Veronica & her Apus
“I knew you were better as soon as your laugh woke me up,” declares Javier.
Indeed,
while my mental facilitates napped through a 13-hour siesta, my body,
with the assistance of the antibiotics, regained control of my gut,
stomach, head and mind territories. And when I am healthy, everyone
knows it for I am a sensitive little creature, who is especially happy
when she is healthy. So the sound of my echoing laugh wakes camp to its
simultaneous relief and annoyance.
The tips of tents, noses
and fingers are all nipped by the frost of 6am at 4,400 meters (14,520
ft), so as soon as the sun steps a foot in our valley, everyone in our
party makes a dash for the growing gold streak that graces itself upon
one of the rocky walls enclosing our camp. We’re all shifting our feet,
stretching our fingers and otherwise encouraging blood to run its
warming course when Javier raises his arm and voice to ask, “Would
anyone like to learn how coca leaves are traditionally used here?”
This
invitation is enough to coax me from the warm rock on which I sun
towards the circle surrounding Feliciano, our head porter. I volunteer
without hesitation, “Yes! Please. I would like to try!”
Feliciano
pulls out a plastic bag full of muted-green and brittle looking leaves.
He shows me the contents and then rifles through to find a choice few.
I learn later that this process, of selecting the best leaves, is part
of the ritual. But I am, as typical, still ignorant at this point, and
so after he has carefully selected a few and then offers me the bag, I
clumsily grab an ugly pinch full of small leaves and stems, which I
now, looking back, realize must have been slightly insulting. Sometimes
I have no choice but to forgive myself my clumsy, cultural fopaux.
Feliciano
instructs me to put the little layered bundle into my mouth, chew just
enough to put my saliva to the task of breaking down the leaves, and
then push the little package for safe keeping to the side of my mouth.
He then carefully selects another choice leaf and, with it between his
two fingers, pinches off a small edge of a little black rock of
tar-like substance. He sandwiches this scrape of black paste within the
coca leaf and then hands it to me with the instruction to add it that
which I have already amassed, like a chipmunk, in my cheek.
By
now there is a very distinctive flavor being juiced by my teeth from
the leaves. Unfortunately, because I do not have a refined leaf-eating
or -distinguishing palette, I’m unable to classify this flavor as
anything other than, “leaf.” I do, however, have experience in the
dentist’s chair, and as an unmistakable numbness spreads from my cheek
to my lips and chin and I begin to wonder if I’m drooling, I recognize
the sensation as a sister of Novocain. Then my stomach starts to churn
to the same tune as a shot of espresso and I’m overcome by that
slightly jittery and attention-deficit symptom of caffeine overdose.
Whew! Even a little heat flash passes over and I look around and ask if
any the others participating in the experiment are feeling the same
effects. They grimace at the flavor and shake their heads, “no,” which
is not abnormal: I also get drunk off one glass of wine; as proof to
the aforementioned: a sensitive little creature.
Bu the effects
of the coca leaves don’t last long. Technically, the chewing process
involves constantly selecting and adding perfect leaves and precise
pinches of the catalyst (which, in this case, I learn, is the ash of
burned quinoa) to keep this yanatin
(sacred pair) effectively secreting the stimulant. But I’m still
entertained by the buzz which seems quite equivalent to that which the
average North American gets from sipping on coffee through a day in an
office cube. The difference, I suppose, being that Peruvians don’t have
desperate addictions to a drug whose base ingredient happens to be our
normally harmless crop. And that Peruvians don’t, then, point the
finger at us for being responsible for the bad habits that plague their
social elite. And in response, Peruvians don’t declare a “war” and
shadow our lowlands with warplanes that drop highly toxic pesticides on
the innocent bushes that naturally grow like weeds around our gardens,
houses and animals. Yes. I guess that would be the difference between
the United States’ and Peruvian buzzes.
My shame and anger at
my country make excellent fuel for my ascent up to the 4,672-meter
(15,417 foot) pass. On my way, I overhear one woman exclaim that the
climb is more difficult than childbirth. Another participant says it’s
the hardest thing he’s ever done. The air is thin, but I still manage
an unbelieving sigh when I realize there is a 15-year old girl walking
in front of me, a 72-year old man on my heels, and a shared goal that
has managed to trump that 57 years of age difference with ease. Equally
shocking is the fact that our ageless Peruvian porters are carrying
twice our haul, yet climbing twice as fast, and doing all this in
simple, leather, open-toed sandals. I laugh when I imagine the big
mountain retailer brands shuddering at the sight of such tech-less
efficiency.
one of our llamas looking over the pass
At
the top of the pass, I remove the wad of chewed coca leaves and deposit
them, delicately and with respect (as I’ve been instructed), on the
ground. Javier and Jairo (another one our guides) wave me over to a cairn
that the group has constructed by having each person carry and
contribute one stone to the rock formation. Jairo hands me a small
bunch of perfect coca leaves and says, “Raise it first to Veronica,”
and I follow his instructions and raise the leaves into the air in the
direction of the mountain Veronica. Jairo then rotates my arms about 40
degrees and says, “and now raise the offering to the Apus.”
At this I turn to him and ask, “What is Apu?”
And he answers, “The Apus are the mountain spirits. We’re asking for their blessing of good weather for our journey.”
I’m intrigued, but don’t ask questions.
Instead I just hold up the coca leaf offering and hope it will appease these mysterious Apus...
