CLICK HERE FOR PART I                 
CLICK HERE FOR PART II                 

TALK STORY by Mike Maui This continues our series of stories written by my very good friend Mike Cappadona. The first told of his inheritance of a cherished island tradition. The second related a fortune-telling experience in Thailand. This tale is set in Cuzco, Peru as Mike weaves his way through the world with his special skill.           Ed. THE BOY ON THE HILL Mike Cappadona My usual plan, upon entering an ancient ruined city, is to head for a high point, take in the vista, and decide on a rout of exploration. So it was, that at Sacsayhuaman, the mysterious zigzagged fortress ceremonial center high atop the city of Cuzco, Peru. I found myself perched above the ruins, absorbing the incredulousness of it all, taking shelter from the wind behind a small group of rocks. As with most Inca sites, unsolved mathematical and physical improbablilities lead to conjecture and the development of different theories about how and why these massive stones were moved, shaped, and placed, where we find them today. I was indulging heavily in my own improbable theories, while sipping water and chewing methodically on "Chicklets," which seem to be the national candy of all South America, when, appearing in my periforal vision, was a small boy picking his way through the rocks, heading in my direction. We made eye contact and I flashed him a smile, which acted as an invitation for him to join me. Without hesitation, he plopped himself down beside me. We chatted casually and easily, and I gathered, after a bit, that he lived in a small village of Quechua people, on "the other side of that mountain;" that he was 10 years old, and had just completed his first solo journey to the ruins, the only reason being that he had always wanted to come here by himself. His name was Stefan Huaman, a pure-blooded Quechua, and I then replied that he was indeed a descendent of the creators of this mystery city. I wondered if he could possibly shed some light on its history and asked if he knew some secret information that the people of the region might be privvy to, of which I might be unaware. I lightheartedly asked if he knew the history as it was told by his parents and grandparents, and could he tell it to me. He tilted his head, shot me a piercing stare, and his expression became completely serious. "You want me to tell you my history?" he reiterated. "Well yes," I pleaded, "because I don't know anything." At that moment he seemed to change from a small boy to a serious young man. He turned away from me, looked towards the mountains, and began an oration, in detail, as to who had inhabited thses lands, their names and accomplishments, marriages and conquests. I gathered he was speaking of unwritten, unsung heroes of the past, as I had never heard of any of the people. He seemed to have entered a trance like state of recall. He wasn't trying to remember, he was reciting what he knew. After a short amount of time, I, too, was sucked into his trance. He spoke clearly and surely, and brought to life dees of progression, and the feats of those who had taken their final breath many generations ago. He knew the name of every ruler, and every ruler's mother, father, sister, son, and who they coupled with to bring forth the next catalytic instigator in the progression of peoples who shaped and inspired the societies which were his ancestors. He spoke for fifteen minutes before reaching the familiar point in history when the spaniards first arrived, and it was then that I relized just how far back in\ the past that he had taken me. He ontinued to look towards the mountains as he spoke, only hesitating slightly, and glancing at me briefly, when I would utter an occasional "verdad!" or, "si, es incredible." He was a fountain of pureness and his knowledge flowed as easily as water. His tone was proud and bright, but when he spoke of the Spaniards and their comings and doings, Idetedted a rebellious and disagreeing edge in his voice. We passed from past to present. I rode on his words throught the rise and fall of Cuzco, and we seamlessly arrived back again to our hilltop perch . . . me and a young Quechua boy, backdropped by the ancient Inca city of Szcszyhuaman . . . the city whose name he carried as his own, a place in the world to which he was intricately connected and astonishingly aware. An invisible bond of euporia passed between us. Mine springing from humbled amaxement and the realization that I had succumbed to hte hypnotic quality of his inherent knowledge of his lineage. The boy, a perfect smile spread across his proud face, sat with his eyes sparkling with clarity and satisfaction in knowing he was indees a descendent of a great people, and that he carried within him, the blood and spirit of all those of whom he spoke. My heart swelled and my tears flowed freely, and I asked him if he would honor me with a photo of a great young man, one of whom his ancestors would be proud. So, as the ornage light of pre-sunset shone on Sacsayhuaman, A Quechua boy smiled for my camera, and I was elated and grateful, and realized I would never forget my wondrous experience, and that the memories of those who had long ago turned to dust, were alive and well, recorded honorably in the embodiment of the incredible young man, who I had assumed was just a boy on the hill.   CLICK HERE FOR PART I: WHAT'S IN A NAME? The Zen of Basket Weaving   CLICK HERE FOR PART II: THE PALM READER

MIKE WILL SOON BE ON THE ROAD AGAIN,
AND WILL BE CONTRIBUTING ADDITIONAL MATERIAL
AS HE TRAVELS. HE CAN BE CONTACTED BY EMAIL AT
mike_maui@hotmail.com