From the empty lobby of La Confradia’s cafe, only unhindered glass separates me from the patrons in the plaza hastily awaiting deliverance on bus line 17, framing arándano domes of the cathedral so central to Cuencan identity it might as well be considered the cornerstone of the city. “Be careful,” whispered a voice in the doorway, calling light to the gentle unease that perforated being present in public spaces alone over the most recent few years. With a sigh I turned to the hurried streets, knowing full well that my laptop and other valuable items were visible behind the drape - that solidity was only an illusion, and that at any moment - the extranjero in the dollhouse could be contained within the site of contention.
Conceived of jewels and tears, the cathedral grew and grew from the pennies of partitioners until one evening a crack shuttered down the spine. Not enough devotion, decried the pastor, and so with empty pockets and a defaced monastery - the people of the city settled their grievances. “It’s a bit stumpy,” Jessica replied, “like - I can’t unsee it now that I know it’s only half built.” And it’s true, that with AI visions of unconstructed walls of stone, a sudden hollowness was rendered from the outside in. “Well maybe it’s the lack of completion that makes it unique,” replied Marcos, and each party settled differently, gazing upon the same unkempt spires through colored glass.
A garden blooms out from within the Kichwa market stalls, through walls of roses that starkly contrast the endless greenhouses now scattered in perfect formation in the foothills of Cotocachi. Infused herbal remedies, the aguas de pimitas, promise offers of prosperity and new growth, rooting ancient traditions in sharp juxtaposition to the busy gasoline husked cobblestones of the center built over caverns of the old city. The Plaza de las Flores thrives in the shadow of the cross etched into the petals at noon.
For the regal procession of the King of Spain, who hosts a yearly pan-American summit as some olive branch to peace in remembrance of colonization, the streets received a new million dollar coat of paint. Military servicemen of many different stripes littered the entrances of hotel lobbies rather erratically, and truck load by truck load poured into the bleeding heart of the historic center. With this flood of security, I couldn’t help but think, while standing on the boulder at the center of the now defunct river, about the desperate need for satiation; about the electricity shortages impending at the end to this international performance, about the song filled nights played out by performers hired from the countryside to sing for empty courtyards, about the last sliver of light at the peak of the bell tower visible before the sun goes down, immersing the valley in darkness; the way the rest of the country sees the night sky. From here spilled so much beauty through the wrought iron lanterns; a living mirage, a ploy to upend global sedition.
Built upon four intersecting rivers, the Cañari civilization settled what they referred to as Gaupondelig, or the “land as big as heaven.” These waters bridge the highlands to the Amazonian lowlands and flow out towards the ocean in an enteral precipatory exchange, a life giving sangre that connects the clouds to the tierra. Many, in olden times, would describe Cuenca as guarded by rivers, perhaps to the strength of the civilization barely conquered by the Inca only years before their collapse. Protectors of a landscape that in turn protected them - an identity and sanctity that subsisted through the passage of time.
When they destroyed the mountains, they left the animals with nothing to swallow - spoke a man in a video watching fleeing deer graze in the Primax parking lot. It’s Cajas, they told me, despite visions of the deepest blue reflected in the lake in the sky only a mere week ago. When traveling, I sometimes ponder when, if ever, I’ll embody that place again. Geography strung between lifetimes and remembrances, held in the palm lines of the volcanic veins running through this sierra. Seldom does that infinity untether so quickly and so quietly, relocated from a place I was to a place I will not be again. Smoke in the valley to the west, fog in the valley to the east; impartiality unending.
With my grainy fingers, I caress the soft heads of the tussock grass, those same strands which weave the baskets I use to contain my earthly treasures. My apartment is filled with odd remnants of this place; carved pieces of wood, ceramic bowls, knitted textiles. Each tells the material story of a landscape that otherwise goes unnoticed. I’m looking for a home in this land of sleeping giants, trying to find prosperity in the unsung voices of the earth beneath my feet. For now, they elude me, although with a proximate closeness, I come one stone closer to understanding how to listen for a language I don’t yet speak. Somehow these snakes with wings feel less stranger, coils unto the Turi slopes.
The roses in my living room are dying even though I retrieved their bodies dead. I dry them in the foyer, with the realization that Andean roses are just roses, but grown in the Andes. Through their limp corpses swaddled now like a baby, they tell me things don’t truly die here - with the promise that one day I’ll exhume their lustful scent.