Cajamarca

TW: violence, warfare, colonialism

It had been a long night for Jim Calloway. He had trouble sleeping on buses in general, but the television above him playing movies late into the night didn't help. The constant turns and twists of the road also made his stomach a bit queasy and he barely managed to keep down his dinner. As soon as he got off the bus, his head began to hurt, his eyes felt dry, and he was a little short of breath, despite his general athleticism. In contrast to him, his travel partner and new friend, Alim, seemed completely well-rested and unfazed. Dawn was only starting to break as they got off the bus, with just a hint of the sun’s golden glow over the mountains to the east. Having picked up their large backpacks from the man who was diligently handing out luggage from under the bus, Jim and Alim stepped out onto the street.

“¿Taxi, señor?” they were approached by a cab driver.

“No, gracias amigo,” Alim replied quickly and with little hint of an accent.

Jim looked around. They were surrounded by a patchwork of what looked like unfinished buildings, some newer ones displaying bare brick walls with iron rods sticking out from the top, and some older covered mud brick ones with thatched roofs. There was no theme, it was as if the buildings had randomly come into existence as soon as Jim laid his eyes on them. The light poles on either side of the street were connected by a tangled mess of cables above their heads. It was still just before it started to get busy, and the world was still half asleep and quiet. The air was pleasantly chilly.

“Man, I slept like shit,” Jim said looking at Alim, who only smiled back. “Neck hurts, too.”

“That is because you are an old man, Jim!” Alim replied. “Are you feeling the altitude?”

“If you’re asking me if my head feels like it’s about to explode, then yes, I do,” Jim replied, and Alim laughed.

“I bet this man has something to make you feel better,” he said, gesturing towards a short, middle aged man who was busily setting up a little cart on the sidewalk. “Come on.”

Jim wasn’t sure what Alim was talking about, so he just followed him in silence. The man’s cart had “EMOLIENTES” written in big letters. Jim had seen these stands before, and he knew they were some sort of beverage stand, but he had never ventured to try one of their drinks.

“¡Buenas, señor!” Alim directed himself to the man, “¿nos puede hacer dos emolientes, por favor?”

“Si claro, joven, un momentito, ahorita le preparo,” came the answer, while the man was still busy setting up his stand.

“He is making us some emolientes,” Alim said to Jim this time, “it is very good stuff. Just stand and watch,” he said, anticipating Jim’s question.

The man quickly got to work with incredible dexterity. He poured some honey into a mixing container, while his other hand added what looked like some yellow powder, and some small white grains. The man’s right hand quickly moved, as if it had its own will, and started adding small amounts of different colored liquids from transparent bottles which were all on the side of his cart, into the mixing container, one after another, in a display of speed which would outclass any but the most experienced bartender. Finally, he pulled the lid off a steaming pot which looked like it had fruit and some herbs in it; apples and pineapple for sure, and poured some of that liquid into the mixer while straining it. The man mixed the concoction and poured it into two small plastic cups.

“Aqui tiene, joven,” the man handed Alim the drinks, who handed Jim’s drink over to him.

“Gracias, señor, ¿cuánto le debo?”

“Dos solcitos no más, joven.”

Alim paid the man two Soles. Jim sipped his drink. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect after seeing all that, but this sure was different than whatever he had in mind. There was a bit of tangy sweetness, balanced by the earthy flavors of the herbs and whatever else was mixed in. Perhaps he was imagining things, but almost immediately he felt some of the exhaustion leave his body and be replenished by fresh energy. All in all, it was a very pleasant warm drink.

“Not bad, is it?” Alim smiled, as he sipped on his own.

“Pretty good actually,” Jim said. “I’m impressed,” he took another sip.

They both sipped their drinks in silence. The town was becoming busier by the minute, with small van buses now making their routes while small three wheeled mototaxis, or tuk-tuks as they were called elsewhere, weaved their way between the vehicles on the road. 

They had not booked a place to stay, and in fact the whole trip to Cajamarca had been done on a bit of a whim. Alim and Jim met at their surfer hostel in Huanchaco, although neither was a surfer. They struck a friendship despite being quite different. Jim was about 5’6”, had pale blue eyes, short blonde hair, and had a lean runner’s body. He was a veteran from Nebraska, which Alim immediately guessed upon recognizing the Huskers baseball cap Jim was always wearing, to Jim’s surprise.

“I like watching the American football,” Alim had explained.

Alim on the other hand, was a tall, dark, muscular, bearded man, at least 6’2” in Jim’s estimate, and yet spoke with a gentle demeanor that betrayed a very slight German accent.

“My mother is German, and my father is Turkish,” he had explained, “but I grew up my whole life in Germany.”

Alim was a scholar, a linguist studying the Arawak languages of Peru, where he had spent several months. When they met, he was taking a break on the beach. Their conversation steered towards different sorts of celebrations, one of the hosts at the hostel mentioned that Carnaval was taking place, and that they had to visit Cajamarca. Alim’s eyes glowed with the mention of it, as if remembering something.

“Cajamarca, yes! My professor has been there many years ago, and he told me how wonderful it is. We must go!”

And so, they went, and now found themselves in Cajamarca without a clear plan.

“So where do we go now?” Jim asked.

“Let’s go to the Plaza, and make a plan from there. It will be some time until hotels start checking in anyways,” Alim suggested, “I looked it up on my phone before we left, it should be pretty close to here.”

Alim was referring to the Plaza de Armas. Every town and city in Peru that Jim had visited so far had one, and it was the name given to the central square of the city.

“Sounds good to me, lead the way,” Jim answered.

Alim turned back to the man with the drink cart and asked him for directions.

Hernando opened his eyes. He had managed only brief and intermittent sleep, and any noise or rustle made him spring back to alertness. He was dressed in his complete battle gear, with his sword ready by his side, and had been since last evening. Now it was morning again and still nothing had happened. He supposed he should be grateful to God that he was still alive, but in his mind, he just wanted it all to be over with, whatever the outcome was. He got up, and walked out of the stone house, and walked up to Hidalgo.

“Curse this cold,” Hidalgo said.

“I agree. Did you hear anything last night?”

“Nothing, it was completely silent. They must be waiting to cut us down as soon as we leave these walls. The Indians keep saying we are all doomed. Or at least that’s what Felipillo said.”

“What do you think?”

“I care not either way, but I am ready to send them to their Lord,” said Hidalgo laying his hand on his sword, “I just want a good fight.” His trembling hand betrayed the confidence he was trying to display.

Hernando de Aldana had heard of the legendary riches of the Indies while he was still in Spain. He had heard tales of Hernan Cortes and his conquest of the mighty Aztecs and lamented that he had not taken part. He was an ambitious man who dreamed of gold, adventure, and power, and knew that men like him would not find it in Spain. When he heard tales of a new kingdom which Francisco Pizarro, the bastard son of the honorable Gonzalo Pizarro, was preparing to explore, he knew what his calling was. Hernando left everything he had and sailed to Panama. There, he joined Pizarro’s third expedition into the land they called Peru, across the Southern Sea.

Not long after they arrived, Hernando wondered whether he should have heeded the warnings that Pizarro was just a liar. The riches were scarce, many of the towns were abandoned, and they didn’t know which Indians to trust. The lush forests of Guayaquil had tuned into desolate deserts as they marched south, and it wasn’t long before some of the men wanted to return to Panama. And yet, Pizarro persisted, and Hernando, seeing no reason to return, followed along.

Hernando began to learn the language of the Indians, and to learn things about their land. They told him of the vast and powerful kingdom up in the mountains, the Tawantinsuyu, ruled by the Sapa Inca, Atahualpa. They told him of the devastating war for the throne between Atahualpa and his brother, Huascar, and of the wrath of the Inca’s armies as they ravaged towns in the countryside, some of which they had passed. They told him tales of immeasurable gold and wealth. But above all, they warned him that the Inca had a vast army with him, and that they should turn around and leave if they wanted to live. But the party kept on going. The Inca was awaiting them in Cajamarca.

From above, as Hernando crossed the mountain pass and descended into Cajamarca, he saw a city made of carefully placed stone buildings, surrounding a central square which had some sort of small fortress in the middle. The city was in a valley surrounded by tall mountains, which were lined with beautiful terrace farms. Barely a league from Cajamarca, there was a large, white, tent city.

“Felipillo, jamuy caiman!” Hernando called for the interpreter. Felipillo, a young man Pizarro had picked up while in Tumbes, quickly ran over. “What is that over there?”

“That is Pultumarca, apu,” Felipillo answered, “there is Atahualpa’s army.”

That had been yesterday. When they entered Cajamarca, the Spaniards had found it abandoned, and Atahualpa, who said he had peaceful intentions and would meet them here, was camped out in Pultumarca with his host. They had been fooled into their own death, or so Hernando thought, and he was not the only one. It was only a matter of time before the thousands of Inca warriors descended upon them. The small group of men and their allies occupied the central square, and the surrounding buildings, and were preparing for a bloody skirmish.

“¡¡LOOOOOCOOOO!! ¡¡LOOOOOCOOOOO!! ¡¡LOCO POR MIS CARNAVALES!!”

Jim found himself in the middle of a large crowd in the middle of Cajamarca’s Plaza de Armas. The crowd was singing and cheering, playing the drums, and drinking a sweet warm drink they called calientito. It was Jim and Alim’s second night in Cajamarca. It was past midnight, and the night was chilly, but the calientito – a warm mixture of passion fruit juice and cañazo, a cane liquor, kept them warm and happy. Jim was already feeling quite a buzz.

“¡Gringo! ¡Gringo! ¡Cántate esta! ¡Tú también, turco! ¡Chupa más!” Marco passed his bottle of calientito to Jim, who took it and took a big swig. He looked at Alim, who looked back at him and smiled. They knew this one.

“¡¡YA LLEGÓ MI CARNAVAAL!!” Jim yelled to the top of his lungs.

“¡YA LLEGÓ MI CARNAVAL!” Alim followed.

“¡A LA MIERDA EL AÑO NUEVO!” Jim continued, to a gathering crowd which was cheering him on.

“¡A LA MIERDA EL AÑO NUEVO!” Alim continued.

“¡SI ESTE AÑO LA PASO MAL!”

“¡SI ESTE AÑO LA PASO MAL!”

“¡¡TE JURO, ME CORTO UN HUEVO!!”

“¡TE JURO, ME CORTO UN HUEVO!”

As Alim finished the verse, an excited crowd of locals gathered round to watch them, some laughing hysterically.

The Inca’s procession was very impressive. Hernando had seen it from the tower, while it was still far away in the distance, moving towards the city, but now he could see it entering the gates of the square. It had been two days since the men camped in Cajamarca, and Atahualpa was finally making his appearance just as the evening was starting. From his hiding spot, Hernando could observe a group of Indians leading the precession, wearing tunics adorned with drawings, who swept the ground before the rest of the emperor’s party. Behind them he could hear song and dance, the sound of flutes and drums – soon the dancers and singers also started to fill the square.

“Ñoqan kani Intiq Churin, taytallaysi kachamuwan!”half of them sang.

“Ñoqan kani Intiq wawan, taytallaysi kamachiwan!” the other half replied.

Hernando was not sure of what the words meant, but he knew that they referred to the sun, the pagan deity these people worshipped. The rhythm was upbeat, and the dancers moved quickly and were synced precisely. They wore bright, colorful garments that flayed in the air as they twisted their bodies. Some of the drummers had large, long, skin drums strapped to them which emitted deep sounds, while others had smaller drums which complemented the deeper sounds. 

The dancers were followed by what Hernando thought to be warriors – they wore golden chest plate armor and helmets, although he could not see what weapons they brought with them. They also filled the square, and brought llamas with them.

Finally, Atahualpa appeared, carried by his servants in a litter richly adorned with feathers and golden plating. The litter moved slowly, and was followed by another two litters, which carried what Hernando assumed were some less important leaders, perhaps local governors. He could tell they were less important by the manner in which their litters were adorned – they were smaller and lacked many of the ornaments.

Atahualpa’s litter stopped in front of the fortress which was in the middle of the square, and the other two litters spread out to either side of him.

Francisco Pizarro looked at friar Vicente and Felipillo.

“Would you go and talk to the emperor, friar Vicente? I will send Felipillo with you to assist. Hernando,” he said, looking at Hernando de Aldana, “you speak some of their tongue too, do you not?”

“I do,” replied Hernando.

“You go with them too. Tell the emperor of our peaceful intentions, and our mission to spread the word of God.”

“I am but a humble servant of the Lord,” Friar Vicente agreed. “I will go.”

“Remember the word, Hernando. If you hear it, then you know what to do,” Pizarro said.

“Santiago.”

Jim wasn’t feeling very well. He had lost sight of Alim, who he had last seen with an attractive girl, so he thought that most logically they must be back at the hotel by now. After the singing and dancing, he had followed the new group of friends he made at the Plaza to one of the local bars, where he drank and danced some more. Then they all went to a food cart, where he had some caldo levanta muertos, a rich, tasty soup which was said to help one sober up faster, and stave off an awful hangover. The rest of the group had now left, and he found himself back at the Plaza, which was deserted by this point, save for a few souls. Jim sat down on a bench.

Everything happened so fast. Hernando was standing over the body of a dead Indian, covered in blood, as the last of the Inca’s servants were trying to make it out of the square but were cut down by de Soto and his cavalry. No sooner had he heard the word, “¡Santiagooo!”, than the world turned upside down. The cannons fired, the trumpets announced the cavalry attack, and the furious Spanish led a charge on the unarmed Indians, led by Pizarro himself, who grabbed Atahualpa’s arm and pulled him off his litter. Hundreds tried to protect the emperor with their bodies and were mercilessly cut down. The wall where the entrance to the square was had collapsed under the pressure of people trying to escape, and hundreds more had died trampled by people and horses. The square was now littered with bodies, and thousands were made prisoners, being forced to clear out the cadavers of their compatriots. The path to glory, gold and adventure was a bloody river littered with corpses. Hidalgo stopped, looked at Hernando, then at the Indian at his feet.

“I guess if you don’t want it, I’ll take it” he said, and took the Indian’s golden chest plate off.

The sun had set, it was dark and cold.

Jim reclined back and looked at the sky. He sat there and wondered what had brought him to this point, and how many others may have sat on this same bench, contemplating the same thoughts looking at the same sky. He left his hometown near Hastings, Nebraska, almost two years ago, in search of adventure, in search of something which he could not describe, but which he wanted with all his soul. He left in search of himself. Tonight was not the night that he found it, but he started to think that it may be time to go back. He got up from the bench, feeling better now, and started the walk back to the hotel.

The sun was rising.