Occasionally a wild llama would watch the vehicle’s progress from atop a chunky outcropping of rock and once, a huge bird that might have been an Andean condor floated over the Rover two hundred feet up. But the big bird suddenly swerved off and flew at speed toward the north, almost as if it were frightened.

Gradually, the rugged four-by-four navigated a final hairpin turn, crested a small hill, and slowed to a stop at the sight of a rustic high-altitude potato farm that spread out across the slopes. Miles to the east, two giant snow-topped mountains capped off the highest points of the range, looming over the farm like overseers measuring progress.

The farmer, who was something of a local legend, was famed for the sheer breadth and depth of the varieties of potato seeds he stewarded and grew throughout his life. Here in the birthplace of the potato, Julio Hyncho was widely regarded as the Potato King. Seventy years of age, he still worked a full day, every day, all year long, although it got harder each year to keep up with the toils and labor. This day, he lifted his head to note the arrival of strangers. He had lived at this remote farm all his life, but he still recognized a government vehicle. Nothing good came out of those vehicles.

The driver’s door opened and a familiar figure got out. Another Julio, Julio Valez, a friend from lower altitudes, one who often acted as a translator for the Potato King, who only spoke his native Quechua and almost none of the wider-spread Spanish used in the lowlands.

The front passenger door produced a Peruvian military officer, which tempered the joy of seeing Julio. But it was the rear passenger seats that brought the biggest puzzle. First out was a striking woman, dressed in what Julio knew was modern, likely expensive clothing, with hair that was almost white. A young man, tall and thin, slipped out after her, his brown hair messy but his blue eyes bright and interested as he took in the farm and the surrounding vista. Young people weren’t unknown to Julio Hyncho; his farm had hosted American students conducting sustainability studies on multiple occasions, so their appearance was not shocking to the old farmer. It was the military officer’s body language that caught Julio’s attention. The middle-aged soldier was obviously of high rank but he was completely cowed by the young couples’ presence.

Julio Valez called out to him, greeting him in Quechua, his tone excited. “Julio, my friend, I have brought you important visitors.”

“Along with the government,” Julio Hyncho replied.

“No worries, my friend. He is assigned by the highest levels to insure our guests are well and smoothly taken care of. They carry credentials of such weight that I thought my shadow here might offer them his own home and family.”