Throngs of post-Incans take to the streets for the Incan Festival of the Sun
Thomas (a new Swiss friend I’d met along the Incan Jungle Trek) and I slowly ponder our fates. Back in Cuzco, the buses we’d hoped would have resumed their regularly scheduled routes by now were still firmly grounded in the many and varied parking lots of Cuzco. Drivers remained passively on call without the appearance of irritation, despite this weeks-long threat to their livelihood. Protests over the riots in northeast Peru that had claimed the lives of upwards of 60 indigenous peoples and policemen alike still continued to block all regional traffic coming into or leaving the sacred valley. Epic adventures near and around Lake Titicaca would simply have to wait, at least as far as my involvement in them would be concerned.
A local agency had found Thomas one of the last flights out of Cuzco to La Paz, Bolivia, this Thursday — the day after the much hyped “Inti Raymi” Incan festival, a celebration of the sun that has occurred semi-regularly for centuries (despite the demise of the Incans close to 500 years back) — and might be able to find one more.
I successfully introduce Beer Pong to the Loki crowd. It's the little successes in life...
Bolivia. It wasn’t originally on my list, though several travelers here at the Loki have been ranting about how La Paz is home to the much-hyped Route 36, a club that specializes in the (almost) decriminalized serving of cocaine along with its mixed drinks. More interestingly, “The World’s Most Dangerous Road” sits just an hour outside of town, a stretch of narrow one-line highway dynamited out from the side of a mountain which has in recent years turned into a tourist hotspot for anyone stupid enough to bike down it. Well, I’m stupid enough. La Paz, it is.
Lan Airlines, ever pleasant and accommodating, would work out the logistical change of getting me from La Paz to Quito in time to enjoy one last month of ever-looming danger in my favorite, unwholesome city in South America. Skipping Colombia after spending the past year hearing praise after praise heaped upon the country by nearly every tourist was a difficult decision. But with a July birthday and just one month left of total freedom before resuming work (of some sort), the familiarity of Quito just feels more proper.
Work, you say?
“Why, I thought you were into being a homeless, shiftless, traveling vagabond?”
This life is no doubt an inexpensive one, compared to say, living in New York City (or Des Moines, for that matter), but a man still has to eat. I’d been pondering travel in Asia after hearing so many comparisons and contrasts of the southeast Asian countries (Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam — I’d probably have to visit Burma as well) with those in South America. Like our (we, being the United States) southern neighbors, the Asian countries all offer affordable travel and unique experiences (and even more strange and unique food options), and there’s a solid enough hostel infrastructure to make travel feasible despite such different languages.
As fun as the idea of being unemployed might be (if you can pull it off without begging, starving or prostituting yourself in a seedy public restroom somewhere [Note: I have pulled it off without resorting to any of these things thus far]), the pointlessness of it all starts to wear on a person after all this time. Work, effort, what we invest the whole of our energies into, “the good fight” — it’s generally what defines us as individuals and lends purpose and meaning to what is, essentially, pointless. If you’re fully engaged in something droll, boring, repetitive and/or depressing, then it won’t be too long before those adjectives begin to be applied to you. But that doesn’t mean all toil can be broken down eight hours of soulless misery a day for a paycheck.
The Devil and Yancy Davis
With this newfound acknowledgement of the potentially rewarding properties of A Good Day’s Work, I gladly sent in my resume for the position of college lecturer at the University of Chongqing (pronounced “choong-cheeng”) in China. A friend of mine had put in some time here teaching English on behalf of the Peace Corps (one of their cushier jobs, by the way — nice air-conditioned apartments, hot showers, internet, etc) and one of her contacts was looking for computer science teachers for the university. Qualifications? Several years working in software engineering. Check.
On a Friday, my resume was sent. By Monday, they began work on my work visa. If all goes well, I’ll be there in September, teaching the Chinese (in English, at least) how to computer program. [Note: As I am writing this from Chongqing, it's safe to say that all went well.]
But there will be plenty of free time to talk about Chongqing. Oh, so much free time…
On With the Festival, Already!
Processions of children, tourists, locals in indigenous garb and strange, barely comprehensible floats (do pigs flying an airplane labeled “H1N1″ really represent Incan traditions in any way?) pour down the hilly streets of Cuzco towards the picturesque main square that dominates so many of the city’s post cards. Most of us are tired and hungover from celebrating the holiday’s eve nearly until dawn the night before, a seemingly poor choice of behavior the evening before an all-day festival like this one, though based on the raucous energy throughout the city it was clear we had little choice in the matter.
Up the steep hill out of town, we walk to Sacsayhuaman with blankets, snacks and the requisite amount of wine to honor the Incan gods. Or the sun. Or Peru — to be honest, none of us were terribly certain what this holiday was about yet. It’s still early, which means some of the decent free spots would still be available, even for a group of our size. For nearly two hours, we would sit and wait for the primary players to arrive, as the patches of grass and dirt around us steadily fill up with Peruvians. There are some tourists here, obviously, but this is definitely not one of those showy song-and-dance festivals that spring up around tourist season with the aim of entertaining (and making a few bucks off of) gringos. Based on the hundreds of locals in costume, Inti Raymi is a big deal to Cuzquenos (people from Cuzco).
A surprising amout of locals came in groups with prepared dances and costumes -- not just a few. There were easily hundreds of groups like this one
So, what exactly is the holiday? Luckily, programs are available in English — It’s broken and choppy, but serviceable. The scene here early on is much like that of the beaches of Rio de Janeiro, replete with vendors of every type making their way through the rapidly diminishing walking space around us. By the end of the first hour, we’ve all got paper hats, programs and a wide variety of indigenous snacks (read: Snickers).
Apparently, the Incan emperor led this ceremony to honor the sun and the Incan god Inti every year on the winter’s solstice. Of the four primary Incan holidays, this was the largest with a lead-in of nine days of dancing, finery and various other sorts of revelry before the festival’s close. This end was typically marked with an animal’s slaughter in the hopes of receiving a year of good crops and whatever other blessings and benefits one might hope to get from divine types. Not being a particularly Christian holiday in any way, it was banned outright in 1572, effectively killing the holiday except for the few descriptions maintained by historians.
Flash-forward to 1944 and it was time to bring Inti Raymi back in full force. Peru’s about as Christian a nation as (a Christian) one might hope to find, but a natural urge to follow in the footsteps of one’s ancestors restored the holiday to its current status of being an annual practice, and it’s remained (and thrived) as such ever since. Sadly, animal rights types have gotten involved in recent years and the sacrifice of a llama has been softened a bit, to the point where the animal leaves the stage unharmed and in one piece (though thoroughly confused).
In sight, though far down below us, the first official players in this ceremony have arrived and begin to line up in formation with one another in anticipation of the “Emperor.” All free space has now been claimed, to the point where a large Peruvian woman’s knee is resting on my leg. Slightly buzzed from the wine and the sun, I banter with her and she laughs, sometimes responding. Neither of us understand one another.
Everyone remains seated, despite the poor view from below. Quickly, we learn why this is the case, as a Peruvian in what looks like a green football (American football, that is) jersey stands up to watch the procession below.
“Sientate!” the crowd bellows, in short bursts at first and later, in unison, as chants build around those that refuse to bend to the will of the masses.
“Sientate! Sientate! Sientate!!!”
At the time this photo was taken, several of these people were throwing rocks at me
Plastic bottles and small rocks fill the air, meticulously aimed at those offenders that don’t immediately give in and sit back down. Not all shots hit their marks, as hapless spectators whose only mistake was sitting next to someone that would eventually block sight of those in the back rows begin to get pelted as well. They turn out, mildly agitated, but not terribly surprised. Apparently this is not unexpected behavior at these events.
Tall and gringo, a plastic bottle hits me before I even finish standing myself upright.
“Sientate!!” they shout, not with anger so much as with the fervor of those yelling “Olé” at a bullfight. I turn to address them, as if commanded by the Incan god of wine.
“Que??? Me… siento?” Whatever could you people be asking of me? My banter and smile, both alcohol-inspired, are infectious, and while the crowd continues to throw things at me, they laugh as we banter. A small girl gleefully tosses a rock at me.
“Niña pequeña! Por QUE?! Queeee lasssstima!!” She giggles and hides behind what I assume to be her mother. Ready to acquiesce, I take a final shot of the crowd and then sit back down. The pelting immediately stops.
Eventually, standing up would be required in order to take in the ceremony as fully as possible, and it seems that the time for standing occurs semi-organically. People stand, only to be pelted into submission (free reign to throw rocks at people easily being my favorite part of the festival) and return to the ground. However, over time, more and more of the seated determine that it is time for a better look, until the clusters of standing viewers grow to the point where sticks, stones and names can no longer hurt them. As if sharing a massive group-mind, the crowd accepts that the time for sitting is over and, en masse, rise to watch the remainder of the show.
Now standing, it’s safe to say I have a better view than anyone else. I’m taller than most Americans, and Peruvians — especially the indigenous types — are about as short a people are you are likely to find in South America. Perhaps for this reason, a woman tugs on my shirt and firmly, but politely, offers me her daughter. Not one to be rude, I accept, and thus end up with a small Peruvian child on my shoulders for much of the last hour of the performance.
With my Peruvian child
“I see you got yourself a Peruvian child,” states and Israeli, returning with some water.
“Yup. She’s just been sitting here for a while. I have no idea if she’s loving it or in constant fear for her life.”
“She’s just kind of watching the show. Doesn’t seem happy or sad. It’s like, this is a very normal thing for her.”
“Oh,” I say. I pull my paper hat off and put it on her head.
“Ha. I think she likes the hat…” He takes a picture.
The show is almost over — only the “sacrifice” is left. The program describes an actual sacrifice, with a full description for what is to be done with each of the llama’s various organs. However, too many people have told us that the sacrifice is “faked” now, leading to a debate amongst the gringos and a bet. I take the side that the llama will be slaughtered in a large bloody mess for the thousands of gawking spectators (myself included). I lose this bet and buy several drinks later in the evening.
While the llama isn’t terribly tortured, it is terribly confused, as men in robes tie it down upon the platform and the “emperor” comes at it with a large knife.
“That’s definitely a knife,” I say. ”That’s a slaughtering knife. You would only brandish such a knife if you were about to make a real sacrifice.”
“No, it’s an act. The llama isn’t even afraid.”
“The fuck? We’re hundreds of feet up and away. How can you tell if the llama’s afraid? Look, he’s cutting. There’s red! It’s organs… like intestines, or… stuff.”
“Fuck you, that’s a red shirt. Or a red sheet or something.”
“No, it’s not! Look, he’s still pulling it out. That’s definitely blood. No. Wait. Ok, that’s a red sheet.”
And like that, a bet is lost and the festival is ended.
At night, I say my goodbyes, pack my belongings, charge up all the chargeable electronics and plan for the flight to Bolivia the next morning at dawn. Early morning flights are never pleasant, and I consider staying up straight through before eventually deciding that this is a bad way to start Bolivia. All of the things I plan on exploring in La Paz will require me at my most alert and aware.
Inti Raymi Eve, at one of Cuzco's many late-night clubs
You could tell this was a special occasion because these people let me take the picture without even requesting any money. Generally, people only walk with llamas down Main Street in an attempt to sell the photo-op
Some of the more interesting floats
Picking the devil's nose
For a relatively small city, the procession flowed by this densely for hours
More throngs
Almost every South American country had its own silly hat. This was Peru's.
Our Loki group, relatively early in the day before the ground on all sides was densely covered in people
