The Peruvian Andes: Someone Else’s God (cont.)

This is a culture where the idea of wilderness seemed to have no place. The Quechua people live heartily - farming, grazing, hunting, gathering—in even the harsh land of the high Andes. I don't think the Western schism between humans and nature has sunken in here. It doesn’t apply to their lifestyle. When your gods are the mountains that tower over you and feed the land that sustains you, western paradigms are obtuse.

Wandering through the Andes, I often recited a translation of a Quechua prayer that I found in a book:

Thank you, Pachamama,
because we feel your presence
dressed as a bird, a mountain, or a dawn.
Thank you for smiling at us through flowers of many colors.
Thank you because, in silence, you show us each nightfall.
Humility is the way to eternity.
Thank you for this wonderful opportunity.*

Pachamama is the Quechua equivalent of Mother Earth. These lines of worship and gratitude for her gifts resonate up here in the mountains.

Around the last big bend in the canyon, the towering sister of Nevado Ishinca: Tocllaraju, rises sharply above us, framed by the bowl of the valley. Another, shorter mountain sibling, Nevado Urus, creeps into view over the valley’s north wall.

We continue on, the afternoon sun stretching our shadows out on the trail before us. My legs appear abnormally long, the opposite of how they feel beneath the weight of my pack. Looking up, several cascades spill down the cliffs, draining the glaciers of new, unpronounceable peaks under which we trudge.

Three indigenas are wandering down the canyon flanks, their throaty language faintly rippling in the wind. My inability to understand their words allows the sounds they make to flow freely through my imagination.

The women are herding their alpacas down to lower altitudes, gathering herbs along the way. A seasoned arriero is coming down the trail, probably returning to the trailhead for another trip up tonight. The women's features are distinct—round and weathered faces with high cheekbones permanently blushed from the high-altitude elements.

Wildflower crowns are haloed around their black, braided hair, and their callused hands clutched bouquets of mountain herbs. They greet the arriero with easy laughter, and he explodes in animated gestures, waving arms at the sun, gesticulating joyfully. With shining eyes they watch us pass, seeming to see through us but offering a friendly gesture of acknowledgement nonetheless.

We continued on in silence, their music echoing up the valley. I long for a translation between our distinct experiences, our distant tongues, our dissimilar worlds, despite our common surroundings. There isn’t one.

Nevado Ishinca comes lumbering around the corner as the valley widens and the three peaks cock our heads skyward. "That's where we’re headed," I point to our lofty destination. As tired as I am, my muscles were eager to gain altitude; and my eyes are anticipating the soaring perch over these incredible Andes and the summit's boundless perspective. Miguel nodded, and we continued on. I pick a yellow flower from the trailside like the indigenas wore and secure it behind my ear. Smiling, I follow Miguel ambitiously into the shadow of someone else's god.

_____
*Chamulu, Luis Espinoza. The Gates of Paradise: Secrets of Andean Shamanism. Gateway Books, 1997.

Page 2 of 2   Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.