The Man from Peru: Uniting People the Inca Way

By Fermin Bocanegra and Patty Jo Sawvel

Fermin-a mischievous and lighthearted boy-grows up in a land locked away from time. High in the Andes Mountain, higher than Machu Picchu, and nearly as primitive, he soon learns that interdependency and self-sufficiency are key to life itself.

           Laugh and learn as you see

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fermin Bocanegra
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088025215

Book preview

Book I

A Child of the Mountains

Born high in Peru’s Andes Mountains, far from modern civilization and close to poverty—I learned what really matters in life.

Under the thorough, and sometimes harsh tutoring by the mountains, Mama, and our village of Mollepata—I learned to be a contributing member of my family, my community, and my country.

1

EXPERIMENTING WITH COLOR

I was a curious child, often labeled mischievous. With no bikes, books, or toys, I entertained myself by experimenting.

One day, I found Mama’s fabric dyes. They were in the storage room—where Mama kept them. But on this day, two things were in my favor. Mama forgot to lock the door and Mama wasn’t home.

Carefully, I pushed the door open and headed straight for a large wooden chest. When I opened the lid, I found a smaller box—the size of a shoebox. Trapped inside this box were little bags of brilliant colors, just begging to be rescued.

Instead, I quickly shut the lid of the chest. This was too much treasure for one 8-year-old boy to keep to himself. I ran out the door and down the path to find my two cousins.

"Aquilino (ah key LEE no)," I called in a hushed tone, as I spotted him up the path. I jerked my head sideways, motioning him to come. A few minutes later, we found Gamaliel.

I found something, I told them quietly.

What! What! they demanded to know.

Shhhh, I cautioned. We knew from experience that eyes and ears were everywhere. I didn’t want to get caught before we had even gotten started.

We scurried back to my house and headed straight to the forbidden room. Once inside, I lifted the lid of the chest and presented the box of colors.

Wow, Gamaliel said in awe. He was three years younger than me. He had seen dyes before. We all had. But, we were never allowed to touch them.

As the sunlight danced on the red, yellow, blue, green, and black powders, our imaginations began to run as wild as chickens chased by dogs.

We should sprinkle some in the creek and turn it blood red, said one of the boys, with a laugh.

That was tempting, but after a moment’s contemplation, I said, No. Then, they would be gone too fast.

We could dye something, Gamaliel said suddenly.

No, Aquilino countered. Then we would get in trouble for sure.

In our little mountain village in Mollepata (MOE ya PAH tah), Peru, every piece of clothing—and even scrap material—was precious and accounted for.

That realization caused a brief downshift in our enthusiasm. Aquilino—two years older than me—became a momentary voice of reason.

Maybe you better leave it alone, Fermin. You don’t want to get in trouble.

I smiled broadly and reassured him, No, there won’t be any trouble. It will be all right. With that resolved, we continued to brainstorm ways to use our bounty. Finally, I had an idea.

Remember the house with all the empty liquor bottles? I asked. That will be perfect for our experiments.

Off we ran to an abandoned house that we had discovered on an earlier adventure. Oddly, the house had a room full of clear glass bottles—just waiting for a day like today.

Carefully, we filled a dozen bottles with water and set them up on a sunlit windowsill.

What color first? I asked.

Red, the boys said in unison.

Okay. I dropped a little pinch of red powder into a bottle of water. At first, the red granules sat on the surface. Then, a little bunch broke through and left a flaming red tail as it drifted to the bottom. Other bits broke through the surface—streaking and pinking up the water until the last bits of undissolved color lay on the bottom.

Aquilino, with a stick ready to stir things up, halted when I said, Wait! Let’s see what happens.

We held the bottle up to the sunlight and noticed that as the granules dispersed, the water actually held many shades of color— ranging from streaks of deep red to blushes of light pink. It was awe- inspiring—almost holy.

We waited patiently—which was not our strong suit— until all the red streaks disappeared before our eyes. Then, Aquilino stirred the water in the bottle. Once more, we closely examined how the liquid accepted the pigment—making it brilliant with color.

My mind was wondering, How does it do that? How does the solid disappear and change the color of the water?

Gamaliel’s mind was wondering, Why don’t we add more?

He spoke his mind and begged, Let’s add more so it will be darker.

I looked at him, remembering what it is like to be the younger brother.

No, I said gently. Let’s not waste it. We want to do lots of experiments."

We went down the row, creating one red, one yellow, one green, one blue, and one black bottle of water. We admired our creations for a moment and then, the fun began.

In the next bottle, I added a pinch of blue.

I asked curiously, What do you think will happen if we mix the colors?

The idea was fascinating. One boy shouted, Let’s add red.

The other said, No, let’s try yellow.

We did both. Carefully, I added red powder to the bottle of blue water. As the red granules broke though the surface, something very unexpected happened. When we held the bottle up to the sunlight, we saw a whole range of new colors.

Look, it’s purple in the middle, I said excitedly.

Yes, agreed Aquilino. But look how it is still blue on the edge.

It’s burgundy where that blob is stuck together, Gamaliel said, proud to be a part of our team.

I slowly turned the bottle in the sunlight while we watched in awe. As the red granules fell through the water and melted, they left little trails of a 100 shades of blues and purples. I got goosebumps on my arms as I contemplated the most beautiful thing I’d seen in my life. This single bottle held a universe of color.

In a way, we felt like we had superpowers. But in another way, we felt a profound sense of awe and responsibility. We were scientists—in our own little lab—creating more colors than we had ever imagined.

When the last bit of powder had dissolved, I suggested, Let’s make another bottle of blue water and add the yellow this time. Okay?

Everyone agreed. Slowly, I added yellow powder. We discovered that blue and yellow makes green. However, like the purple, it made a 100 shades of green as the various yellow granules melted into the blue water.

That day, it was as if time stood still. Before we knew it, the sun was setting—removing our only source of light. It also alerted us to scoot home to do our chores and to eat dinner. We washed up as well as young boys can, intent on leaving no clues as to our day’s activities.

Then, I told my cousins, Meet me here tomorrow.

They both agreed before running down the path to their houses. Now, typically, I would have run too—because I was a very active and energetic child. In fact, today, I would probably be diagnosed with ADHD (Attention Deficient/Hyperactivity Disorder).

But that day, I walked. As I walked, I saw my world in a whole new way. I saw colors—a dozen different shades of red in the petals of the geraniums and poppies. I saw 100s of shades of green in the stems, leaves, and grasses around me. And, I counted over a dozen shades of brown on the bark of a single tree. Experimenting with Mama’s dyes forever changed the way that I saw color.

The next day, we met as planned and the next day and the day after that. In fact, our experiments in color continued for several months. We never tired of them. It felt like we made 1,000,000 colors. Then one day, when we were fully absorbed in a new experiment, we heard a Wham! We looked behind us and there stood Mama.

She’d flung the door open and she was not in a very good mood. Apparently, she’d been asking the neighbors if they’d seen Fermin, (known in childhood as Santos). They told her that they’d seen my cousins and me, hanging out at the abandoned house.

When her eyes met mine—I froze and dropped the dyes. Then, I looked for a way to escape. Thankfully, I was able to dart out a window—as her voice chased me down the road. I managed to stay out of her reach for the rest of the day.

When it came time for bed, I put a piece of cardboard down the back of my pants. This had become standard practice, because at this point in my life I was receiving about one whipping a day.

Sure enough, at about 5 o’clock in the morning—before the roosters crowed and before my eyelids opened, Mama came in and yanked off my blankets. Then, she raised her leather belt and the spanking began.

In the course of the strokes, Mama reminded me that I had stolen the family dyes. Not only that, I had wasted them.

She asked rhetorically, "Now, how am I going to dye my wool? You know the merchants only come to town once a year. Do you think I’m going to travel to Lima (LEE ma) to buy more dyes? Do you think it’s that easy?"

Lima—the capital of Peru—was three days away by bus and walking. (Today it is one day and one night.) This coastal city— caressed by the waves of the Pacific Ocean—is in stark contrast to the rugged mountainous terrain of my hometown, Mollepata. My village is perched 8,793 feet in the Andes Mountains, which is over 800 feet higher than the famous Machu Picchu.

Indeed, my mischief had cost my family greatly. But we didn’t go without dyes. Mama was a master trader and negotiator. She got a little here and a little there until she had enough. And, I didn’t go without color experiments. I simply shifted to the ancient Inca practice of capturing natural pigments by boiling bark, flowers, or insects in water.

As for me, the wonder I witnessed— seeing for myself the beauty of mixing, enhancing, and integrating colors—set the pattern for my life’s work, not in pigments, but in people. Of course, I had much to learn before I could teach. But, I had three unyielding tutors ready to help me—the mountains, Mama, and my Peruvian village.

2

MOUNTAIN RULE #1

THE STRONG SURVIVE, THE WEAK DIE

My first brush with death—which forged my first childhood memory—happened when I was four years old. It was September 30, the Catholic’s Patron Feast Day for Saint Jerome*. The town’s people—99% of whom were Catholic and we were not—were dancing merrily in the streets to the sounds of wonderful music.

The men, pallos (PAY yos), wore brightly painted masks—trading their own faces for those of horses, cows, and tigers. The women, quiyayas (KEY ya yas), danced toward the men carrying long stalks of brightly decorated sugar cane. It was a carryover from the magical Inca rituals and had nothing to do with Christianity—but it was indelibly entwined in Peruvian Catholicism.

As I watched the dancers from the second story balcony of our house, I suddenly got an idea. I raced into my bedroom and put a sock over my head.

Aha! I thought. Now, I have a mask like the men.

I danced my way back on to the balcony, intent on popping into the next room to surprise my mama and sister. However, before I barely turned the corner, I danced right off the ungated edge and fell 11 feet onto a large clay water pitcher below.

I remember the feeling—falling with no one to catch me—and I remember the fear. But when I landed, I felt no pain. I saw my big brother, Daniel, holding my baby brother, Benjamin, but I couldn’t move. I started crying. Daniel screamed and Mama came running down. She discovered that I had several broken ribs.

Mama and Daddy did the best they could for me. Daddy used to comfort me by singing a little song that said, I’m happy because I belong to Christ. I am happy because Christ has saved me from falling from the balcony.

I remember him singing that same song, over and over. It was the closest thing to Daddy saying, I love you, because in my day and in my culture parents did not speak those words to their children. In fact, this recollection of Daddy serenading me won its place as my favorite memory of my father.

Though his singing was soothing, with no doctors and no medicine, it did not take too long for my little body to begin wasting away. I heard my parents whispering. As the weeks passed, I heard the neighbors and family talking.

Your little boy is going to die if you don’t do something, they told my parents.

I knew what death was—it was a daily occurrence in our mountain village in Peru. I saw Mama kill chickens, pigs, and even cuy (a type of guinea pig in Peru) for our dinner. I saw the carnage of wild animals as they feasted on the flesh of weaker prey. And, I saw dead people— children and adults—because in Mollepata the whole family goes to every funeral.

I also knew the common mountain rule: The strong live, the weak die. So imagine how frightening it was to overhear that as I was getting weaker.

My parents were even more intimately acquainted with death. Mama—Luisa Barreto-Blas (per tradition her last name is her father’s last name followed by her mother’s last name)—and Daddy—Manuel Bocanegra-Lopez—buried seven babies.

Mama—a devout member of the newly established Pilgrim Holiness Church—prayed relentlessly for God to restore my health. Nothing happened. Three months went by and my health continued to deteriorate.

The local consensus was that I wasn’t healing because I had susto (SUE stow), meaning I was traumatized. In an effort to cure me, some people rubbed herbs on my body and said prayers. It was also rumored that I was cursed because Mama left the Catholic church.

I heard one of the neighbors tell Mama in a hushed tone, Someone put a curse on your son. That is why he is not getting better.

Curses were woven into the day-to-day fabric of my extremely superstitious and spiritistic community. One very common curse is mal de ojo (mal day OH ho) or the evil eye. This is a widely practiced form of witchcraft—based on the belief that if someone with ill intent stares hard at a child, the child will get sick and sometimes die. Usually the person who curses a child like this is motivated by jealousy.

The cure for the evil eye is to rub a room temperature chicken egg across the body and head of the ailing child. Then the egg is cracked into a glass of water. If the liquid stays together—a skilled observer can detect a small eye in the yoke. That’s a good thing, because that means that the cure worked. However, if the yoke and egg white break apart and mix—that means that the ailing child never had the evil eye. Of course, in that case, the bad news is that the family still has no idea about the true source of trouble for the child.

In my village, there were no accidents. Either evil spirits or a curse had caused the accident, or were preventing my recovery.

As each cure failed, the family told Mama, "You must do something."

The final cure demanded that I drink the blood of a pure white rooster. This Shaman’s cure also required that the rooster remain alive. (Shamanism uses good and bad spirits and nature for healing.)

I remember my Uncle Praquicedes (pra key SAY days) Barreto- Blas and his son, Mateo (ma TAY oh) bringing a bright white rooster into our house. As my uncle held the rooster, Mama cut its crest and caught the blood in a little cup. They put the cup beside me. I refused to drink it.

For the cure to work, the blood had to be consumed quickly—while it was fresh. So, they grabbed me up, held me between themselves and forced my mouth open. They made me drink the blood. That is my first memory.

As a side point, I don’t ever recall Mama resorting to this type of spiritistic healing again, though the Catholic majority commonly mixed ancient non-Christian practices with their current faith.

It should also be noted that this rule of the mountain—the strong survive, the weak die—is not the same as survival of the fittest. Survival of the fittest is often used to justify predatory behavior in business or politics.

In the Andes Mountains of Peru, it is exactly the opposite. Life is precious and we are stronger when we stick together. That brings up rule number two.

*Note: Saint Jerome—born as Eusebius Hieronymus in 342 C.E. (died 420 C.E.)—was a Catholic priest, historian, and theologian. He is best remembered for his translation of the Bible into Latin—commonly known as the Vulgate (La Bulgate). Oddly, though the Bible was so important to this Catholic Patron Saint of Mollepata—few people in our community read the Bible for themselves.

3

MOUNTAIN RULE #2

EVERYONE MUST CONTRIBUTE

Even the strongest person can do very little alone. The key to success is and always has been connection. In an era long before trucks, trains, and telephones, the ancient Inca people found extraordinary ways to connect people with people—and people with natural resources.

The backbone of connection was the Inca Trail. This manmade stone road spanned the entire 2,500 mile north to south boundaries of the Inca empire with hundreds of smaller arteries linking to outlying villages. In all, the Incas built over 14,000 miles of durable Inca trail. In fact, over 500 years later, much of it is still intact. In 2014, the Inca Trail was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site—enjoyed by hikers around the world.

To stay connected with its millions of citizens, the Sapa Inca (emperor), such as the famous Pachacuti (PAH-chah-COO-tee), stationed runners called chasquis (CHAH-skis) in huts about every six miles along the path. Messages were delivered via voice (the Incas had no written language) as one runner raced to the hut of the next— shouting his message to be memorized—until it reached the final intended ears. In this way, messages and even light packages of fresh fish were delivered over a distance of 150 miles in a day.

The Sapa Inca also cleverly used the Inca Trail to distribute natural resources and military protection to all corners of his empire. Using caravans of llamas and alpacas—food, gold, cotton, wool, pottery, and other goods were readily distributed.

In a similar vein, large glacier fed lakes were tapped by means of expertly engineered damns and irrigation canals. This system guaranteed fresh water for crops being grown hundreds of miles away. In fact, under Pachacuti’s rule, the empire underwent one of its greatest expansions when many tribes saw the advantages of joining the empire in exchange for protection and access to distant natural resources.

Typically, it would be a huge undertaking to maintain such a network of roads and canals. However, the Inca had a solution for that too. Several times throughout the year, the government would call for a minga (MEEN-gah). A minga is unpaid mandatory teamwork. It is based on the principle that everyone benefits from the roads and canals—either directly or indirectly—so everyone must contribute to their upkeep.

When a minga was called—every villager reported for duty at the project nearest his village. Like ants drawn to a long line of honey—millions of natives convened on the thousands of miles of roads and canals to do the repairs. It was highly organized and amazingly efficient. In a matter of days, the entire Inca Trail and canal system was of repaired every year.

Long after the Inca were conquered by the Spanish in 1532 and even after Peru won its independence from Spain in 1824—this method of community contribution continued. In fact, our survival depended on it.

I remember when I was 12 years old, I heard the village church bell ringing loudly. A man named Miterio (me-TAY-ree-o) shouted with all his might, In three days we will have a minga to clean up the irrigation canal.

A thrill of excitement raced through my body because this year I was finally old enough to join the men. Prior to this, I was only allowed to distribute water to the workers. Now, I would be a man and a child would bring water to me.

The next day, the bell rang again and Miterio yelled, In two days we will have a minga to clean up the irrigation canal.

By giving several verbal calls to action, the entire community was alerted. Everyone knew that he or she was expected to show up. In fact, unless people were extremely sick or traveling out of town, they showed up. Even then, those who would be absent were expected to send relatives in their place. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t get water for their crops.

Even though 1000s of volunteers from many villages came to the work project, each and every person was accounted for.

Once there, everyone contributed something. The men, along with boys aged 12 or older did the physical work of clearing the canal of rocks, overgrowth, or debris. The boys, ages 10-12, carried water to the crew in gourds, just like I’d done the past couple of years. All the females—young and old—prepared the food and drinks.

When the final call sounded, I met with the men of our village and followed them to the worksite. On this day, we were clearing the 25- mile irrigation canal that ran from a glacier fed mountain lake to our farm and beyond.

This lake, Laguna de Orocullay (la GOONA day oro COO hay) and canal system—which dropped at a rate of five-degrees—stands as a testament to the remarkable civil engineering by the Incas. Over 500 years later, my village was still using it. The way it was maintained— by minga—was a result of insightful Inca social engineering.

After walking about five miles up the canal, we received our assignments. Some villages would be working from this point back toward the lake. Our village and the ones that joined us would be working from this spot downhill toward our farmland. At the end of the day, all 25 miles would be cleared.

I was assigned to work between two men. Each of them were about five feet away from me and we each had a 10 foot section to clear.

While the canal can vary in width and depth, at this location—when the dam was opened—the canal would be about four feet wide and two feet deep. That gave us each about 50 square feet of pathway to clear.

I started out strong, determined to carry my share of the load. I pulled weeds and little bushes that had rooted themselves in the creek bed since its last cleaning. It was hard and tedious work. The weeds were stubborn. Like the other young workers, I worked only with my hands.

The men had tools. I watched them swing their sword-like machete (ma SHED ee) at the thicker underbrush—swiftly beheading saplings and small bushes. Then, they expertly wielded their barreta (bah RAY tah). This tool was forged from a single rod of 1 wrought iron. One end of the 4-foot rod was pounded into a wedge to pry up rocks, while the other other end was shaped into a fairly sharp 4 blade to cut weeds.

Though the tools definitely made their work easier, they were still working hard. We all were.

The men carried on a banter of conversation between themselves— passing the time as I tried to keep up. Before I knew it, they were done and heading down to a new section. That’s the way we did it. Workers leap frogged down the line—passing sections occupied with men to find new sections needing cleared—until the project was finally completed.

Typically, men from the same village stayed together and completed a section before moving. Then, groups of men would move down the line together. But, for my first experience, the men wanted me to know that I was fully responsible for my section. Plus, they wanted me to own my accomplishment.

Well, I owned it. I reclaimed my section of the canal one weed at a time. When my job finally passed my inspection, the workers were so far down the line that I never did catch up with them. It was a very positive and somewhat humbling first experience.

I remember one time, I was going on a trading trip and my Mama said, Be sure to be home by Saturday, because they will be sending water for our farm.

If we were not home to open the gate to divert the canal water to our farm, then we would miss the irrigation. That would spell disaster for our 10 acres of potatoes, corn, broad beans, wheat, quinoa (KEEN- way), barley, sesame, and other staples. This was food that we depended on for our very survival.

That year, when the water came running through our fields, I felt an extra sense of pride. I knew that I had helped make that happen—for me, for Mama, for our community in Mollepata, and for villages all the way down to the river.

4

MOUNTAIN RULE #3

YOU HELP ME, I HELP YOU

The monetary system was not our main means of exchange in the mountains. Instead, we operated on a system known as trueque (true A kay). It is means to trade or barter.

In our village of Mollepata, there were few material goods to trade. So, labor was the prime commodity. Trueque in my village usually meant you help me, I help you.

Generally, everything evened out in the end. But sometimes— especially if I was involved—it might not be a fair trade at all.

On one particular occasion—when I was 10—our neighbor, Felipa Garcia, told Mama that she was ready to plant her fields.

Mama told Margarita, I will send Daniel to help.

Mrs. Garcia smiled widely. Daniel was 13, a serious boy, and a hard worker.

Mama quickly added, Take Fermin too.

Mrs. Garcia frowned and protested a bit. My curious, easily distracted, and unorthodox ways were becoming legendary in our small village.

But Mama insisted saying, "He can contribute something."

In this way, Mama was insuring that when it was our time to plant, our neighbors would return the favor.

Mrs. Garcia reluctantly agreed. On the given day, Daniel and I walked to her property. Initially, I followed Daniel and the men to the fields. I watched as the men joined two bulls at the neck with a sturdy wooden yoke. (Watch YouTube How to Plough the Land With Bulls by Amicar to see how this is still being done in Peru.)

Together, the bulls pulled a plow, turning over one large furrow of soil after another. I noticed that the turned soil was a different color than the unturned soil. It was darker. Then a bright red bird—a huanchaco (wan CHAH co) darted overhead—streaking the bright blue sky like the red granules in the bottle of blue water. But he didn’t melt and the sky did not change colors.

What was that bird thinking? What was he seeing when he looked down and saw us using two bulls and a stick to draw lines in the dirt?

As he flew toward the horizon, my eyes were pulled back towards the plow. I noticed that the soil was very hard. Daniel, along with many others, broke up the big clods of dirt with a primitive tool called a racuana (ra QUAN ah) and smoothed out the soil for planting.

This work was too hard for me. I didn’t think I could make it through the day. However, because I was the youngest worker, I was chosen to return to the house for food and drink. Obviously, this was music to my ears. Hahaha!

There, the women were making the food. They also made chicha (CHEE chah), a mild alcoholic drink made by fermenting corn and cane sugar for one or two days. My family did not make it or drink it because our faith did not allow us to consume alcohol. However, the vast majority of workers were Catholic and they really looked forward to this.

As the day lengthened, Mrs. Garcia decided that I could make myself useful by taking the donkey laden with the precious chicha to the field. I think some of the women had their doubts, fearing that I might mess up. I did not disappoint them.

I waited patiently as the women strapped one giant gourd on to each side of the donkey—balancing the load. The women then filled these containers with chicha. (To understand how sacred chicha is in Peruvian culture, watch Youtube video How to: Make Chicha written by Rosa Maria)

Then Mrs. Garcia sternly admonished, You can do this, Fermin. The workers are all counting on you.

I took command of the situation like a real man. I walked behind the donkey, prodding him with a stick and he walked straight ahead. All went well until we were well out of sight. Then, the donkey started acting like a donkey. He started stubbornly walking the wrong way.

I tapped on his back leg to signal him to correct his course, but he refused. So, I yelled at him to change direction, but he just ignored me. Maybe he couldn’t understand my Spanish.

I knew that the workers were waiting for me to bring their refreshments, so I looked around quickly to find something to knock some sense in to this beast.

Soon, I spotted my answer. Rocks. I picked up several large rocks and as I commanded my donkey to turn around, I threw the rocks at him. He did turn around, but not before I accidentally busted one of the large gourd containers. Oh, me! I felt the blood drain to my feet as quickly as the chicha rushed to the ground.

I slumped to the earth in defeat, realizing that I had just spoiled several days labor by the women. I felt powerless and wanted to quit. But then, a new thought flashed through my mind. Surely the workers would be happier with half a load of chicha than none at all. So I quickly rose to guide the donkey on its way.

When I finally arrived at the fields, the workers—hot and tired— saw that half the expected chicha was missing. They were angry. To make matters worse, they did not believe this was simply a foolish, boyish accident. They knew that my family didn’t believe in drinking alcohol, and they thought I was trying to impose my protestant beliefs on them. What could I do?

In that trueque—between Mama and Mrs. Garcia—Mrs. Garcia came out on the short end of the bargain. But I grew and eventually I— like Daniel—became a responsible worker.

And yet still—even that season—when it was time to plant Mrs. Garcia and our other neighbors came to help.

Mama said, Next week, all the neighbors are coming. They will bring their tools and their bowls to help us.

With their help, we could plant our 10 acres in one day. Of course, Mama fed everyone. That was the expectation and she was happy to do it. Then, when we went to help our neighbors, they fed us too.

Incidentally, the next year I was sent on an errand with another stubborn beast—this time a mule (half horse and half donkey). He was just as stubborn as his half-brother, but I was now older and wiser.

At the prime age of 11, I was fully four-feet tall and weighed 50 pounds. I taught that mule a lesson. Mama had sent me to take the mule to pick up a missionary—Coleman Avery—who was visiting from North Carolina in the USA. He’d gotten as far as he could by car and my contribution was to walk with him the final eight hours from Cachicadan (ca CHEE ca dan) to Mollepata.

His visits were always eagerly anticipated because he brought pictures that he’d taken in our village from the previous year and pictures from other places around the world. To show the pictures, he used a projector. And, to run the projector in our village with no electricity, he had to haul in a generator and fuel. That is why he needed a mule—to carry all of his stuff.

Once again, the beast began our adventure in a cooperative mood. But part way through the journey, the mule saw some horses and decided that he’d rather run off to play with them. As soon as he started misbehaving, I did to him what Mama did to me. I spanked him.

I tied him to a tree and spanked him until he was shaking. Then, I returned the saddle to his back. He never misbehaved again and my mission was a success. Once the mule knew who was boss—the little guy—and once he had a healthy fear of me, I never had any more trouble.

In hindsight, I must admit that he was more easily trained than I was. Haha!

Back to the idea that you help me, I help you, we had up to four servants at any given time in our house. However, we never paid them a sol (sole), a Peruvian dollar. Sure, we lived in a big house in La Yeguada—but it was not ours.

Just like under the ancient Inca rule, my family did not own the 10- acre farm that we worked. After the Spaniards conquered the Inca, they designated landowners called Haciendas (HA see END uz) who owned the land and rented it to the common people.

The name of our Hacienda was Fermin Malaga Santolalla (santo LAH yah). Once a year, we had to walk two hours to the town of Tulpo to pay our rent. Now, if we still lived under Inca rule, then our shares would have been one-third of our harvest for the gods, one-third for the Inca government, and one-third for our family.

However, at our time in history, our rent was paid in money. We paid 30 soles (SOE-lace), roughly equivalent to $30 dollars a year. (I’ll explain in a later chapter how we earned money to pay our rent.)

We were allowed to keep all of our crops. That having been said, when people farm the same land for 1000s of years without the aid of fertilizers, herbicides, and modern equipment—the production is so low that the haciendas likely made more profit by simply collecting a flat fee.

So, our servants were not paid employees. To the contrary, they were homeless people or people without a family. They had found a way to help our family by their labor, and in exchange we helped them by providing life’s necessities.

There were no social services or food stamps. Again, referring to mountain rule number one, it was either find a way to survive or die. No one was strong enough to survive the harsh mountain living without a family and a home.

Our servants—all females—helped Mama and my two sisters with the cooking, the cleaning, and the childcare. They did this willingly and eagerly. However, though they knew they were servants and we knew they were servants, we treated them like family.

In fact, they felt so much like family, that when a four-year-old in the house died, I thought I’d lost a sister. I didn’t realize until decades later—when I was an adult—that she was the maid’s daughter. That is how close we were. We adopted one another.

The servants were always free to go, and a few did. But, some of them stayed a lifetime. In the mid-1970s, under the leadership of Peru’s President Juan Velasco Alvarado, the deeds to the properties were taken away from the Haciendas and given to the family occupying the property.

At that time, everyone in my family had moved off the land, so some servants inherited part of our property on the farm. Now, instead of paying rent to the Hacienda, they own the land and pay taxes to the government.

That takes us to Mountain Rule number four.

5

MOUNTAIN RULE #4

STAND ON YOUR OWN TWO FEET

Daniel, I pleaded, you have to help me. The bigger boys keep beating me up.

They were bullying me for two reasons. First, I was small for my age and an easy target. Second, I was the first non-Catholic in my family and one of the very few in our village.

My mother converted to Pilgrim Holiness when I was seven months in her womb. So whereas my older siblings were baptized when they were eight days old and listed as such in the Catholic dominated public school directory, I was not.

This may seem like a small issue, but it was huge. The Catholic Church in Mollepata and throughout Peru aggressively persecuted non- Catholics. In fact, Catholics attempted to burn our Pilgrim Holiness Church on three separate occasions—throwing a lit kerosene cocktail in the door, but thankfully it was thrown out before it did much damage.

The intention of the violence was to persuade Protestants to return to the Catholic Church. It was the same method used by the Spanish conquerors and during the Spanish Inquisition in Peru from 1570 until 1820. It had nothing to do with the love of God.

Natives were tortured and given a choice between life as a Catholic or death. Today, the only vestige of this violent era is Lima’s popular Museum of Congress and Inquisition—complete with life-size wax figures, instruments of torture and the original dungeons.

However in 1950, when I was in elementary school, the anti- protestant pressure was so great that it almost felt like I lived in a war zone. But, I’ll share more on that later.

So I had two things I couldn’t change—my size and my religion.

Much to my dismay, Daniel said, No. I’m not going to defend you.

I begged, Please. They beat me up every day.

Daniel, three-and-half years older and much bigger, could have helped. We attended the same boys’ school—all schools in Peru were gender segregated—and he had more skills than I had.

My sister, Margaret, had already turned 15, so she wasn’t in school at all. However, I pleaded with her to convince Daniel to help me. Initially, she too refused to help.

They were my only hope, because by this time—age eight—I had a reputation for mischief. Mama always assumed I was the one that instigated the problem. It seemed like every time I went to Mama for help, I ended up getting a spanking. I was already up to a spanking a day, so I kept her out of this.

Finally, after weeks of pleading, Daniel said, I will not defend you, but Margaret and I will teach you how to defend yourself. We will teach you how to fight.

But I’m too small, I protested.

Exactly, Daniel countered. You are small and that is good. You can use that to your advantage.

Margaret added, You are more agile than the bigger boys, so you can move more quickly and beat them.

So, the training began. I practiced throwing my punches. I repeatedly complained, But he’s bigger than me.

Yes, Daniel would agree, so stay away from his punches. He is big and heavy, so if he throws a lot of punches, he will get tired. Fermin, size is really his disadvantage.

Through his constant encouragement, and Margaret’s help too, I eventually developed a prize-winning strategy.

One day, Mondongo (mon DON go) (an offensive nickname meaning tripe, intestines, or rubbish) shoved me.

He said, Hey Hallelujah (a nickname to single me out as a protestant), get out of the way.

I countered, Keep your hands off of me, MONDONGO!

He challenged, Oh, is little Hallelujah going to do something about it?

I nodded confidently and said, Let’s settle this off school property so that we don’t get suspended.

He was agreeable and 30 boys came to see the fight. Daniel— acting as my manager—charged each boy one marble which would go to the winner. They were happy to pay up. Soon they would watch the biggest boy in class—about 80 pounds and five feet tall—mash the smallest boy in class at about 40 pounds and less than four feet tall.

Round one began. About half the guys were calling out my name. Fermin! Fermin! Fermin! The other half were rooting for the giant.

Mondongo swung to the left and I quickly ducked. He swung to the right and I dodged that one too. Each time he took a swing, I darted to the right or left and made him chase me.

You’re so slow you couldn’t hit a fly, I taunted.

You’re scared, he hollered back. I came here to fight, not to chase a girl around.

And, then it happened. While he was flapping his jaws and playing to the crowd, I ran toward him as fast as I could. Then, I jumped up, turned my body horizontal and planted both feet in his face. He fell to the ground faster than Goliath. Before he knew what hit him, I jumped on his chest. I pummeled his face with my fists. As soon as his nose started bleeding, he got up and ran away.

I won. I beat the giant bully—the biggest bully at school! Daniel, who had collected all the marbles, paid me my wages of three marbles. Then he put the rest in a bowl, which Mama periodically raided to trade for food with the neighbors.

After that, the chalaquita (cha la KEY tah)—to jump and hit the opponent in the face with one’s feet—became my signature move. Pretty soon, as it happens to boys who fight, other boys wanted to challenge me. So, fighting became my after school sport.

Sometimes I got a bloody nose, but that didn’t stop me. It only made me more determined.

I thought to myself, "I will figure you out. I will