(Day 24) – Eureka! Or, “Servants!”

If you've taken a class in World History in the last couple centuries, you've probably heard a mantra something like this: "White people are bad. They've often made darker people do their work." It is hard to disprove this, I think. We were offered so many examples, from Africa to Australia, of the imperialistic imposition of a pale rule. This relatively new-found collective consciousness on the behalf of Europeans makes the employ of natives a dicey subject. That same little voice that shakes its head at slavery can't help but pipe up when a labor-force is decidedly monochrome. That was how Thursday bumbled in the door.

Dr. Rick, as if you hadn't already guessed, hired workers to "help out" at the site. By the time we stumbled under the roof, bleary-eyed, these bantam men of Chavín were already sitting on the old rock wall, examining us with rheumy eyes. Stephanie and Rosa seemed to know what to ask, and soon the workers were sifting, sorting, carrying, digging, moving, and dumping. Some carried out special tasks, but every unit was assigned at least one, to help as we saw fit. And oh, how our insides squirmed at the thought of such help.

Our helper was named Javier, and as we dug, he would appear and disappear like a phantom, taking buckets with him almost invisibly. Large rocks would move, as if by themselves, and we were freed entirely from the busy-work of sifting through our backdirt. We were free to lounge in our units and poke the ground and yell excitedly when something bellied up through the dirt. Periodically, Javier would appear at our shoulder, and before he whisked away our buckets, would solemnly offer his latest find -- an obsidian arrrowhead, a bone tool, painted pottery. He left only after we had bagged the artifact and laid it to rest with our initials on it in gleaming ballpoint. Squirm, squirm, squirm.

*

We did have lighter thoughts: the unit across from us, for example, was captained by Juliet, the quasi-cheerleader, and Marcela, the tomboy Peruvian born in Brooklyn. Between Juliet's Valley-Girl exclamations and Marcela's sharp wit, served in her smoker's voice, we had a show to last all day. Their helper, Sossimo, spoke Quechua or Spanish, whichever one you didn't, and liked, I think, to impress Juliet with his pick skills. Paco, an elderly visiting conservation expert, worked with Sossimo, and smelled rather distinctly of too-old burritos. Beth and I commented on all of this in hushed English whispers, smothering laughter as we dug.

*

In the afternoon, John asked us to abandon I26-NW in favor of adjacent, untilled terrain. In short order, we shaved and scraped I26-NE, I27NE, and I27-SE. More roots, more clods, more of Javier, doing our work for us. It was a well-oiled machine, and soon we hit the same level in all of our open units -- a hard floor called a "capa" that signaled some event compressed the earth. Or not.

Rosa went on vacation, starting this afternoon, so the air under the roof flowed much easier. Chatter was louder, laughter stronger, and Beth and I took to calling Stephanie on our walkie-talkie (issued because of our distance) in different pet names: "mama bear, Captain Courageous, Señorita Sexí"... all very classy, you understand. Eventually, she came up and sat down in our unit, and we dug together, looking like nothing so much as kindergartners who'd gotten away with extending recess.

*

At dinner, my appetite reached a new high. Though, apparently, the altitude can make some individuals (see: Rob Ryan) hungrier than usual, I had never asked for more than seconds. This wonderful Thursday, I went for thirds of ahí de gallina, tempted by the chicken shreds and their chipotle sauce. We finished off our palates with a field trip to our new favorite pastelería, and placed an order for more sweet alfahores. She had just ran out, and practically stumbled as she ran into the back to make more. Squirm, squirm, squirm.