The Legend of Cumbayo (The Guardian of Cumbayo, 6000 BC)

The Legend of Cumbayo (The Guardian of Cumbayo, 6000 BC)


Cumbayo, the Sanctuary (Temple, 6000 BC)




Note: Half of this account was written in flight, leaving Cajamarca (5-7-2007), to Lima Peru (a few days after visiting the site of Cumbayo (5-26-2007), the other half was written a day after my arrival back at Lima, at El Parquettos restaurant, 5-8-2007.


The Sanctuary (or Stone Castle)


(Written in Flight, diary notes: part one) It was in may of 2007 I visited the temple in the valley of Cajamarca, better known as the Sanctuary, a most impressive site, dating back to 6000 BC, and the petrography (Rock Art) dating back to 1000 BC, when I, by myself entered this most famous, but most recently discovered narrow passage of Cumbayo, likened to a natural castle like stone structure in the middle of nowhere, towering into the sky like Babel, the passage going from one side of this solid rock formation, mountain size almost, to the other side, perhaps some sixty feet long, one third of those feet in pitch darkness, and tight as two feet wide in some places. I ventured to enter and zigzag across it alone, knowing here lived a people, 8000-years ago, who used this place as a sanctuary, and this narrow passage discovered some thirty-years ago, was perhaps their hidden doorway.
The rock art or petrography dates back to 1000 BC, some 5000-years after the place became inhabited.
As I wedged my way through this curving maze, I got stuck between the walls, my arms became limp, its muscles inactive, my breath almost nil from exhaustion, I remained motionless for the moment, trying not to panic, I was in the middle of this passage way, in the dark area.
I got thinking of the great stones in front of this stone castle like structure, it seemed to have been carved into a face, a section of it anyway, perhaps of some great warrior, or king I thought. This stone structure had tower like formations around it.
I was becoming more exhausted by the minute. Cramped and caught in this dreadful thin passage, my mind seemed to drift, by purpose or force, drift I say, into a dream or visionary state, who can tell at such a moment, under duress.

I saw a figure, its eyes brighten and his breath came more quickly as He replied, saying, “What is your care?” There was some kind of infinite pride in his voice and manner, he meant what he said.
I shrugged my shoulders, I really didn’t know. I nodded. His mind was working his face I noticed; he said to me, “I am the guardian, and I sense you cannot, and I can….” It wasn’t a question I noticed, rather a statement. I think he meant, I was stuck, and he could help, if he wanted to. It didn’t seem like he really didn’t want to, but perhaps he might.
He told me to tell you of their existence “Tell the world,” he said, “and for those who come to except this as an honor to enter this ancient temple and not to touch.”
I was still into this dream or trance state, perhaps he was waiting for me to say, or agree with him, yet if he could read my face, as I did his, he would know I would write this article, or story as I am doing now.



The Captive and the Walls
(Part Two)



(Written at the Restaurant, while having Coffee) At this point the whole offer was a private one—almost personal between me and the Guardian, but with a public agenda, which belonged to the ancestors. I remember now, however, there was no energy left in me, just a sanctuary of worship and a guardian, and he felt a tinge like I was invading, and perhaps wanting me to go on my own.
He seemed to know; the world would come to this location in time, and didn’t want to deny it, but wanted to preserve it for the future use in its destined way.
And now, a few days passed, sitting down at this restraint in Lima, and this is still held in mind—and unsure if he guardian was, or is devoted to his word of ultimate undoing of me, should I not do as I agreed.
I remember asking the Guardian said, “How was it back then?” and his Reply was, “Thee came anarchy in the valley, and that brought the lack of all things—with heart-breaking persistence, we tried to overcome, and this brought our writings into existence, but we could not tell the whole story until perhaps 1000 BC, from the rock art, or as you call it, petrography!”

The Walls

(I remember staggering back against the wall, I actually had room I told myself, and still I heard his utterances, the Guardian’s)
As I looked about, I noticed hands and finger marks scratched into the wall, all the way down the wall, how I could see this in the dark area was beyond me, I must still had been in a trance or dream-vision state; it is hard to tell now that I look back at it…but I do remember the thick stone walls, the deep dust on the floor, and the marks on the walls. The walls seemed to take my breath away. The walls seemed to have impulses: that is to say, they reached to the mind of the Guardian, and obeyed him.


Captive

This narrow passage was to me not only thin, but locking me up, captive, imprisoned, caged, yet I kept my head, and now I understood why my struggles ceased, and I seized the moment and found myself moving a few more feet forward in the passage, and light, yes, light appeared, and as I moved out into the day (I don’t remember how long I was in there, but the sun was like a big lamp upon me, thus, it must had been a few hours, I rubbed my eyes). So I would tell myself at the time: never go back into this cave unless you are with someone. But still I was not sure if all of this was a dream or not, so as you can verify, I am doing my duty, by writing this, and you reading this, so no curse can befall me. Inside this cave, in the dark section I read (I do not know how, for it was in a language 3000-years old, written on stone): “For men whom come through this passage, be quiet, hands free, be like feathers, thin and masked.” The Guardian.

Three Poems from Cajamarca, Peru (While Traveling)

Three Poems from Cajamarca, Peru,

Part I

“The Black Andes”

The black mountains of the Andes
Caped in sporadic greens
Beams of light cast through the clouds
Give a haunting cadaverous scene
As I descend into this city called
Cajamarca, in the morning
Of May!...

Note: (written: 5-4-07), written while in flight, from Lima, Peru to Cajamarca. It is 6:20 AM (observing the mountains as we come into this valley city. #1807


Part II

The Mashua Lady of Cajamarca

The Mashua Lady of Cajamarca
Sits, across the street from my hotel,
Selling these potato like vegetables,
With a tall white hat (traditional)
Wide rimed—(pink blouse)
Counting her coins, checking her Mashua
(and grabbing more from her sack);
Selling them fast…dark clouds over head—!

!2:50 PM #1809 5-4-2007



La Collpa Farm (From Cajamarca)


Animals cry—and I don’t know why, in Cajamarca;
And the cows know their names, at La Collpa Farm.
Rosa and I watched this funny little escapade,
As the farmer slashed his whip, and called their names
One by one they came: Teresina and Paula at first,
Then rest of the cows, perhaps ten more:
Came and went to their stalls, with their names.
It would seem they were almost human,
With shot, weight, and medical records,
And real personnel names…!

#1808 5-5-2007


Note: At Collpa Farm, in the Cajamarca, Valley of Peru, in Northern Peru that is, they have this farm where they have names, the cows have names, like Catalonia, etc., and when the farmer calls them, they come, and the poem tells the rest of the story. My wife I think liked this part of our trip the most.

New York City: The Sleepless Neon (a Travel Poem with notes)

New York City: The Sleepless Neon

The bulky skyline danced around me
The first time I drove through its winding maze—.
Flimsy I felt in this Roman candle like city,
With grand towers, and bridges, uncountable
Side streets—cars hissing!
It is one big sleepless neon city—;
What a rush, it gives.
Here you don’t run out of people
You just run yourself down
Trying to keep in step
With the curious!...


Note: Long over due is this poem on New York City—for I’ve been there four times, equal to Paris, and I’ve never been to any city four times other than these, and I’ve been to almost every big city in the world, so, yes, New York City is special. To be frank, and honest, I feel much safer in New York City than such cities as Buenos Aires, or Santiago, Chile, Lisbon, or Madrid, or for that matter, Chicago, or Minneapolis, Minnesota, and I live in Lima, and St. Paul, Minnesota, and I feel saver still in New York City. Anyhow, as I was saying, the poem is over due. It was written while in traveling in Cajamarca, Peru, a beautiful city of 165,000-folks, in a very green valley (9:01 PM, 5-06-2007). #1808

The number one thing I love in the city is always seeing the Empire State Building, the most impressive building in the world. And I like Central Park, and the big museum next door. I like getting pizza or a sand wish brought up to my hotel room, and watching CNN at night. And I like walking down along the banks, and seeing the Statue of Liberty, actually my wife who has been around the world with me, feels that is the most precious landmark in the world, her being a Peruvian.