IT'S BART

WRITTEN BY: Rinda Payne

 My name is Esperanza. It means hope. I am eight years and three months old. I’m really going on nine.

I wanted a dog. Not just any dog, but a special one with long white fur. I saw a picture of one in a magazine. I cut it out and hung it on the wall next to my bed. I looked at it every night before I went to sleep. I made believe it was mine. I called him Bart. Bart is the name of a dog that lives down the street. I liked it. It was short. It sounded like “bark”.   
My parents told me that they were too poor to buy me a dog. They don’t have enough money to give me brothers and sisters. “One child is all we can afford,” they used to tell my aunts and uncles. We live in a three room adobe brick house at the end of a dirt road on the outskirts of Cusco. My father worked at day jobs. My mother sold rocotos rellenos(1) on the streets in Cusco. She sat on a blanket on the sidewalk. The rocotos rellenos were stuffed in a big sack. She made them at night after she got home from work. She always gave each customer four little potatoes. It’s called yapa(2).

One Sunday in July after mass, I listened to our priest talking to the people. He calls them “his flock”. He said, “If you walk to Senor de Huanca(3)(4) to celebrate his feast day every year for three years, your wishes will come true.”

On the way home, I told my parents what the priest said. They hadn’t heard him. They were praying inside the church. “Will you take me on the hike over the mountain – to Pachatusan? To Senor de Huanca so I can have my dog?”

“No, you are too young to walk that distance over the mountain. Going on nine is too young also. You’ll only get exhausted. Do you know how long the walk is? How high the mountain is(5)? How cold it will be?”  

“No,” I answered, “but I can make it. I know I can.”

The feast day was September 14. Every day after they came home from work I begged, “Please, please take me to Senor de Huanca.”

They always shook their heads, adding, “Pray for a dog, instead.”

I did pray, very hard. Each night before I went to bed I prayed to Jesus and Mary…to give me my dog. But no dog arrived. So I kept at my parents. I thought about Bart every day. I drew pictures of him. I fell asleep thinking about him.

Finally, they said, “We’ll go to Senor de Huanca, but we must turn back if you get tired. It’s not worth it if you get sick from the cold and the altitude. Can we tell the priest about the dog? And going to Senor de Huanca?”

 “Only the priest. No one else.”

I thought the day would never come. I tried to pay attention in school. One morning, the teacher stopped by my desk. “What’s wrong Esperanza?” she asked. I didn’t tell her that we were walking to Senor de Huanca. It was my secret. I didn’t want to share it even with my friends. They might laugh at me. Talk about it among themselves. I would have lost hope of getting Bart.

The evening before September 14, my parents put rolls, fruit, some cheese and bottles of water in a mochila(6). They also put in long white candles. To light the path at night to Senor de Huanca. And two empty plastic bottles. They put on extra clothes. They made sure I was wearing many sweaters, a jacket and a chullo(7). And long woolen stockings. For the cold. We caught a combi(8) to San Jeronimo on the outskirts of Cusco. I was so excited!

There, we joined many people who were going to climb over Pachatusan to the shrine. It would take us a long time. Could I make it? I looked up at the mountain. I didn’t know.

I couldn’t stand still. I danced around in a circle. I hopped up and down as the procession began. Ahead of us, grown-ups and young people began to climb the narrow path that went up the mountain. Little children rode on their fathers’ shoulders. I felt very proud to be walking by myself.

My parents took two candles from the mochila and lit them. I wanted a candle. They said, “Only grown-ups carry a candle. You might burn yourself.” I felt sad without a candle. Then I tripped on a rock. I almost fell. My parents were right. I could have burned myself.

I watched the lights of the candles. That was fun! In the dark, they looked like little suns.

We were walking very slowly. Because of me. It was hard climbing the path. But I didn’t stop walking. Well, I did stop several times to rest. Perhaps three or four times. I saved my energy by not jumping around…not talking.

My parents were worried about me. “Are you all right? Do you want to go back home?” I first nodded a yes and then shook my head no. I couldn’t say a word. My heart felt like it would break…because everything was new. Because I was tired.  

Everyone was quiet. Slowly going ahead by the light of the candles…and the stars and the moon. It was so cold. The air was fresh. We passed some snow. I stopped to touch it. How wet it was! How it sparkled! I never felt snow before. There’s none in Cusco. Ever.

We could see the people in front of us. We were way behind them. But we were getting closer to the shrine. I went forward step by step…until the sun rose. Like a bright red ball. The sky was red above the sun too. It was such a beautiful sight! I stopped walking. I cried, “Oh! Ah!” And clapped my hands!

At last my parents and I began to go down. At the bottom of the trail above the shrine, we came to the sacred tree. People had placed stones under the tree. They were offerings to honor the tree as a living being. I stopped to give the tree a hug. Its trunk was too big for my arms to reach around it, but the tree gave me its energy. I felt stronger.

Close by was the sacred spring. I limped to it because my feet hurt. I washed my face and hands in the water. I was very dusty. I crossed myself with some of the water drops. My parents filled the empty plastic bottles they had packed with its healing waters. They told me, “Many people are cured at the spring and in the shrine.”

Next came the easiest part. Walking down the broad path that led from the spring to the church. It was lined with tall trees. Father called them “eucalyptus trees”. We passed stone crosses with small stones on their arms. Mother explained, “Some people collect stones before they visit the shrine. Each one represents a person’s fault. They pray into a stone their wish to have the fault removed. Then, they place it on an arm of one of the crosses.”

On the ground between the crosses were little houses. The people used stones and rocks to build the houses. They made fences and garages from leaves and branches. Sticks were animals. They were the wishes of people for a new home. I took a lot of time to look at them. They were so amazing! I thought I might make a house for my parents. But it would take too long. Then an idea came to me. I whispered to my parents, “I’m going to have a dog.” I hunted for some pebbles. Then I made a dog on the ground. “There! That’s Bart,” I told them.

I heard my mother say in a low voice to my father, “Look at her! She is glowing with happiness.”

As we came near the church, I saw thousands of people outside(9). They were close together.. like the stars in the Via Lactea(10). A lot of them carried large pictures of Senor de Huanca. Some were in frames with glass over them. There was a stand with a top over it. Where the priests would say mass. I clung tightly to my parents hands. I was afraid of being separated from them…of getting lost. My father picked me up and put me on his shoulders. I was so happy. I was safe with him. And now I could see everything that was going on!

The priests climbed some steps to the stand; the mass began. The people were so excited. As if everyone had a fever! I guess I wasn’t the only one waiting for the celebration of Senor de Huanca. Now, I thought, all I have to do is pray for my dog. I closed my eyes for a few minutes. I saw my dog as I said my prayer, “Dear God, bring me Bart.”

The mass went on and on with praises to the Senor. People held up their pictures of Senor de Huanca to be blessed. Near the end, my parents left with me still on my father’s shoulders. My head nodded from lack of sleep. And I yawned. I was too tired to talk or to walk.

My parents went down the long, curving dirt road from the shrine to the paved main road. A lot of tents were on the land around the shrine. People from all over South America camped out in them for the week of the festival. My father said all the parking lots were full…so empty cars, vans, buses lined the road. Many stalls were beside the road. Their owners were selling copies of things people wished for. But tiny copies. My parents called them “miniatures”. Degrees from colleges, computers, houses, visas, suitcases of soles(11) and dollars, cars, trucks. Everything a person could want. Except there were no dogs!

From the main road we caught a combi back to San Jeronimo. And then another combi from San Jeronimo to our home. I fell asleep in the combis. I don’t remember going home. The following morning I jumped out of bed and ran to my parents. “I had a dream. I got my dog. It was exactly the kind I wanted.” My parents just looked at me. They didn’t say a word. I kept quiet. I was sure the dog would arrive.

A week after the feast day, a friend of my father appeared at our door. “I’ve a job for you,” he told my father. “A good job. A steady one.  You will look after a new condominium building in Cusco. The salary is excellent. Will you take it?”

My father thought for a few minutes. He smiled. “Of course, I’ll say yes.” After the man left, he turned to my mother. “Mami(12), our luck is changing for the better.” He put his arms around her in a gran abrazo(13).

Mother came home the next day filled with joy. “Listen to what happened to me today. A woman came up to me when I was selling my food on the street. She was well dressed and polite. She began to talk to me.

“‘I am looking for someone to do the family washing. I’ve noticed you selling rocotos rellenos. There’s something about you that attracts me. You look a decent woman. Would you like to work for our family? We live here in Cusco. I have four children and a husband. I’d like you to look at our lavanderia(14) and meet my family. If you like us, I hope you will work for us every-other-day, washing our clothes.’

“I hesitated not knowing if she was sincere.

“‘Come with me now. If you like the job, we’ll negotiate your pay.’”

I held my breath. What did Mami decide?  

Mami continued, “I followed the woman to her home. It was an agreeable place, warm and welcoming. The lavanderia was on a balcony. There was hot and cold running water. A big sink. Plenty of clothes lines. How could I refuse, especially when it meant more money for my family? I thanked the woman and accepted her offer. I’ll begin tomorrow.”

I jumped up from my chair. “You see what happens by walking to Senor de Huanca once. What will happen if we go three years in a row?” I said nothing about Bart. I was thinking about my parents’ good luck. Now I can have a brother or a sister…my father can add another room onto our house...we’ll have more to eat. They can pay for my school books and uniforms…not have my aunts and uncles help them.

Soon after my parents began their new jobs, our priest arrived one night. I was curled up in a corner of the room…with a blanket around me…to keep warm. The priest carried a cloth bag. Why was the bag wiggling? He opened it. A little white-haired dog ran out. When I saw the dog, I leapt across the room and knelt in front of him. “It’s Bart!” I cried. “You’ve come to me!”

The priest turned his head so I couldn’t see his face. Then he looked at me and smiled. “I found the dog on the doorstep of my church two days ago when I went to say mass. I kept it until tonight in case someone came to claim it. No one has. It was meant for you, Esperanza. It’s a gift from God.”

There was so much happiness inside me! It ran through me like a river. I hugged the little dog. He wagged his tail…gave a few small barks. He licked my face.

I spoke what was in my heart. “Thank you, Father. Life is perfect. I heard you say that if someone walked to Senor de Huanca for three years in a row, his wishes would come true. I made it all the way to Senor de Huanca. It was hard, but I did it. All on my own. We only walked once but just look. My parents have new jobs. I have Bart. How happy I am my parents called me Esperanza!”

The priest made a choking noise. Like he was going to cry. “Look at her smile!” he exclaimed. “It lights up the room.”

I looked around, but I didn’t see any light. “Where is the light?” I asked.

 (1)Rocotos rellenos: (Spanish): hot peppers that look like red bell peppers, stuffed and baked with meat, cheese, diced hard-boiled eggs, black olives and seasonings.

 (2)Yapa: (Quechua): an addition. Yapa can be extra fruit or vegetables, a map, a tiny doll, or whatever a vendor or a store wants to give their customers in addition to their purchase.

                         (3)Senor de Huanca: (Spanish): Lord of Huanca.

 (4) Pilgrims walk from San Jeronimo, a town outside of Cusco, over a path that climbs the mountain called Pachatusan and descends to the shrine of Senor de Huanca located at the base of Pachatusan. They begin the walk during the night of September 13 in order to arrive at the shrine the morning of September 14, the feast day of Senor de Huanca and the highlight of the week-long religious services. The walk takes from four to six hours.

(5) Pachatusan: the path circumvents the peak of Pachatusan. The elevation of the peak is 16,240 feet; Mt. Washington in New Hampshire, USA is at 6,288 feet. Cusco is at an elevation of 11,150 feet.

 (6)Mochila: (Spanish): backpack.          

(7) Chullo: (Quechua): a traditional Andean woven wool hat with earflaps, often with colorful tassels and intricate bead work.

 (8Combi: (Spanish): van or a microbus for passengers.

 (9) Literally thousands of people from all over South America attend the major festival arriving not only on foot but by cars, buses, trucks and other forms of transportation. The main road leading to Senor de Huanca is backed up for miles with traffic.

 (10)Via Lactea: (Spanish): the Milky Way.

 (11)Soles: (Spanish): sol (pl. soles) the Peruvian currency.

(12) Mami: (Spanish): affectionate for mother; also used in the Andes as a term of respect to address women when thanking them for something or negotiating with them.

(13) Gran abrazo: (Spanish): a big hug.

(14)Lavanderia: (Spanish): laundry.

My One Percent

Author Katrina Heimark

Written By: Katrina Heimark

It had been a long day. A long day filled with teaching thousands of English classes to scores of Peruvian. A day so long that I came up with a ridiculous limerick about being overstressed.

 

There once was a girl who gave classes

And taught English to the Peruvian masses
She worked so many hours
And felt overpowered,
So now she just sits on her asses

I was overworked. Out of touch. When I finally trudged through my apartment door, I felt so exhausted that all I wanted to do was read. Take off my shoes. Crawl under the covers, suit and all, and open a book. I didn’t even want to eat.

Had it not been for the low-pitched drone that emanated from every bus in Lima, I told myself, I could have gotten some reading done on the way home. I could have escaped from my self-constructed labyrinth of too many working hours and not enough me time. I needed to dedicate at least one percent of my day to activities that I enjoy, and sleeping sure the hell didn’t count. I planned to spend 14.4 minutes reading, dammit, if it was the last thing I did. Christ, I could sit out an earthquake just to read a little David Sedaris.

I climbed into bed, and opened up my book. Page one. Anyone who watches at least the slightest amount of TV is familiar with the scene...A low humming sound started right in the vicinity of my left ear. I lazily swatted it away and kept reading…An agent knocks…the humming was louder this time, and much closer. I waved my hand in the air, looking to brush that pesky bug away from my face…on the door of some… I struggled to concentrate as the humming changed into a drone. Just finish the first sentence, I told myself. Then you’ll be able to ignore that tiny fly. See, he’s just a baby, you can forget about that!

seemingly ordinary…There he was. On the edge of the book. He wouldn’t even let me finish the damn sentence. If it wasn’t the buzzing, it was this…his little poop-feet were all over my book, tracking germs and poop and who knows what all over my precious Sedaris. I shook him off the page, encouraging him to move on. “Look little fly, there are plenty of other places in my room for you to look at…” And with a shake of the wrist and a flipping of a page he flew off over my head and was gone. seemingly ordinary home or office.

I did it. I finished the first sentence. I smiled triumphantly and looked up, and there he was. He was no little baby fly. This was the Godzilla of all flies. A Flyzilla. I could see myself reflecting from his eyes. He stared at me, with a taunting expression on his face. His head was so big it was about double the size of the alarm clock he was sitting on. I could see the individual hairs on his legs. I could see bits of poop on his damn feet; and they left stains all over my alarm clock! I couldn’t figure out the cause of his joy until I saw the clock. 2.1 minutes had passed, and I had only read 1 sentence. I only had 12.3 minutes left until my one percent of the day was gone forever.

I glared at the fly, and turned back to my book. I convinced myself that I could just ignore him, no matter what. I had just focused my eyes on where I had left off, when Mr. Flyzilla put his buzzing in high gear, and circled around the book, my head and my hand.

“Oh, I see.” I told him. “You like to read, huh?” I saw him shrug his wing at me and roll his eyes. He started rubbing his enormous legs in front of my face, perched on the edge of my book. It was like he couldn’t decide whether he would take a bite out of me, or out of the book. I imagined razor sharp fangs protruding out of that suction cup mouth. He moved his wings back and forth, hovering and buzzing as loud as he possibly could.

“Mr. Sedaris is not to be shared with anyone,” I told him, and wiggled my finger in his face. “I’ll share my room with you, no problem, but this book, it’s mine. Got that?” Flyzilla decided to hiss back at me. “Move!” I shouted.

He wouldn’t budge. I shook the book. He held on as if he had claws that protruded from his legs. I saw his eyes glint red, his mouth open for what was sure to be a bite of my flesh. In my own self interest, I decided to back off. I gently set the book on my lap. I glanced at the clock. Another 3.4 minutes had gone by.

I decided a change in tactic was necessary. I informed him that I only had one percent of the day to be used for my reading. “Please little guy, I’m so tired. Can you just wait over there until I finish? Then the book can be all yours. I promise!”

He lifted his legs and took off. I looked down, thinking I had him convinced, that I won. It was for an instant that I could no longer see him, that I imagined that the pest had transformed into the size of a gnat and would no longer bother me. I even breathed a sigh of relief, and relaxed for the first time all day. Then the little bugger flew up and crashed into the corner of my eye, right by my nose. Stunned, I reeled backwards, and hit my head on the head board.

He put his buzzer on loudspeaker, and crashed again and again into my face. The ear-splitting drone and the combination of his monster sized wings batting across my cheek were more than I could stand. I finally got over the shock and gave a hard swat at him with the back of my hand.

He landed on the open pages of the book. So, I figured, I’d squash the little bugger between the pages. No hard feelings, Mr. Sedaris, but your book became my flyswatter. Ever so slightly, and ever so slowly, while the little bloodsucker contemplated his next assault tactics, I adjusted my hands beneath the book.

I took a deep breath.

I slammed the book shut.

In the process of fly swatting, I had completely forgotten about checking the page I was on. Not only was the book going to have fly guts on it, I was going to have to page past them in order to read the rest of the chapter. Yuck. Well, I had to confirm a casualty, didn’t I? It wasn’t going to be pretty…

Wrong. I paged through the book and found no trace of fly guts. There wasn’t even a speck of blood. In my semi-professional fly-swatting experience, that means the creature is still out there, and will come back with a vengeance. I decided to continue reading, to see if I could get the rest of the measly 6.2 minutes that remained before the guy made his way back to find me.

It took two. Two minutes. Before I knew it, Flyzilla returned. Bigger and badder than ever. And he decided that face-hitting attacks weren’t enough for him. He wanted me. He didn’t take the assassination attempt lightly, that’s for sure. I looked at him sneaking his way up my bed, with new camo-gear in tow. “Don’t think I don’t see you, Flyzilla.” I cried out. “This means war!”

I took my book (hardcover, by the way) and slammed it on the end of my bed, just grazing my big toe. I howled in pain, and I swear I heard the fly howl with laughter. Laughter!

I heard him take off, just to spite me, and begin to fly around in slow circles, above my head, around my bed, circling the book. I frantically looked at the clock. I had 3.7 minutes remaining. I had to do something, and quick! His wings were the size of jumbo jets and the sound was deafening.

He must have been doing recon, because he flew in two big loops from my window to my door to my bed. I threw everything I had in reach at him, and missed and missed. He dove out of the way of a pencil that I tossed up in the air, and flew smack into my lamp next to my bed. He twitched and fell to the floor after burning his feet on the light bulb. I giggled maliciously.

My laughter faded as I watched him get up from the floor and begin to climb up the wall. His eyes filled with new determination and the noise erupting from his wings shook my apartment complex. I crouched in fear on the opposite side of my bed. No, I wasn’t going to go down as a coward! It was time to negotiate.

I stood tall, and rushed over to my door. I opened it wide, and did a spectacular interpretative dance urging Flyzilla to leave my room. I talked of open fields, piles of garbage, and many many other gringas he could visit at the wee hours of the night.

He contemplated the free world option and compared it to a world of life on the battle field, with its endless thrill-seeking, and infinite adrenaline rushes. He chose the latter.

He completed the necessary surveillance to launch a full-fledged attack on his very well-suspecting victim. Exhausted, and with less than 1 minute left on the clock, I was ready for him.

This time while he zoomed above my head, I feigned exhaustion and lazily grabbed the leg of my teddy bear, which had fallen onto the floor in the previous book-slamming commotion. I snapped upright, and with sharp-shooter’s aim, Teddy went flying into the air, and crashed against the ceiling. He landed with a poof on my bed.

I no longer heard the roaring of the jet engines. I heard a faint plink on the floor, and the sputtering fizzling halt of the mosca del infierno. He appeared on the other side of my bed. His little feet waved in what could have been a dance of surrender, or a call for reinforcements.

I promptly smashed him with my book.

Contented and pleased, I relaxed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. I rolled over, opened my book and began to read when another buzzing began…

The Aztec

Written by: Rinda Payne

A mysterious man was seen walking down Triunfo Street to the Plaza de Armas in Cusco in the middle of June shortly after he had arrived from Mexico. He was dressed in black. His back was as straight as his long nose. His glistening hair, the color of coal, was brushed back and tied in a pony tail. His eyes, glittering like two pieces of jet catching the light, were focused straight ahead. He was known as The Aztec. His name was unpronounceable, long and filled with tongue-twisting combinations of consonants and vowels.

He was accompanied by an assistant, a paler version of The Aztec. He, too, wore black, but his skin was sallow, his nose slightly out of joint, his shoulders slumped and his long, raven hair, which hung loose, was lusterless. Like a shadow, he followed several steps behind The Aztec.

The Aztec had paid cash to rent an apartment. He announced, “I have come to save the Andean people. To show them the Aztec way, to convert them to a way of living far superior to that which they are accustomed to.” He distributed fliers describing the weekly one hour meetings that he would host in the living room of his apartment. Each meeting cost approximately four American dollars.

Twelve men, intrigued by The Aztec’s fliers, attended the first meeting. They came from different backgrounds. Five were friends who owned businesses in the city; three had jobs with the City of Cusco; three were retired; and one was a lawyer who had just opened an office in Cusco. Each man was bored with the monotony of his daily routine. They all were seeking something new in order to regain their passion for life.

The assistant took the fee for the meetings, checked the names of the men who were present and then disappeared from the room.

The Aztec introduced the first lesson by saying, “I will reveal to you how to interpret the Aztec calendar, how to live in balance by separating foods and beverages into categories and percentages, how to breathe, to sleep, to relax, and to massage your bodies. Precise formulas account for every aspect of life, mental, physical, emotional and spiritual. As a result of these techniques, you will be healthier and happier.” 

He required the men to keep the Aztec ways a secret. He laughed to himself as he ended the first class with a warning. “You can’t share what you learn here with anyone outside of this group.” Several thoughts passed through his mind in quick succession. If they knew that only a handful of men have been granted the privilege of teaching the Aztec beliefs, and I am not one of them, I am an imposter, they would run from me. What if anyone in Mexico discovered I was representing myself as an Aztec when I learned all the techniques and systems by eavesdropping on one of the approved teachers while working as a cook in his home. Keeping the beliefs secret will entice more people into the group, and I’ll earn more money.

Before long, the members of the group realized that being a part of the Aztec world required a great deal of effort on their part. They struggled with the practices which would bestow harmony upon them. They wrestled with dividing the foods and beverages into the correct percentages to be consumed each day. Figuring out how much water they should drink daily according to each one’s body weight was a chore. The tortuous names of the systems were in Aztec, not in Spanish. It was difficult to remember the correct hand positions for the massage techniques. To practice them on each other in class, embarrassed them. They began to grumble among themselves on the street as they parted for the night.

“This is too difficult.”

“I’d rather be home drinking beer.”

“It’s torture. I don’t want to be an Aztec.”

Jorge, who worked for the City, summed up their feelings. “We prefer our own rituals and values centered on ayni(1) and honoring the natural world, Pachamama(2) and the apus(3). The Andean way is much simpler, more profound. Our long-established customs make us feel good. The Aztec way doesn’t suit us.”

The Aztec was oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm. He continued his nonstop lecturing and whacking his pointer against the chalkboard whenever he wanted to emphasize a detail he had written on it. “It was a good lesson tonight,” he would say to his assistant once the men had left.

After each meeting, The Aztec would tell his assistant, “I am making headway with the men.” He would pat himself on the back. His self-importance and greed increased as he observed the men trying to grasp what he taught them. “Aha!” he would exclaim out of earshot of the assistant. “They will spread the word about the Aztec principles! The size of the group will expand. I’ll make more money.”

The final straw for the men was when the Aztec told them that there was to be no drinking and no partying, that coca leaves were forbidden. “What will we do during the festivals?” they asked each other. “How can we make a despacho(4) without chewing coca leaves or putting them into the despacho?” Tired of what seemed like endless lessons and angry at The Aztec’s arrogance at wanting to rescue them from Andean beliefs, the members met in a local coffee house following an evening class some two months after their first meeting.

One of the business owners spoke first. “Let’s frighten The Aztec.”

A retiree asked, “Why not run The Aztec out of Cusco?”

“Not just out of Cusco, but out of Peru,” another retiree added.

Jorge offered, “I’ll dissolve some pills in the water of The Aztec, and he will sleep.”

“That’s the best idea we’ve heard yet,” the lawyer declared. The others agreed.

Jorge appeared early at the next class. Hidden in the pocket of his jacket was a vial of Valium pills that he had borrowed from the owner of a bar who mixed the pills in the drinks of trusting tourists who flaunted their cash. He snuck into the kitchen. He opened a bottle of San Luis water, which always stood on the table, and poured a glassful. He added four pills to the water. There, he thought, we’ll fix him.

Fortunately, the assistant was absent that evening. While The Aztec was collecting the men’s payment as they entered the apartment, Jorge handed the water to The Aztec who, not suspecting a hidden motive, thanked him for his thoughtfulness. After The Aztec had finished the water, he began to feel lethargic. He sat down on a rickety stool. The men waited until he fell asleep. With nothing to support his body, The Aztec tumbled onto the floor. The men kept silent until they were certain that their movements would not awaken him. Then, Jorge turned out the lights in the room. Signaling the group to be quiet, Jorge hissed, “Ssh, ssh.” As the men undressed The Aztec and piled his clothes beside him, the rays from a street light shown through a window, highlighting their smiles. After finishing their work, they filed out of the apartment and slipped away, each man to his own home.

Later that evening, the assistant returned to the apartment to find The Aztec groggy and confused. The Aztec recounted, “I fainted on the living room floor and came to a little later. I am troubled, because I did not have any clothes on. I can’t remember how and when I took them off. I even forget turning the light off. What a mystery!” Together, they decided that The Aztec had fainted because he had not eaten since breakfast. “You see,” he said to the assistant, “how important it is to adhere to the Aztec precepts.”

The men, curious as to whether they had frightened The Aztec into departing Cusco, appeared at the next meeting to find him waiting for them. The Aztec unexpectedly proclaimed, “From here on, meetings will be twice a week for two hours, instead of once a week for one hour. There is so much to learn.” The men looked at each other in dismay. The same thought occurred to each one; rather than scare the Aztec as they had intended, the incident seemed to embolden him.

Of course, such a plan meant more money for The Aztec, so he lied to his assistant, “I am willing to give up more of my time so that the men will have every opportunity to study the Aztec system with me.” Meanwhile, images flickered through The Aztec’s mind of the soles(5) he would accumulate. There’ll be no more living from one day to the next he thought. I’ll have to find a way to send my assistant back to Mexico, so he won’t know how much money I’m making.

After a month of classes twice a week, the men were exhausted. They struggled to speak up in class; they dragged their feet as they walked home; they were absentminded at their work place or with their families. The following week, the men congregated on a nearby, deserted street corner after class. One of the business men spoke up, “Our minds are confused by these complex and unfamiliar teachings. We thought our lives were boring before we joined this group. We didn’t recognize how good our days were. We took for granted our laughter, friendships and families. Now our life is a burden.”

It was Jorge’s turn. “We must leave The Aztec,” he said,

The lawyer added, “All of us will regain our zest for life. We will resume our beer drinking, making sure we spill several drops on the ground as an offering to Pachamama before we take our first swig. We will tell jokes and laugh uproariously. Once again, we will practice ayni.”

“Si! Si!(6),” the men responded in unison, embracing one another.

No one rang the door bell at the hour of the next class. The Aztec paced the floor of the living room expecting the men to appear at any moment. What could have happened to them, he thought.  He angrily turned to his assistant. “No one has arrived. Why?” The assistant was silent. When it became apparent that the men had abandoned him, The Aztec cursed them.  He would have to go without their payments for that night’s lesson.

I am a con man The Aztec reflected. I’ve had many careers in which I dupe people into handing over their funds. I’ve traveled throughout Mexico exhausting my opportunities, cheating at card games, pulling off scams and swindles, selling fake goods. I thought I’d try another country where I’d be a stranger. I decided to target this city. Now, it’s best to move on.

At midnight, he swiftly packed his few belongings in a plastic bag and, without alerting his snoring assistant, he walked out the door of the apartment and vanished into the dark, never to be seen again in Cusco.
 

(1)Ayni: (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.

(2)Pachamama: (Quechua): Mother Earth.

(3)Apus: (Quechua): spirits of the mountains.

(4) Despacho: (Spanish): 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. Coca leaves are an indispensible part of making a despacho.         

(5)Soles: (Spanish): the sol (soles plural) is the Peruvian currency.

 (6)Si: (Spanish): yes.

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.