A LOST TREASURE

1527. The living god is dying. Wayna Qhapaq (Quechua for "splendid youth"), the eleventh emperor of the Inca Empire, is likely the victim of smallpox, brought to South America by the Spaniards. Trying to please both Huascar -his elder son- and Atahualpa –his favorite son-, right before his dead Wayna Qhapaq splits the empire between them, setting by this act the downfall of the Inca empire, as Huascar soon declared war on Atahualpa, claiming the reunion of the recently dismembered empire.



1532. Atahualpa, is resting in Cajamarca after winning a long five year civil war fighting his own brother. The winner has had to order the execution of the defeated. Francisco Pizarro, the conqueror, has arrived to Cajamarca in an expedition to meet the Inca; the secret task: to subdue the ruler of the land of gold. Pizarro demands from the emperor to abandon ancient traditions and religion and to submit and convert to Catholicism. Atahualpa’s answer of him being “no man’s tributary” sets his fate along with that of the Incan empire, as Pizarro attacks the native army, wins the battle, and takes Atahualpa as a prisoner, demanding one room full of gold and two of silver “up to where his arm reached” , as a ransom. The biggest ramsom known in history.





1533. In spite of having fulfilled the ransom, Atahualpa is not set free; instead, he is taken to a trial. Pizarro, who has murdered thousands of Indians, who has not minded killing women and children, orders the execution of the monarch. Atahualpa, the last Child of the Sun, dies in Cajamarca the 26th July. “Dusk took place right at noon”, mourn the subjects.

The word of Atahualpa's death reaches four ends of the Tahuantinsuyu. The stream of gold that is still heading for Cajamarca is halted. The faithful Incan generals hide the treasures they bring along. One of them, Quinara, is close enough to Cajamarca; he has already passed Cuxibamba and is now surpassing Wilcopamba, when he learns of his emperor’s assassination. He unloads the “70.000 man-loads” of gold he was transporting, sets a concentric point equidistant a whistle sound length from three different masks set facing each other on three mountains surrounding a valley under the folds of the mountain range. In that very point, he buries the treasure –along with the carriers-. The gold is given back to the Pacha Mama, instead of to the treacherous Spaniards.

1874. A young man, son of shipbuilders in Hamburg, is heading to America as part of the crew of a transatlantic. He has deserted the German Army and on doing so, has “ashamed his family” according to his father. Ernst is his name. During the journey, he listens to stories on the exotic land he is heading for, to start a new life. Somebody relates to him the story of Quinara and the treasure hidden in a valley named after the Indian general. The young man remains mesmerized, envisioning him finding the treasure and returning home full of glory. Finding the treasure of Quinara becomes then an obsession for young Ernst.

1876. Ernst is heading south, eventually. Upon his arrival to Guayaquil, he had to find a job and ended up remaining two years as a clerk of the Poppe imports house, a German fellow’s business. But now he is on his way to Loja and to his dreamed treasure.

1919. A sick, too slim and weak Ernst is no longer able to lead the last of countless expeditions to the mysterious valley of Quinara, where he has sought and dug for the treasure for 39 years. He now makes an inventory of his life since he arrived to Loja. Most of his earnings have been invested in finding the hidden treasure of Quinara, almost to no avail; he found one of the three masks indeed, but that was as close as he got to the lost Incan treasure. The final balance of his life is not in red though, as he discovered another lost treasure: Ricarda, a strong, independent and open-minded woman who became his wife and mother of his 9 children; her black eyes sparkling as gems and her outstanding determination became Ernst's wealth, one he found at the end of a long trip from Hamburg to the exotic lands of South America.

1970. The first daughter of Ernst and Ricarda is celebrating her 90th birthday, surrounded by her large extended family. A 12 year old girl stares at grand-aunt with admiration, wondering how it is possible to reach such an age in such a good state of mind. That young girl is me, one of the over 120 great grand children of Ernst Witt, the treasure hunter.

The southern ecuadorian Qhapaq Ñan

By mid XVth Century, Pachakutiq (his name means "That who changes the course of Earth") had started the geopolitics of the immense empire the Spanish conquerors found upon their arrival to South America. The expansion of the empire, initiated by Pachakutiq and continued by his son Tupac Yupanqui and later on by his grandson Huayna Qhapaq (his name means “The powerful young man”), was based on invasion and conquest of the nations that lived in the Andean region.

On his quest for conquering the northern nations, Tupac Yupanqui found two large groups of inhabitants in southern Ecuador. The Paltas, an Amazonian Indian group (jibaro-arawaco) that had arrived from the jungle surpassing the Oriental Range of the Andes had taken the territories of the modern Loja province, while the Cañaris, a nation of warriors were settled on the territories that nowadays are the provinces of Azuay and Cañar.

The Inka set out to the north, commanding a gigantic army, defeating the Paltas first and then fighting the Cañaris who offered a ferocious resistance. When the Inka eventually indexed the new territories to the Tahuantinsuyo, he resourced to an imperial politics that assured stability: the mitimaes, also known as mitmaqkunas.

In Kichwa language, Mitmaq means “to scatter”. Tupaq Yupanqui exiled entire nations and replaced them by loyal population. Thus, it is believed that he brought mitmaqkunas (the Kichwa name for banished people) from Bolivia to Saraguro. The clothing of Saraguro people is totally different from the rest of Andean indians, but is very similar to the Paquizhapas, indigenous people from the Bolivian zone of Urdaneta.

With this abstract about the Inka presence in Ecuador in mind, we decided to take advantage of a long weekend and go for our own Qhapaq Ñan (Royal road) and headed towards the Ingapirca (The Inka wall) archaeologic al complex located in the province of Cañar.

DÍA 1: Province of Loja. The Mitmaqkunas –Part 1-

We started the journey having the city of Saraguro as our first port. As I mentioned before, Saraguro people are mitmaqkunas, foreigners that came from the furthest corners of the empire; obsequent subjects of the Inka, that were settled in the region they were named after, to disarticulate any signs of resistance.

The Saraguros are the one and only ethnic group in the whole province of Loja that survived the Spanish colonization. This people that live on cultivating corn, raising cattle, weaving wool on ancient looms and crafting the finest costume jewelry in beads or silver, have for five centuries maintained their own language, their uses, their cosmogony , their way of dressing.

Syncretism was tried more than once by local authorities –who curiously were White, a tiny minority living amidst an indian population- resulting always into a hybrid that rather contributed to mark the divergences instead of bridging the differences, as in the case of the Catholic church beside a construction with “inka” pretenses.

Until recent date, all Saraguros spoke Kichwa fairly well. Both, females and males wore long, single braids and proudly kept the one that was their most distinctive characteristic: both men and women dressed fully in black, home-spun home-woven wool poncho and knee-length pants for him, an accordion pleated skirt and a thick wool shawl held to the front by a humongous silver-made pin named “Tupo” for her.

And it is precisely in this particular issue where I noticed that an era is coming to an end: young Saraguros still wear long hair even though the braid has evolved to a tied tail and they still dress in black all right, but their clothes are no longer loom made out of home-woven wool from their sheep or llamas: nowadays, Saraguro adolescents, boys and girls, dress in tight jeans and Tee-shirts sporting emblems of their favorite rock groups, just like any urban tribe.

The indo american stronghold that survived the empire, the conquest and colonization, was susceptible to globalización. It’s adolescents, like modern mitmaqkunas, ride the new century being now faithful followers of the edictal orderly fashion of their idols: the darkies or the heavies.

DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
~Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"

A memory is fragments of past experiences, bits of the experience stored in several different parts of the brain, linked to one another by means of encoded neural connections, I learned in college.

Fragments of the past, I said, because rather than stored “video clips”, memories are like jigsaw puzzles. We do not remember a day, but a moment. Exactly what you encode to be stored is not completely understood, but I imagine it is only things of (subjective) significance. In an attempt to overcome this lack of continuity, as well as to overcome time and space, we build paper memories… and so was the case when daddy and I met.

Dad, so handsome the nurses called him "The doll"


Dad, Surgical Clinic Contest, Luis Vernaza General Hospital

Dad, giving a surgical solution to a congenital hip dysplasia of a babyboy

He was 30; a handsome, well reputed, charismatic director of the hospital in a mining town. I had just born after a long yearning for fatherhood. He was instantly spellbound by adoration.

Dad and I (4 days old)

The snapshots made in those years, late 1950’s, show him holding me, looking at me, helping me, a true passion I must say.

Dad and I (8 days old, the day of my baptism)


Dad and I (3 months old)


Dad and I (six months old)


Dad and I (8 months old)

As it often happens in life, the infatuation must have been mutual. There are no images of me saying my first word, but the happening was recorded on a gold bracelet that dad ordered to commemorate such milestone, particularly because the very first word I uttered was his nickname: PEPE. He was very proud of having bestowed his last name on me; the other charm of the bracelet had my initials engraved. Also, as a birthday present on year two, he ordered 7 tiny gold rings, linked by two hearts, the first one had the initials of my given names engraved on it, the second one sported the initials of his/my last name as an epigraph.

The bracelet and tiny rings, next to my wedding ring, so that the size can be compared

Although paper photos have fixed the shadows of my early infancy, and gold baby jewelry has been a remembrance of father/daughter love for 50 years, there are some other recollections that remain engraved in my heart, written under the forge of a love I find no words to express.

I remember you, dad, making the daily intake of vitamins an act of pure joy. While my cousins would have a spoonful of the disgusting cod liver oil, you had tiny chocolate-flavoured vitamin bricks brought from abroad, that you kept in a golden tin box as a treasure, of which you gave us one piece a day.

You often brought fun with you, like the most scrumptious cheese-flavoured cheetos, something unknown in our little town of Loja. Or eccentricities such us the silent movies of The Circus, Cinderella, Mickey Mouse, Popeye and Donald Duck that we’d watch on the panoramic screen of the living room wall. They came with the Kodak home theatre projector you had brought from USA. Since then, I ought to have popcorn when watching a movie.

I have vivid memories of your slightly crazy way to make ordinary things seem a marvelous adventure, totally ruled by chance. Mango fruits were safer then, in the sense that farmers did not use chemicals to increase the production; this brought along the fact that at times, mango fruits could have harbored a couple of “residents”. So after you had brought home a bag of mangos, you’d peel the one I had chosen, and then say “let’s turn off the light so that we enjoy the flavour”. I don’t know how many worms I ate, but I have always loved mangos, ever since my early childhood. You also brought those splendid seedless oranges, the “Santa Rosa” oranges that sported a “belly button” from where you’d start peeling them. You never turned off the lights when we had those, I imagine the chances of unwanted hosts in them were slim.

No journey would start without a round of love. As soon as I had gotten up, I’d rush to your bedroom, where you’d be smoking (yes, a nasty habit, I know, but in those days it was not considered so bad). I’d have my milk bottle while you bemused me by blowing smoke rings that kept my sight caught as they ascended higher and higher until they vanished into thin air. Then, you’d read me the comics on the newspaper. “Pochita Morfoni” and “Fulmine” were your favorites and became mine as well, of course. Then, when you were ready to go to work, you and I would kiss on each and every single space left by the balusters of the staircase.

My sister and I in dad's bed, early in the morning


Dad with my sister and I, in a rocking chair, before bedtime

You were so encouraging: none of my whims was too ridiculous for you not to oblige, no choice of mine was too wild for you to undertake. I remember you driving, with me often standing to your side, my arms wrapped around your neck, and leaning in to whisper –read "to command"- into your ear which turn to make when we reached an intersection. Good thing all streets were two way roads and there were not too many cars in Loja in those days.

I never got the chance to tell you about these memories, as you departed one day, rather unexpectedly, due to that absurd accident that left me eternally waiting for your return home to hear you say “I am back, Miss Moon; see? I told you it wouldn’t take long”. These sweet memories have haunted me for good 48 years. But you know what? father’s day is just around the corner, so I wanted to tell you, wherever you are besides than in my heart, that the strong and self sufficient woman that I became feels so proud and fortunate to have been, for 3 years and 10 months, daddy’s little girl.

To you, dad, goes my everlasting adoration.

Dad and I, August 1958

NOT A MEMORY BUT A HELPING HAND

Allright, this is not a memory. So what, its a literary license any blog's author is entitled to; it is motivated by the desire of helping my son who -from his posts, videos and images- seems to be having a tough time trying to understand and being understood by vietnameses during his stay in that exotic country.

So sonny, here is a little lesson on vietnamese's "survival" expressions, gathered to you by a worried mother at exactly the other side of the world. Make sure you read them aloud to the landlady or her son, and you shall see how well you'll do. Everybody will admire how fluent you have become in vietnamese in just a couple of weeks.

So here we go. Ready?

That's not right = Sum Ting Wong
Are you harboring a fugitive? = Hu Yu Hai Ding
See me ASAP = Kum Hia Nao
Stupid Man = Dum Fuk
Small Horse = Tai Ni Po Ni
Did you go to the beach? = Wai Yu So Tan
I bumped into a coffee table = Ai Bang Mai Fu Kin Ni
I think you need a face lift = Chin Tu Fat
It's very dark in here = Wai So Dim
I thought you were on a diet = Wai Yu Mun Ching
This is a tow away zone = No Pah King
Our meeting is scheduled for next week = Wai Yu Kum Nao
Staying out of sight = Lei Ying Lo
He's cleaning his automobile = Wa Shing Ka
Your body odor is offensive = Yu Stin Ki Pu
Great = Fa Kin Su Pa
There is no reason to raise your voice = Wai U Shao Ting

BACK HOME EVENTUALLY, or the misadventures of being gone for so long

I arrived home after having been gone for most part of this year. Home is the new house to which the husband had to move (along with all our belongings gathered in 29 years of marriage), while I was away, and to which I arrived after my first trip to USA and stayed for a few days until it was time for me to return and tend to my sister while she received radio and chemo therapies in the States.

During the first stay, I added some of my favorites: plants and flowers. The new house is a 2700 square feet construction placed in a 10.800 square feet lot, so I have lusted for a rustic garden and lots of plants and flowers inside the house; I did take the first steps towards "nature all over the place" until I had to leave again for USA.

On returning, I faced reality: not all men are made to maintain gardens and plants. Inside the house, all plants were dead! The husband had forgotten to water them.

Well, all plants but the one in the bathroom. I realized later on it was a miracle that plant was still alive, when I found out about the watering method: now and then he would pull that plant under the warm water while he was taking his morning shower!

The outside garden was... exhuberant, to say the least. The grass was totally grown, and it had devoured the flowers. One thing towered over the overgrown grass though, a new element that had been added to my garden: a phalic monument!

The husband is fond of archeology and in one of his trips he found this ancient sun clock, which he had brought home. I admit it is a very nice piece, but I felt it was a must to tell him that the garden needed to be planned and not to have "pieces" added by whim, he said: oh no worries, I shall hire a garden designer for you. I shall post a picture of the garden once it is done, but for some odd reason I reckon it shall take a while as he is in charge of finding the designer.

In the meanwhile, all I was able to do was to run to the market and buy a few ornamental plants and plenty of flowers for inside the house.

~ August 28, 2007 ~

AT THE MINES

Trip back home. Day 2

We arrived to Portovelo, an old mining town in which four different foreign companies (from England, France and the United States of America) settled since colonial times, to do mining works in a land that was thought to possibly be the conquerer’s longed “El Dorado”.

Quechua name for Portovelo is Curipamba, literally translated as “The Land of Gold”. The mining for the native inhabitants, the Inca Empire included, was Curipamba’s reason of existence. The legend tells of the Overlord Quinara coming to Curipamba himself to be supplied of gold to pay for the rescue of the last Inca, Atahualpa, who had been made prisoner in Cajamarca by the Spaniards. The Inca was murdered before Quinara’s cargo arrived, and as the news of the assassination of the monarch spread over the empire, Quinara buried the treasure (along with the Indians that were carrying it, go figure) in a valley, but that is another story I shall relate sometime soon, as the treasure touches my family in some strange way.

In 1896, the South American Development Company (SADCO), from the USA, exploited the mines of Portovelo, rebuilt the village and obtained excellent profits from the mines that were believed to be among the biggest in south America. “The Company” as it was called by the locals, not only that made sure their officials (Americans, of course) had all the comforts that home (the distant country, USA) could provide: they had foodmarts and school for their kids, but also made sure to have a hospital located on top of the hill, where two physicians and nurses were hired to treat the illnesses or accidents they could suffer. Coincidentially, when my father and mother graduated with honours from medical school, they were offered the job at “Curipamba Hospital” as Surgeon and Gynaecologist. And even if I was born in Guayaquil, I lived in Portovelo, with my parents, during the first 24 months of my life.

All splendour of Portovelo ended when the Company left town. Only the celebration of the 4th of July –the only place in Ecuador where this day is celebrated- and a few houses that are different indeed from the local architecture but similar to America’s homes of mid 20th century are the remains of the times when Americans and Ecuadorians had a place in common.




I sought the hospital and my parent’s house that were located one next to the other, with the directions mother had provided before I started the trip back home. I found the ruins of both places. On walking inside the abandoned hospital, I could almost hear the voice of my father comforting any and all of his patients.




I could not enter the ruins of what was our home, mainly because they were inhospitable, with grown vegetation, and I was not prepared for snakes or bugs. I did pictures though (above, the operating room and the ruins of my first home) remembering what mother told me: that was the place where you danced to music before you even started walking.

We also visited the old mines, the ancient Inca stone grinders and enjoyed a wonderful landscape.




Even if the roads were not at all like American freeways to which I was used due to my job as sister’s driver in the past months, they did have lots of beauty to offer. I returned home with a singing heart.


~ August 24, 2007 ~

STANDING ON THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN

Returning Home. Day 1

Perched on a hilltop, and thus sporting great scenic views, Zaruma city seems to be one of the very few remainings of what was the colonial type of construction in Latin America.

Founded in 1560, it is full of steep, twisting streets, with sidewalks wide enough for one person to walk alone. Other sidewalks are just the wooden entries of old houses.

The center of the town has wonderful painted wooden buildings.

And towering over central park, one of the loveliest wooden churches; my interest in it was due to family history: Mother in law had leaded the fundraising team to construct the bell tower, during early 20th century.

Zaruma was declared by UNESCO a cultural patrimony. If you visit Ecuador, coming to Zaruma is a must.

~ August 23, 2007 ~