Their smiles, born from a seeming life of pure inner bliss would light up even the darkest night.

What can I say, but that I feel at home among the indigenous waikis of Peru? They are my children. They are my brothers and sisters. They are my father and mother and grandparents. Their hearts pierce through the walls that continue to shield my own heart from God. Their trust is now my trust.

It took us over six hours to drive less than 80 miles, over steep, absurdly narrow, mostly rocky roads. No guard rails. One lane. Steep drop off to over 1000 feet below. Various varieties of eucalyptus trees line the road and up the mountainsides, planted here hundreds of years ago by the Spanish? Eucalyptus trees are not indigenous to South America, so someone brought them here. It is, by far, the most common tree I see. There are also sheep, goats, pigs, cows, dogs, llamas, alpacas, burros, donkeys and a few, very few horses - each painfully thin, due to the paltry amount of grass I see. Peru is at the end of the dry season at this time of year. All throughout the long ride here some strange, unfamiliar scent kept wafting throughout the bus. Eventually I recognized it when I noticed Al, eyes closed beatifically, blowing softly on something he was holding in his hand which he then put into his mouth and started chewing. Coca leaves. Everyone was chewing coca leaves. Hey, Al, I said, mind passing the bag back here? Al handed the full Ziplock bag to me with a smile - a kind, smile I would grow to simply adore. I don’t know exactly how to do this, I admitted, as I shamefully remembered my annoyance of the day before.

On the road to S'alka Wasi

I hadn’t paid much attention to Emma’s tutelage on the proper and spiritual etiquette, of chewing coca. After he showed me, I reached into the bag and found three small green leafs, all about the size of a small fichus leaf. Holding them between my thumb and forefinger, I separated them a little, so they resembled a small fan. Lifting the coca up toward the sky, I asked God to bless them. Then I blew on them, as Al did, asking for Pacha Mama to bless them. Then I popped them in my mouth, forgetting to bite off the sharp stem ends first. I wouldn’t forget that again, as the stems stick to the soft sides of your mouth when you chew and it’s mighty uncomfortable. I followed those three with about six or seven others, to where I had a small wad now tucked into the side of my cheek, just like "tobakee", as Emma said. It isn’t an unpleasant experience, but one that is going to take some getting used to. God knows how Emma stuffs two to three grams in everyday, as she said she did. Maybe that was throughout the day. She’d look like she had a baseball in her mouth otherwise. And forget kissing anyone.

Miguelito

After arrival ... We were met by this little, and I mean little, old man - Miguelito, Americo called him. He is the guardian, the caretaker here at S'alka Wasi. No one knows his age. I would guess well over eighty. He tends to the garden and takes care of the place when Americo is not here. He is also somewhat of a wizard, a shaman in his own right, someone who "reads" coca leaves, someone who profoundly knows all about the filaments Americo keeps talking about. We will get to have some time with him before we leave. I look forward to that.

It is a three quarter moon now. S'alka Wasi, we are told, is a place we are now asked to leave the domestic power behind us. Domestic power, Americo explains, is what I interpret to be the manifested world in which we normally live; the place we believe is real. S'alka Wasi is more than a structure, over five hundred years old, where a female ancestor of Americo escaped along with six other female shamans from Spain at the beginning of the Spanish Inquisition. Up until fifteen years ago, there was no road leading here, only a footpath. It now functions not only as a retreat, but also as a monastery. There is still a church here, led by someone who calls himself a priest, but happens to be married. This is the Andes. Here, the two philosophical worlds find harmony with each other, Catholicism and ancient, Incan mysticism. What I sense is that this place has its own pure consciousness. Waiki ancestor spirits still walk the old wooden plank floors, no longer level from a shifting Pacha Mama.

As I walked through the entrance to this magical place, I realized I was walking through more than just an ancient adobe gateway. I feel there are many more to come.

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