Star of the snow

The Qoyllur’Riti pilgrimage begins beside a river at the foot of Ausangate. Making the journey here with a few other foreigners, I am in search of an “authentic” experience, authenticity being a quality sometimes subject to depreciation in the more heavily trafficked areas of Peru. This annual religious festival, which originated in ancient devotion to the mountain, and later expanded to encompass Catholicism, more than meets such requirements. As we pass the twelve brightly adorned stations of the cross which lead up the trail, we slip in and out of a stream of horses, musicians, travellers from all over South America, and the rare Western tourist, looking just as confused as us.
At 5,000 metres, in the makeshift town beneath the glacier, the sacred and the profane collide. A church was constructed here in the 70’s, and a steady queue of worshippers passes through its doors to admire the flashing neon lights of the altar. Directly outside is a white shed advertising duchas calientes, and a cesspit to which long channels flow from the higher ground. Despite these salient borders, there is little demarcation in the geography of the fleeting settlement. Each step has to be measured as you trip through tents, marshy earth, circles of dancers and sleepers huddled together under thin tarpaulins. The celebration continues day and night and reaches a frenzied peak, driven by loudspeaker exhortations, in the earliest, coldest hours. At dawn the pace is slow and solemn. A hymn echoes across the valley.
The glacier, which has been shrinking fast over the last few years, still displays a majestic weight as it rests between two rock faces with its head in the mist. Breathing slowly and deeply in the thin air, we can make out a delegation steadily criss-crossing its ridged features high above us. Only the masked, black-clad ukukus can access this territory. They hold the authority here, indicated by the whips they carry. The other groups each have their own style. The Aymara people wear llama skin, and girls from the Amazon wear red and yellow stars. In the crowd we see an array of flags and banners, of feathered and beaded headdresses. We see costumed baby dolls with their rosy plastic faces, hoisted on staffs. Star of the snow, the holy child, Señor de Qoyllur’Riti. Somehow the diverse colours and symbols harmonize.
We spend three days in the valley. Eventually the procession loads their horses and we trek further. On the final morning, the pilgrims assemble facing Ausangate, waiting. As the light glides along this silent formation, each person in turn kneels to greet the sun. When the rays have reached the edge of the shadow, the trumpets and drums begin again and the dancers start to flow across the landscape. The sky is clear and there is snow shining on the mountain. We can only stand there and watch, hopelessly sick, blistered and dirty, and elated.