the land. The distance travelled by the members of each hamlet varies. The track I was to follow, that of Pucamarca, covers some 15 miles (24 km), but the route crosses two Andean ridges,
dropping a thousand feet (300 m) from the plaza of Chinchero to the base of Antakillqa, then ascending three thousand feet (900 m) to a summit spur before descending to the valley on the far side, only to climb once more to reach the grasslands of the high puna and the long trail home.
At the head of each contingent would dart the waylaka , the strongest and fleetest of the youths, transformed for the day from male to female. Dressed in heavy woollen skirts and a cloak of indigo, wearing a womanâs hat and delicate lace, the waylaka would fly up the ridges, white banner in hand. At every boundary marker, the transvestite must dance, a rhythmic turn that like a vortex draws to the peaks the energy of the women left behind in the villages far below. Each of the four hamlets of Cuper has its own trajectory, just as each of the three ayullus has its own land to traverse. By the end of the day, all of Chinchero would be reclaimed: the rich plains and verdant fields of Ayullupunqu; the lakes, waterfalls, mountains and cliffs of Cuper; the gorges of Yanacona, where wild things thrive and rushing streams carry away the rains to the Urubamba. Adversaries would have been fought, spirits invoked, a landscape defined and the future secured.
This much I knew as I approached the plaza on the morning of the event. Before dawn, the blowing of the conch shells had awoken the town, and the waylakas,
once dressed, had walked from house to house, saluting the various authorities: the curaca and alcalde ; the officers of the church; and the embarados , those charged with the preservation of tradition. At each threshold, coca had been exchanged, fermented maize chicha imbibed and a cross of flowers hung in reverence above the doorway. For two hours, the procession had moved from door to door, musicians in tow, until it encompassed all of the community and drew everyone in celebration to the plaza where women waited, food in hand: baskets of potatoes and spicy piquante , flasks of chicha and steaming plates of vegetables. There I lingered, with gifts of coca for all. At my side was my godson, Armando. A grown man now, father of an infant girl, he had been a tailor but worked now in the markets of Cusco, delivering sacks of potatoes on a tricycle rented from a cousin. He had returned to Chinchero to be with me for the day.
What I could never have anticipated was the excitement and the rush of adrenaline, the sensation of imminent flight as the entire assembly of men, prompted by some unspoken signal, began to surge toward the end of the plaza. With a shout, the waylaka sprang down through the ruins, carrying with him more than a hundred runners and dozens of young boys who scattered across the slopes that funnelled downward toward a narrow dirt track. The
trail fell away through a copse of eucalyptus and passed along the banks of a creek that dropped to the valley floor. A mile or two on, the waylaka paused for an instant, took measure of the men, caught his breath and was off, dashing through thickets of buddleja and polylepis as the rest of us scrambled to keep sight of his white banner. Crossing the creek draw, we moved up the face of Antakillqa. Here, at last, the pace slowed to something less than a full run. Still, the men leaned into the slope with an intensity and determination unlike anything I had ever known. Less than two hours after leaving the village, we reached the summit ridge, a climb of several thousand feet.
There we paused, as the waylaka planted his banner atop a mujon, a tall mound of dirt, the first of the border markers. The authorities added their ceremonial staffs, and as the men piled on dirt to augment the size of the mujon, Don Jeronimo, the curaca, sang rich invocations that broke into a cheer for the well-being of the entire
dropping a thousand feet (300 m) from the plaza of Chinchero to the base of Antakillqa, then ascending three thousand feet (900 m) to a summit spur before descending to the valley on the far side, only to climb once more to reach the grasslands of the high puna and the long trail home.
At the head of each contingent would dart the waylaka , the strongest and fleetest of the youths, transformed for the day from male to female. Dressed in heavy woollen skirts and a cloak of indigo, wearing a womanâs hat and delicate lace, the waylaka would fly up the ridges, white banner in hand. At every boundary marker, the transvestite must dance, a rhythmic turn that like a vortex draws to the peaks the energy of the women left behind in the villages far below. Each of the four hamlets of Cuper has its own trajectory, just as each of the three ayullus has its own land to traverse. By the end of the day, all of Chinchero would be reclaimed: the rich plains and verdant fields of Ayullupunqu; the lakes, waterfalls, mountains and cliffs of Cuper; the gorges of Yanacona, where wild things thrive and rushing streams carry away the rains to the Urubamba. Adversaries would have been fought, spirits invoked, a landscape defined and the future secured.
This much I knew as I approached the plaza on the morning of the event. Before dawn, the blowing of the conch shells had awoken the town, and the waylakas,
once dressed, had walked from house to house, saluting the various authorities: the curaca and alcalde ; the officers of the church; and the embarados , those charged with the preservation of tradition. At each threshold, coca had been exchanged, fermented maize chicha imbibed and a cross of flowers hung in reverence above the doorway. For two hours, the procession had moved from door to door, musicians in tow, until it encompassed all of the community and drew everyone in celebration to the plaza where women waited, food in hand: baskets of potatoes and spicy piquante , flasks of chicha and steaming plates of vegetables. There I lingered, with gifts of coca for all. At my side was my godson, Armando. A grown man now, father of an infant girl, he had been a tailor but worked now in the markets of Cusco, delivering sacks of potatoes on a tricycle rented from a cousin. He had returned to Chinchero to be with me for the day.
What I could never have anticipated was the excitement and the rush of adrenaline, the sensation of imminent flight as the entire assembly of men, prompted by some unspoken signal, began to surge toward the end of the plaza. With a shout, the waylaka sprang down through the ruins, carrying with him more than a hundred runners and dozens of young boys who scattered across the slopes that funnelled downward toward a narrow dirt track. The
trail fell away through a copse of eucalyptus and passed along the banks of a creek that dropped to the valley floor. A mile or two on, the waylaka paused for an instant, took measure of the men, caught his breath and was off, dashing through thickets of buddleja and polylepis as the rest of us scrambled to keep sight of his white banner. Crossing the creek draw, we moved up the face of Antakillqa. Here, at last, the pace slowed to something less than a full run. Still, the men leaned into the slope with an intensity and determination unlike anything I had ever known. Less than two hours after leaving the village, we reached the summit ridge, a climb of several thousand feet.
There we paused, as the waylaka planted his banner atop a mujon, a tall mound of dirt, the first of the border markers. The authorities added their ceremonial staffs, and as the men piled on dirt to augment the size of the mujon, Don Jeronimo, the curaca, sang rich invocations that broke into a cheer for the well-being of the entire
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