Daily Bread

Written By: Katrina Heimark

Jesus stumbled out of bed, feeling his way through the blackness to the aggravating sound that scuttled across his floor. His cell phone, vibrating, had fallen to the floor just instants before it started to scream 3 AM 3 AM 3 AM. His wife didn’t even roll over. Madre Mia! He cursed as he reached his arm under the bed, trying to stifle what he now deemed the world’s most infuriating sound.

He was never ready to wake up this early, no matter how early he went to bed, or how many hours he had slept. It was as if the darkness would somehow devour him. Or maybe the darkness would never let him escape from the barren walls and dilapidated furniture that should be called a home.

Jesus staggered into the kitchen, and washed his face and arms in a bucket of water his wife had left for him on the floor. He found a bowl of rice on the counter and ate it slowly, hoping each mouthful would make him feel llenito. It didn’t. He was still hungry after finishing off the bowl, and went to wake up his wife.

“Fríeme un huevo.” He said, as cold as could be. She didn’t even roll over. Jesus reached his hand out into the darkness. “Fríeme un huevo,” he repeated, touching her arm. He heard a gasp from her mouth, but couldn’t see her face. “Madre mia! You scared me! I’m not getting up to fry you an egg! It’s three in the morning, for Christ’s sake. Do it yourself!”

Maldita sea, cursed Jesus. This damn woman can’t even spend five minutes on me. I’ve got to bend over to wash my own face from a bucket on the floor, and eat yesterday’s rice.

He left the room, grabbed a white and ironed (gracias a dios!) button-down shirt, and shoved a pile of coins from the kitchen counter into his jean’s pocket. He picked up his bike, sitting in front of the door, and made sure to make as much noise as possible on his way out into the street.

He had entered another world. The darkness here was different. It wasn’t fighting against him; it wasn’t an oppressive force to fear. Here the darkness was as dead as the city around him. Jesus imagined the darkness as a sort of bringer of fantasmas that populated the city with hidden sounds. This is my city, thought Jesus, a city of ghosts.

Maybe Jesus didn’t fear the darkness in the city of ghosts because it wasn’t really dark. He knew that soon enough light would creep behind the eternal blanket of clouds and scare back the darkness. He knew that if he biked far enough he would reach a city that really never was dark. A city that had pulsating lights, set in time to mark the breathing of the night-ghosts.

Jesus hopped on his bike, and with one arm over his shoulder, hanging on to his pristine white coat, he biked until he was away from fear. He passed through dirt paths that opened to dirt roads which later transformed into pebbled, badly tarred highways. His bike rattled and shook with a rhythm that was song-like. But Jesus never had a song in his heart, and he wouldn’t recognize the bike’s song, even if he had.

He arrived earlier than usual to the bakery, but the baker and his assistants were already half done with their morning labor. “Buenos dias, Jesus,” shouted Ernesto, the baker. “Do you have those three soles you owe me from yesterday?” He asked, not even trying to be polite.

“I told you I would,” grumbled Jesus.

“Well, let’s see ‘em.”

Jesus flung the three soles so hard onto the counter that one of the coins went flying under the tall refrigerator at the back of the bakery. He looked up with a snide grin on his face, imagining the baker trying to get the coin out from under there.

“I only see two,” retorted Ernesto, looking at the refrigerator. “I thought I said you owed me three.”

“I do. And you can get one of your scrawny empleados to pick that last one up for you.”

“I don’t know where he’d start to look to find a third sol that never even existed in the first place, Jesus. Now you can give me that last sol, or I won’t sell you any more bread today or ever.”

Jesus fiddled in his pocket, cussed some more, and gave Ernesto a glare that would send most men a step or two backwards. Ernesto knew better. “You’re a mean old bastard, Jesus. Even a dog wouldn’t so much as bite you, for fear he’d get poisoned. But I’m no dog. So hand over the cash, or you’ll be looking for a new job.”

Jesus slammed the coin on the counter. “Give me ten soles-worth this morning.” He said, pulling a bill out of his back pocket. While Ernesto handed the order to one of the empleados that were buzzing around the bakery like flies on honey, Jesus turned and filed out of the bakery. Off to the side and chained to a post was a large wooden enclosed cart. It had a glass top and a few window-like sides, as well as three or four different sized shelves. He pulled a rag out of his pocket, and started to wipe down the cart. He meticulously wiped crumbs out of the corners, and polished the glass until it was as clean as could be.

One of the boys working in the bakery was so young Jesus knew that the kid had to be Ernesto’s son. The kid handed him a large sack of bread, and Jesus worked to fit it into his cart as best he could. Next he attached his bike to a slot on the back side of the cart. He was almost ready to go.

When he went back inside the bakery, there were a few more men inside, purchasing bread for their own carts. Jesus shoved himself to the front of the line, and yelled at that same kid to get him a few alfajores and empanadas and even orejitas. He paid, begrudgingly, and pushed his way out of the bakery, without even so much as a gracias or con permiso.

Jesus biked to the apartments and houses on his morning route, dropping off the bread in little plastic sacks, and carefully tying them to door handles. He ran into few people this early in the morning, and that’s how he liked it. Now and then a couple would stop him and buy an oreja or empanada but the morning was still quiet.

By the time he made his way to the intersection of Sucre and Bolivar, he knew it was close to 7. The morning rush would start soon. He parked his cart off in a solitary location, close to a restaurant, and waited for his customers to show. A few buses started to pass, calling desperately to the small amount of people standing on the street corners. He closed his eyes for a moment.

The blast of a loud horn woke him up. The streets were now filled with the noise of cars, taxis and buses; exhaust churned out of the backs of buses as they sped away, and the sidewalks were bustling with people. Jesus moved his cart out a bit more into the open, and a few people caught the bait. He charged them more than usual. He had fallen asleep.

Jesus grumbled through the rest of the morning. He couldn’t sell much; his higher prices drove people just a few blocks down, towards his cheerful competition, another man from a different bakery. The man was fat and jolly, and shared jokes with his customers. Jesus barely shared even a nod of his head, and kept his customers waiting for change he was never willing to give them.

He decided upon a change of scenery. He peddled towards the University, hoping to get a few more sales before he would have to head home for the day. He set off, head low, mind on his own measly fortune, his frustrating day, his bad luck. He didn’t see the car until after it hit him.

Or rather, hit the cart. The black sedan came out of nowhere, and sped off faster than Jesus could stand on his own two feet. His cart had tipped over, glass was everywhere, and his wares were strewn across the sidewalk. He pried his bike from the wrecked cart, and carefully placed it against a metal gate. No one stopped to help. Hijos de puta! Can’t anyone help? I could have been killed!

The shock of it sent him to his knees. He began to sob right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with people parting around him as they walked by. His tears fell on top of a crushed alfajor, the powdered sugar dissolving with every drop that fell. His body shook with sobs, with frustration. He imagined that sugar to be his life, his ambitions, his family, all dissolving away before his eyes. It only made him sob even harder. The darkness closed in around him, despite the brightness of the sun behind the clouds. He could barely see.

Ya no doy más. He thought. I can’t. I can’t do any more. It’s over….and then with indignation….I’m going home!

Jesus paused. He opened his eyes. The darkness was gone. Yes, he would go home. He would go home, not to the inevitable darkness, but to his wife. He’d search through the darkness until he found his love for life again; he’d try to make things work. That’s right, he thought, I’ll find a way to make things work. He’d try to apologize as best he knew how.

He got on his bike, thankfully still intact after the accident, and left the destroyed cart in the middle of the road. He biked as quick as he dared; he weaved through traffic, peddled along bustling highways, flew over bridges, forced his way up hills, through the dirt and dust of the paths outside his house until he arrived. Home.

“Amor! I’m home! I’m back early today, sweetheart!” Jesus pushed open the door, the beginning of a smile just showing on his face. He strutted into the house, and left his bike outside, just like his wife always wanted. He looked for her in the kitchen, in the bedroom, and even in the back of the house.

But the house was empty. And dark.

Jimena's Calling

Guest Author:  Rinda Payne

Written by Rinda Payne

 Jimena was 30 years old. She lived in a village near Paucartambo in the same house that she had shared with her mother until her mother’s death. She missed her mother’s company. Without her mother, Jimena felt that what once had been a home now seemed like an empty shell. Her father and brothers and sisters had died in a tragic accident two years ago. They were traveling on the bus to Cusco, a four-hour trip. The only route from Paucartambo to Cusco is a treacherous dirt road that winds through the remote mountains until it descends to join the paved main road to Cusco. In places it is wide enough for only one vehicle. Towering cliffs are on one side, precipitous drops into deep valleys on the other. There are no guardrails. The bus missed a curve and plunged into a ravine, killing all on board.  

Jimena’s mother had been a respected healer who used the herbs from her garden to cure patients. Her healings had brought in a small income, enough for the two of them to live on, but Jimena never took her mother’s ability seriously. Jimena considered herself to be a modern woman. She believed that physicians with their pills, injections and treatments provided the best cures and care for the sick. There were no hospitals or specialists in Paucartambo, but when Jimena was sick, she always consulted a doctor in general medicine at one of Paucartambo’s postas medicas¹.

Furthermore, her mother had learned how to heal with herbs from Jimena’s maternal grandmother who in turn had been taught by Jimena’s great-grandmother. It was a family tradition passed down from a long time ago. “Times have changed,” she used to say, “What is the use of herbs when you can pay a physician in Paucartambo to treat you?”

Jimena’s mother had had a dream just before she died. It had revealed that Apu² Ausangate would call Jimena to a new life. Lying on her deathbed, her mother had struggled to speak. “It is a great honor to be called by Apu Ausangate. I believe you will become a healer if you accept his calling.” During moments of lucidity, she told her daughter, “Speak to the Apu about the calling. Offer k’intus³ to him.”  

A grieving, but practical, Jimena evaluated her situation a day after her mother’s death. “I now am on my own.” She stopped momentarily overcome by sadness. “My relatives live far away in Arequipa….there’s no contact with them.” She wiped tears from her eyes and continued, “I’ll care for the herbs my mother gave to the sick…and tend the vegetables. The guinea pigs…I’ll keep them. They’ll provide me with meat.”

She went to stand on the balcony. Ausangate loomed in the distance. The mountain was massive, covered in white snow. It rose up above the surrounding landscape, huge and intimidating. It was the highest mountain in southern Peru, and it was home to the most powerful apu in that region of the country.

As she gazed at Ausangate, she wanted to howl with pain, not so much at the loss of her mother but at finding herself alone in a country where family meant everything. Andean customs dictated that she remain stoic unless she was in the privacy of her home. She sighed. “If I wail on the balcony, the neighbors will hear me.” She stifled her anguish.

Jimena worried about her mother’s dream. “Was it a vision? Or was it my mother’s attempt to leave me, her last remaining child, with a vocation?” Jimena was troubled by the fact that the dream hadn’t disclosed how the Apu would call her or what Jimena’s new life would be. As she looked at Ausangate, it seemed cold and aloof. “It’s not in the least ready to grant me a calling,” she said aloud. She turned and went into the house.

After the funeral in the nearby church and burial in the local cemetery, Jimena returned to her house and went to the balcony, drawn by the message of her mother’s dream. What if the dream were true, she thought, and I am to be called? The mountain looked back at her with its haughty splendor.

She decided that the best tactic to take with the Apu was to trust the dream and disregard her conflicting views about her mother’s revelation. “After all,” she reflected, “the Apu has a commanding presence, and everyone in the community respects it.” She began talking to the Apu.

“Dear Apu Ausangate, please give me a sign about my mother’s dream. Tomorrow I’ll buy some coca leaves and make a k’intu in your honor like we Andeans do to honor the apus and Pachamama⁴.” She waited patiently, but the Apu remained silent.

The next day she took a colectivo⁵ into Paucartambo to purchase the coca leaves. After alighting from the colectivo near the entrance to the town, she crossed the bridge over the river and headed in the direction of the main plaza. She turned down a narrow side street lined with the typical two-story white-washed buildings, their doors, shutters and balconies painted a deep sky blue, which are a highlight of the town, and entered a small store. Inside, the light was dim. Baskets and paper bags holding the offerings to make despachos⁶ crammed the store’s shelves. Beans, rice, candies, silver and gold stars, llama  fetuses, confetti, and many more items filled the containers. She moved to a large sack of coca leaves that stood on the floor in one corner of the shop. Shifting the leaves through her fingers, she bargained for a small bag.  

She returned home and sorted the leaves. She put the perfect ones in the pocket of her apron and ventured out onto the balcony. She made a k’intu just as her father had done when he was alive. She gently breathed into the k’intu her prayers to the Apu, “Apu Ausangate come to me. Most sacred Apu hear my plea. Send me a calling to honor my mother’s dream. In return, I offer you my finest energy as ayni⁷.”            

She talked to the Apu daily. Sometimes she felt a sharp influx of energy enter the area just below her stomach. “Ah, perhaps that’s a sign that the Apu hears me. On the other hand, perhaps it’s just the wind,” she would exclaim.

Isabel, a neighbor who lived near Jimena, told her, “It is an Andean tradition that Apu Ausangate always calls twice.”

Jimena murmured, “Why wasn’t once enough? Probably the first call was my mother’s dream.” Her mood brightened. Days passed. Nothing happened. She didn’t feel any different. There were no mystical experiences. There were no visions. No one came to consult her for a healing using the herbs from her mother’s garden. She was irritated with the Apu. “The Apu is ignoring me because I believe in modern medicine,” she grumbled. She felt frustrated by her efforts to elicit a response from the Apu.

Jimena had a pleasing personality. Everyone whom she met succumbed to it, even her family when they were alive. She always got her way without any effort on her part. She was not used to having anyone, not even Apu Ausangate, deny her wishes. Surely, she thought, the Apu eventually will realize that I am sincere in my appeals to him.

After several months had elapsed without a sign, she was exasperated. She vented her annoyance to the Apu. “Why are you so silent? I daily ask you for my calling, yet you do not respond to my repeated petitions. What must I do to gain your attention?”

Days passed. Jimena complained, “I’ve never encountered a situation like this.” She refused to accept a lack of a response from the Apu as an answer. “Don’t be discouraged,” she told herself. “Perhaps the calling will come at night.” She extended her hours with the Apu long into the evening, imploring it for a calling. The winter winds swept down from the Andes, turning the grass and leaves of the trees brown and driving the temperature down to freezing as soon as the sun set. The bitter, cold nights would force her into the house to get a warm, thick manta⁸ to wrap around her in order to keep warm. “The cold is nothing; the Apu is everything,” she would mutter.

About a month later, she declared, “He will call me in the early morning.” So she began her day on the balcony communicating with the Apu. By this time, her persistent attempts to win the Apu’s favor and to prove that her mother’s dream was true had turned to obsession. She stood on the balcony from early morning to late evening, petitioning the Apu for her calling and paying tribute to the spirit of the mountain with k’intu after k’intu. She watched the early morning rays of the sun light up the sacred mountain and the rays of the descending sun turn its mantle of snow from white to a glowing pink. Every night, she would say “buenos noches⁹” to the Apu and crawl into bed.

Another month passed. The more her desire to receive a calling from the Apu consumed her thoughts and feelings, the longer she stood on the balcony. She failed to notice that the hours that she devoted to herself and her surroundings grew less and less. She was spending almost her entire days and nights with the Apu, falling asleep on the balcony from exhaustion.  

Soon, she was neglecting everything around her. Jimena repeated to herself ritualistic phrases: “I must cook. I must clean. I must tend the animals and the garden. I must go to the Sunday market. I must visit my neighbors.” Her mantra became, “Tomorrow I’ll take care of everything,” but tomorrow never arrived.

Then, late one evening, a fierce hail storm erupted while Roberto was walking along the dirt road that led from a distant pueblo¹⁰ to his home in Jimena’s village. He saw a light in Jimena’s window and knocked on her door in order to take refuge from the storm. There was no answer. Sensing that something was wrong, Roberto pushed open the door and looked around the house. He saw no one. He noticed the door to the balcony was ajar. He opened it wider. There was a white bundle lying on the floor of the balcony amidst coca leaves coated with hail. Moving closer, he turned the bundle over with his foot with a strength that came from walking long distances and doing heavy labor. Roberto suppressed a cry of horror. It was Jimena, her manta white with hail.

Roberto fled from the house into the raging storm, which was bending the tree branches low to the ground and sending dirt and pebbles swirling into the air. Covered by hail, he looked like a phantom as he passed from house to house to rouse the residents of the community to tell them about Jimena’s untimely death.

After a mass in the village’s church, the neighbors buried Jimena facing Ausangate, next to her mother. At the grave, the mourners formed k’intus of coca leaves and invoked the Apu, “Most sacred Apu, honor this woman in her life after death. Apu Ausangate, grant her peace and happiness in her new life.”

¹Posta medica (Spanish): a small medical clinic.

²Apu: (Quechua): spirit of the mountain. In general, apus are male, although several apus are female. Apu Ausangate is male.

³K’intu: (Quechua): three perfect coca leaves held in the shape of a fan and used in rituals.

⁴Pachamama: (Quechua): Mother Earth.

⁵Colectivo: (Spanish): a taxi that transports passengers where there is no van or bus service.

⁶Despacho: (Spanish): A dispatch, an office; in the Andes, it means an offering made to Mother Earth (Pachamama) or to the apus.

⁷Ayni: (Quechua): the principle which forms the foundation of the social and mystical worlds of the Andean: reciprocity among humans and the sacred interchange of energy among humans and the natural world. 

⁸Manta: (Spanish): a blanket made from two large rectangular weavings sewn together.

⁹Buenas noches: (Spanish): good night.               

¹⁰Pueblo: (Spanish): a town, city or village.

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.