In a week in which the world remembers the great Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa, who passed away in Lima last Sunday, I would like to pay tribute to another, lesser known Peruvian poet and writer, José María Arguedas (1911-69).
Arguedas wrote mostly in the Quechua language which he learnt as a child. Very little of his work is available in English. For this post I have attempted a clumsy translation of his poem Gabicha, originally written in Quechua. You can find the original Quechua and Spanish versions at the end of this article.The photographs are my own, except for this video, by Eleanora Jaroszynska, of Peruvian girls in traditional dress, playing football in a mountain village, one of whom might just be Gabicha:
Gabicha, daughter of my mother Angela,
your heart fashioned in heaven,
how many rivers cry in your eyes, little sister?
what radiant flowers?
you make the tiny hearts of doves sing aloud!
your blood throbs with the air of my people;
your blood is filled with the unspoiled beauty of the trees and cliffs of my people.
the unspoiled beauty of the trees and cliffs of my people.
Two weeks have passed since we returned from Peru. I have spent much of that time trying to catch up with the political developments of the world while I was away, cut off from it all by the sound of the rivers, flowing down from the melting glaciers. It is a rare delight in this world, to be free of the internet, and the burdens it lays on our brains and shoulders. I’m struck now by how much we in our crowded cities fear, and curse, and lament, the state of the world. Life in the mountains is hard. But you’re too busy dealing with the heat, or the cold, or the rain, or the animals, to worry about much else. In this Good Friday post, I wanted to offer you a few of the sounds, as well as the sights of the Andes.
In Peru, we fell asleep each night, lulled by the roar of the Carhuascancha river. Arguedas’ poetry reminds me of Walt Whitman sometimes; both a celebration, and a blessing.
In your life, little sister, I hear
the roaring fire of my land;
the flames reborn in your veins,
strengthening, burning them,
let it burn, little sister; free from every shadow
of pain and fear.
Lark's wing, new light
kindled by the great rivers;
In your eyes that fill the skies, the colour of Peru,
her brilliance;
Its green stones, green alaymosca,
by the purified water, beloved of the rivers.
Green of the blood of fish, of the ducks that
play in the great backwaters;
green of the unreachable trees,
colour beyond-thought, green of the air;
Eyes which the world rejoices to behold.
Look at me always!
Gather the breath of the powers
which exist in you, little sister.
Remember me always!
Living blood of all the rivers of my people.
And finally, here’s the final paragraph of Osip Mandelstam’s Journey to Armenia, simply because it fits so well here. Peru reminded me often of two other countries I love - Armenia, and Bosnia.
Sleep is light in nomad camps. The body, exhausted by space, grows warm, stretches out straight, recalls the length of the trip. The paths of the mountain ridges run like shivers along the spine. The velvet meadows burden and tickle the eyelids. Bedsores of the ravines hollow out the sides. Sleep immures you, bricks you up. Last thought: have to ride around some ridge…
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