Sitting in the front of the van next to Americo
conversing in that strange blend of gesture,
aroma, touch, sound, actual English—Spanish
words constituting our particular relationship.

The road extends dusty, rocky— a vague tan color.
On either side— vertical drops in unbelievable
canyons. We passed the last town— narrow streets,
stout matrons receding in full gold sheaths

Of late afternoon. The van jiggles its way across
a slightly wooded area. Eucalyptus trees planted
by Americo’s family, friends are fast, make good fires
on cold Andean nights. Suddenly, the road in front—

Electrified by the lightning fast passage of a small
jungle cat.The driver applies a gentle pressure to
brakes. A cat crosses the path from right to left—
first across Americo’s field of vision, then mine.

A second or two elapses before we can articulate.
Americo’s eyes glimmer like illuminated amber.
“An ocelot!” I cry in disbelief. Of all places to see
a jungle cat— not yet on the road to the Amazon,

And we see an ocelot. Leaning back in reverie, on the
way to Salka Wasai— the Wild House. The road is rocky—
its curves extreme. Conditions bad. Yet, we have been
invested with the spirit of the ocelot, a creature of the

Wild, hunter of the night, one who slinks and skulks next
to Pachamama on incredibly light cat feet.
We are placed under the guidance of one who
plucks creatures out of air for sustenance.

Traveling this road in a blue van driven by Alberto,
we are surrounded and embodied with this meowing,
purring, snarling, furry, frantic, silky feline essence.
The road is ours yet— not just ours. The way to Salka Wasai

Is the way of the hunter— we need guidance of the beast.
When we arrive, these divisions cease to matter.
The van stops in the cool evening, surrounded by a dozen
copper-skinned children and young men.

Our feet make contact with the graveled path, with
Pachamama. They seem heavier here than when
we were on the van—on the road, propelled ever
so lightly by the van’s incessant vibrations.

Nonetheless, within my body, the ocelot dwells.
I breathe visibly, noticing texture in hills related—
undoubtedly, to the curves of North American sisters.
My skill responds under my fleece jacket to the mountain air.

In a nearby canyon, hawks, eagles soar, immense prey for a
soul just such as mine. The road extends past an old church
where Americo’s ancestors are buried. My heart leaps,
sensing its nomadic tracker self.

I carry no suitcases— traveling light.
Needing something in House of the Wild, entering dwelling
with its uneven floors, I view casual meditation gardens,
its glass cabinets, are full of band aids and unused antibiotics.

We were told the meeting with the women shamans
would be at 7. Now it was 8. Raoul moved the table.
He and Americo placed new weavings on the floor.

Then we made places for the two women shamans and
Americo, put three pillows on the ground.
The women placed llama skins around for us to sit on.

We all waited a long time for the appearance of female
shamans—the first time in the Andes, certainly the
first time in Salka Wasi.

Two tiny women, one slightly more plump than the other,
came. Having had the pan of incense lit, they purified
each of us—first our backs, then our fronts.

Their energy was so sweet—tiny bare feet.
They took off rubber tire shoes—placing them in
the back corner at the entry to the back of the house.

The women took their places under the windows—
Maria left and Dona Felicitas right, center next
to Americo. They spread out the manta—

In front of them both. Dona Felicitas did
a coca leaf divination. She said that someone
in the group had a headache caused by winds.

But it had gone away. Otherwise, everyone was
light—the group was fully aligned. By candlelight,
we viewed the faces of our female shamans.

Their hats taken off, their hair smoothed down,
and their ruffled skirts adjusted. Their feet and
spindly legs were impeccably clean. In fact,

Everything about them seemed immaculate.
Dona Felicitas began creating the despacho,
spreading out a piece of folded white paper.

First, she put in sugar, then candy, wild seeds,
herbs, three spoons full of pisco, and the fat
of alpaca for the animal spirits.

Then each of us were welcomed to choose
two coca leaves and placed them
in the despacho stem side up

For Pacha Mama. We were told to place in
coins. I placed an acorn, Freyja, a piece of
handmade flower paper, Nimūe put in

Buffalo hair, beans from her garden, and
blue corn. Sage put in sage! When Nimūe
placed the buffalo hair, Dona Felicitas joked

About the hair of husbands. I took out some
of Geoff’s to offer. Dona Felicitas wrapped
the despacho in the uncuña. She blew on it

With a great sweetness, then instructed each
of us to blow on them three times from the
soul (the alma). She placed it on the manta

And explained it would go to the fire. In front
of Dona Maria was a wheat cross,
decorated with green ferns. The ritual was

In three parts: the coca leaf reading, despacho
and the breaking of filaments of whatever heavy
energy, we carry that keeps up our filaments

To the stars. Freyja was asked to stand up,
and place her feet across two side bars of
the cross. White wool thread symbolized

Filaments of heavy energy. They tied her
left foot, then her right and wrapped her
body counter-clockwise all the way to her

Neck, sweeping as she went along. Beginning
at the right shoulder, she broke the wool and
swept off items in four locations as she

Went along. The whole while, there was a
Whispering of prayers. Those who were barefoot
had their big toes tied. All the way through,

Participants were given pisco and invited to
joke or talk. Dona Felicitas presented us each
with quartz crystals that had been worked with

By shamans who had come and gone to be
charged by their energy. These crystals had been
next to the coca leaves in front of Dona Felicitas.

Then we gave gifts—Freyja offered them each
A piece of paper for the despacho. Serpentine
stones were bestowed by Freyja, Geoff, and Patria.

Meg supplied stones from San Bruno and
Sage presented stones from Mt. Diablo.
Freyja spoke of how one day all the filaments in

the world would be cleansed, but work at
hand was the cleansing and the filaments
Between men and women.

It was an easier light, full of dazzling white, yellow, and
orange butterflies. At the Rio, we saw three eagles—
different from the ones in the garden. One was being

Pestered by fish. Americo had seen another eagle yesterday
hassled by smaller birds. After a meal of chard soup,
curried potatoes and noodles, we took solar showers.

The fiesta in the courtyard was a profoundly mixed
experience. We had been instructed to prepare gifts
Americo was to give out. Instead after the music

Of a flute, a drum, and an accordion in which Geoff
improvised with the didgeridoo. Then we had to
distribute the gifts—some drawings and crayons.

The community strongly divided along the lives
of men and boys on one side and mothers, babies,
and girls on the other. We were to hand out

The clothes, etc. to the mothers only. Finally, we were
told to give some things to the line of men and boys
who clearly resented the preferential treatment given

To their mothers. I had a hard time feeling good about
distributing pencils, soap, nuts, and so forth. Americo
brought out a box of breads in the shape of babies,

Which nearly caused a riot. I felt terrible—the hunger
was so vivid in the eyes of the children. I bought
a poncho from a woman with a most beautiful child.

That morning, we saw doves, goldfinches, eagles,
hummingbirds, falcons, and pigeons. After breakfast,
we discussed how Americo was part of the idiot court

Of Salvador Dali. We walked a long time, down very
steep crevices in Rio Machaupacha, fed by the glacier
from Ausangate. Last night, Maria and Donà told us, “Be

Aware of very old beings on trails we planned to walk the
next day.” If we met them, we were instructed to not greet
them. Pachamama might bring honey—making us fall

Down. It actually happened on the way down from Pisac.
Hence, we did not stay long enough for me to fully
receive the blessings of the House of the Female Spirits

At the Hitching Post of the Sun. Then I fell down on
my tailbone close to the end of the trail. Nonetheless,
everything was very good yesterday—nor did I fall

On the way to the Rio. I held Fernando’s hand and
walked with my feet sideways, each step digging
into Pachamama with my toes pointed towards

The hillside—not the precipice. At the river, we were
instructed to find a stone to meditate with, to cleanse
the area of the dolor of the angels or open up the three

Andean chakras and listen for a message from Ausangate.
A mauve stone attracted me to a light
grey stone facing down river. With eyes closed, I found

Myself free of internal dialogue and hooked into the
rush of the water—vivid colors all across my third eye.
Feeling like a river otter playing in the flow, I experienced

No blocks at all to the light. The sound of the river spoke
to me with words like—heal, you are a healer, feel.
Sensing the rushing and cleansing through every

Chakra and filament. Closing my eyes at one point,
in a deep vermillion, I glimpsed an eye—what had
resembled a slit or an entrance in prior meditations

There was the eye of Pachamama. Then very fast,
my consciousness began spinning in a deep, deep purple.
The river said, “Roll over.” I did.

There, viewing Ausangate. I was told, “You will
become an elder. You will see and speak for
Pachamama.”

The meditation here felt qualitatively different
from this morning under the eucalyptus trees—
we had been given the expectation to see

A falcon or a condor. Waiting for silence
did not seem to be such an exciting prospect.
I rely heavily on being able to close my eyes

To access the prismatic dimension of the third
eye. Nonetheless, I watched and waited. The
wind made noise. The river made noise.

The campesinos tilling the field were silent. The
sheep and the lambs could be heard from miles
around. At several points during the meditation,

We were passed by a heard of cows. The land
near this viewing site is prickly—full of succulent
plants and cacti. A large prickler had insisted on

Entering my leg. It was less difficult than earlier
in the day to feel like my filaments were clean.
There may have been a couple of transcendent

Moments. Yesterday, I had a realization—
I share my father’s inner ability to open to the light.
As they say, it is in the DNA. On the way back.

We walked in silence. Only then, was I filled with
The original awe I love so very much.
The clouds were pink and gold—

entire areas were suffused with divine love.
I exclaimed to Sage, “The light.” Then three falcons
flew down the river away from the jungle.

The monastery and the hills turned gold. That night
I saw a shadow that didn’t relate to anything else.
I wondered if it had a relationship to the idol Americo

Described as the Count—the refugee witches had seen.
It was neither a man nor a woman, neither a boy or a girl.
It was a spirit. Perhaps it came from outer space.

The silhouette I discerned looked like bottled water!

At the pace of the falcons and condors,
we are invited to observe the silence.
Wait not for the falcons—but the silence.

The opposite facing canyon is the puma’s
hand with two rivers coming forth like a wrist—
widening out into a paw with five little creeks,

Separating into claws going down into the
grey green Paucartambo River. On the hill—
a community of many witches. Some wild

Cows live around them—spirits of a man
and a woman who couldn’t find a place in
the world. Their tears form rains and winds

Of these canyons. Rain comes from one eye
and winds from another. Americo said the
children’s work is to watch the flight of the

Condor. Sometimes the falcons peck at the
necks of the condors. However, condors can
go straight up—in accelerated fashion.

Falcons have the capacity to go back, forth
in zig zag fashion and get angry—they
can get away.

Condors get away angry.
Their only defense is to go up.

Morning meditation is intense—always more to do.
Hence, we spend time listening to a falcon chatter
while a mouse is watching the river below roll by,

Slithering its way down the incredible canyon as
eagles fly in, and out of the tree directly ahead—
beautiful designs of eagles against a brilliant

Red backdrop are seen though my third eye. I am—
often changing positions—attempting to accommodate
my uncomfortable stance.

Winds come from two directions—mixing before
my eye—dispersing my pain, expanding
my consciousness into a greater perspective.

Trying to adjust to the heat of the sun, my being was
filled with radiance. What comes to me has to do
with expanding my notion of connection and love.

Working with the wind is expansion; it doesn’t
concentrate anything. Death is an energy

That pushes you to non-existence. Sometimes it is
necessary to go towards non-existence. Meg lies down.

Geoff touches her head very delicately. Raol
is at her feet. Everything is on the other ride of existence.

God is the manifestation of life, but with its limitations.
After God, you come into existence. The Alpaca holds

Within its spinal column all the doors to all the energy
of the trees. When the Alpaca goes, the world goes.

Americo taught us to do the Alpaca, to roll around
on the ground with our spines rubbing and laughing

With our arms and legs up. He said, the good thing about
the hibou owl is how it has learned to vomit; if we can

Learn this, we are in great shape before. In a threesome,
he said we are experiencing consciousness and ecstasy.

After our meditation, we practiced Yenati,
named for the mountain peak symbolizing
unity and partnership.

After walking off the ledge, Sage and I were
held by Americo, the good father of sisters
we were, letting us touch the jutting out of

The Southern Cross— the equidistant cross
and the puma. Feeling Americo’s courage,
guarding these mountains let me hope

We might have some. At that point, Americo
led us to the Temple of Pachamama, a place
almost never visited by tourists—

Very short and petite. The sun had gone down—
on the way, able to sit and observe tranquilly—
the violet light of Apu Veronica— a vertical

Cleft— two mountains met. Pachamama’s
temple walls, doorways very short, small—
was tended by a pygmy woman shaman.

We see a fountain with two streams.
Americo invites us to take water from
the left and the right to feel

Our life’s work. I felt imbalance but
also harmony. The left side was loved
—no longer struggling for expression

Free to be itself. We saw the stars
beginning to come out standing
against Pachamama’s wall.

My spine and back settled in as I
bent my knees realizing what the
early image of Pachamama at

The mountain without legs meant.
It begins at the first and second—
exit and entrance as in Yeats’

Crazy Jane poem. The harmony
was of contraction and expansion.
We passed through a very short

Door into a roofless house with several
rooms. Americo invited each of us to
come in there—separately to meditate.

Seeing the mountain with a face of an
Incan man, I looked up at the stars.
Sitting down, I began to cry, tears

Streaming hot salt down
my face and sobs heaving through
my chest in great waves. I felt

In my body— this verbalization—
Ah— eek again and again. Rocking
wildly, occurring I was in the place

Of my ancestors. Uninterrupted
lineage was what I had longed for. To
be with these women shaman was

To be with my Irish, Norwegian,
Scottish foremothers. Knowing
ancestral curses of worry would

Be lifted and free. Ancestors
of the Coming Tribes would
provide a different setting for

The children tears of joy. Americo
rustled us out of there as fast
as he could. It was dark,

The stars utterly amazing, yet we had
to attend Pachamama so we would
not lose our footing.

After dancing with beggars, making
our way to the van, where Americo
explained we had frightened him.

Freyja began to disincarnate—
her arm was gone. He saw an
Incan shaman right next to me—

All of us were emanating light.

Walking past Inca walls, sensing presence—
the Altars of the world— their five-sided jewels
embracing fields of stones— stunning beauty.

Each section had a center— that center was a flower.
Discovering ourselves going to huaca— to reverence,
Americo explained the differences between

Stone, huaca, l’estrella (the stars). Many experienced
the energy of Chinchero so strongly that the world
would be eaten up— therefore— not arriving here.

Americo, said the opposite— learn to stop resisting—
let rocks have everything. Whatever was there would
take energy— later you would get it back aplenty.

Hearing that the Incas had secret passageways—
caves underneath—led all the way to Machu Picchu.
Wandering through narrow corridors, stairs carved

Fallen away. Uncovering places for meditation,
no more instructions. Coming across a throne
near the top, dropping my backpack

Jacket— looked out upon the Andes, closed my eyes,
saw green gold light, then fell, crumbling into a deep
purple area marked with hairy crevices.

There was a feeling of peace and complete dissolving.
Suddenly a brilliant Kaleidoscope— flowers emerged,
continued quite a while— arms and legs releasing

Spasmodically— viewing a slope of the mountain
— discerning rosy lines of Pachamama—
her mouth a slit.

The exit was also entrance leading
to tremendous release— no stress
— walking back filled— new vitality.

Awakening— kept up late— encountered marauding
gangs screaming as if ghosts were chasing them.
Still awake—rousing on the streets of Cusco—

Old walls built on top of Inca stones, passing inimitable
wrought iron doorways, balconies, The sudden expanse
of a wall, painted pink, window frames, portals stained

Rich cobalt blue. People of the Andes— arousing
copper-skinned women— long black hair—straight
braids, bowler hats, full skirts on short bodies

Woven blankets around their shoulders—wide-eyed
infants tucked in. A man walks a black bristle-haired
pig, a boy hunched over the weight of a huge basket

Holding green-gold wheat. In a black kettle on the
street, a woman cooking chorrouchos (donuts)—
rolled in powdered sugar. Endless rows of

Campesinos hawking colorful, alluring wares—
breakfasts on patios punctuated by mate de coca,
thin, airy bread toasted, cooled, sprinkled with sugar,

Psychedelic yellow butter. In the cemetery, the Fiesta
bustles extraordinary colors, shapes, textures, sounds,
aromas— seething with the humanity of it—

Clearly, the cult of the dead has not calmed down.
Women sell bundles of lilies, carnations, narcissus,
marguerites— children with kettles of white pudding.

Stands with offering for the dead—roasted rabbits
stuffed with quinoa, guinea pigs replete with a roasted
apple in their mouths. Little kids with buckets of water

Offering to clean up windows of the mausoleum
— walking amidst aisles and aisles of gold-framed
silver-adorned monuments.

Views come out of a field of dreams where the poor are
stashed, buried— most beautiful on El Dio de les Muertes— countless flowers.

2 November 1996

Magnificent soulful eyes drew Freyja to a wiry man
deeply worthy of a serpentine stone she bestowed.
Maro spoke, “No one gives me a gift— hardly ever.”

Drawn to reciprocity, handing out stones in ceremony
in the middle of his wonderful store, Maro instructed
Freyja to put her feet apart, ground, pull up the energy,

Open the spine, pull it down, draw from the cosmos.
Standing there while the Shaman toiled with a stone
he identified as a meteorite and its energy.

Freyja held out her hands— received the meteorite
upon his command, “Manos.” He insisted on doing
the same thing for everyone in our party.

After giving Meg her stone, it was my turn. Knowing it
would be hot, I removed my hat. He told me to stand
several times instructing me to do so with more Fuerte.

He had me draw down celestial energy— holding my
Chen— just so. While he worked with energy
of the stone, I opened my third eye—

Saw golden bubbles— tear-shaped—
along the right side of my field of vision—
feeling energy very strong in my navel.

Maro cutting, cracking the meteorite in two,
motioned to Sage— we were sisters. Following
me, presenting Sage, Geoff with their stones

Holding a bag with labrys, it virtually found its way
into my hands. Purchasing the bag, placing my half
of the meteorite in it with coca leaves donated by

Maro. To Geoff, he gave a tree of life medallion
to wear around his neck.

2 November 1996

“Every mountain has a star within you.
When you have a star, you can travel
anywhere,” Mama Cimona says.

Pachamama feeds them. When
mountains journey to the stars,
“Eat this and remember me.”

Sensed strange energy in our group—
— climbing— navigators on strange
ships to the stars.

La Roca Perdida— an astral journey—
passes through two portals—three
aspects—baby, wife, ninsta.

Apachita— first view of the Andes—
strength, coolness— three mariposas—
painted lady landing right on our feet.
Energy arriving at the navel— forceful,
certain— Chicha, holy water over roofs.

Laguna Pai— sensing water for Cusco—
coming in the time of seeding— children
walking behind donkeys, crude ploughs
—first rains materializing —a flock of birds
— possibly ducks

Full of marvelous lagoons radiating mystery, presence—
the inn in Urumba provided a peaceful restaurant—
quinoa, soup, trout, salad, and dry chocolate cake
for the time before sleep hour— preparing us

For work with the wind. Napping with intent—
incredible rejuvenation of the body—
Americo says. It can take a while,

Yet we found we did rest. The road to Ollantaymbo—
overflowing with people, donkeys, pigs, llama,
enormous corn plants, mariposa,

A flock of duck, possibly geese, several river swallows—
the color of the river— gorgeous— muddy from recent
early spring rains. Climbing slowly in introduction—

Walking through Ollantaymbo— aware of the altitude—
slowing steps to our beating hearts— the divine beauty
amidst mountain slopes— breaths taking in Inca stone,

Entering the temple of the sun, moon, puma, stars tumbling
in grandeur—Projecting our voices into little areas—
windows where— perhaps— shrines had been made.

Geoff’s channel sounded like a didgeridoo,
Rounding a corner, placing ourselves against
a wall to listen to the blowing, opening to

The expansive energy of the wind. Dispatching
care to families, friends to all the world, to the
ancestors, for it is Samhain— the day when

The veil is thin between the worlds. In the wafting,
becoming warm with expansion— perception here
with wisdom of spasms in our Shaman’s feet.

Mama Ciurona— mountain
near an observatory where men
—campesinos have visions—

Three-phased red Pachamama—
baby— mother of Inca—
whirly dervish.

In a field by the side of the road,
in sight of San Juan Mountain—
one of the snow-capped peaks

Of the Andes— instructed me
to open myself up to the energy
of mountains. Immediately

Feeling, thud in my navel—
gladness opened there—
lupin, painted lady,

White butterflies. Wonder at
agave growing nearly sculptured
by wind into the shape of serpents.

Entering Chinchcherra— coming
to see a navel in sight of
snow-capped Andes.