We followed Lucho, our guide, out of the ruins and away from the small museum. While this was the first time I had ever left a historical site with numbness in my lips, my middle child will still say that ancient ruins are "just a bunch of rocks and dirt."
As interesting as history is to me, living people are more exciting. Gathered in a public area, in one of the suburbs of Huancayo, Peru, were clusters of people, out to enjoy the Sunday morning sun of the November spring.
There are dozens of tourist sites in Peru, like Macchu Pichu and the Cathedrals of Lima, but Huancayo doesn't feel like those places. No one hassled us to sell us trinkets, or rushed up to us in their native garb, selling a memorable photo opportunity for a sol (the Peruvian unit of currency, about 39 cents). People just went about their daily business and didn't seem to notice us. It all felt very...Peruvian.
In the small square stood a pole carved from stone a few hundred years ago and placed there by the Catholic church (The symbol of the Freemasons was conspicuously displayed on the back, but the Andeans are notorious for religious irony). At the base, people were gathered around in tiny chairs, watching groups of colored candles burn away near an altar of flowers as they meditated and prayed. Lucho explained that the color of each candle signified a concept of prayer - those burning green candles hoped for wealth, red meant a prayer for love, white meant peace, and black was used to smite one's enemy.
A young woman approached us and spoke to us in Spanish. She wanted my wife to hold her baby while a friend took a photo with us - the Redneck Diplomat and his two blonde daughters included. We were incredibly amused by this.
"Hey, you girls could walk around charging money for photos and get back some of the money we spent in Cuzco," I suggested.
Lucho then led us across the street to a candle vendor. The lady there sold over a dozen different colors of candle, and was happy to explain to us what each one of the colors meant. She also rented the small chairs, and would "read" your melted wax for a small fee once you were finished, predicting your future or some such.
"Just hand me a whole bundle of those black ones," I said, drawing harsh looks from the women in my life. 'Don't mess with me, I haven't put names on them yet."
Lucho told us that it was even possible to hire someone to sit and watch your candles burn. To say that Peruvians are capitalists is an understatement.
We stepped quietly into the back of the church. While we didn't see the spectacular golden altars of Lima, or the silver ones of Cuzco, what we saw was ten feet tall, and no less spectacular in a more humble, all-carved-by-hand-out-of-wood sort of way. Since we weren't allowed to take photos, I had to sneak this one:
Somehow, the tributes of the poor have always seemed more powerful in their humility than the ostentatious, shallow offerings of the wealthy.
Lucho quietly led us out, and we walked further up the hill, where he finally explained the giant Dr. Seuss plants that we had seen since we entered the high Andes. Like the tops of giant pineapples, but ten feet tall and at least as wide. The plants would bloom once, and then die. The bloom was a twisted piece of something that looked like a giant stalk of asparagus, 30 feet long, lifelike, something that would make you nervous to stand next to, lest it eat you. I didn't have the courage.
Having had about enough of ruins, old churches, and man-eating plants, my family voted for lunch, which is the subject of our next adventure.
As interesting as history is to me, living people are more exciting. Gathered in a public area, in one of the suburbs of Huancayo, Peru, were clusters of people, out to enjoy the Sunday morning sun of the November spring.
There are dozens of tourist sites in Peru, like Macchu Pichu and the Cathedrals of Lima, but Huancayo doesn't feel like those places. No one hassled us to sell us trinkets, or rushed up to us in their native garb, selling a memorable photo opportunity for a sol (the Peruvian unit of currency, about 39 cents). People just went about their daily business and didn't seem to notice us. It all felt very...Peruvian.
In the small square stood a pole carved from stone a few hundred years ago and placed there by the Catholic church (The symbol of the Freemasons was conspicuously displayed on the back, but the Andeans are notorious for religious irony). At the base, people were gathered around in tiny chairs, watching groups of colored candles burn away near an altar of flowers as they meditated and prayed. Lucho explained that the color of each candle signified a concept of prayer - those burning green candles hoped for wealth, red meant a prayer for love, white meant peace, and black was used to smite one's enemy.
A young woman approached us and spoke to us in Spanish. She wanted my wife to hold her baby while a friend took a photo with us - the Redneck Diplomat and his two blonde daughters included. We were incredibly amused by this.
"Hey, you girls could walk around charging money for photos and get back some of the money we spent in Cuzco," I suggested.
Lucho then led us across the street to a candle vendor. The lady there sold over a dozen different colors of candle, and was happy to explain to us what each one of the colors meant. She also rented the small chairs, and would "read" your melted wax for a small fee once you were finished, predicting your future or some such.
"Just hand me a whole bundle of those black ones," I said, drawing harsh looks from the women in my life. 'Don't mess with me, I haven't put names on them yet."
Lucho told us that it was even possible to hire someone to sit and watch your candles burn. To say that Peruvians are capitalists is an understatement.
We stepped quietly into the back of the church. While we didn't see the spectacular golden altars of Lima, or the silver ones of Cuzco, what we saw was ten feet tall, and no less spectacular in a more humble, all-carved-by-hand-out-of-wood sort of way. Since we weren't allowed to take photos, I had to sneak this one:
Somehow, the tributes of the poor have always seemed more powerful in their humility than the ostentatious, shallow offerings of the wealthy.
Lucho quietly led us out, and we walked further up the hill, where he finally explained the giant Dr. Seuss plants that we had seen since we entered the high Andes. Like the tops of giant pineapples, but ten feet tall and at least as wide. The plants would bloom once, and then die. The bloom was a twisted piece of something that looked like a giant stalk of asparagus, 30 feet long, lifelike, something that would make you nervous to stand next to, lest it eat you. I didn't have the courage.
This is the base of the plant, for size comparison. The blooms grow from the center. This one is about 3 years old. They bloom in their fifth year, then die. The fibers from the leaves are used to make incredibly strong rope.
This is a straighter flower stalk, but many are twisted
and snakelike, like they might strike out at the
nearest victim. Lambs are often found dead, tangled
in the bases of the plants, which adds to the legend.
Having had about enough of ruins, old churches, and man-eating plants, my family voted for lunch, which is the subject of our next adventure.
Related Posts:
Read about how we got here, by riding the train from Lima to Huancayo, the second highest in the world.
Read about how we got here, by riding the train from Lima to Huancayo, the second highest in the world.
Because we were so
thrilled with his service, I am going to insert a shameless plug here for our
guide, IncasdelPeru, who set the whole thing up for us. They
offer train packages, but will tailor a
custom tour for your family, native arts and crafts instruction, and
even treks through the jungle, depending on what you would like to see
in
or around Huancayo. Ask for Lucho, of course.
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