At dinner the previous night, the refrain had been sounded again: The INC has not approved our proposal; we are trying what we can; we remain optimistic… and so on, and so on. Our mad dash to hide all of our material at the site proved incredibly successful – the lab lay barren of things to do. Forbidden from digging, and barred from analyzing, we had very little to do, other than twiddle our thumbs. Dr. Rick made a last ditch effort to salvage some productivity after Wednesday’s dinner, asking that we help out the conservation workers at the site in any way we can.
Okay. Plausible. Conservation sounds tough – like “how do we stop the site from falling into the river?” or, perhaps, “can we re-support the galleries?” We’d certainly seen the workers at it; they performed heroic buttressing, fortification, and re-building around the site, staving off thousands of years of decay. We anticipated methodologies, tools, and well-reasoned strategies. What we did not anticipate was a proffered set of dusty paintbrushes.
I mentioned a lovely sleep: indeed, we slept an extra hour, untroubled by our impending lack of work. Talk over our morning eggs was light and easy, the banter of people about to go on vacation. Dr. Rick rather gamely clutched at the table and stood, clearing his throat slightly as the conversation subsided. “Right,” he said, looking as though he was bracing for something, “we’ve gotten word from Cristián that the permission is still tied up at the I.N.C.” He shuffled a bit. “Now, while this doesn’t really differ from what we knew last night, we do know that it will be approved as soon as the commission meets, which…” and he turned to look at Cesar, “should be today, if not tomorrow. That probably means,” he said, running a quick finger-count, “that we definitely won’t be digging by Sunday, but it’s definitely possible the beginning of next week, and I wouldn’t at all be surprised to see picks in the ground on Wednesday. That said,” he continued, “we do ask that the group members help out where they can today, especially with conservation, as I mentioned last night. And,” he said, looking pensive, “seeing as that’s really a one-day thing, we’re going to give you Friday completely off.”
As he turned to repeat the lot in Spanish, Robert and I made eye contact. This was an escape hatch from lithics. Careful observation of the crews that came in from helping conservation crews yesterday had shown a small dirt-to-smile ratio, a sure sign of a desirable job. When Dr. Rick turned again, this time brandishing English, we were among the first hands go up, volunteering ourselves for a day outdoors (finally!).
It had been over a week since we walked to the site. Honestly, I forgot that you can get out of breath if you do the thing at a good clip – it’s a bit of a hill. The Peruvian students were old hands at conservation; they’d discovered it the day before, so we followed them around the back of Building A. After rounding the corner, they jumped down into a small gulley and sat, chatting contentedly in Spanish. Nervously, we followed suit, sitting and laying on rocks in the morning sun. The workers were nowhere to be seen.
We began a game of Contact – that ultimate time-waster – and were soon happily counting, shouting clues, and booing poor answers. I can only imagine what it would’ve sounded like in a foreign language; we certainly got a few askance looks from the puzzled Peruvians. After a good half-hour we were going strong; I’d gotten most of the way through “F-R-I-A-R,” with a confused Robert yelling at me – “There is no goddamn word… in the English language… that starts F-R-I-A! I know you picked some ridiculous word… like ‘stygian!’ Goddamnit I hate you!” Et cetera.
In his defense, I did once play “stygian,” and that’s a hard one to guess (let alone remember). In my defense, however, “friar” is a rather simple word. Eventually, as he ran through the alphabet, his face cleared, and he guessed it. Veni, vidi, vici, as it were.
The workers were announced by their wheelbarrow, which squeaked ominously from around the corner. Without speaking, they stopped the rusted barrow by the corner of the building, and erected a ladder to the top. One worker, in a hard-hat and white smock, yelled something to the Peruvian students, who nodded and headed for a set of buckets hidden in clumps in the gulley. We sat up from our naps and games, and watched, carefully. The worker turned, without waiting, or saying anything in English, and walked back up the slope to the wheelbarrow, where he began scooping small balls of mortar from its gullet and tossing them to the man on the ladder.
Caro was among the Peruvian students, and is blessedly bilingual, so we asked her what to do. With a smile, she told us we were to clean off the excess mortar. With cepillos – brushes. She held in her hand a small bathroom brush, the sort with hard bristles that make great suds. To demonstrate, she scratched at the stone half-heartedly. A small cloud of dust was liberated, and hung happily in the morning light.
Perhaps I have been lacking in my description of Chavín. The monument is measured on the scale of a thousand meters – which something like 5/8 of a mile to a side. The stones that comprise the buildings have moved something like five inches over the two thousand years they have stood, largely because the average stone is the approximate size and shape of a large pick-up truck. The mortar that seals the ancient bastion in thicker than a human hand, and the impassable face is chinked so meticulously that the indoor galleries are near-waterproof. This is all to say that ten or so Americans, dabbling as its skin with paintbrushes, had about as much a chance removing mortar as the fart of a passing fly.
“I mean,” Caro said, shrugging, “I think it’s because yesterday they added a bunch of mortar, and we’re supposed to clean off the excess.” She went back to brushing aimlessly, turning again to the Peruvian students in time to catch a joke. We looked at each other, then at the brushes. “Really?” we’re thinking – “is this a pull-one-on-the-gringos chore?”
It certainly didn’t take much effort, so we were soon brushing away, firing clues back and forth in a great game of Contact. In large part, we had no effect on the stone – for the most part we were just dusting the toes of the giant. The picture below is a perfect characterization, both of Juliet (the capricious Palo Alto high-school girl) and the extent of our important work.
When the Peruvian students suddenly sat down, we looked around nervously, checking to see if some milestone had been achieved. Nope: still the same monoliths, although arguably dustier. The mortar was still a dark, grainy band, solidly sandwiching each level, and no worker had popped his head ‘round the corner to declare a siesta.
Well, weren’t going to pass up a perfectly good opportunity to do nothing… so we sat too, with an eye peeled for any marauding supervisors. (As an aside, the director of the INC actually was on the grounds at that point, though we would have no idea until lunch.) We had a few more choice rounds of contact, though we made the wonderful mistake of giving over control to Juliet. This soon led to her calling out semi-words in a vain attempt to keep us from guessing her secret word – a screech that was often like, “no it’s not ‘ceredellium’!” or, “no, it’s not ‘ducky tape’!”
Eventually, as the clock neared noon, we started eyeing the road to lunch. With no one to stop us, we left our (oh-so-effective) brushes, and trooped off around the mounds. As we climbed the first hill, Juliet cried out and fell to the ground, clutching at her ankle. As she gingerly rolled her pant-leg up, it was clear that a cactus spine was deeply lodged in her leg.
I told her it wasn’t in far, and grasped it tightly between thumb and forefinger, ready to pull. For her benefit, I counted it down – “Ready? One… two…” and on two, I jerked, viciously, hoping to pull it out before she tensed. The spine twirled in my finger, and came out most of the way, leaving only the tip in a small red globe of blood.
Everyone, including Juliet, laughed; it was pretty obvious I’d failed to pull off the old doctor’s trick. Robert and Beth were both in stitches, and Robert couldn’t resist – “Dude, you totally blew that one – it wasn’t even that far in.” Mindless of her leg, Juliet, too, was laughing at the failed plot. Scowling darkly, I jerked the spine out the last few millimeters, ending her laugh and giving myself some small satisfaction.
The work of the conservator is never done. Thus, we trooped back out to the field for the sequel to our gloriously productive version, most of us well-equipped with iPods. To our extreme shock, the workers took notice of us as we came in, and moved our operation some twenty meters down the wall, to a new section of as-yet un-caressed stone. Dutifully, we dusted away, keeping up the same game to while away the hours.
I confess our ulterior motive: John was going to give a lecture in Spanish about the Chavín chronology (one we’d already… enjoyed… at Stanford) at four in the afternoon. Though we had no intention of attending the talk with the Peruvians – once was quite enough – we would help them find their way home at 3:30, or whenever they were going to head out. Imagine our shock, then, when, after a good six hours of practiced ignorance, a gravy train of workers appeared from the west, pulling back at heavy wheelbarrows full of gray, gloopy sludge.
I can’t ever remember professing an interest in how buildings used to be made. If you can’t, either, here is the basic formula: 1) Lay a large stone; 2) Smear some gloopy mortar on it; 3) Rinse and repeat. That formula works well for building, and even better for conservation. In rapid-fire, indecipherable Spanish, the workers managed to communication how much it would mean to them if we joined them in the impossible quest to re-mortar Chavín.
It seemed, at first, to make sense – like re-gluing a broken mask, or something. However, there is something about catching a tossed glob of mortar, which has the consistency and texture of horse poo, and having it splatter all over your face, that makes you wish you were somewhere else. Even more fun is the application – basically just throwing it really hard at an old bit of a wall, and hoping you hit a stick bit, or a hole. Turns out, they are equally unlikely. We were far more likely to re-shower ourself in the fermented mixture of ancient clay and cactus glue. Pleasant.
At three, there was a surge in the Force. Caro and her crew were popping off their gloves and tossing their brushes and mortar down. “Caro,” I asked, as they filed past, “isn’t your talk at four?” Caro smiled mischievously over her shoulder at the other Peruvians. “Well,” she said, rolling the ‘l’ in an Ecuadorian trill, “we have to take showers, and get ready… you know… we should really get going…” I made my upset face, and we watched, blinking at flung mortar, as they slipped away two hours early.
Because Friday is to be a free day, that made Thursday an honorary weekend night. In celebration of the calendar’s sudden reversal, we all went to Renato’s Café that night, heavy with good food. Renato brought out case after case of Festivál beer as the party raged in the main square, punctuated by the popping and snapping of a thousand fireworks. Soon, we were heavily embroiled in Peruvian drinking games, which are a sight stranger that American games. For a start, they nearly always involved a die, and a strict set of counting rules. Two glasses orbited, and now and again, Spanish calls would shake the dining room – “Sirvele!” – serve them more!
Ricardo, one of the Spanish students, took in more alcohol than I have ever seen a human take standing. A good three bottles of beer were gone on his account, and that was before we started into the vodka. As Robert and I watched, sober, Ricardo took six shots of vodka at a time from a tall glass, chased by a swig of beer. The bantam, five-five latino swore heavily after each blow, and I stayed in the room only because I had never seen anyone projectile-vomit in public (and I had my camera ready). Three times he repeated his feat, before he waved the bottle off, weakly. In all honesty, I thought he was going to die, but my awkward inquiries in Spanish were rebuffed by the Peruvians, who offered only confused looks, and reassurances that Ricardo had been through much worse. If so, someone from Guinness Records should hop the next flight to Lima, and get this on video; it just can’t be real.
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