What is the mountain's name?" Don Domingo asks, in the Quechua language, from the back of the Ford Club Wagon.
Few other motorists on the New Jersey Turnpike this day are thinking about the names of rocks. With traffic crawling at 5 m.p.h., most of them are silently cursing the electric sign superfluously warning them to REDUCE SPEED, CONGESTION AHEAD or pondering the antacid ad on a barely rolling bus.
But Don Domingo, en route to Manhattan from a place in the Andean clouds, has other priorities. The "mountain" in question is a 20-ft.-high, graffitied roadside outcropping identical to dozens of...
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