Moon-Man
by
Alex Domokos
This story is about the meeting of two strangers whose backgrounds are half a globe apart in space and centuries apart in time. It's the story of an old European who, due to the uncontrollable forces of war had criss-crossed the world, and a young Aymara Indian who never moved beyond the mountain ranges of the South American Altiplano and was a prisoner of his semi stone-age culture. I am that old European. I speak several languages and have a university education. My friend is Sanchez, the Indian, who speaks Aymara and elementary Spanish. Our separate worlds came into contact on the highlands of the Cordilleras. For me it was an unforgettable event.
Being a refugee who found a new home in Canada, my conscience was urging me to help other unfortunate people. Therefore my wife and I offered to help the Church as missionary volunteers. We were sent to northern Chile. That mission was in contact with the Aymara Indians. The priest, when he learned that I was an amateur film maker, asked me to accompany him to the Altiplano to attend the fiesta of the Indians to make a documentary film of the event. Being totally inexperienced, I accepted the invitation. I had no idea about altitude sickness or the accommodation and the primitive conditions of that stone-age culture. I was unprepared for the harsh climate, not to mention the strange feeling of being surrounded by 300 intoxicated Indians. The priest did not enlighten me. He was in desperate need of my services as a film maker. It was mid-summer in the southern hemisphere, close to Christmas. Our four-wheel drive Mazda wagon soon left the main highway as we started to climb the slopes of the Cordilleras. There were only three of us, the Spanish priest whose English was about as good as my Spanish, the interpreter who was fluent in Spanish and Aymara, and myself. My rudimentary French became the only vehicle of communication between me and the priest who spoke French. Gestures and some English words were frequently used, reinforced with Spanish words to clarify the issue. It may sound unbelievable, but soon we were communicating without great difficulty. When we passed the point of no return, the priest felt that the time was ripe to prepare me for the culture shock.
Above the three-thousand meter altitude, our Mazda advanced with great difficulty. The trail was steep, creeks and rivulets were frequent obstacles forcing us to make occasional detours and the motor wasn't strong enough to pull us through the volcanic ash. So the priest had ample time for his preparatory lecture. There are no great horizontal distances in Chile, but due to the elevation of our destination near the Bolivian border, the journey required the greater part of a day.
The Aymaras' homeland is an isolated region, neglected by tourists. That isolation is due to inaccessible roads, harsh climate, thin air, and useless desert. These conditions helped the Aymaras to live their lives unmolested for centuries. The natives used sun-dried bricks to build houses, the corners reinforced with stone blocks. Lack of wood prevents the construction of furniture. As a substitute, the center of the house is excavated leaving roughly a two-foot wide ramp around the sides. This serves as bed, table and chairs. In the mud wall, strategically positioned niches are used for storing individual belongings.
The roof is constructed with similar ingenuity. For supporting beams, the split stalk of the cactus is used. The long stalk is cut into planks two inches thick. The cross-section of the cactus has a honey-comb structure which makes it extremely strong when stood on its edge. This provides strong support for the roof which is covered with shrub that grows all over the Altiplano. Fire, which is needed not only for cooking but also to keep the interior warm, can be kindled anywhere inside. With the exception of the roof, nothing is combustible. Smoke escapes through the roof. Only doors are made of wood and they open inward. In some new houses I saw a few single sheets of glass built into the window openings.
Wrist-watches and battery operated radios have reached the Altiplano, but the Aymara way of life basically still evolves around two basic focal points: their natural fear of volcanic eruptions and the fertility and wellbeing of their llama herd. Fear and prosperity are therefore the two extremes of their lives.
To help the spirit of the Aymaras to reach its high, alcohol is consumed in great quantities. In the past they used potatoes to produce alcohol. This region is the original home of the potato. Before the arrival of white civilization they had their own ways of fermenting the brew. With the arrival of Europeans came commerce and exploitation. Now alcohol is smuggled from Bolivia in five-gallon containers, clearly marked "For native consumption only". That made me suspicious. The beverage isn't a poison in itself, but it is so rough and raw that no sophisticated person can enjoy it. It has a high alcohol content. The Aymaras believe that in an intoxicated state the soul is more open to the gods. Therefore drinking is part of their ritual. They offer drinks freely to anyone. To refuse would amount to a breach of etiquette and would be considered offensive. For a person like myself who seldom drinks alcoholic beverages, it was a punishment to swallow their drink. By offering a libation to Pacha-Mama, the Earth Goddess, I managed to spill a great portion of it. By doing so I found an honorable way out of my dilemma.
Under these circumstances, I met my Aymara friend, Sanchez. He enjoyed the fiesta tremendously. It is the most memorable event of the Aymara life. He ate the llama meat, which by the way is very good, with gusto. He drank his portion of beverage just out of religious fervor. In that elevated state, Sanchez noticed me sitting next to the priest. He asked me, first in Aymara, then in Spanish, who I was. Seeing my blank stare and empty smile, he sensed that he had met a man who was not even a person. A human being must be able to speak either Aymara or Spanish. What other languages were there, anyway? He turned to the priest for an explanation. The poor priest made a mistake. He tried to explain to Sanchez that I was a European, Hungarian by origin and living in Canada. That was far too much for the Aymara. If he had said, "This man is from the moon", it would have been just as satisfactory for Sanchez and more understandable. From that minute on, I became the center of Sanchez's curiosity. He decided to teach me Aymara. He took pity on me because he believed that anyone who could speak neither Aymara nor Spanish must be an outcast. He sat next to me pointing at different objects pronouncing their names in Aymara. He expected me to repeat after him and memorize instantly.
His young but corpulent wife finally rescued me from my predicament. She carried an infant on her back and another in her belly. She said something to Sanchez who stood up and with the help of his woman started towards the communal hall. Darkness comes suddenly at the Altiplano. In the dark, the windows of the hall glowed an orange hue. Sanchez stopped many times, checking to be sure I was not trying to escape.
Inside the hall the women worked hard. In Aymara society all manual work is the duty of the women. In a caldron the llama meat was boiling in a mixture of corn, potatoes and onions. There were oil lamps, but the real light came from a few kerosene burners. There were many bales of llama wool scattered on the floor as the communal hall was the tribal storage room also. Because I was a guest of the priest, we were seated at the center next to the elders of the tribe. Sanchez, who obviously did not belong to that social circle, forced himself next to me. The chief tolerated his misbehavior with benevolence. The llama stew was very good and we were very hungry. Sanchez continued his lecture during the meal, but after consuming another portion of the brew, he lay back on the bales and fell asleep. Soon we all heard his healthy snoring.
My priest friend asked me to accompany him to our designated lodging. Since on the Altiplano there are no predators, nor poisonous snakes, there is no reason to be afraid even at night. I was tired but even so I could not fail to admire the canopy of sparkling stars. Despite my exhaustion I was reluctant to go inside. The sky was crystal clear. The peaks of volcanoes stood around like sugar-loaves. The stars seemed unrealistically close. I wrapped my blanket around me tightly because the wind was bitterly cold. Even in mid-summer, the rivulets froze every night. The burning hot sun of the day was not capable of warming the evening air. This was a harsh climate. The wind howled from the direction of the Isluga volcano. It was considered as one of the important deities of Aymara mythology. I had an eerie feeling, a feeling I had felt once before among the glaciers of the Caucasus. Could it be that this had something to do with the lack of oxygen?
As I pondered this, I stumbled over something. The arid climate conserves organic matter indefinitely, so it wasn't too surprising to pick up a piece of wood. When I looked closer, my heart missed a beat. What I had in my hand was a beautifully carved wooden stirrup¾a Spanish stirrup carved from wood as hard as bone. I cleaned the packed earth from the hollow center and rushed back to our house to take a closer look under lamp light. "Look what I found!" I shouted waking the priest as well as the interpreter. They sat up in their sleeping bags showing little interest in my discovery. When they saw what it was, their indifference turned to envy. "I am here every year and have never found anything," said the interpreter, bitterness in his voice. I blew out the light and crawled into my sleeping bag, pushing a big stone against the door to keep out the wind.
Our peaceful rest did not last long. Suddenly the door burst open and a dozen or so Aymara came in. They started to sing their monotonous songs and drink their ritual brew. Next to me sat Sanchez. When the song reached a high pitch, I asked the priest: "What are they singing about?"
He answered with a smile, seeing my anxious expression. "Do not fear," he assured me. "They are singing only one line time and time again and it is 'We love you."
When they finally left, the silvery moon was still shining bright, the sky seemingly so near. For me this was a moment of revelation. I realized in a flash that all my education, culture and knowledge opened up to me only a narrow horizon, while the Aymaras' mythology burst open for them great heights, from which they could reach beyond the western mind right into the soul.