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.
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.
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