The commune consisted of a group of small huts, where most lived, and a main building, with water and electricity, where the kitchen and eating area were located, and in the back of which Manco Capac resided. About twenty people, of all ages, shapes, and sizes lived there, and everyone was given a job. Pachamama worked in the kitchen, and Puma, who struck me as not being particularly bright, but a sweet kid, was assigned a lot of the grunt work, such as finding wood, or clearing more land for the primary activity which, according to Moonray, was farming. At least they called it farming. Gardening is what I’d call it, and difficult gardening at that. The soil was very sandy, and the commune sat on the edge of a clump of trees, algarroba or carob trees with beautiful spreading branches, but some of the nastiest thorns I’d ever seen. They covered the ground beneath the trees and would tear through thin soles in a flash. All in all, it had an indelible air of the sixties, right down to the faint whiff of marijuana.
Never having been one inclined to togetherness, I’d often wondered what people saw in such a lifestyle, and for some reason I decided that in Puma I’d found a kindred spirit in that regard. Pachamama liked the bustle of the main house and the kitchen, made friends easily, and seemed to regard all of this as a bit of a lark. I had a feeling that when she’d had enough of the life of the commune, she’d just blithely move on. But on more than one occasion I’d found Puma alone on the edge of the property, deep in thought. Not wanting to startle him, I’d watched him from a distance.
The place was peaceful and very quiet, the silence broken only by some distant voices singing in the commune and the chink and scraping of a trowel nearby. Puma looked up finally and saw me. “Hear that sound? Farmer over there,” he said, gesturing behind the commune. “Putting up a wall between us and him. Not too keen on us, I’d say. I offered to help, but either he didn’t understand me, or he didn’t like me. I’m not sure which. He should learn to go with the flow like Manco Capac says. I told him about the ‘pocalypse too, but I don’t think he understood that either.”
Lucky man, I thought.
He smiled slightly, as if he could read my thoughts. “Reminds me of home, that sound. I lived near a quarry.”
For a moment I saw him for what he probably was: a homesick kid a long way from home. It was a feeling I could understand. “Why don’t you pack up and go home, Puma?” I asked him. “Is it the money? Do you need money to get home?”‘
He looked at me for a moment, and I thought, as the rims of his eyes went red, that he might cry. “ T can’t go home right now. I don’t have any money, but it’s not that. I just can’t go home right now.”
“Neither can I,” I said. We sat in silence for quite a while.
“Is there any chance you’d have any time to help me out with the work I have to do at the project, Puma?” I said at last. “I have a little trouble loading the water cubes and the propane tanks into the back of the truck, and could sure use some help.” It was hardly subtle, and Puma, bright though he wasn’t, saw through it immediately, but he agreed right away.
After that I stopped regularly at the commune, not once a day, but often enough, and if he didn’t have any communal chores to perform, I drove him into town. Town with Puma was an experience, particularly the market, where all was grist to his mill. Avocados, oranges, bananas, pots, pans, scarves disappeared and reappeared to the amazement of all, particularly the children. No matter his Spanish was rudimentary, his magic spoke for him, and we were never without a little crowd about us.
I decided I’d been wrong in thinking him not very bright. He was poorly educated, yes, and a little weird, marched to a different drummer as it were, but he had a phenomenal knowledge of history, and regaled me with stories of the conquistadores and the Inca, in particular, that breathed life into textbook history. On a few of these trips, he tried to engage me in conversation about the ‘pocalypse,“ and whether or not I believed in past lives, but I refused to be drawn into the discussion. Neither of us spoke of home.
I offered to pay him to help me with my work, but he refused. So I sent him on errands, to pick up the water, several yards of rope, or whatever, and told him to keep the change from the bills I gave him. That seemed to be acceptable to him, didn’t offend his pride. It was a silent pact of some kind, I think, between two people who, for their own reasons, in both cases unstated, couldn’t go home just then.
It was on one of those many trips to town that I met Carlos Montero. On that particular occasion I’d driven Puma and Pachamama into town so they could spend a little of Puma’s hard-earned cash on some ice cream, and Tracey to the Telefonico del Peru office to call home. After her phone call, Tracey and I left Puma juggling oranges for the children, and went to the market to search out some supplies she needed for the lab. I was rather enjoying myself, I recall, taking in all the smells, sights, and sounds of a busy marketplace.
Campina Vieja is a pleasant place, not pretty, perhaps, but always interesting, one of many such towns strung like little beads along the Panamericana. It has the requisite Plaza de Armas in front of the church, this one so small it is difficult to get back far enough to fully appreciate the statue of the conquering hero at its center, in this case, Simon Bolivar, one of the liberators of Peru. Day and night, the little square is a hive of activity. In the evenings, couples come to pass the time, strolling in tight little circles around Bolivar. A rabbit warren of streets, more lanes really, radiates out from the square. Not wide enough for our truck, many of them, they are the domain of little motorcycle taxis that ply their trade up and down and around the town.
The market is more expansive than the rest of the town, situated as it is in a large open area. But once inside, the aisles take on the character of the laneways elsewhere: crowded, noisy, busy all the time, almost claustrophobic in their closeness.
We were wandering around on the upper level of the market, munching happily on alfajores, sublime little shortbread sandwiches with a sweetened condensed milk filling, as we walked about.
“Yuk!” Tracey said. “He’s back!”
Yuk? I turned to see a round-faced, middle-aged man in grey slacks and a pink, short-sleeved shirt, the buttons of which strained against a belly of some proportions. He was waving and yahooing at Tracey from two aisles away.
At closer range, Carlos Montero, our sponsoring angel, proved to be a man with bad teeth, his smile a flash of gold fillings, and what can only be described as roving hands. No wonder all the women on the project had winced when they heard from Lucho that his uncle’s return from Trujillo was imminent.
If I thought at my age I was immune, I was soon disabused of that. Any female, no matter her age, size, or general disposition, was apparently appealing to Senor Montero.
“Rebecca, this is Senor Montero, our sponsor, to whom we owe so much,” Tracey said brightly. From where I was standing, I could see her fingers crossed behind her back. “Senor Montero, this is Senora MacCrimmon, the latest addition to our team.”
“Senor Montero,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, “I’ve heard so much about you.” That much was true. “Steve has told me about the wonderful reproductions you make at Paraiso,” I went on. “I do hope I’ll have a chance to come and see your factory sometime.”
Montero gave me a smile that was essentially a leer and kissed my hand, holding it way too long for comfort. “And are you an archaeologist too, senora? Such an admirable profession. How I wish I had been able to study archaeology myself, but my family was not wealthy, and it was necessary for me to begin working with my father and older brother when I was very young.” He shook his head sadly, still holding my hand. I pulled it away and Montero turned his attention to Tracey, who was looking very fetching in white, a cool blond ice princess in white sleeveless tee, linen pants and sandals, thin chains of gold at her wrist and her neck.