Gregorio Condori Mamani and
Asunta Quispe Huamán
photo by Eulogio NishiyamaANDEAN LIVES (excerpts)
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WHY DO WE SUFFER?
The butcher never stayed homes he was always traveling. So I'd stay home all by myself and watch over the cattle. When he wasn't on the road, I'd look after his little donkey, which used to go to Suyupampa flat to feed. One day the donkey disappeared for good. I was so afraid of the beating he was going to give me for that, I left his house, never to return. Next to the butcher's home, there was a fenced lot with a large pile of rocks where I crouched down and hid in a cranny. At that very moment, I saw my master pass by with a huge bullwhip in hand, huffing and puffing with anger. I was very lucky--our Lord surely hid me--because my master passed right by me, looking everywhere, and didn't see me. So he wouldn't find me, I entrusted myself to God the Father:
"Hide me, Lord, so this Christian devil doesn't see me."
So that night I left Sicuani heading toward San Pablo, keeping to the banks of the Willkamayu River, avoiding the road, so I wouldn't run into that devil. While walking along the trail, I came upon a man and a woman who were trout fishing in the dark. I think they got scared, but I was also very afraid. So, frightened and trembling with fear, I approached them.
"Are you of this world or the otherworld?" the man asked me.
"I'm of this world," I replied.
"Who are you? Where are you going?" he then asked me.
"I'm just wandering; I have no parents."
They were just runa folk like me, and good- hearted. They asked me:
"Want to come along with us?"
Digging into a satchel, they offered me a meal they'd packed for themselves, and I ate a little bit. Then we went back to Sicuani. Deep down in my heart, I hoped: now that I've got another master, that devil will have to stop looking for me. I went with Gumercindo Qhuru, which was my new master's name, from Sicuani to the village of Arisa, his wife's people. The people there were good of heart and pure of soul. So that just seems to have been my fate. Ever since I first saw the light of day, I've traveled from one house to the next, upsetting our Lord. That's surely the fate of those who've been flung into this world to suffer. By suffering like that, it's said that we the poor are curing ail the good Lord's wounds, and once those wounds are completely healed, the suffering in this world wilt disappear. That's what a corporal from the Paruro region once told us in the barracks, and we soldiers said:
"What the hell? How big are these wounds that, with all the suffering there is, they haven't yet disappeared? As if they were horse cankers!"'
And he answered:
"Don't be heretics, dammit! Stand to! The last four to fall in!"
So it was.
Thinking back, I'd say there's more suffering now than in the past. This life isn't bearable anymore. This life weighs heavier than the loads I carry on my back. And as the days go by, my burden grows heavier. Such is life. In my ignorance I ask, if our good Lord's wounds are the cause of so much suffering, and life is already so short, why don't they find and cure him? That's what I asked my wife some years ago, and she said:
"That's why foreigners have gone to Mother Moon, they say." 22
And just like that, it was the talk of the town back then: the gringos had traveled by plane for a whole week to get to Mother Moon. But I think that's just people talking.
So much for suffering.
AIRPLANES AND OTHER BEASTS
When I was still just a little fledgling, living there in the village of Arisa, an airplane--those they now call "plane"--came by high above.' People had already been talking about that: humans will travel on high, up on top of the wind. But how were we going to see humans traveling on top of the wind? We weren't going to see that! Just like today when they announce on the radio or in newspaper publications, that "Such and such will happen," or "This will come to pass," back then, news used to spread by word of mouth: "Humans are going to travel by trotting on the wind." While they were talking like this, that big beast, the airplane, arrived. And when the airplane came, people said:
"Oh, Lord! What kind of beast have you sent us!"
They'd throw libations to the wind, using the fermented urine they wash hair with, or they'd chew up garlic and spit it out:
"Ptu! Ptu! Bad omen! What kind of Christian is this?"
One day during the threshing season, when some two or three hundred of us were working behind Mount Silkincha, a huge bird that looked like a condor, and which was shrieking like one of the damned, suddenly appeared. All of us working there threshing got scared. And right then, I remembered what Uncle Gumercindo once told me: that a few days before the end of this world, a messenger eagle with a condor's head and llama feet will come and forewarn us runas, we the Inka's kinfolk, to be waiting ready for the end of this world. And my uncle also said:
"Inkariy has been living in the underworld ever since Pizarro the priest killed him. And the day this world ends, he'll emerge and join all the runas."
So when the airplane came veering in our direction, people said:
"It's a divine miracle coming toward Us."
And they quickly knelt down and prayed:
"Oh, Lord, you've arrived at last!"
When I saw that it was truly veering toward us, I was thinking, "This must be a divine miracle." We were all kneeling down and praying to the divine airplane. So, I too, from the bottom of my heart, said, "Oh, Lord, I'm no sinner--I've always helped my elders work their fields." While I was saying this, the airplane passed overhead, roaring loudly. And so the airplane just passed on by without coming down to us, and all of us there praying, and others confessing their sins, fell silent and watched it disappear as it headed down toward Sicuani. Then the diviner, Machaca, said:
"It's going to come down in Sicuani; let's go see what it has to say and why it has come."
So a few people rushed off to Sicuani, and the rest of us returned to threshing the grain. Back then, the airplane was the talk of the town. They were saying, "Enrique Rondán is the driver." Even villagers from the high mountain reaches came down to ask if a miracle had truly passed overhead.
And some time ago, people used to talk about the train the same way they did about the plane. But I still hadn't seen it back then, I'd only heard people talking about it:
"Train, train, what's it like?!"
"It slithers along like a worm."
And others would say:
"It's a black beast, like a big snake made of pure iron, and to keep moving it has to open its mouth--that's where the fire is."
When the train first appeared, there were also songs like this one:
Where, old smoky, are you now?
you're passing Santa Rosa
my pushcart
you're passing Kisa- Kisa.
If now, Rosalina
you don't love me
if now, Rosalina
you won't have me
may old smoky swallow me whole.
All anybody talked about was the train. So my curiosity grew and grew. Some time later when I was a young man, I saw a train in Sicuani. I didn't get scared when I saw it, but I did almost begin to scream. It was black just like they'd said, and when it moved, it looked just like a worm. I was really impressed at the time by the huge amount of freight it could pull. On just one of its flatcars, it was carrying hundreds of cases of Martinez liquor.
The first time I saw a car in San Pedro was the same. That car was just a tiny little truck used for hauling things. Because, back in those days, people traveled only by foot or on mules, horses, and burros; those who traveled by car had everybody talking:
"Sure, they've got money, they're rich--that's why they travel by car."
That's how they were regarded, and that's why people didn't want to travel by car.
INKAS AND SPANIARDS
Túpac Amaru was from Tungasuca; he was one of our people, son of Inkas,' but one day those Spanish enemies killed him. They ripped his tongue and eyes out by their roots. That's how Túpac Amaru was killed by his foes. Túpac Amaru's enemies were the very same ones that our ancestors, the Inkas, used to have. They tell this story about Inkaríy; it was way back then in those distant times of our ancestors.
Our God used to travel from town to town, asking:
"What kind of work would you like me to give you?"
And Inkaríy replied:
"We don't want any of your jobs. Our hands can do any kind of work if we need to work."
That's how he answered.
"We know how to make stones walk, and with a single throw of a sling, we can build mountains and valleys. We don't need anything at all; we know everything there is to know."
Well, then this two- faced God went to Spain, to the enemy of our ancient Inka forefather, where he also went from town to town, asking:
"What would you like? I'll give you work. Ask me and I'll give you anything you want."
Where Inkaríy had scorned him, all the people in Spain were ambitious and greedy, and they asked him for everything:
"We want this, that, and the other."
That's why today we runas don't know how to run engines, cars, or those machines that travel high above like birds, the helicopters and planes. We don't know how to build any of those machines, but those Spaniards are clever and know how to do everything. A wiraqucha Spaniard invented electricity by just watching water, and with some pieces of glass, he invented the light bulb. Even right now, this light here comes from the waters of Calca.
So the Inka, our Inkaríy, was proud and scornful and didn't want the jobs. But those Spaniards asked for all kinds of work, saying, "We want it." That's why today they can build cars, engines, iron pots--all the things we don't know how to make. That's the way it is, all because God himself gave those jobs to them and not us, the ones who spurned the good Lord's gifts.
We are Peruvians, native peopled and they were Inka runa; but we're their children, and that's why those Spaniards also killed Túpac Amaru.
They say that, just like those nuns today there in Santa Teresa Convent and in San Pedro, the Inka used to have women like that back then. The Spaniards took those women out of there and married them, and those women bore them children.
It's said that when those Spaniards were about to kill the Inka, he told them:
"Don't kill me."
And he had golden ears of corn given to their horses.
"We'll give you gold like this, but don't kill us."
Well, those greedy Spaniards were hungry for power, so they killed our Inka. The Inkas didn't know anything about paper or writing, and when the good Lord wanted to give them paper, they refused it. That's because they didn't get their news by paper but by small, thick threads made of vicuña wool: they used black wool cords for bad news and for the good news, white cords. These cords were like books, but the Spaniards didn't want them around; so they gave the Inka a piece of paper.
"This paper talks," they said.
"Where is it talking? That's silly; you're trying to trick me."
And he flung the paper to the ground. The Inka didn't know anything about writing. And how could the paper talk if he didn't know how to read? And so they had our Inka killed. Inkaríy disappeared and has been gone ever since. The Inkas Wayna Qhapaq and Inka Ruka had been his uncles, and Inka Rumichaka was his brother. The Spaniards killed them all.
But now I ask:
"What would the Spaniards say if our Inka was to return?"
Such was life.
STORIES FROM JAIL
So we'd tell stories every night, and one time another inmate told a story about Earth Mother. In other times, who knows how long ago, our Lord ordered that the crops people grow for food should all be on just one stalk with a single root. At the top of the plant, wheat was to be grown; on its sides, five to ten corncobs; and in the roots, potatoes. But here Earth Mother protested angrily:
"I can't bear all these different crops. Instead, each one should have its own plant and roots."
And ever since that time, potatoes, corn, and wheat have each had their own roots. If Earth Mother hadn't protested back then about bearing so many crops on just one plant with a single root, then even today women would be giving birth to five or ten baby boys and girls each time they got pregnant. When we heard this, our voices rang out as one:
"Damn! You mean there'd have been so many of us that we'd be swarming around here like ants?"
And Matico replied:
"You fools, if one plant was going to provide so many crops, then why shouldn't women be able to bear lots of babies?"
There was another inmate who was a storyteller like Matico. He was from the community of Ccamara in the Ccatcca region. This Ccamaran was in jail for stealing a llama herd--he'd gone and done that to his wedding compadre. In jail there were lots of Ccamarans, and they were real tough guys. Some of them were living in jail with their wives, and they'd cook for all their fellow villagers. They all lived there together. I can only remember some of the stuff those Ccamarans used to tell us. They told about how, way back in other times, our God was known as a witch and a thief here in this world. In those times, our God had many enemies chasing him:
"Where's that witch, where's that thief? Has a thieving witch passed this way?"
And the people answered:
"No witch or thief has come by here."
So they looked and asked all over for him. One day, as they were traveling from town to town asking about him, his enemies met up with Saint Isidore the Farmhand while he was sowing wheat. But a moment earlier, our God had come by Saint Isidore the Farmhand's field, leaving him some instructions:
"If they come asking for me, then say, 'Yes, he passed by, but it was a year ago when I was still just sowing the wheat.' "
A little while later, the ones pursuing our Lord came and asked:
"Did a witch or thief pass by here?"
And Saint Isidore the Farmhand replied:
"Yes, a witch passed by here, but, come to think of it, that was a year ago when this wheat was just being planted and--oh my!--the wheat's now ready to harvest."
And so, in the blink of an eye, the wheat Saint Isidore the Farmhand had been sowing was ready to be threshed.
Some time later, on a different occasion, when cows used to be just black, our God got fed up with being persecuted so much and hid his enemies' cows so he could milk them. And just like holy water, he sprinkled that very same milk over the herd. So the cows changed color, and their owners weren't able to recognize them. Then the owners began to travel all over the place, asking:
"What could've happened to my cows? My cows are gone. There's some cows over there that look like mine, but their colors aren't the same."
Ever since that time, our Lord's enemies stopped chasing him, because they now had to travel from one town to the next searching for their cows.
So that's how cattle rustling began, with that prank pulled by our God.
Well, the Ccamarans were real wily rascals and were known as the town whips. You had to watch out for them more than anyone else in jail, because they'd approach you, and I don't how those witches did it, but they'd pinch something from you, even if it was just a little sewing needle or the hankie you used to blow your nose. Yet, since we were also villagers like them and had been arrested for rustling, we sort of became friends. They were well known in the town of Urcos and were never lacking pelts for spinning wool. People were always bringing them wool, and those of us who didn't have any, would help them. But those wily Ccamaran rascals never stopped talking about all the stunts they'd pulled.
One time a Ccamaran was testifying in a court hearing, and the judge told him:
"Listen up, buddy if you want your freedom, it's your obligation to tell this court the truth."
And the Ccamaran replied:
"No, it's not like that, Papa. As you know, we poor people always have to be traveling. I never stole that cow, Papa. As I left the outskirts of town riding my horse, that cow was feeding on a small rise. And just fooling and messing around, I threw out one end of my lasso and let it drag along behind me, but when I got home that damn cow had followed the lasso behind my horse. At that moment, I was filled with joy and said, 'Thank the Lord! He must be sending this little cow to us.' That's what I thought, Papa, Your Honor, and so I slaughtered the cow and then ate it with my whole family. As you can see, Papa, dear Papa, Your Honor sir, I'm no thief. The cow followed the lasso to my house."
ROSA
After serving time in the Urcos jail, I went to Cuzco and worked for several months at the convent of La Merced, putting doors and windows in the rooms that opened onto the street, those that are now stores there on Avenida del Sol. During the time I worked there, I used to go have lunch at the Cascaparo Market during my noon break. I was single at the time, but wishing I had a woman who'd cook for me. And so, while going to that market every day for lunch, I met my first wife, Rosa Puma. She was a food vendor and came from the village of Sullumayu;2 that's up in the high reaches of Urpay, next to Urcos. She was well known there in the market. She'd already been married before I came along, but he'd abandoned her. Since she was a good cook, and since she served me nice portions, and didn't have a husband, I courted her. She was willing, and from that day on she'd come sleep over with me in my house or I'd go sleep at her house. Then one night she came to my house for good, hauling her bed and all her pots. So we began living together as one there in my room, which was barely big enough for both me and her pots.
Two months passed by. Then the potato harvest in her family's village began. And so, using many llamas, we began hauling the potatoes from Sullumayu to Urpay. She'd travel with me on each of those trips, but she mustn't have been used to walking from the warm valley up to the high reaches several times a day. On one of those trips, she caught an ill wind and couldn't walk, as if she were paralyzed. And since she was suffering, I carried her, walking behind the llamas till I got to Huaro. The healers there tried everything they could to cure her. I went to Urcos to buy her medicine and did everything I could for them to cure her. But that's fate I guess--nothing could be done.
Three days later she woke up unable to talk or even recognize anyone. Her illness got worse that same night, and she became very feverish and broke out in chills. In the early morning of the fourth day, sweating a cold sweat, she grew rigid, and, just like that, she died. And so, to pay for the burial expenses, I sold the potatoes we'd gathered together, and we buried her in the cemetery at the Lord of Kaninkunka's Chapel.
WE STRAPPERS
Day in, day out, ever since I first began as a strapper, I've always started my work hauling goods at five in the morning. I haul goods there in the central market itself, or from the market to people's houses, or else I'm carrying out my set contracts. The things I carry are always different, from packages of bread or clothes to large crates; other times, it's baskets of food or sacks full of potatoes. It all depends how much strength you have, though you've always got to push your strength to the limit.
It doesn't pay much, but there's always something to take home; you can make twenty to twenty- five soles a day, and sometimes even up to seventy.' But in order to get seventy soles a day, you have to really fly, making twenty or even twenty- five trips, looking all over for anyone needing a strapper. You have to just stay around the marketplace or outside the entrances to the supermarket and stores. Back when I had more than enough strength, I could get jobs at the train station, loading and unloading. But now they don't want me anymore, and they pretend not to recognize me when they see me--when they see you're old, they won't even let you help. That's why I'm always there at central market and out in the streets, looking around for cargo to carry. But there's always some ladies who will shove me away when I step in to shoulder their loads:
"You're too old now, you can't do it, go rest up. Call someone young for me."
It's always those wealthy, well- dressed women who haggle the most. They have you carry their goods from the market or stores all the way to their doorsteps, and then, without even asking how much you charge a load, they toss you two or three soles. That's why, many times I've been so angry, I've felt like taking the goods back where I picked them up. But if you complain, it's even worse--they tell you:
"You're just too old now. Run along, go rest up."
When strappers get old and don't have the strength to carry even their own bones anymore, they're rarely taken to a rest home. Because just like everywhere else, they ask you for your papers, your birth certificate, where you're from, your name, and if you've got relatives. If they like your papers, they let you in. But since none of the strappers have papers, they're never accepted. So, looking for handouts up and down the street, that's where they die.
We strappers are always walking around begging when we die. Who knows, maybe that'll happen to me too. I'll get run over by a car, they'll take me to the hospital, do an autopsy on me, and then they'll just toss me in the graveyard.
When a strapper who has no one, nobody at all, dies on a street corner or in some house, the person who finds him notifies the police station, and then the police come and take them off to the morgue. If he has relatives, they come claim the body and have him buried. But if there's no one to claim him, they just dump the poor soul on top of a cold stone slab for two or three days there in the morgue. Then they just take the corpse, with it wearing the same clothes as usual, no shroud or coffin, and heave it into the common grave--then they cover it with a little dirt. They just dump you there like some dirty mongrel. There in the common grave, the children, women, and old ones are all piled up like firewood, one on top of the other. That's where strappers get tossed, there with the people who don't have anybody.
I saw all this recently when a strapper friend of mine named Purificación Quispe died. His lungs collapsed, no doubt from the burden he'd been carrying, and he died spitting up blood, there at the Santo Tomás and Urubamba bus station on Belén Street. They just tossed Purificación Quispe on top of some straw that they'd unloaded from a truck, and, dead like that, the poor soul was just laid out there most of the day. When night was falling, some officers came from the Santiago Police Station and had him taken to the morgue. So, since none of his relatives showed up there at the morgue for two days, they just heaved him into the common grave.