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Catching the Market Shuttle
The car to Ollantaytambo was late; we arrived at the stop just after 5am but wouldn’t get picked up until 6:30. Everyday Wednesday a car picks up villagers in Patacancha early in the morning, returning in the afternoon. For much of the village it is the primary chance in the week to shop, as there are no stores in Patacancha and only a minimalist market on Sundays. It is a 4 hour walk down a few thousand feet of rugged terrain to town.

As we waited for the van, bundles of bright red-orange cloth gradually began to materialize in the half-light of dawn and accumulate around us. As if by instinct, a boy dressed in modern athletic clothes and new white tennis shoes separated from his parents and stood in my shadow, without greeting me or making eye contact. We were the only two not resplendent in intricately hand-woven Andean textiles.

The civil reserve of the people was demonstrated by their soft handshakes and murmured greetings, though I was to see another side to the Quechuans when it came time to board the “car”. And in retrospect there was already evidence of approaching chaos, as the tardiness of that morning’s driver allowed a daunting throng of a few dozen people to gather, making me hope that either the “car” was a bus, or actually several cars.

My Patacancha Journal

Informal writings on what it's like to live in a Quechuan village.

Waking up
On my second morning I opened the doors to my room at 6:30am, stepping into the household’s courtyard. Just then Laucario, the father of the family, walked by with a skinned animal head and a knife. At the sink area (sink works by perpetual dripping into a bucket) he digs into the head with the knife. Still groggy and a little dazed, to me it seems a bit early in the day to be beheading animals; it also occurs to me that this must be breakfast. “Que tienes?” I asked. “Whatcha got there?” “Alpaca,” he replied laconically, grinning. No more explanation needed, I suppose.

Later I find out the Alpaca was killed over a week ago. After drying and smoking the meat the family hangs different cuts and entrails in various parts of the house. I haven’t discovered the hiding place for the head, but that morning it sat among the pots and pans as Asunta and Laucario prepared breakfast. In the kitchen I sipped my tea as the alpaca head was moved about and put upon, no differently than the various other kitchen implements. The fire is fueled by breaking off chunks of cow dung, blackening the wall as guinea pigs coo and scurrying about in their warm den beneath the stove.