Cusco, Peru: My Medicine Man
By Craig Hysell

Sitting in a cramped travel office in the middle of the South American summer is as comfortable as it sounds. Outside there is the constant bustle of passers-by and the endless whirling of honking traffic. Inside there is me and Oscar Sr., the father of my tour guide. It’s also getting hot. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m nervous or because it’s actually hot. I am stuck staring silently at the man who has summoned me here to talk with him.

During my week in Cusco, unbeknownced to me, I was being watched. Oscar Sr. has seen something in me, and now he wants to discuss it. As a general rule when traveling, I don’t mess with local women, steal or walk down dark alleys alone. I know I haven’t done anything wrong. At least I think I know. Maybe I don’t know. It is hot.

Oscar Sr. is an unassuming man. He is short, in his early fifties and seems to like soccer. I have deducted this having seen him wearing nothing but soccer jerseys since I have been in Cusco. Yet, upon really looking at him, things change. His shoulders are young and capable; his charcoal eyes are soothing and powerful. Oscar Sr. is the kind of guy that walks when everybody else runs. Oscar Sr. is also a descendant of a line of Incan medicine men.

In my broken, awful Spanish I begin by thanking him for seeing me.  I feel as if I should be saying something, but I am at a loss for cohesive sentences. He lets me prattle on for a moment while smiling at me. Then he starts speaking in perfect English for the first time since I have known him. That sly son of a bitch.  I admire him even more.

He asks me if I have had a troubled past, if anybody close to me has died recently, if I have been involved in drugs or if I fight often.  I have had friends and family die, but not recently. I don’t do drugs, and the only reason I have been in a number of fights is because I spend some time bartending.

Oscar Sr. tells me I am sad. He tells me I have a good heart, but something is weighing me down. He asks if I would be willing to let him help me. I don’t hesitate. I have come to Peru looking for a moment like this—for some kind of clarity. I quickly answer yes.

If I was going to find answers, not knowing what answers I was looking for, they were as likely to be here as anywhere.

At 11,207 feet Cusco nestles itself in a valley in the Andes mountains. The Urubamba River thunders its way over and around house-sized boulders as it snakes its way through deep gorges and across succinct valleys. Beyond the city lights, Cusco's night sky bristles with wispy constellations of stars. Rolling mountains gracefully frame the city.  It’s easy to get lost here. By lost, I mean letting the focus of a daily grind drift toward existentialism and wonder. By lost, I mean finding your way home.

Oscar Sr. stands up and walks over to me. I have fifty pounds on him, but suddenly I feel very tiny. He asks me to trust him. My mind sighs, “what the hell,” that placating phrase all travelers tell themselves from time to time. At his request I shut my eyes. The last thing I see is Oscar Sr. grabbing three large black feathers. I can only assume from what I know of the region that they have come from a condor. The woman who has just entered the office to inquire about Machu Picchu stops talking. Oscar Sr.’s wife steps outside. That other phrase that travelers ask themselves from time to time pops into my brain, “What the hell am I doing?”

I remain seated; my feet are flat on the floor; my palms are flat on my thighs. I am asked to take three deep breaths. I do. I feel Oscar Sr. wave the condor feathers over me. I begin to relax. After a short time Oscar Sr. grunts. He has found his answer.

“You lack love,” he says to me. 

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