Arriving United

"Donde esta Mama Faustina?" I ask shyly, as I buy a toy from the children selling hats and finger puppets. I speak just enough broken Spanish to confuse the locals, and I hope that my use of words for "where is?" is accepted. Pointing earnestly, the kids must have understood, for they eagerly guide me in the direction of a tinny-sounding parade.

I was late joining the others in the courtyard and became disappointed to find my friends were no longer lingering. Feeling disconnected, I step through the doorway out to the road. I hear music trailing down the many streets that fall away from the porch I stand upon, beckoning me to follow. 

I pick up a heartbeat of drums in the plaza far off to my right and catch the brassy horns echoing off the cobblestones around the corner to my left. Not knowing which direction my companions have taken adds a sense of depth to this experience and I join the children selling homemade wares to inquire.

It is late afternoon in the Quechua village of Chinchero, high in the Central Andes region of Peru. My boyfriend and I are visiting with a tour group during the village’s annual Patron Saint festival and with us are several friends. We are traveling with a Seattle-based non-profit cultural immersion program hosted by Crooked Trails. Our guide, Tammy Leland, is one of the founders. Tammy and many years of Crooked Trail's clients have been instrumental in helping support the local weaving cooperative and the newly finished girls boarding school, La Casa de Las Ninas.

We are the guests of honor during the annual All Saints festival, invited by our hosts, Paulima and Vilma Quillahuaman-Llancay, founders of the Minka Chinchero Weavers Cooperative. This family has been an integral thread in the development of the weaving cooperative and girl’s school with Crooked Trails. The founders are God-mother’s of this family’s children, and deep friendships have been forged between each generation of villagers and the visitors Crooked Trails brings each year.

This morning, Mama Fagustina, the elder Quechua mother of Vilma and sponsor of the festival, asked our group to join her at the cemetery to honor the life of her late husband, Juan. The group of revelers is on their way there now, yet I don't know how to find "there".

Knowing the village is small and being one of the few American visitors, I trust that if I found myself lost I could, through faulty language, pantomimes, and smiles, eventually reconnect with the familiarity of Velma and Paulima’s villa.

Following the pointed fingers of the children, I hurry behind an elder Chinchero woman dressed in traditional Andean fashion carrying a large bundle of laundry on her back in a hand-woven blanket. I am aware, as I catch up to her, how much taller I am than this woman yet even with my long legs it takes a concentrated effort to keep with her pace.

She is not a part of the procession yet she is indifferent to the music and celebration as though this happens every day. I hurry my pace to keep in step with this swift woman and quickly glance around the colorful parade to see if I recognize my friends. Scanning the procession of musicians, dancers, and villagers I look for the back of a familiar head but I do not immediately recognize anyone from my group; yet the curious call of the horns is inviting so I follow.

Colorful feathered costumes of gold, white and red catch my attention as does the ever-growing band of musicians. I look farther up the street to the lines of villagers holding hands while dancing to the music and although I recognize no one, I do not feel alone.

Now at a fast trot, the woman and I skirt the procession of costumed dancers. Her destination unknown, I am entranced by her brisk indifference to the loudness and distraction of the horns and procession, while my attention is consumed by it. Swiftly she zips ahead and I capture only glimpses of her fleeting skirt in the crowd. Finally relinquishing my chase I join the parade and slip between the costumed dancers and musicians, marveling at this experience.

Despite the absence of my friends, I am beyond thrilled! This is extraordinary! The energy of the people is incredibly welcoming. As I take in the procession, several teenage boys dressed as Inca Mountain Guards grab my hands and pull me into the crowd. They eagerly watch my face for a reaction. My laughter and twinkling eyes put them at ease as we giggle and sing our way among strings of people doing the same un-choreographed dance.

Suddenly I spot my beau, dancing with Mama Faustina at the very front of our parade. We grin at each other, towering over the dark-haired heads of the villagers. All at once, I start recognizing more familiar faces around me! Grins and glances unite our thoughts: what an honor and privilege to be welcomed into such an expression of tradition. We are not merely tourists, we are family!

Holding tight the hands of my new-found brothers I run ahead pulling them behind me. I stop suddenly and roar with laughter as they tumble ahead, both sides caught in a sudden game of Crack-the-Whip. They know the rules of this universal game and off we speed around the other lines of people to pull, stop and crack!

Chinchero is located high in the Peruvian Andes at thirteen thousand feet where the crisp thin air sparkles with a curious intensity. It snaps and hums with the tradition of ancestors, stories, laughter, children, food, and vibrant color while it smells of smoke, meat, straw, mud, urine, wool, and sweat. This village wears community like a thickly woven alpaca blanket - heavy with shared survival yet comforting with the same level of trust.

By the time we arrive at the cemetery hot tears roll down my dusty cheeks and I am ready to explode, not just from the high altitude, but from pure gratitude! I hug my brothers and take a drink of warm chicha. We have arrived, connected, and united.