Coca Psychic

Little did I know it last week, but I was on a collision course with my destiny - and apparently things look grim.

You see, I thought I was headed to Arequipa for the weekend to check out the world´s deepest canyon and spot some Giant Condors, but plans fell through due to love at first sight so I started extending my feelers for other options that wouldn´t involve 24 hours of bussing. My host brother, Carlos, upon hearing my dilemma mentioned that he had been entertaining the idea of heading to a rural village a few hours down the road with which he had recently established a relationship. His propostiion was like gelatto to my ears, as I was itching to get out of Cusco and practice my Quechua with the locals. I was especially excited to try out ¨dove heart¨ on the señoras, because it supposedly charms them beyond belief. Not that I really wanted anything other than friendship (cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!), I just thought they might get a kick out of the gringo droppin charm bombs in their language - one which has been stigmatized and oppressed so intensely that any foreigner showing interest in it can be quite a shock. During my 2 weeks of class, we had gone to the market a couple of times and the women there were invariably tickled by my broken phrases and surprised by my desire to learn this tongue.

So, bright and early one morning I headed to the village of Urpis, not really knowing what to expect. On the bus, our group was greeted by Pablo, who would be our host for the brief adventure. He was a cheery fellow with dark-brown skin and weathered features that revealed his 40 hard-earned years. The hat atop his head drew the most attention however, as a colorful beaded band encircled it and on the back of it dangled 10 multi-colored smiling fluffballs - apparently symbolizing his married status. He told me that it would be considered quite naughty if he were to go to Cusco without this conspicuous ornament. Once Carlos told him about my interest in Quechua, he quickly tested me by asking me complicated questions, then roared with laughter when I showed my confusion. I figured I better get used to it, so I smiled and kept on saying ¨Riki¨ (of course!).

Once the bus ride had come to an end in the tiny town appropriately named ¨Tinqi,¨ we hopped off and got some breakfast, after which we began our hike to the dinky stallions that would carry us to Pablo´s homestead at the foot of the mighty Ausungate, southern Peru´s largest mountain. Now I´m not the biggest fan of equestians because of some traumatic run-ins in my not so distant past, but I thought, ¨What the hey! This time will be different.¨ I mean the odds of me not getting the crazy horse were in my favor, as there were five of them. But alas, Pablo decided that since I was the most ¨bravo¨out of the group that I´d get the horse who ¨liked to dance.¨ Right when I hopped on, I got to see his first moves, which mostly consisted of standing on two legs and trying to throw me. Unoriginal, I know, but this dance always captures the attention of the tourist. I call it the ¨tourist shimmy,¨ and I have to say I wasn´t impressed - terrified is the more appropriate expression. Nevertheless, I held on tight and said soothing words in quechua for the 1.5 hour journey to Pablo´s house while he walked in front of me with a lead rope to ensure that my horse wouldn´t begin a dance off with one of his compadres.

As we neared Ausungate, I understood why the local populations had long made offereings to it, considering its spirit to be a powerful God who could easily give life or take it away. The craggy, snow-covered peak juts imposingly out of a peaceful green valley with a meandering glacial river where thousands of brown, white, and spotted alpacs graze in stone-walled fields. Upon viewing this scene I felt a powerful sense of serenity, relieved to be away from the noisy tourist mecca from whence I came.

We stopped briefly at Pablo´s house to leave our things, as riding a horse with a large bckpack does not make for the most agreeable experience, especially for the crotch. Pablo´s wife and daughters prepared us some mate de coca while we lazed around their front yard, which was marked by the now familiar stone corral and guarded by a handful of dreaded muts. Beside their cooking hut resided the guinea pigs and bunnies in an enclosure which had a small shelter, but also had tunnels into the hut so the guinea pigs could scour the dirt floor for food scraps. They were rather skittish of us humans and generally responded to any sudden moves with an emphatic squeak which seemed to exclaim ¨CUY!¨ their Quechua-derived name. Their fear was well-founded, as they are a delicacy in this region, not pets, and may find themselves in the oven if they don´t move quickly.

After admiring these squeaky little morsels, we began the walk to the mountain to make an offering and take a dip in the hot springs. Neither of these intentions were realized due to our glacial pace, but the walk was still quite stunning, and eventually found me napping next to a river in full view of the monstrous peak. It was one of those uber-power-naps - you know the ones where you wake up and don´t know where you are. Thirty foggy minutes later, my mind had cleared and we descended back to our homebase. The afternoon sun lit up the river and its various offshoots so that they appeared as molten silver flowing down the valley´s curved floor. The alpacas seemed to be standing on a glowing sea with islands of tufted gass from which they took their dinner - temporarily distracted by our approach into their marshy haven.

Upon our return, the women of the house began to prepare our evening meal by first catching the slowest cuy, then handing it to Pablo, who snapped its neck in a flash. As the ladies worked diligently on dinner, I began a soccer shoot out with Frank, the 12 year old son of Pablo. What started well ended tragically, as I toe-balled a laser of a shot that acted as a nose-seeking missile. He spent the next ten minutes crying on the ground as I nursed him back to health with scented toilet paper. As I comforted my victim, Pablo told me it was time for dinner, though I ignored his first two invitations. When Frank had finally calmed down, I joined my tourist pals for potatoes and rodent, but my late arrival meant I was the lucky recipient of roasted guinea pig head. While my compadres munched away on legs or ribs, I tried to figure out what to eat. I was instantly transported back to the anatomy lab I had done last quarter and decided the temporalis and masseters would the most promising muscles to munch. I wasn´t valiant enough to delve into the braincase, thought I`m told its rather tasty.

After finishing dinner, Pablo made an offering to Apu Ausungate for us, which basically consisted of coca, sugar, some seeds, little pieces of shiny paper, candy, and port wine - all wrapped in a paper packet, which he then took to burn in a secret place on the hillside. When he retuned, he offered to gaze into the future with coca leaves. I was the first to accept, eager to have my first fortune teller experience. I guess it started OK, with some counsel about my work future, which is apparently uncertain at the moment and I need to think well about which route I will take. Then my host brother asked about my future love life, without saying that I was married. Apparently I´ve yet to meet my love, but within a couple years I should encounter her.

So, at this point, due to the vagueness and incorrectness of his predictions, I´d become suspicious that I might be riding first class on the bullshit train, but figured I´d see where it took me. After Pablo had repeated the same stuff a couple times, Carlos revealed to him that I was actuallly married. So he started telling me about my relationship - saying ¨you two fight a lot, don´t you?¨ When I told him we didn´t, he didn´t bat an eye, but instead informed me that she was slated for death in an accident, but wouldn´t tell me when that may occur, just that we should be careful. At this point, I had become rather frustrated with this false prophet and took my leave. The two tourists that followed me had luck on their side - fortune love, and travels were written all over their coca-derived futures.

So I guess lady luck is angry at me, but decided that putting too much faith in her is a good way of removing myself from taking responsibility for my own life and how well or badly it goes. Of course, there are many factors beyond our control, but maybe not as many as we´d like to think. For instance, finding one´s soul mate is a popular belief of our culture, but it´s quite easy to blame failed relationships on them not being the one rather than on controllable behavior that was not given sufficient attention before it became poisonous. When we attribute things of the sort to fate, luck, or other factors, we pass the buck to a culturally accepted scapegoat. What if I do have bad luck? Does that legitmate a bad attitude and defeated outlook? Many people are born with so-called bad luck but still seek out ways to better themselves and their plight. And really, their bad luck isn´t acutally a product of God-given circumstances, but is instead derived from an unjust system that concentrates wealth and opportunity in white neighborhoods and businesses. As long as we give too much creedence to luck, we will continue to count on supernatural solutions, rather than rolling up our sleeves and modifying ¨fate.¨ The future is as malleable as we want it to be. No more psychic leaves for me...