Read Online Trail of Feathers by Tahir Shah - Free Book Online Page B

gnawing away at my mind. After Arequipa, I was heading up the coast to Nazca, to inspect the desert lines. I was searching for Birdmen, I said.
    Manolo seemed displeased by my choice of destination.
    ‘Come to my village,’ he urged again. ‘Come and see
Yawar
… we have caught the condor!’
    At first I didn’t understand what the man was going on about. I feared that the excitement of the bus ride, and so much jelly, had taken a heavy toll on his sanity. But then, as he told me more about the planned celebrations, I realised my good fortune.
Yawar
was something not to be missed at any price. No other festival in the Americas is as significant to the folklore of flight.
    Thanking Manolo for his invitation, I accepted. When he leapt from the bus at the small town of Pati, with his box of
cuy
cradled in his arms, I too descended.
    The village itself was reached after hours of hitching rides. Manolo helped me into the back of a lorry carrying melons. As we fishtailed our way north, up a narrow track, he told me about his guinea pigs.
    ‘They’re the finest
cuy
in all Peru,’ he said. ‘I bought them from a
campesino
, a farm worker, near Puno. We’ll snap their necks, marinate them overnight, and fry them on a hot griddle,’ Manolo rubbed his palms together indicating great heat. ‘Cuy
chactado,’
he said. ‘It’s my family’s favourite.’
    The melon truck dropped us on the outskirts of a small mining community. We must have made an incongruous couple: Manolo with his guinea pigs, and me staggering under so much luggage.
    Festivities were well under way. The main street was criss-crossed with banners. An inexhaustible supply of old men lounged on their verandas swigging
chicha
, in honour of their ancestors. Their wives were snapping the fragile necks of
cuy
, slicing potatoes and preparing
estofado
, a thick chicken stew. The early evening air was live with music: the sound of flutes, trumpets, drums and, of course, the sound of
quenas
.
    Manolo took me to his house and introduced his family. His wife, four children, two aunts and grandmother shared the modest three-room shack. No one appeared surprised that a stranger had been invited at the last minute. The best chair was dusted down and placed in the shade for my comfort. Refreshments were brought out. Then Manolo quizzed his wife about the
Yawar
. When she had reported the details, he touched a hand to his heart and thanked God.
    ‘Te lo dije
, I told you!’ he exclaimed. ‘A magnificent condor has been lured by the fresh horse meat. We haven’t caught one for three years, and so there was great anticipation’
    Manolo gulped his drink. Like everyone in the village, he could hardly contain his excitement.
    Yawar Fiesta
, ‘Festival of Blood’, has been practised for at least four hundred years in southern Peru. The festival is as popular now as ever, an indication that political correctness hasn’t yet reached the Andes. A celebration, held in small towns and villages on the
Altiplano
, it honours the condor, the king of all birds.
    Each year the ritual is the same. First a team of hunters go high into the hills in search of a condor. They abstain from cigarettes and drink as the great birds have a keen sense of smell. When they have come to a spot frequented by condors, they slaughter a pony by strangling it. Offerings are sprinkled around its body. The hunters pray to God to send down a condor. Then they hide among the surrounding rocks, and wait. Sometimes, days pass before a condor lands to feast on the pony’s flesh. All the while the hunters chant prayers and fill their minds with pure thoughts. Some years no condor descends, and the hunters return to their village with their egos bruised. In a good year, if the condor lands, it gorges itself on the fresh horse meat. With a full gizzard, the bird attempts to fly. But having eaten too much it’s unable to take off. Choosing their moment, the hunters strike. Throwing a poncho over the bird,