INCA HOUSES AND ANCESTORS’ BONES
I could have used some Inca magic the next day, that is for sure. Our guide took us to an authentic and original Inca home in Ollantaytambo. Once again, don’t you just love the way that rolls off your tongue, almost as good as Aguas Callientes.
Ollantaytambo is a village named after an important Inca chief, and it has some excellently preserved original Inca homes. Our guide said the government had finally awakened to a realization of the cultural treasures in the country and was putting a big effort into preserving the Inca heritage.
Myrtle muttered, sotto voce of course, “Hallelujah! Behold! The Sun God has caused their eyes to open and they have seen the light of the salvation of tourist dollars.”
I refrained from giggling because Myrtle and I had managed to stay in our guide’s good graces for two whole days and I did not want to jinx it.
Anyway, the government made it illegal to damage or tear down original Inca structures, including homes, and they were rewarding Peruvians with deed titles to land if they agreed to establish an authentic Inca residence and live the way the Incas had lived. Once we saw how the Incas lived, I do have to tell you I wondered how many takers there would be, especially since Inca houses can be passed on to the next generation but cannot be sold or turned into commercial properties like a hotel.
As we came to the house, we saw that it was a small stone structure with a thatched roof.
Our guide pointed out the specific Inca features, including the way the stones fit together so perfectly that not a crack of light could show through, the double doorway that is symbolically important to Incans, the bull figurine over the door to insure fertility, and the various items on the roof, which typically include a bull, bottles of Chicha beer for blessings, a ladder for prosperity, bottles of holy water to bring blessings and avoid curses, and often a cross if the inhabitants were baptized Catholic. I guess this is called hedging your bets.
The woman who lived in the house invited us inside.
The interior was one room, about 10 feet by 24 feet, with a dirt floor. There was no furniture except a large rug on the right side. On the left was a small fire pit on the floor, where the woman was cooking her lunch over an open fire.
We had to sort of shuffle our feet as we walked because there were perhaps twenty guinea pigs running around on the floor, plus the cutest little baby guinea pig whose lunch had been interrupted by our rude arrival.
Our guide pointed out the corn hanging under the rafters drying and the altar with offerings of sun-dried potatoes, corn, and dried meat. Then she showed us some of the many items on the mantelshelf, which included original Inca weapons, a petrified bull’s penis for fertility, (boy, those Inca people were really hot for fertility!), and Chicha beer in a horn, which is sprinkled on the crops for a blessing and then drunk by the inhabitants of the house.
The guide then showed us the three tiny skulls on the mantelshelf, which were the woman’s ancestors.
When Inca people die, they are buried for seven years and then their skulls are dug up, brought back home, shrunk, and set in a place of honor in the home, to protect the home. This particular Inca home had three ancestor skulls lined up in the center of the mantelshelf, draped a bit with colorful cloths and spider webs.
Now here comes the really embarrassing moment for me, what I call the “ancestor skull incident.” And when you hear about it, I know you will agree with me that once again, I, as the perpetual blamee, got blamed for something that really was Myrtle’s fault.
Here is how it happened. As our guide talked, our hostess was passing around a platter of sliced pepino, which is a sweet tomato that tastes like cantaloupe.
Since everyone was busy tasting and listening to the guide, I took the opportunity to study the skulls in depth. Being tall as I was, I could see the three skulls perfectly. Being petite as she was, Myrtle could not see them very well and asked me, sotto voce of course, to bring one down to her so she could see it more clearly.
Well, I was attempting to do just that when the owner of the house must have seen what I was doing and suddenly let out a piercing shriek, which startled me so profoundly that wouldn’t you know it, I dropped that danged skull and poor old Uncle Manco shattered into about 20 pieces on the stone floor. He did not even have the wits to fall on a guinea pig for cushioning!
The house went deadly silent except for the continuing shrieks of the woman. Even the guinea pigs scattered into the corners.
Our guide froze briefly, then gathered her wits and herded us all out of the house, reaching into her shoulder bag to pull out a thick wad of bills and putting them into the flapping hand of the owner, who stilled long enough to check the offering before gathering steam to continue the piercing shrieking and wailing.
I was really in the doghouse then, but you all can see that it totally wasn’t my fault, can’t you?
I think Myrtle realized that as well, because back on the bus as I tried to shrink my lanky self into the size of a shrunken head, she whispered to me that she would pay half of the cost.
A part of me wanted to say, “HALF? Now wait a minute – this whole thing was your fault.” But I think I was too traumatized to even respond.
And all I could think about really was how she totally got away with her own Desecration of the Bones.
To be continued…