By Kris Parfitt –Crooked Trails traveler
Stepping through the doorway, I noticed my friends were no longer in the courtyard, yet music trailed down many of the narrow streets beckoning me to follow. There were drums in the plaza far off to my right and brassy horns echoing off the cobblestones around the corner to my left. Not knowing which direction my companions had taken added depth to this simple experience – I spoke just enough broken-Spanish to confuse the locals and too much English to be able to quickly remember which words they wouldn’t understand.
It was late afternoon in Chinchero, Peru and my friends and I were visiting during the village’s annual Patron Saint festival with one of Crooked Trails’ founders, Tammy Leland. We had been invited by the Paulima and Vilma, founders of Minka Chinchero Weavers Cooperative, to be their guests of honor during the festival. Tammy, and many years of Crooked Trail’s clients have been instrumental in helping to support weaving cooperative and the newly finished girls boarding school, La Casa de Las Ninas. Mama Fagustina, the elder Quechua grandmother and mother of Vilma who was sponsoring this year’s festival had invited us to join her at the cemetery to honor the life of her late husband Juan.
A group of children trying to sell hats and finger puppets approached me as I looked up towards the plaza and then down the canyon-like street of stucco and cobble. “Donde esta Mama Fagustina?” I asked them – hoping I’d used the right words for “Where is”.
I scanned the procession of musicians, dancers and villagers looking for the back of a familiar head. I did not immediately recognize anyone from my group, but the call of the horns had me curious so I followed. Knowing the village was small and being one of the few visiting Crooked Trails travelers, if in finding myself lost I had confidence through faulty language, pantomimes and smiles that I would eventually reconnect with the familiarity of Velma and Paulima’s villa.
I hurried behind an elder Chinchero woman dressed in traditional Andean fashion carrying a large bundle of something on her back in a hand-woven blanket – I was aware, as I caught up to her, how much taller I was than the woman yet even with my long legs it took a concentrated effort to keep up with her pace. She was not a part of the procession yet she was indifferent to the music and celebration as though this happened everyday all the time. As I hurried my pace to keep in step with the woman, I glanced again around this colorful parade to see if I recognized my friends.
Colorful feathered costumes of gold, white and red caught my attention as did the ever growing band of musicians. I looked farther up the street to the lines of villagers holding hands while dancing to the music and although I recognize no one, I did not feel alone.
Now at a fast trot, the woman and I skirted the band and costumed dancers. Her destination and haste was unknown to me, but I wanted to capture this experience so fished my camera out of its bag. Undaunted by my dead battery I changed it while close on the heels of my Ketchua Wonder Woman and within moments I was recording her, the horns and procession.
Finally relinquishing my chase I slipped behind the costumed dancers and between the musicians and marveled at this experience. Despite the apparent absence of my friends I was beyond thrilled! This was extraordinary! The energy of the people was incredibly welcoming. As I filmed the procession several teenage boys dressed as Inca Mountain Guards grabbed my hands and pulled me into the crowd. They eagerly watched my face for a reaction and my laughter and twinkling eyes put them at ease as we giggled and sang our way among other strings of people doing the same un-choreographed dance.
Suddenly I spotted Dan, Mama Fagustina and her grandson Raul at the very front of our parade. Dan and I grinned at each other over the dark-haired heads of the villagers. Then I began to recognize quite a few other friends around me! Grins and glances connected our thoughts – what an honor and a privilege to be welcomed into such an expression of tradition. We were not tourists, we were family! Holding tight the hands of my new-found brothers I ran ahead pulling them behind me. Suddenly I stopped and roared with laughter as they tumbled ahead, both sides caught in a sudden game of crack the whip. It must be a universal game for they knew the rules and off we sped around the other lines of people to pull, stop, and crack!
Chinchero is located in the high Peruvian Andes about thirteen thousand feet where the air is crisp and thin yet sparkles with a curious vibrancy. It snaps and crackles with tradition, ancestors, easy laughter, children, food, Inca ruins and intense color. It smells of smoke, meat, straw, mud, urine, wool and sweat. This village wears community like a thickly woven alpaca blanket ~ it’s heavy with the reality of survival yet comforting with shared trust, respect and admiration. By the time we arrived at the cemetery hot tears rolled down my dusty cheeks and I was ready to explode, not just from the high altitude, but from pure gratitude! As I hugged my brothers and took a drink of warm chi cha, I smiled, for this was only the beginning of an exceptional experience I would never forget.
