand the answers in a language with which neither of us was overly familiar.  Reminiscent of pulling teeth from a starving chicken, a picture was beginning to appear.  Both of these youngsters, one from each epidemic, recounted similar symptoms which matched the symptoms displayed by some of the fatalities of both outbreaks.  My hunch centred on Asian Influenza, but although Influenza is a killer, it is not selective.  It would run through such a closed community like wildfire.  Instead it wreaked havoc on the children and only the children.  Not one of the infected children had reach their thirteenth year.  In addition, there were symptoms not generally associated with the Influenza virus.  Could I be jumping to the conclusion that, because all of the children were sick at the same time, only one disease was responsible?  I winnowed my notes into three separate categories, there could have been at least three different diseases, Influenza, something that reminded me of Diphtheria and a third, which was so virulent that those infected lasted no more than three to four days and none survived.  What had caused it, I had no idea.  It wasn't until some years later that I concluded that it could have been infection of E, coli 0159.  Unrecognised at the time, there is still considerable question as E. coli infection is related to unsanitary, slipshod butchering practices.  An unlikely state of affairs in a primarily vegetarian society.  All this was very clever, but it didn't even suggest how the children contracted the diseases, why there was a gap of close to twenty years, why only the children were affected, why a few lived, but most died.  Tritely, I was back to square one, maybe I had a name, or names for the miscreants and fat lot of good that was.  What were the kids doing a week to ten days before the outbreak?  "Taking part in the annual berry harvest on the hill slopes above the village.  I remember that those were the years when the harvest was decimated by an unusually early flock of small birds."  There was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.  My suspicions still didn't answer the question.  "Why only the children were affected?"  Logically, the berry harvest would be served to the whole community.  "Yes and No, these berries are used in a sort of religious ceremony, a kind of right of passage, dating back to the days of the Incas.  The fruit must be harvested by pre-adolescents, then it is cooked with herbs, fermented and then fed to thirteen year olds during their week of fasting and meditation.  No one else would have access to it."  Washed, cooked and then fermented, that alone would kill any bugs and viruses.  I had a quick flash of a group of children picking berries, putting as many berries in their mouths as they did in the baskets.  A flock of small birds, probably starlings or their kin.  Well known as scavengers and carriers of disease, the starlings could have been the root cause of the whole nasty business. A thought was buzzing around in the back of my mind.  Could this 'right of passage' ritual and the berry concoction be the opening gambit in this pursuit of longevity?  The triggering of an improved immune system and the slowing of the aging process? I could foresee, with some trepidation, an involved explanation of pathogens and other toxic substances, a clear example of the blind leading the blind, but happily, these people weren't totally ignorant of the basic tenents of medical practice.  In fact, I was rather suprised that they hadn't reached the same conclusion as I had.  My next trick was to weedle, delicately and diplomatically the recipe for this sacred and therefore probably secret potion. I spent most of the next day concocting and rejecting various complicated scenarios to gain insight into this sacred elixir.  Having spent so many years in the paranoid atmosphere of academe, it never occurred to me that all I had to do was ask. After the morning grunt and twist session, a leisurely breakfast and my normal visit to the two lovebirds in the animal compound, I was feeling distinctly more human than usual.  I was approached by a young man, who in excellent Castilian Spanish asked if I would follow him to the "store".  I say young man, in fact he could have been any where between eighteen and forty.  I learned later, that he was in fact thirty five.  He led me to a door in an otherwise blank wall adjacent to the church.  Behind this door was a herbarium that would have made Brother Cadfael, a 13th. century Benedictine monk, herbalist and apothecary, green with envy.  In the open area in the centre was ordered row upon row of containers in which were growing various species of herb, some of which I recognised, most I didn't.  I was met by the healer Frank and, much to my chagrin, my guide disappeared. (to be continued…)