I was hoping that the next post would be to tell of you that I was published online for Glimpse.org. I was waiting through the publishing process in hopes of getting a final draft put on the website. However, I was recently informed that my piece didn't work as a Feature piece, and therefor would not be published. So back to the drawing board.
Below is the piece that I was going to submit.
Quechua Elbow GreaseA dense blanket of fog always comes in midday at Hatun Machay, Peru. The locals know that there is a pattern to the weather: first fog, then cold, then rain. It’s the wet season so it’s fair to expect to get wet. The best thing to do is hide out at the mountain refuge, seeking shelter, honing bread making techniques, or taking up a local sheepherder on a game of chess. There are few other options in the area, a land of volcanic rock outcroppings and small shepherd huts that sit at nearly thirteen thousand feet above sea level. As a teacher in the nearby chaos of Huaraz, Hatun is my destination for escape and relaxation. While there, I try to avoid all forms of forced labor.
In those high peaks of the Andes the rain was normal. The stalled car that we encountered outside the refuge however, was not. While waiting to pick up some locals, a taxista fell asleep with his lights still on. At the time of departure the turn of his key only led to a brief electric click, and then silence. The result was four old Quechua women, wrapped in bright pink and turquoise blankets, getting ready to push the taxi up a hill. The idea was that once at the top they could get the vehicle rolling and bump start it. The rain started to come down harder.
My experience in Peru had taught me that Quechua women, though they sometimes looked frail and weak, were tough as nails. They would barter with unwavering determination in the markets, and in the campo were always seen hauling massive loads of crops on their backs. The four that gathered around the beat up Toyota station wagon were no exception to the rule. They hiked up their elaborately inlaid dresses, revealing their thick, long underwear-like panty hose beneath, and started pushing.
The thought of pushing a car up a muddy road did not appeal to me. But the four old ladies were giving it a good effort and I couldn’t let myself, a fit, self-described ‘mountain man’, just sit there and watch. I came up beside them and lent a hand.
To my right was Antonieta, a shepherdess who I had befriended previously at Hatun when I returned her lost lamb that I had discovered among the rocks. She was one of those souls that you meet in a foreign country that instantly makes you realize how blessed you are to be there. Her hands are chestnut brown and calloused from a lifetime of labor. Her sun hardened cheeks meet stretching crow’s feet that branch out from the corners of her eyes; eyes that are dark and profound. She is beautiful in the same way as the natural stone around her: hard and imposing, but an integral part of the landscape.
Slowly, in the pouring rain, we began the slough of moving the taxi.
Antioneta shouted something to me in Quechua. I failed to grasp the clucking of hard Ks and Gs. The extent of my Quechua only covers the phrases “How are you” and “Pretty sheep”. Since her shouts revealed nothing that my Quechua repertoire could comprehend, I assumed she was saying something along the lines of, “C’mon gringo, push!” Embarrassingly, it seemed that the old Quechua ladies were giving the job more elbow grease than I could muster up. I dug my soaked shoes into the mud and heaved with all my might. The car began to move slowly as the four women and myself treaded the wet earth with the united goal of getting the car to the top of the hill.
I, a gringo in a bright blue GoreTex jacket, pressed against the back of the car between four pink and green bundles of strength and vigor adorned in traditional sombreros. It was a Peruvian cultural experience beyond the expected, yet it was almost quintessentially Peru. I was in the misty rain of the high Andes, among the native people, and dealing with the realities of terrible public transportation. In fact in all my time working in Peru, I had never combined all of those Peruvian cultural elements into one single experience. Suddenly, the pushing didn’t seem so bad. I looked at Antioneta, grunting through the motions of moving the car, and smiled at her. She looked back at me with a stern, fierce gaze and said in Spanish, “Didn’t I tell you to push gringo?”
The trudge was slow, laborious. My expensive trekking shoes, supposedly designed for rugged mountain environments, slipped with every other step, causing me to face plant into the cold wet earth. The old women in their clog like shoes made of old tire rubber and leather, moved with firm footing. I expected that with each of my falls the women would no longer be able to push since my great strength was lacking as a force to get the car to the top of the hill. But they continued, without slowing their pace or wavering in the slightest. I watched their clogged feet walk by as I lifted my muddy body from the ground.
After half an hour of pushing we made it to the top. The taxista jumped into the driver’s seat and Antioneta, myself and the others gave one more good push to get the car rolling downhill. Within a few seconds the car had enough momentum to try and bump start it. The taxista shifted into second, released the clutch, and the car lurched to life, coughing exhaust from its rumbling muffler. We all cheered at our success, and the women gathered their things and threw them into the now functional vehicle.
“Gracias gringo,” Antioneta said to me with a smile.
“No hay de que” I responded, letting her know that there was no reason to say thanks.
The four women said goodbye and hopped aboard the taxi. I turned to reunite myself with the warmth of the refuge. They continued down the hill, disappearing into the mist.
