A Good Day

A Good Day

By Katrina Heimark

Lima was a city of noises. It was a city of screeching tires, the rush of car horns and the rumbling of motorcycles. Papers and bags rustled in the salty wind that swept around buildings, alleys, and highways. The wail of trumpets, accompanied by promises of eternal love, poured over radio airwaves and seeped through car windows. Dogs, perched on rooftops, voiced their disapproval of the chaos passing by below them. Whistles escaped from the pursed lips of street vendors, taxi drivers, and even pedestrians as they tried, in this chaotic city, to capture anyone’s attention. 

A scraggly dog was oblivious to all this. His curly ashen fur added a fullness to that body that stature otherwise lacked. The dog’s pointy ears were folded over just slightly and extended much too far from the top of his head. Ears were his principal feature, but his modest snout was his best characteristic. It was long, but not too long, ending in small black button nose, which was covered in several scars. He was missing a few teeth, but few got close enough to notice. 

He was a strange looking dog—his back legs were so long that he leaned forward, as if he were walking downhill. His hips were slight; their bones protruded from his back, forming two small knobs right in front of the base of a bushy and busy tail erupt. His feet were disproportionately large, and his front legs were slightly curved inwards. He would sit down once and a while, to scratch a patch on his neck where had no longer had fur, and his tongue would hang out lopsidedly when he did. 

But had anyone ever really focused on his eyes, they would have seen a completely different dog. They would have seen inside those dark sparkling pools a sort of composure that was different from the sum of his uneven parts. They might have even seen a hint of kindness, a drop of loyalty, a hunger for reward. Maybe they would have seen a good dog.   

This morning found this lopsided dog busily trotting along a side street, while he approached the hustle and bustle of Lima traffic. 

“Toooodo Bolivar, Universitaaaaria, La Catoooolica, San Maaaarcos!”(1) Shouted the already hoarse cobradores,(2) their head and limbs protruding precariously from the bus as they tried to convince people to get on.  

As the dog approached Bolivar, he slowed. The traffic was intense at this hour, and he noticed. He turned the corner and weaved through students carrying backpacks, mothers taking their uniformed children to school, and many people with bags, briefcases and the occasional suit. He sniffed a few bags as he walked by; it was definitely time for breakfast. 

He smelled the sweet perfume of a jelly-filled roll in one small paper sack, and took just one moment too long to enjoy it.  WHAM! A hand slid into the back of his head, knocking open the eyes he had so carelessly allowed to close. “Perro cochino!"(3) bellowed a man! A knee slid into his ribs, and pushed him into a passer-by. The woman, in turn, lashed out at him with a stabbing heel. The dog whimpered loudly and galloped off before he could hear, or feel more threats. Had he been more alert, he might have even been able to grab that piece of breakfast after all.

He galloped off until he came upon a stop light. He paused, not because he was out of the man’s reach, but because he had looked toward the on-coming traffic. Cars and buses sped by with horns blaring; they all had to beat the light this morning. The dog sat down. Someone his age certainly knew how to gauge the noises of Lima. The light would change soon enough. 

Tires squealed and passengers lurched forward as the buses came to a halt. No one seemed to notice the dog quickly running to the median, following the university students as they crossed the road. The dog continued along, this time much faster. He knew where he could find an easy meal. 

Turning onto an obscure side street with graffiti espousing hatred caused by an upcoming election, he came upon a man in white. The man was short, like the dog, and was filling a large white cart with baked goods. Saliva dripped from the dog’s mouth as he sat down. 

“You’re a little later than usual, Chusco(4)…Let me see what I’ve got for you this morning.” The man rummaged around his cart, careful not to stain his white coat. His head was covered by a baseball cap with a municipality logo on it, and the back of the coat stated “Registered and Inspected by the Municipality of Pueblo Libre.”(5) He wiped his hands on his dirty blue jeans, and pulled a smashed empanada(6) out of a small bag. “Looks like I’ve found something,” he muttered. The man’s eyes sparkled as he threw the pastry to the dog; a smile protruded from underneath his long, skinny nose. Chusco gulped down his breakfast in one bite, turned, and wagged his tail in appreciation as he trotted off. He knew better than to ask for more.

**

The best place for lunch in this dog’s part of the city was in Plaza San Miguel. Not by those nice stores; he never had any luck getting compassion from anyone who shopped there. No, it was behind the plaza, in a seedier, run-down mall complex that he went for lunch. The workers at Chi Lau’s Chinese Restaurant always recognized him, and threw him scraps from the chicken or pork they were preparing. He always went before the lunch rush--it ensured him more scraps, less fights with other dogs, and maybe even a bowl of water. One day he was late, and only received a measly portion of day old rice. It had made him so thirsty he had never been late since. 

A young man was outside; thick hair tussled about a large forehead. He was thin, but well built; his tanned arms protruding from a dark colored shirt. He looked up at the dog as he moved the trash cans to the back door of the restaurant. “No food yet, Pulgoso"(7) he stated, laughing at the fact that he was talking to a dog. He smiled as he opened the door and disappeared inside. The dog sat attentively at the door; ears perked, mouth at the ready, reflexes tense. When the man didn’t return after a few minutes, the dog circled three times, and found a piece of cardboard to lie down on. He closed his eyes. 

Soon smoke began to billow from the chimney, and the smell of soy sauce, grilled pork, and fried rice filled the air. But it was the growls from a stocky black dog that woke him from his dozing. She was much bigger than he was, but he bared his teeth anyway--he was not about to lose his spot in the lunch line. He jumped up in a flash, ready to confront her. His hair stood on end in a futile effort to make himself look as big as possible. She wasn’t fooled. 

Her black coat was as black as her eyes, and she barked with a meanness that only hunger could provoke. She growled and stepped closer and closer, in an effort to steal his prime position next to the garbage cans. The dog began to bark--a low, deep rumble that emerged from his throat--this was his territory. She started for him--taking a snap at his neck. Barks exploded from his modest snout; the sound echoed off the concrete walls. 

The man opened the door to take out some trash. Pulgoso saw his opportunity. He backed as quick as lightening into the kitchen. As the door closed behind him, he shouted a triumphant “Guau Guau!”(8) back at his adversary. He licked his lips and turned, saliva dripping from his chin. The entire kitchen turned wide-eyed to stare. A dog was in their kitchen. A barking dog!

Before anyone had time to react, the dog jumped up onto the counter, reaching for every bit of food in sight. He scarfed down an entire chicken breast, a bowlful of thinly sliced pork, lapped up a watery substance with eggs, inhaled some vegetables and began to gnaw on a tough piece of beef, while evading the prying hands, the pokes and pulls from the men in the restaurant. He snapped back at them, showing his missing teeth; he was not about to get off that counter. 

The men were just then rushing for a broom when a high-pitched voice erupted from just inside the swinging kitchen door. “What is going on!?” The restaurant manager had rushed into the kitchen as fast as her little feet could carry her. Her faced turned darker and darker shades of red, as her eyes were as wide open as the size of the hard-boiled eggs that disappeared inside the dog’s mouth. “What the hell is a dog doing in my kitchen?!” She screamed, even louder. “Get! Him! Out!” She grabbed the nearest kettle lid and chucked it across the room at the dog. Pulgoso expertly dodged it. 

The man who had opened the door had since gotten a broom and began to sweep Pulgoso and the entire contents of the table onto the floor, in a desperate attempt to save his job and his reputation. He sure didn’t want to touch the dog, the combination of the fleas and the dog’s fierce hunger were overpowering. The woman’s screams became more intense, as the man’s efforts seemed more and more futile. “Get this dog out of here this second, or you will beg for scraps!” 

A loud whack on his curved rump sent the dog him flying off the counter. Pulgoso scurried around the room, avoiding the barrage of pans, lids, and the ceaseless thrashing of the broom. He inhaled the food that had fallen on the floor, grabbing at a pig’s foot just as he received a final push from the broom. His nose smacked into the closed back door. Before he could do anything about it, sunlight blinded him, and he was outside.

The enormous black dog was waiting for him, and stole the pig’s foot from right out of his mouth. Pulgoso didn’t mind. He was too busy ferociously wagging his tail as he loped away from the parking lot. He had gotten a great meal.

He slowed down as he reached another street, inspected the stationary traffic, and crossed by inching his way behind the motionless cars. He approached a park filled with shady trees, and found a nice sunny spot on the sidewalk. He sat down, panting, and surveyed the area. The food began to settle, and he lay down, closing his eyes as he stretched his legs. Every once and a while he would look up in a stupor; car horns or passing bicycles rousing him from his sleep. As he lay his head back down, his tail thumped the ground. So far, it had been a good day.

---

(1)The names of streets or locations along a bus route. The bus workers shout the names of the roads they drive down so the passengers know where the bus goes, as there are no maps of bus routes in Lima.

(2)A bus worker who collects the bus fare from the passengers already inside the bus. He/She is also in charge of shouting the bus route, as there are no signs or posted routes in the city.

(3) Dirty dog!

(4) A Peruvian word for Mutt.

(5) Many street food vendors are authorized by different Municipalities in order to reduce the amount of informal laborers in the country.

(6) A small pie, often filled with ground beef, egg, raisons, and onions.

(7) Flea-bitten dog

(8) The sound a Spanish speaking dog makes. It is very close to the Bow Wow of an English speaking dog.

CARLOS

Author - Larry J Pitman

Written by:    Larry J. Pitman

I first noticed Carlos one evening while I was out walking around Barranco, the district of Lima where I live. I saw him working outside the Mocha Graña Theatre a few blocks from my house. He was helping people park their cars in order to receive a tip. It is common in Lima to have men on the street earn money helping people park their cars. They guide you in and out of the parking space, and they hold up the traffic for you during the process. Usually they are wearing very casual clothing. These are street guys, and they look it. Carlos was different.

What originally caught my attention was how Carlos was dressed.  He had on a jaunty cap, khaki pants, a tweed sport coat, and, believe it or not, wore an ascot. On closer inspection it was all a bit shabby and definitely well used. Yet he looked far more distinguished than any other street person I had seen in Lima. That is just what intrigued me. I asked myself, “How does a guy who looks like that wind up parking cars for food money? He definitely looked out of place.

Carlos is probably in his fifties, tall and thin, with tousled gray hair and a well trimmed beard. I could see him as a waiter in a fancy restaurant or the doorman at an upscale apartment. He could pull it off with that elegant look.  Despite his appearance, I suspected that Carlos had some reason for being where he was, on the streets hustling.   I was intrigued, and I wanted an answer to that mystery. 

After that first encounter, I began to see him frequently. He was always on the street, and I would pass by, stop, and talk a little bit. We usually just exchanged pleasantries. Of course I was curious about his circumstances and tried to work in some questions regarding his past like where was his family and why he was working on the streets.
I believe that Carlos is a very proud person. Because of that quality, he never agrees to answer my questions. At any rate, I have not succeeded in getting his life story.

In my imagination all he really needs is for someone to pick him off the street, dust him off and he will start back on the straight and narrow. If only he gets that one break, it will change his life. I could be that one.  I could save him by giving him money and good advice.

Wait a minute!

I’m doing it again!

Maybe I don’t want to get his story. Maybe I would prefer to fabricate some fairly tale about a guy who has fallen on hard times, but comes from a distinguished family. For some weird reason, I always need to create these romantic stories. It has happened so often in the past. My mind flashed to all my past bitter disappointments:  the sadness at such waste, and the anger at their failure to do what I wanted them to do

 I gave them help: money, food, a place to live.  What did they do with it? Did they ever show any gratitude?

Have I been a fool once again?  Perhaps I have been mislead by the clothes that I saw him wear when I first met him. It made me think that he is something that he really isn’t. Do the clothes really make the man? Or is Carlos really just another drunken bum, living on the streets because he can’t make it anywhere else? A dirty, filthy bum.

He is a loser, loser, loser.

Why should I help him?

AN UNCONVENTIONAL RELATIONSHIP

Author: Rinda Payne

Written by: RINDA PAYNE

 A group from the United States had arrived at a small hotel in the Sacred Valley to spend a week learning about the spiritual traditions of the Incas as held by the Q’ero¹. Angela, an American, had joined the group from her home in Cusco.

On the last evening that the group was together, the Q’ero made a despacho² to the apus³. Each member of the group held three perfect coca leaves in a fan between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand. They solemnly blew their intentions into the leaves and handed them to a Q’ero who had started the despacho by spreading a white rectangular paper on top of a sacred weaving. He placed the coca leaves in a circle around the periphery of the white paper. Slowly and carefully, he took each item to be included in the despacho, blessed it and reverently placed it within the circle if coca leaves.

After the despacho was completed, it was burned. The flames and smoke ascended straight up into the sky, signaling a successful offering.

When only the glowing embers of the despacho remained, it was time for everyone to embrace and wish each other a safe journey home.

Everyone had hugged Angela except for one of the teachers. She looked for him. He was standing at a distance to her right. She was astonished to see a white mist exuding out of his body. Fascinated, she watched as he emitted more mist by twisting his body from side to side. When he had finished, the mist encircled him.

Angela was confident that he would approach her. She had watched him embrace everyone else. It would be her turn next.

While she was waiting for him, she remembered that earlier in the day she had asked him to be her teacher. He had shaken his head no, adding, “You do not need a teacher. You are a healer. You will heal many people in your lifetime.” How his words had pleased her!

The teacher went to Angela. As he put his arms around her and pressed her to him, her mind and her body entered a deep stillness. She was unable to hear, feel or think. She came to as he began to withdraw his body from her. She heard him whisper in her ear “...por la vida”⁴. She knew that he had whispered more words that she had been unable to identify.

He moved away from Angela and sat on a nearby bench. Angela noted that the mist around him had disappeared. She lingered where he had left her, marveling at how the boundaries of her physical body had vanished when his arms had surrounded her, wondering what “…por la vida” signified. She reluctantly cast aside her thoughts when she noticed the group was preparing to leave the area. She joined them as they strolled across the lawn of the hotel to their rooms in order to pack for their departure the next morning.

The following morning when Angela arrived in the lobby, she discovered that she had missed saying good-by to the teacher. He had departed five minutes earlier. In a flash, the memory came to her of a previous conversation with him. He had disclosed that he was able to hear messages sent to him by family members and friends who were separated from him by a distance.

She acted quickly. She called his name. She waited, feet glued to the floor, not knowing what to expect.

Suddenly the teacher entered the lobby, his black eyes gleaming. They faced each other across the room. Angela heard his voice in her head saying, “Come to me.” She hesitated, not able to distinguish whether the words came from him or her imagination. Again, she heard the words, “Come to me”. This time they were louder and clearer. No longer was she unsure of how to react. She ran to him to be wrapped in his arms for a final hug.

After Angela was home in Cusco, she began to work with the techniques that the group had learned. She used her mesa⁵. She arranged the special stones that she had collected on the kitchen table. In the Andean world, stones have consciousness. They can communicate, so she begged them to speak to her and to tell her their history.

Then one dark night she awoke. Her mesa was glowing on the bureau across from her bed. She was thrilled.

Another night when she went to bed, she placed her stones on her stomach, hoping that they would illuminate her body. She awoke as a voice declared, “You no longer need the stones to glow.” She was puzzled, never suspecting that it was the teacher who had spoken to her.   

The next night she rubbed her third eye⁶ with a stone. A picture of snow-covered apus with rainbows stretched across her forehead. She repeated the gesture, but nothing happened. She was perplexed.

It wasn’t until Angela sensed a presence, a filmy outline of a man whose shape and voice resembled the teacher, that she realized that the teacher was visiting her almost daily. He walked beside her through the streets of Cusco and while she moved around her apartment. He also appeared as a misty figure just as she was going to sleep. He helped her with some of the practices and answered her questions via dreams and pictures. He initiated entertaining activities. When he spoke to her, it was always in English.

She decided that the teacher had presented her with a succession of mysterious experiences before he made an appearance, which would startle her. She later confirmed how considerate he was when she had an upset stomach. He sat on the edge of the bed, felt her forehead, and advised her to sleep. When she complained that sleep was impossible, he murmured, “Look into my eyes.” She stared into them for only a few seconds before she was sound asleep.     

Once when Angela was caught in a violent hailstorm trying to make climb a steep street in Cusco, he materialized beside her. He instructed her to concentrate on Pachamama⁷ and to petition Pachamama for assistance so that she could walk without falling.

Angela saw him beside her as she rode in a bus. He urged her to center her attention on the woman in the seat in front of her and to share with him what was bothering the woman. The woman seemed calm and poised, but Angela detected that the woman was suffering from severe nervousness that she hid from everyone around her. The teacher complimented Angela. He added that the woman was en route to a clinic. She had a growth in her stomach.

Angela questioned the teacher about energy and the exercises she had learned. Questions such as: “How can I elevate my energy when I am depressed?” The answer came in the middle of the night. “MARCH”, each scarlet capital letter imprinting itself one-by-one across a black space just behind her forehead. In the morning, she jumped out of bed and began to march. She was excited to witness a surge of energy soaring through her body. It was such a useful and simple technique that she recommended it to her friends in the States.

Sometimes his answers came in pictures. “Let’s resume the conversation we had at the workshop about fear,” she suggested before bedtime. A picture flashed across her forehead of a woman, 40 years old, dancing in a ballet company, followed by a row of wagging tongues.

She immediately recognized what the pictures stood for. The ballet dancer had no fear. ”Fear prevents us from fulfilling our desires,” he had warned her at the workshop. The wagging tongues symbolized what many people are afraid of – what people say about them.

The teacher began to send her vivid dreams. Before a dream would arrive, the top of her skull would open and a light would go in her head. The dreams were so real that her eyes would be open, and the scenes would be projected on the dark canvas of the night.

The most beautiful dreams came in response to a question that Angela had asked the teacher about the importance of love. First, he sent her a dream of red hearts floating down through the sky.

On the second night, two stars, one above the other, melted together releasing cascades of golden light through the sky.

And on the third night, the last dream about love arrived. A sandpiper flew onto a lawn enclosed by weeping willow trees. A sign around its neck read “Love is all.” The leaves of the willows were red hearts. Angela knew that “Love is all” was the distillation of the teacher’s philosophy. It represented everything he believed in.

Occasionally, the teacher amused her with novel activities. She awoke one night to find that only his hand was visible. He drew a horse; Angela traced the outlines of a rider on the horse; he, in turn, depicted a noose around the horse’s neck. Then he lifted the horse by the noose up into the sky and out of sight. She laughed all the next day as she recollected the episode.

During a different night the teacher presented her with a graph and handed her a clicker. He explained, “When you click on the graph, the energy increases.” The graph rose higher when she clicked, and a buzzing would begin in her head. The more she clicked, the more rapid and higher in frequency was the buzzing. He repeated this exercise on subsequent nights until she was able to tolerate the buzzing.

Angela and the teacher had become close friends. She was so accustomed to his appearances and the creative ways in which he interacted with her that she was sad when a day or night elapsed without his company.

These are only a few of the extraordinary details that Angela confided to me, her closest friend, during our weekly lunches in Cusco. “How, Angela, could he have done this?” I had inquired in amazement.

Angela had replied, “When the teacher held me in his arms, I believe that he infused me with the white mist that encased his body. It was his essence.

“Perhaps he focused his will like a laser in order to direct his energy into putting a copy of himself, the white mist enclosing his body, into me.
“He is a very powerful paqo⁸. During the workshop, I consulted him about my previous mystical experiences. A translator, who spoke both Spanish and Quechua⁹, was present. The teacher was able to block the translator from understanding the entire exchange between us, and I was able to comprehend everything the teacher said, even though he spoke rapid and complicated Spanish.

“At the end of the consultation, the translator commented to me, ‘I didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Did you?’

“The translator was stunned when I replied, ‘Yes, everything.’

 “I also will add that before I left the group for Cusco, one of the Q’ero who spoke only Quechua passed by me. At the exact moment when he was next to me, I heard the following in my head: ‘You have been befriended by a great teacher.’ The words were spoken in a deep bass voice, in perfect English, without a trace of an accent.

“I’ve read stories about spiritually advanced Indian gurus and Tibetan lamas who appear to their students in other parts of the world in real time and in dream time. I even discovered an article about a Peruvian paqo whose uncle taught him the Andean rituals in dream time. It’s a mystery how they accomplish these things, but it’s the mystery that appeals to me. Isn’t all of life a mystery?”  

Now that Angela has returned to the United States, I feel free to reveal their unconventional relationship. She had requested that I keep it confidential until she left Peru.

She recently e-mailed me that she and the teacher still are connected, six years after they first met. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she wrote, “that when he whispered ‘…por la vida’, he meant that he would be with me for life.”

¹Q’ero: the Q’ero Nation lives in a cluster of small communities at high altitudes in the Peruvian Andes. It is claimed that they are descendents of the Incas.

²Despacho: an offering made to Mother Earth (Pachamama) or to the apus using a variety of items such as grains, seeds, candies, flowers, gold stars, a llama fetus. The items are ritually arranged on white paper, and prayers are infused. The paper, along with its contents, is folded into a bundle. The bundle is burned if the despacho is for the apus; it is buried in the ground if it is for Pachamama. Materials for the despacho can be bought in the public markets in the Andes.

³Apu: spirit of a mountain.

⁴Por la vida: Spanish: for life.

⁵Mesa: power objects, such as stones from one’s teachers or from sacred places, wrapped in a special woven cloth. The mesa is used in ceremonies, healings and initiations.

⁶Third eye: situated between the two eyes. It is also called the mind’s eye. It is related to perception of the unseen world such as visions, clairvoyance and precognition.

⁷Pachamama: Mother Earth.

⁸Paqo: a Peruvian mystic, especially one who has been initiated into the Andean Path as taught by the Q’ero.

⁹Quechua: the language spoken by the Andean people.

Something Better To Do

Written By:    Katrina Heimark (New member of the writers' group)

She was a woman who liked the idea of something, but could never commit herself. She liked the idea of walks along a rocky, desolate sea-shore, but could never convince herself to go out into the piercing wind. She was a person who enjoyed the idea of tea-time, but she never brewed a pot of tea. If she drank coffee, she forgot about it, and it was left to cool on the counter. She liked to write, above all, but could never work past those first few wobbly lines. 

“I am a much more interesting person on paper,” she would tell herself; and in part, she was. On paper she was interested in the outdoors, on paper she baked and ate bread fresh out of the oven, and on paper she was even good at making love. 

Every morning she would wake up and sigh, “Today I am really going to finish something—anything.” But she wouldn’t. She never did. 

She spent her days moping about, in a state of self-induced melancholy, without really realizing it. After all, it was her natural state of mind. “Oh, I’m just not good at that,” she would say, or “Really, I just have no time for that today,” or even, “I’d much rather spend time watching the birds, thank you, than have to do that.”

And so her coffee would remain silently cooling, her pen would lay splayed across her “to do” list, and there was always a ball of yarn asleep at her feet. 

It was then, on one of the most ordinary mornings, while she was beginning something that she likely would never finish, that it came to her in the form of a knock on the door.

“I’ve got a delivery for you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice, spilling out from under a blue Serpost hat. “Could you please sign here?” oh dear, she thought. “Oh my,” she whispered. who would ever send me a package?

“Well,” said the post man, a bit taken aback, “Most people are happy to receive packages. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Just think of it as a nice surprise for you today.” He smiled as he took the pen from her. “Enjoy it, ma’am.”

She took the package. Unsure of what exactly to do with it, she brought the box inside. She even thought about opening it, but stopped herself before she got carried away. It was a decent sized box, and it certainly didn’t weigh much. 

It took her the better part of the day to get around to opening it, and even then, she was hesitant. oh dear…what if its something I don’t particularly want? maybe I’ll just leave it by the door. But something encouraged at her to open it. Inch by inch she tugged and pulled at the tape cautiously, and along with a bit of fear. 

Finally, she opened the lid, and there it was. Small, golden colored, and very much alive. “A Pepper Plant?” She cried. “Who would send me a pepper plant?” 

It was only then that she noticed the address wasn’t hers. “Oh dear. There you have it, I’ve opened someone else’s mail. And that’s the reward I get for finishing something I started! My goodness me!” She stood up abruptly, and sped into the other room, leaving the plant, the box and her scissors behind her. Everything, of course, in a half-completed mess on the floor.

But after a while, she had nothing better to do, so she went back to the living room. “A pepper plant!” she repeated all afternoon, with different levels of awe, disbelief and frustration. “There isn’t much use in me sending it back, seeing as I’ve opened it and all. Serpost would be sure to lose it, wouldn’t they? And besides, it does need some water.”

As she reached carefully into the box, she began to talk with the pepper plant, crooning words of welcome, and caressing the finger-like spires that protruded from the green leaves. “I’m sure you wouldn’t survive the return trip, now would you? Who knows how they would treat you wherever you are going, anyway.” And she moved, plant in hand, into the kitchen for some water. 

“Now, I’ve no idea where I will put you,” she remarked. “There isn’t much room in this place, but I suppose you will need a window. I could hardly put you in my room—that wouldn’t feel right. I guess you should be in the kitchen. We’ll see how you do for now.” She stuck the plant by a slightly open window, and swore that its leaves moved in appreciation. The plant looked out the window at rows and rows and rows of houses and apartments. An extensive city stretched out before him, with a hint of the ocean visible through the fog. A bleak view, to say the least, if it weren’t for a tiny ray of sunshine that peeked through the clouds and illuminated the windowsill.

“Ha! That’s fitting,” she laughed, “The sun doesn’t come out here often. I guess the kitchen is just the right spot for you.” 

The next morning the woman woke up and made herself a steaming cup of coffee. She stood by the plant as she drank it, inspected its leaves, the small insects that seemed to have come with the plant, and the fingery peppers themselves. 

She began to talk to the plant, introducing herself, and tried to get to know it better and better. “You know, I suppose since we are going to be living together, there are a few things you should know about me. I don’t particularly like loud noises, I can’t stand the cold, and I never finish a cup of coffee.”

That last one surprised even her. I always finish my cup of coffee!

You didn’t yesterday. The plant seemed to respond. 

That’s not true! Maybe I did set it out in the morning, but I always finish it in the afternoon!

 

To that, the plant responded by pointing one of its long peppers at the row of half-empty cups along the counter. 

“Well, I’ll show you!” And she responded to the plant by finishing her entire cup of steaming coffee. 

She didn’t even wait for it to cool.

The Shoeshine

Written by:      Larry J. Pitman

Some years ago, when I first moved to Barranco, I started having a problem with this guy who desperately wanted to shine my shoes.

I guess that he spent all his time on the street. That was where I saw him for the first time. I was walking around town doing some errands when I realized that he was following me, aggressively asserting his desire to shine my shoes. He was different from the others who shine shoes for a living. He was much older, middle-aged, in his forties, and mature in appearance.

His forehead was wrinkled in a fixed frown, which gave him a permanently puzzled look. He was very slender. He wore pants that were too large for him, held up by a belt that was too long, wrapped almost twice around his waist. Brown penetrating eyes, a narrow face, deeply furrowed gave him a scary look.

I never learned his name.

His gestures were jerky, almost agitated, betraying a latent energy that sometimes I took to be menacing. When we came across each other in the street, he was always pointing down at my shoes using two fingers in an inverse “V” position. Shouting,

“lustre, lustre,”

“Shine, shine.”

He carried his shoe shine box with him ready to start working.

I never, ever agreed to let him shine my shoes. I would ignore his pleas and walk on because I believed that once I gave in, he would never let me have any peace. After our first encounter, however, it seemed like he was everywhere I went. It was always the same: he would demand to shine my shoes. It was the same routine every time we met. First he shouted the demand. Then he pointed at my shoes, in case I didn’t understand. Then when I didn’t agree he would give me a look which I took to be anger or disgust.

I noticed that he didn’t bother other people at all. Perhaps he thought that this gringo was rich and easy.

Unfortunately, every time we met, he would then pester me for blocks. He took the pleasure out of my walks. I took different, less direct routes to the store, sometimes walking far out of my way, but somehow he still found me. It was as though he was searching for me.

Finally, I was totally frustrated. I was at my wit’s end. I started wearing tennis shoes instead of regular shoes whenever I went out. Then I could say truthfully, “I’m sorry, but I don’t need a shoe shine.”

When he saw that I wouldn’t let him shine my shoes, his shoulders would slump and he would slink away, rejected again. Yes, I did feel sorry for him, but not enough to give in.

Unfortunately, the next day, he would be back. His behavior never changed. Every day was the same. He never seemed to get permanently discouraged.

One day things did change, for the worse.

I was walking with a friend from Holland down Avenida Grau, the main street in Barranco. We were busy talking. I was distracted. I confess that I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on around me. We paused for a moment to look at a building.

Before I realized it, the shoeshine man came up silently, grabbed my shoe and started daubing it with polish. At first, I was taken totally by surprise. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of my friend so I decided to let him go ahead. That was a huge mistake. When he was finished, he demanded ten soles, far more than the usual price. He did so, so loudly that I was embarrassed. I gave in to the demand.

After that he wasn’t satisfied with just trying to shine my shoes. He became even more aggressive. He wanted money. It was as though he had gotten the scent of blood and wanted more. Then, he started asking me to give him things and to take care of him, even buying food. When I refused, he would throw a tantrum in front of everybody. This continued for a long time. He was always getting angry at me, cursing me in public. He would growl and shake his fist at me.

I think everybody considered him a little crazy so I also just shook my head and tried to ignore him. It didn’t seem to discourage him, though, because every time he saw me it was the same.

This went on for several years, but I did see him less and less frequently. Then, hardly at all.

Yesterday I was walking down Avenida Grau once again when I happened to run into him. He looked at me, pointed to my shoes, the puzzled look still on his face as he said,

“When? When?”

Somehow, I have the feeling that it is all starting again.

Love Is the Only Thing That Matters

Written by: Rinda Payne (guest author)

Ana sat on the couch, her hands relaxed in her lap, a soft smile playing over her lips. Her eyes sparkled. She leaned forward.

“Love is the most important thing in my life. Without love for my family, for my friends, for you, my life would be nothing. I pray every night for you. I embrace you Mona and greet you with love. My love streams out toward God, the Holy Virgin, Jesus and the saints. And their love returns to me. I know I am a blessed woman because love is the only thing that matters. All else is false.”

Mona, an American who had moved into Ana’s neighborhood outside of Cusco several years ago, sat opposite her. She was astonished by Ana’s outburst. Did Ana really love her as Ana said? If only love mattered to Ana, then why had she lied to her, not once but several times?

Her thoughts traveled back in time to May 2010 when Ana had begged her to buy books for the poor children at the village where Ana hosted an annual chocolatada1. “They have no books,” Ana said, her eyes tearing, her voice quavering. “If only you could provide them with some books.”

Mona remembered how eager she had been to visit the bookstores in Cusco and carefully select the books, a book a month. She had even queried Ana about the age groups of the children who would be reading them.

Her thoughts centered on the day, only four days before the chocolatada scheduled for 2011, when Ana had presented her with a list of the donors to the January 2010 chocolatada. Glancing through the list, she saw a donation, unexpected because of Ana’s claim that the children had no books: a woman had given 100 books to the children’s library.”

She handed Ana the books she had bought for the 2011 chocolatada. Ana looked at them and tossed them aside without commenting. She did the same with the paints and the paint brushes and the clothes that Mona had carefully folded so as not to wrinkle.

“I’d like to go to the chocolatada again, and I’ll help you sort the clothes like I did last year,” Mona offered. A long silence ensued.

Ana frowned. “We’re going to have the chocolatada this year in April. My husband cannot drive us to the community in January. Some of my friends are away. We do not have enough donations. Would you like to go on another bus trip? It will be this coming Sunday. The group will be visiting a town some 15 kilometers from the village where we hold the chocolatada. I’ve called my friends. One is being treated for cancer; another will be with her son in Lima; yet another broke her foot; Elaine, whom you know, has the flu. Perhaps you’d like to replace one of my friends. Why not join us? I’ll call you with the time and place to meet.”

Mona agreed that she would go on the bus trip.

Privately she thought: “A chocolatada in April?” Every year Ana chose the first Saturday after New Year’s Day for her chocolatada. This year had been no different. Several weeks ago Ana had confirmed the date with her. Mona doubted the change in plans. A bus trip the day after? Two long trips in one weekend? She sensed that something was very wrong.

She received no call from Mona about the bus trip.

A month after being told that the chocolatada would be in April, she discovered the truth from Ana’s husband who was unaware of his wife’s duplicity. Ana, her family and friends had held the chocolatada on the date originally planned, the first Saturday after New Year’s. Ana’s husband had replied to Mona’s cautious question about the bus trip, “What bus trip?”

Mona suddenly recalled the warning that she had been given by a woman from Lima. The woman had been her seatmate on the flight from Lima to Cusco that had brought Mona to her new home. “Beware. My friends from Lima who live and work in Cusco tell me that the people in Cusco stab one in the back.”



1) Chocolatada: a group-sponsored event for underprivileged children at Christmas time, featuring hot chocolate, bread, sweets and toys.

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Peru Writers' Group welcomes Rinda to our blog and we hope that she will submit more pieces for us to post. The following is a short "Bio" that Rinda submtted to let the readers know a little bit about her.

"In 2003 I received a strong calling to live in Cusco while I was taking a workshop in Vermont with Juan Nunez del Prado from Cusco. (Juan's father, Oscar Nunez del Prado, led the first expedition to the Q'ero in 1955. They are the descendents of the Incas and hold the spiritual traditions of the Incas.)


I traveled to Cusco in 2005 to take the Mosoq Karpay (New Life Initiation) from Don Nazario (now deceased), one of Peru's most famous healers, and Don Agustin Pauqar, a Q'ero.

In 2009, I closed down my life in Brookline, Ma., applied for and received my carne de extranjeria and moved to Santa Monica, Wanchaq at the end of May 2009.

I am a Reiki Master/Teacher and a sound healer. My career focus was administrative work in hospitals in Boston, MA. and the Boston area. During my last position, I also gave Reiki to employees and patients, as well as participated in the elective complimentary medicine program for residents in General Medicine. For several years, I had a private office where I taught Reiki and gave Reiki sessions. Since my arrival in Santa Monica, I have been writing a monthly newsletter about life in Cusco, which I e-mail to friends around the world. In addition, www.livinginperu.com published three travel articles and one feature article by me."

Taking a Break

I'm sorry to say that the Peru Writers' Group will be taking a break from posting stories for a few months. We found that the pressure of having to write for such a short deadline was affecting our writing. We are going to try and build up a stock pile of stories so we will have some excellent works of fiction ready for your reading pleasure when one of us gets a little writer's block.

We are still looking to have a couple more writers join our group and would definitely appreciate any contributions from outside the group.

Come back after April 1st and check for our new "Grand Opening."

To all of you who were following our writings, thank you and we hope you will be back.

Rodney L Dodig
Victoria Lugovskaya
Larry Pitman