View from the Ground

Even the cactus desert had stopped, it was so dry, so cold. The mountains pushed themselves even higher into the sky, the road twisted around the bends and occasional trucks left trails of brown dust behind them.

The air is thin, the lack of oxygen shortens each step. The heart pounds out of proportion. Move too fast and the altitude catches up with you, grasps your head and makes you feel like everything is spinning.

Five kilometers into the sky. We walk slowly to where a crowd has gathered. The man waits, on his knees, for someone to turn on the microphone. His hand are covered with dirt.

The hole in front of him is now a mouth of the Earth.

"Pachamama", he calls out, Quechua for the earth mother.

"All year I take but do not give.
Today, let me feed you with all the good things."

Ceramic pots line the ground with offerings, of hot stews, wild potatoes like knots, and black and red corn.

He takes dry leaves of coca in his fingers. Half, he puts in the hole. He takes the rest and places them inside his mouth, against his cheek.

"Pachamama. Let us share with you what you have given us."

The two cigarettes hang from his lips, he cups the ends from the wind and tries to light them. There is so little oxygen, the lighter barely makes a flame. He's almost crying. He keeps one, and gives the other to the Earth.

The llamas watch us. Cold wind blows into our faces, coming snow on the peaks in the distance. The town below is different shades of brown.

A woman approaches, dressed in layers of ponchos on top of her clothing, deep lines in her face. She takes the microphone.

"Pachamama. We are always at your mercy."

An Andean flute plays in the background, as one by one, the citizens of the town give offerings to the earth. It is sitting, slowly watching, that the story unfolds. This is a reversal in thinking. Where there is so little, where the ground is barren and the climate extreme, the earth's generosity is strangely more clear.