He took out a box and handed out whistles. He watched as every member of the group, from Roth to each of the cameramen, draped the orange whistles over their heads. “Do not take the whistle off. Not tonight. Not any other night. You are my responsibility,” he said, finishing up. “And no one is going to get hurt or bloody dead. Not on my watch.”

≈

The restaurant, Café Banais, was three blocks from the hotel. It was 8:30 p.m., and the place was a third full. The expedition team pushed two of the small wooden tables together to make room for the seven of them. Three of the team had opted out of dinner: Lieutenant Goytia, who would be rejoining the expedition on Wednesday with a small group of Bolivian soldiers; Libby, whose altitude sickness had lessened because of Andy’s pills, but who said the bathtub and room service were calling her name; and Bernita Capobianco, who wanted to spend the night with her children before heading into the jungle for twelve days.

Andy took his seat next to Nathan Buxton. After shooting some B-roll footage of the restaurant, Sean and Darnell took the two seats across from Andy. Bolivian chief of archaeology Alejándro Cala was seated to Andy’s right, at the end of the table, and already in a heated conversation with Sean about futbol versus American football. And at the other end of the table sat Jonathan Roth and, to his left, Farah Karim.

Their waiter was a young Bolivian girl in a pressed shirt and tan skirt. She took their drink orders, which for the majority, including Andy, was a Paceña, a beer brewed locally with Andean water.

Drinking alcohol was a surefire way to get altitude sickness, but if it hadn’t hit Andy by now, he was probably in the clear. Plus, he didn’t want to be the only one not imbibing.

The beers came, and the entire table cheered.

“To Paititi!” Roth shouted. “We’re coming for you, you son of a bitch.”

The whole table erupted in laughter.

“You know what?” Roth said. “Let’s do that again. This time on camera.” He pointed to Darnell and said, “Would you mind? Just on your phone.”

Darnell pulled out his phone, and they recreated the cheers.

“To Paititi! We’re coming for you, you son of a bitch.” [Cue laughter.]

Roth asked to do it, “Just one more time,” then the waitress delivered a plate of chips and salsa. If she hadn’t, Andy suspected they might have done twenty takes.

“So, you’re a professor of anthropology?” Buxton asked from the seat to his left. “At the University of Chicago, correct?”

“That’s right,” Andy said, choking down a chip loaded with salsa, then following it with a sip of beer. “An assistant professor, actually. I only have the winter and spring quarters under my belt.”

“How’d you like it?”