Pachamama Raymi

Pachamama ... who is she? How is she understood by the locals? Do they really have a special bond with her, as the international documents suggest? If they do, why do they let it be dirty and full of trash? Do we really have something to learn from them in this sense? If this worship exists around here, how is it compatible with the Christian faith which is so strong in most of the locals? These are some of the questions to which I want to find answers while I'm here.

I get some bits of the answer during the Pachamama Raymi - Day of the Pachamama (or the “Payment to the Earth” (Pago a la Tierra)), which takes place every year at a stadium in Ccatcca, a small town nestled in the Andes, where my jacket seems even thinner than in Cusco. The whole ceremony is in Quechua, which means it is not a facade for foreigners. In the middle of the football pitch, there is a stage, on which there is nothing at the beginning. The sky is groaning while waiting, the wind is combing the grass on the pitch, the audience is silent in anticipation, and the flutes are playing their stuffy melody. Then it begins: from all four sides of the sky, four streams of fluorescent dancers pour into the middle. Some are wearing devil masks on their faces, some animal ones, some none. With rhythmic leaps they are slowly making their way towards the center, where they settle in four straight rows. Afterwards, dancers in bird disguises and girls who are showing off their traditional skirts through dance, do the same. The whole field is pulsing in a steady beat. Four young men dressed in dark blue are carrying four enormous clay bowls - solemnly, slowly they rise up on stage and occupy all four of its corners. Then suddenly, the Inca prince and princess rise to the middle of the stage, murmuring a prayer for Pachamama with a rumbling voice. They take all four bowls. And just when I think that is when the ceremony is going to end, a Christian priest appears mid-stage, offering the Bible to the Incan prince. He throws it on the floor, causing the Prince and the Princess and all the others to descend from the stage which is now occupied by a large, dark green cross. The priest disappears, while all the rest sit on the floor below the stage and lay offerings for Pachamama - money, candy, corn beer, coca leaves – on the traditional woven cloth. The stage with the cross is deserted – its power acknowledged, yet ignored. The flutes are now still and there is an eerie silence, the beating of the hearts around me almost audible. At that point the dancers make the corridor to welcome the elders of the city, which also take a sit on the ground. And then suddenly the audience begins to pour to the center so they too could donate to their mother Earth. I can’t understand the words, but I am feeling the power of this scene, charged with inexplicable energy. Sitting on the stands, I am taking it in, not thinking about joining them - but then a lady next to me starts chatting with me. "I am Aurora," she says "and this is my grandson Nilmar." She almost succeeds in disguising her distinctness: she is wearing the traditional black braids, tied together to form an oval on her back, and a mandatory hat, skirt and sweater. She is not wearing, though, either a traditional shoulder-wear, or that frequent timid expression – she is talking straight, pronouncing her words strongly, she looks me in the eye when she tells me that she has never spoken with anyone from another country before and she is constantly joking, even later on when people ask her how come she is walking around with me and where she picked up a "gringa". A mixture of admiration, curiosity and doubt in their eyes.  She assures me that the ceremony is not just for the locals, says she will come with me and that I should join them on the pitch. Let’s go.

There are a lot fewer curious stares than I would expect, given the situation. Chicha, homemade corn beer, is splashing from the clay pots when carried past me. Everyone in the line in front of me and behind me is talking in Quechua (which was, by the way, used in Star Wars as the language spoken by Greedo, apparently because it sounds so different from all the other languages). Aurora says she is going to wait for me on the side. I am waiting in line, observing the defined, veiny calves and bare feet of elders - the only parts of their bodies not covered in traditional, multicolored fabrics with horizontal patterns. Pumas, hummingbirds, snakes and condors caught in the wool. Dust is forcing its way into my nose. The view of the seated elders is obstructed by loud boys dressed in fluorescent costumes with sequins, which are obviously bursting with energy because they just successfully pulled off their performance. Soon it’ll be my turn, soon. In my hands I’m gripping four coca leaves, sorted from the largest to the smallest. Soon. In my head a mix of excitement, joy that I get to have this experience and fear that someone will complain that a stranger shouldn’t be taking part in this. Finally, it’s my turn and I turn to kneel before the shaman, who asks me in Spanish what my name is, hugs my hands with his, delivers a prayer in Quechua and takes my offering to Pachamama, mother Earth. Yes, yes. No one complains – to the contrary, on the way back to the stands, I’m accompanied by big smiles and sprinkled with yellow pieces of paper, like all the rest. Apparently they like the fact that I joined their ritual - Aurora was right.

Pachamama Raymi

Pachamama… kdo je mama Zemlja? Kako jo razumejo domačini? Imajo z njo res neko posebno vez, tako kot se predvideva v mednarodnih dokumentih? Če jo imajo, zakaj potem pustijo, da je umazana, polna smeti? Se imamo res česa naučiti od njih v tem smislu? Če to čaščenje obstaja, kako je združljivo s krščansko vero, ki je tako močna v teh ljudeh? To so vprašanja, na katera si hočem odgovoriti medtem, ko sem tukaj.

 

Nekaj zametkov odgovorov dobim med Pachamama Raymi - daritvijo Pachamami, ki se vsako leto odvija v Ccatcci, majhnemu mestu, ugnezdenemu v Andih, kjer se moja bunda zdi še tanjša, kot v Cuscu.  Ves obred je v Quechui, kar pomeni, da ni fasada za tujce. Na sredini nogometnega igrišča je oder, na katerem na začetku ni ničesar.  Nebo vzdihuje v čakanju, veter česa travo na igrišču, občinstvo je tiho v pričakovanju, flavte igrajo svojo zatohlo melodijo. Nato se začne: iz vseh štirih strani neba se na sredino začnejo sipati tokovi fluorescentnih plesalcev. Nekateri imajo na obrazih hudičeve maske, nekateri živalske, nekateri jih nimajo. Z ritmičnimi poskoki se počasi premikajo proti sredini in se ustalijo v štirih ravnih vrstah. Nato se v vrste razporedijo še plesalci v ptičjih preoblekah in punce, ki skozi ples razkazujejo tradicionalna krila. Celo polje utripa v enakomernem ritmu. Štirje v modro oblečeni fantje nosijo štiri gromozanske glinene sklede. Slovesno, počasi se vzpnejo na oder in zasedejo  vse štiri kote. Takrat se iz sredine odra dvigneta inkovski princ in princesa, ki z bobnečim glasom izvedeta molitev Pachamami in sprejmeta sklede vseh štirih. In ravno, ko mislim, da se bo tu slovesnost končala, se iz sredine odra dvigne krščanski duhovnik - inkovskemu princu ponudi Biblijo, ta jo zaluča na tla in takrat se princ in princesa spustita z odra in sredino odra zasede velik, temno zelen križ. Duhovnik izgine, vsi ostali pa se usedejo na tla pod oder in na tradicionalno pleten prt položijo daritve za Pachamamo: denar, sladkarije, koruzno pivo, kokine liste. Oder s križem je zapuščen - moč mu je priznana, a ostane sam. Flavte so tiho, čudna tišina napolni prostor, bitje src, ki me obdajajo, je skoraj slišno. Takrat plesalci naredijo koridor skozi katerega se sprehodijo mestne  starešine in zasedejo mesta pod odrom in s tribun se začne spuščati truma ljudi, da bi tudi oni darovali mami Zemlji. Ne razumem besed, a čutim moč tega prizora, nabitega z energijo. Sedim, se ji prepuščam in ne razmišljam, da bi se jim priključila, a takrat začne z mano klepetati gospa, ki sredi zraven mene. »Aurora sem,« reče »in to je moj vnuk Nilmar.« Skoraj ji uspe prikriti drugačnost: ima tradicionalne črne kite, zvezane skupaj, da tvorijo oval na njenem hrbtu, ter obvezen klobuk, krilo in pulover. A ne nosi ne tradicionalnega ogrinjala in ne tistega pogostega plašnega pogleda – govori naravnost, odločno, gleda me v oči, ko mi pove, da ni še nikoli govorila z nikomer iz druge države in se stalno heca, tudi kasneje, ko jo ljudje sprašujejo, kako to, da hodi okrog z mano in kje je pobrala »gringo«. Mešanica občudovanja, začudenja in dvoma v njihovih očeh. Zagotavi mi, da obred ni samo za domačine, da bo šla z mano na igrišče in da naj se jim pridružim. Naj bo.

Veliko manj je radovednih pogledov, kot bi jih pričakovala, glede na situacijo. Chicha, doma narejeno koruzno pivo, pljuska iz glinenih lončkov, ko se jo nosi mimo mene. Vsi pred mano in za mano v vrsti se pogovarjajo v Quechui (ki so jo v Star Wars uporabili kot jezik, ki ga govori Greedo, ker naj bi zvenela tako drugače od vseh ostalih jezikov). Aurora mi reče, da me bo počakala pri strani. Čakam in opazujem žilava meča in bosa stopala starešin – edina dela njihovih teles, ki nista pokrita s tradicionalnimi, večbarvnimi tkaninah z vodoravnimi vzorci. Na njih v volno ujete pume, kolibriji, kače in kondorji. Prah mi sili v nos. Vrsto sedečih starešin zakrivajo glasni fantje, oblečeni v fluorescentne kostume z bleščicami, ki so očitno polni energije, ker so ravno uspešno odpravili svoj nastop. Še malo in bom na vrsti, še malo. V rokah stiskam štiri kokine liste, razporejene od največjega do najmanjšega. Še malo. V glavi mešanica navdušenja, veselja, da mi je dano to doživeti in strahu, da se bo kdo pritožil, da nima tujka kaj delati tam. Končno sem na vrsti, pokleknem pred šamana, ki me v španščini vpraša, kako mi je ime, objame moje dlani, izreče molitev v Quechui in sprejme mojo daritev Pachamami, mami Zemlji. Noben se ne pritoži – obratno, na poti nazaj na tribuno me spremljajo široki nasmehi, posujejo me po glavi z rumenimi lističi, tako kot vse ostale, in očitno jim je všeč, da sem se priključila njihovemu obredu, ki se ga izvede vsako leto na prvi dan avgusta, dan Pachamame in prvi dan andskega koledarja – Aurora je imela prav.