Our bridge is only a few hundred hauled-stones away
from completion when I wander up the hill following a rumor that the
men of the Quelqanqa are constructing a traditional "earth oven" or
pachamanca in which the feast, celebrating the completion of our
mission, will be cooked.
Indeed, on a hill overlooking the soccer field, I find a few
dozen men squatting, squinting and otherwise overseeing the
construction of the last of three pachamancas. The process of stacking
the stones is quite similar to a game of reverse-jenga; it's a delicate
equation in which the placement of every stone is crucial to the whole
of the balancing act and yet a single weak or teetering point can send
the whole thing tumbling down.
And tumble down is exactly what I watch the aspiring
pachamancha do twice before I add my own two hands to the twelve
already collaborating. Our strategy is to slowly build up, and then
hold down, the vertical walls, while making a bridge of locking
vertebrae stones that will function as the skeleton of the pachamancha.
After ten minutes of careful construction, we reach the roof
of the dome and, with a collective held breath, finally connect one
side to another. At the same time, we each quickly reach for smaller
stones to stuff and support the cracks. But we pay dearly for this
lapse in concentration as the entire pachamancha crumbles, in a mere
fraction of the time it took to construct, to a clumsy pile of rubble
on the ground. All the men lean back on their squatting haunches and
exhale the long breath of tested patience. And I do what I always do in
most situations of emergency, exhaust or fury: I laugh. In response,
one of the men tosses out a comment in Quechua to which all the rest
fall in fits of laugher and then he turns to me and says, "Every time,
you laugh!"
He says it with a sincere smile, but I suddenly take into
account, for the first time, that I am the only woman represented at
this party. I begin to fear if perhaps I have crossed inappropriate
cultural boundaries, or even worse, will be blamed for cursing the
work! I'm horrified at these prospects but shake the new fear from my
hands and follow quick suit as the men all lean forward to begin
construction again.
I work on a small front wall and begin to pride myself on how sturdy my interlocking rocks are proving themselves. When the stones on the top of the dome finally begin to reach across and link solidly together, this time, without lapsing our concentration or held breath, we manage to swiftly snap into piece all the smaller supporting stones until every hesitant hand has slowly released its grip and we tumble back in a simultaneous gasp of satisfaction.
I am particularly happy that I have proven myself
not to be a curse and, unable to hold back my laugh any longer, am
delighted when everyone joins me also in sounding off our shared joy.
