Kauyumari

“I wonder if this is even worth it”, I thought as I rode a horse through the sheer path of Wirikuta, the sacred region. For thousands of years, the Wirraritari have walked this path through rock and sand: their feet naked, no longer feeling the temperature of the sunburnt desert surface under their soles. I could see a gigantic mass of clouds moving fast above my head as the wind blew strong and ice cold, even though it was midday; the path had led us towards a plain just before we began to climb the ‘Quemado’ hill and it was as if time had both accelerated and come to a halt. I felt that my limited perception had just been expanded and I figured it must have been like watching the earth spinning from outer space. We had crossed an invisible gate into the atrium of a temple with no idols besides nature itself: their legend says this is the birthplace of the Sun. Every rock and every creature is holy. I was no longer anxious, even though I live in a constant state of mild anxiety. The worth of the journey was now beyond measure.

My cousin and I had lodged at the 'Real' hotel. In our first night we had overheard a tourist talk about a tour to the mountain. A few days later we sat at the roof terrace and the moonlit night offered a phantasmic view of 'Real de Catorce'. Its intricate alleys shone and converged in the atrium of the cathedral in front of us. Once the home to hundreds of miners and a few prospectors, the town was now a living museum. "I think we should go there" I said, and she agreed.

The next day we rode to the summit of 'Quemado', where we were greeted by a circular altar. The Wirraritari had left tributes to their Sun God among which were candles, rag dolls with dark hair, fresh flowers and corn. We saw a few of the white clothed people and the tour guide said not to take pictures: "they don't like it". We hadn't planned to. I asked him if they had a written language and he shook his head: "They don't write; their language is passed on generation by generation". When I asked why, he said their language had been given to them by Kauyumari, a godly messenger that roamed the desert. If it were to be written, it would lose its spirit.

The two-dimensional art of the Wirraritari completed the image: A bright blue deer with colorful horns, surrounded by flames. We looked down upon the extension of white sand beneath the mountain. We remained silent in the place of worship that had been such for thousands of years. I smiled in admiration.