Drunks ‘n’ Sheep Rustlers

Q: Why doesn’t the sun set on the English empire?

A: Because God knows you can’t trust the English in the dark!

It is now an anachronistic joke that no one under about forty gets… only in terms of trust and the dark does this relate to what I am about to recount. Otherwise its extreme irrelevance only works for those who know about Benjamin Disraeli. Anyway, I have digressed without even beginning my account.

The world is a fascinating and diverse sort of a place. I had an extraordinarily long day yesterday that began at 2:45 am. and ended at something post midnight and was non stop. In fact I only ate once. Completely bushed when I got into bed at 9:30pm, more or less, there came a knock at 10:30pm from one of the guards. I opened the door to see the one they call, “Puma.” He told me that Francisco and Simon were at the gate and needed to be driven to town to the police station to file a complaint.

Wondering why this could not wait until morning, I got out of bed and asked who could take them. But it was after 11:00pm by then. They said Mario could do it and I started to get dressed. I barely trust Mario in the daylight let alone at midnight and in the rain on slick muddy roads. I walked down to the guard shack and found Pancho there kind of wound up. Pancho speaks some Spanish but mixes it up with Quechua. He smelled and sounded of alcohol and coca. This combination reminds me of a movie called Alien Nation from back in the dark ages where aliens who get drunk on sour milk live amongst earthlings.

Anyway, Pancho was, “Huascar (wascar),” (Quechua slang for drunk and also a last name) but reasonably alert. He informed me that they were all gathered up in the common house in the community. He said that they had found about 150 stolen sheep. “C’mon inginiiro (een-heen-yeero (engineer)), le’s go. You have to take us to town to report to the police.” I got the truck ready and loaded up Pancho. We drove up to the community center, a largely finished adobe brick structure in the plaza of the community.

No moon showed and only the starlight illuminated the shadowy figures all about the front door, no lights except a candle inside. When I walked through, my eyes adjusting to the poor light, I met hands of inebriated greetings, “Allillanchu inginiiro? (How are you Engineer?)” I shook the familiar clammy hands and passed answering “Alliallanmi.”

They ushered me into the building filled with garrulous gab of the comuneros. The room reeked of the musky mix of sheep, alcohol and coca with a powerful backdrop of stale dung smoke and the piquant accent of unwashed feet. Everyone picchaba coca and they had been drinking anisado, a strong concoction of cañazo (super distilled cane sugar wine) that they have combined with anis to take on the licorice flavor of the seeds. Smells I once would have called overpowering have been reduced to mere annoyance…

One of those present, an elderly man whom I have never seen drunk named Julian came up to me and said cryptically, “Look, inginiiro,” waving his arms in the direction of the moist sheep, “Sheep…” he said.

“Well, yes they are,” I thought. Not a day passes here that I don’t see many sheep and I could see no real relevance, obvious link or difference between these and the 10,000 sheep outside of the house. This is the Altiplano for crying out loud. They did go on to explain that there were some sixty or more of these wayward ruminants across the valley that they did not have in custody. I looked somewhat vaguely at the evidence and he went on, “What shall we do?”

They presented me one Fabian Huaman declaring that he the rightful owner had come from Ccollyurqui in hot pursuit of the avijeos (rustlers). It was pretty clear that this man had been sipping or possibly gulping all the way from home. I imagine that he had come on horseback. “What shall we do?” they repeated through sloppy, intoxicated lips. I said, “Look man, I am just the driver here, not the judge. You tell me what you want to do and we will do it if it is a reasonable request.”

They conferred in slurred Quechua sometimes with raised drunken voices. Then they told me that we needed to go to the police station in Challhuahuacho to file a report. I agreed and headed for the truck. After another ten minutes of consultation they came to tell me that Simon would not go. Simon told me that he had seen nothing and yada yada yada, Fabian’s friend also decided not to go because he recognized that he was too inebriated. Pay close attention now... I turned to Pancho and Fabian and said, “I don’t care who is not going, but let’s get going. This has taken an hour, get in the car. !Vámonos muchachos!”

They carried on for about five more minutes and Fabian fell down on the ground once. He was not able to remain entirely vertical or walk in a single direction under his own power. Pancho and I finally loaded him in the car and buckled him in while he thanked us profusely and called us his brothers, very lovey dovey stuff. I drove them into town overhearing the familiar clicking, booze-accentuated, glottal stops that characterize their language but with the added slurring of blotto campesinos.

Once in town, I dropped them at the door of the police station and went to turn the truck around and came back and slept in the car seat while they talked to the police. Pancho came out and told me that their friend needed to stay and make his declaration in an improved condition in the morning and then the police would come out to evaluate the situation.

I said, “Good, get in and we will go home.”

“Not yet, we have to get Fabian to his hotel, he is not in a condition to find his way.” Duh!

Somewhat poetically, just when he said this, I saw Fabian fall flat on his backside in the street outside of the truck, completely unable to get to his feet. I rolled my eyes up and nodded. I said, “Ok then, get him in the truck and let’s go!”

So we loaded Fabian into the truck and drove around to one of the hostels in the town. The two of them stumbled into it and I waited. Pancho came back and got in. “Le’s go Inge.” We drove back through the night and confusion. I took Pancho home and dropped him at his door. “Pacarincama,”(See you tomorrow) he said.

“Tupanacama Pancho, allin tuta.” (See you later, good night)He tottered off to his door and I made my way back to my bed. By now, the clock read, 1:00 am. Sleep had pretty much fled and so I worked for a half hour until it returned. Counting sheep never seemed like much of an option to drop off however…

The Old Loogie Hocking Ploy

I went shopping with my driver, Marti and nurse, Rosa in a not very frequently visited by gringos neighborhood in Cusco. They tried to tell me to stay out but were a little too tactful in their suggestion. I am not very good at picking up the hints.

We walked a ways into the market and a woman came up to Rosa and whispered in her ear, “Get your friend out of here. They are coming after him.” She was in this process suggesting that I needed to look at something at the edge of the market. I followed her and she was somewhat nervous and kept looking after me. I did not really get it still.

As I walked down the way passing under the little tarps, I felt something on the back of my ear. I thought it was a string. However, the sensation did not go away. I put my hand up to it and it was wet and when I looked at it, it was spit.

I know this trick. They spit on you or throw water on you and then while nice women help you clean up, they pick your pockets. I told Rosa, “Keep moving, they are trying to rob me here.” Just then I heard a woman behind me say, “Oh! Look they have soiled you!”

I just bustled on out of there. It did make me want to rip someone’s nose off. Nevertheless, I just got my hankie out and wiped off my ear while I walked out, frustrating their nefarious desires.