sábado, 30 de julio de 2011

"Chimbote, El Loco Moncada y las locuras de la migracion" / Alex Julca

Una historia personal de Chimbote y las locuras de la migración
By Alex Julca

Why Chimbote and not Lima?
Chimbote is located on the Peruvian Northern Coast about 300 miles from Lima. A boom in the fishing industry oriented to US and European markets -- for animals' diet in the meat production industry -- since the 1950s, brought on the expansion of Chimbote as a new city and made the construction of a hospital there possible. At the time when the preference was Lima, my father's possibilities for getting a vacancy as an ambulance driver in Chimbote were higher. His incomplete primary school studies were a big barrier for finding vacancies in Lima, where bureaucratic documentation was more strictly followed.
He obtained a job in Chimbote with even less wage than in Cerro de Pasco but better climate, hope for finishing his primary school or higher education for his children; new experiences (e.g. knowledge of new people, places, food such as fresh and abundant fish; entertainment, clothing), and the enticing idea that being on a coastal city was always better than being confined to the Andes. There are class and racial elements involved in this idea: leaving the Andes means in particular to leave the stigma of being considered "ignorante," "indio," "serrano."
My family moved there in early 1964. We were never so far from some of

our ancestors' motherland: the Andes; and the rest of our family (1). Still I remember

that day: Chimbote's canicular sun hitting us, arriving at our new place consisting of a kitchen and a room, scarce electricity, and no toilet. This space was part of a
larger home which belonged to the landlord and his family: his wife and five children (including two grown women), who rented us the place. My mother served us tea in bowls...
These circumstances are familiar to other people who have moved to the

city, as Felícita stated after moving to Lima in the 1980s, "We do not have toilet,

nor running water, nothing... in my home there is only one bed, there we sleep all

five of us," (Goldenberg, p.l05).

Since the beginning of the 1940s the Golden Dream of many Andean

people was to live in Lima, perhaps reminiscent of what Los Angeles, Miami and

New York are for many Peruvians today. My parents accepted living in Chimbote

in the meantime. Nonetheless, as the time went on, they found in Chimbote more

reasons to continue thinking and pursuing efforts for their future residence in

Lima. My parents used to say, "in Lima there's more progress, there's more social

stimulation (“más roce”), and the children could become something else (“algo

más”). Matos Mar synthesizes statistically this assertion, "In the last 44 years,

between 1940 and 1984, Lima's population has grown in almost ten times…

numbering almost all what Peru had in 1940 (p.72)."

“El Loco Moncada” and the Andean migration in the times of El Zorro de

Arriba y el Zorro de Abajo

While the fishing boom led to an expansion of the economy of Chimbote it did

not create a substantial improvement in the social condition of the people.

Chimbote's only asphalt road was the main highway which ran through all the

Peruvian Coast, which was also the main asphalt road for the country.

Historian Pablo Macera referred to the man "Moncada" in Chimbote, as a

symbol of the social limits of the fishing boom. "The crazy Moncada," as he was

referred by all Chimbote residents, was a familiar figure in my childhood, a

demented ex-fisherman of black and Indian origins who wandered through this

port neighborhoods carrying a cross on one shoulder, alternately speaking to

people and imaginary interlocutors. "Moncada" is rescued by the writer José

María Arguedas (1971) for the Peruvian literature where he becomes the main

character in the novel The Fox from the Highlands and the Fox from the

Lowlands: "Moncada kneeled down under the cross, stood up, dusted the red

fabric and raising his other hand began to predicate..."I am the bullfighter of God,

a beggar of his love, not of the false love of the authorities; of the human love

also. Look!" (p. 65).

The images of El Loco Moncada floats in my memory with the romanticism of what I recall of my childhood; however, this man was often overlooked, insulted, expulsed by residents and passers by. He was the paria whom anyone could exert freedom for laughing at or insult. Children not so innocently would play with his nickname, changing and extending it to a more despicable meaning while throwing him additional slurs, copying what adults have been doing. Was El Loco Moncada aware of the locura of the old and newly costeno residents? Martin Adan would have said: “the crazies are not inside the rehabilitation hospital, the crazies are outside.”
When not laughing at what my friends had said or called to El Loco Moncada, his strong physical figure and his cryptic words did always perplex me. A man who was always wandering Chimbote, observing people, talking with his raised red handkerchief in one hand, yet always physically harmless. Somehow he represented the catharsis for the people who were thought to be sane. He dared to speak up against the powerful and the rich, the Andean migrants did not. His craziness allowed him that freedom. The Andean migrants, in their own way, were fighting poverty by using their freedom to move and following the capitalistic laws of the fishing industry. The freedom and constraints of one, were the constraints and freedom of the other; perhaps this contrast complemented well enough so both were essential parts of Chimbote’s growth.
One perhaps could say that both El Loco Moncada and Andean migrants had different projects, his was to vocally disseminate the truth to Chimbote’s residents and the world; he had lived the dream of Chimbote, which for him ended in a nightmare. For Andean migrants his voice was like a bad spell, something not desired to be seen or be heard too often: none of them would have hoped to end up like him. The migrant’s dream was full of hope that life would become better than it was in her hometown. Nonetheless, Andean migration in masse to a town with scarce jobs, latrines, health services, and education would perhaps be as incomprehensible as Jose Maria described in his book (see below).
Another example of Chimbote’s shortcomings was the fact that many

neighborhoods did not have water and sewage services and at least in one case an

old cemetery was used as a public latrine. This cemetery was located in front of

our home, so our neighbors and us used it as it was meant to be for. Here as a

child, I learned how to catch spiders, sacrifice cats, and play dreadfully with

scorpions and dirt… We children often excavated bones and got scared, while

also felt repulsion toward the fetid smell of the cemetery.

In 1965 my second sister Milagritos was born. That same year I began to study at a small, precarious school that offered the first two years of primary level. The students had to shovel making holes in the sand for toilets. Yet, we all expected with joy to have toilets in the school. Still, once we had them later on, the students were scared from the insects that infested the latrines. Likewise, in the school-yard, which was covered with sand, we children carved our poignant memories of soccer play and sand taste. These games did not end until arriving home, when our parents scolded us for returning so dirty and unrecognizable.
Primarily because of these limitations and the crowded conditions of our two-room house, we moved to a different location in 1967. We lived there with the same plumbing necessities, but the house had three rooms and it was only one block from a small public school -- epitome of “la escuelita fiscal"(translated as ‘the little primary public school” -- which offered the first three years of primary school.
The Peruvian writer Arguedas, in a warm letter to Murra in 1967, expresses his impressions of Chimbote,
I have been fifteen days in Chimbote. It is exactly like Lima; has like 40 shantytowns; 70% of the population are originally from the Andes; the mass of Andean migrants is proportionately greater than in Lima... I have interviewed to five men of Andean origin asking about their lives before and after they arrived to Chimbote... there is no provincial clubs, the organization is in 'barriadas’ (shantytowns). People from the Coast and from the Andes, in spite of the continuous commercial and social intercourse, they still remain as differentiated strata...Because the myth of Chimbote continues, as center of enrichment of the Andean migrant, the avalanche of 'serranos' continues and there is people who live in the most absolute misery (Flores Galindo, pp.387 -388).

Alluding to the history of the Third World, Hobsbawm (1994) testifies of the genuine interest of Arguedas on the migration phenomena. It stories the Arguedas’ invitation and their attendance to a coliseum in Lima where every weekend Andean migrants would play, sing and dance their music and roots; in that occasion with a particular greeting to people from Huanuco by one of the singers. It seems that Arguedas was quite interested in the organizations and manifestations of the Andean artistic identity in urban areas that were growing with the “avalancha” of Andinos. Chimbote, in this sense, as Arguedas pointed out, did not have those provincial clubs. Yet, I was 6 years old when my parents took me to the coliseum in Chimbote, and while I was not aware of the lack of provincial clubs, I was able to hear a mix of Peruvian popular music, Andean singers such as the woman with he seudonym of Pastorita Huaracina as well as Los Embajadores Criollos a male duo playing the guitar and singing European-root creole music.

Reciprocity values and the inevitable… why Lima and not Chimbote?
Some Quechua values such as mutual help (minka) and reciprocity were not absent from the process of migration and adaptation to modernity. In this vein, my parents' help to our relatives was always present. Throughout 1965-1969 two teenagers uncles (one of my mother's younger brothers and my father's youngest brother); an adolescent male cousin, and an aunt with a child came to Chimbote, in hopes of finding a better life. My father taught my uncles how to drive so since then they have been employed driving taxis, trucks, busses, and eventually ambulances. My cousin finished primary school and had to come back to Cayhuayna to cultivate his father's rented land, while my aunt also returned to the countryside because after almost two years could not find a way to make an independent life in Chimbote. She was illiterate and her Spanish speaking was very poor. Selling in the stall market was a last option, but taking care of her child girl of eight years old and the lack of initial funds prevented her to do so.
Between 1970-1974 two teenager cousins, sons of my father's older brother, came from the outskirts of Huánuco city to stay with us in Lima. As welders, they did not have difficulty finding jobs in metal-mechanic factories of the industrial area. When these relatives had the chance to work regularly, they provided some staples or money for the house.
The educational and housing inadequacies of Chimbote prompted my father and mother to be watchful for any vacancy that might appear in Lima. By 1968 my parents had saved some money in a mutual fund organization which eventually could grant some housing loan based on the amount saved. They began to look for a house in Lima. My father did not want to live again in a "barriada" because it would imply similar inadequacies that we had been experiencing. Their move was endowed with a new sense of urgency because it was clear that soon high school studies would be the next step for their eldest children. They reasoned that if we did not lose years going to school, we would finish sooner and have greater possibility to estudiar una profesión" (study a career).
Frequent school desertion for youngsters who have to work was also something my parents worked to avoid. This was the case of my father who only could finish the third year of primary school; or the children of Nicolás Pino León, a mine worker in Cerro de Pasco, “All my children are getting high school studies,” but “they could not study last year, now two are studying and three aren’t,” (Goldenberg,p.31). Nicolás, his family and the mining workers of Río Pallanga marched to Lima in 1988 to claim their overdue wages of two years to the government.
Even though my parents had no clear idea how or where we would achieve a profession, they continued to hope we became somebody in life. And toward that end they were determined that our future high school studies would be done in Lima.
Yet, in spite of the economic constraints in Chimbote, my parents were able to save some money. They were able to buy some clothing for their children, go to occasional movies, and purchase some electrical appliances. Almost once a year we visited our family in Lima and Huánuco; and we had the chance to visit other cities along the Coast such as Chiclayo, Trujillo and Ica. Some of my father's friends whom he met in Cerro de Pasco and Chimbote were visited when we traveled to these places. Even so, our move to Lima was becoming more real every day. In 1967 they were able to buy a house in Mirones Bajo, a popular neighborhood in the outskirts of Lima, taking advantage of a 15-year mortgage offered by a private-public financial organization called Mutual Peru, and by 1968 my mother and her children moved there. My father, after several attempts to transfer his post from Chimbote to Lima, joined us a year later.
July 27th, 2011 9:43pm

(1) My oldest ancestor of which I have knowledge is is Juan Julca Guaman (1562), resident of the community Los Yachas in Huanuco. Also, Cristobal Xulca Condor (1562), who was chief of the community of Queros (nowadays part of the village Ambo (Huanuco), homeland of my grandfather Nicanor Julca and his siblings) with about 4,000 indians under Inca rule (Murra 1967, pp. 34-35, my emphasis).


Arguedas José María, EI Zorro de Arriba v el Zorro de Abajo. Editorial Losada, S.A 1971.

Flores Galindo Alberto, Buscando un Inca: ldentidad y Utopia en los Andes. Editorial Horizonte, 1988.

Goldenberg Sonia, Reportaje al Peru Anonimo. Francisco Campodonico, Editor; 1990, Lima-Peru.

Hobsbawm, Eric (1994). The Age of Extremes. A History fot eh World 1914-1991. UK, US. Michael Joseph and Vintage Books.

Macera Pablo, Breve Historia del Peru. Editorial Peisa, 1974.

Murra John V., Editor, Visita de la Provincia de Leon de Huanuco en 1562. Torno I, Visita de las Cuatro Waranqa de los Chupachu; Universidad Nacional Hermilio Valdizan, Huanuco-Peru 1967.

jueves, 28 de julio de 2011

Entrevista a Sylvia Falcon

Con la invitacion a ver y escuchar a Sylvia Falcon y Carlos Bernales Vilca, nos place publicar una pequena entrevista que Sylvia ha tenido la amabilidad de darnos. La cita es el sabado a la 7 pm en el Baruch Performing Arts Center, 55 Lexington Avenue, NY. Telefono 646 312 4085

1) Tu ultima produccion Killa Lluqsimun, fue hecha en colaboracion del maestro Daniel Kirwayo, ahora trabajas con el pianista y compositor Carlos Bernales Vilca , a que nesecidad artistica obedece ese cambio, como se da?

La creación artística junto al maestro Kirwayo se ha convertido en una colaboración constante. Más allá de mi primer y segundo álbum, es un vínculo artístico que no cesa de generar nuevos proyectos, que además traducen fundamentalmente mi propuesta musical. Demás está decir que para mi es un privilegio enorme, un honor, compartir y aprender tantísimo de un músico tan importante.

El concierto con Carlos Bernales Vilca, resulta de la inquietud de sumarnos a las celebraciones por el centenario del natalicio de nuestro José María Arguedas. Es un proyecto paralelo, pues yo sigo en la producción de mi segundo disco con el maestro Kirwayo. Me pareció muy interesante poder presentar un repertorio que abarque algunos de los muchísmos géneros musicales del Perú en general y no solo de las sierras, esa es precisamente la idea de Todas Las Sangres. Uno de los grandes retos ha sido poder capturar el alma de nuestra música tradicional y transportarla a un instrumento poco convencional en este género, como lo es el piano; aquí podemos ver el talento de un músico y compositor como Carlos Bernales. Nos conocimos a través de nuestros trabajos independientes, él se interesó mucho en el KILLA LLUQSIMUN y es a partir de esto que se plantea este concierto que gratamente tuvo cabida en New York para el Festival de IATI.

2) esta propuesta recoge las cantantes liricas andinas, que a parte de Yma Sumac fueron varias. Que significa esto frente a la censura que en algun momento tuvo Yma Sumas por parte del maestro Arguedas?

La puesta con Carlos Bernales es una muestra más amplia sobre la música del Perú. En el repertorio se ha incluido una interesante selección de música compuesta en la primera mitad del siglo XX por la importantísima compositora limeña Rosa Mercedes Ayarza, para la música de los bosques hemos hecho adaptaciones de melodías tradicionales de las naciones Yanesha y Asháninka. Para nuestras montañas andinas, por supuesto he incluido algunos temas de mi primer disco, un chimayche ancashino y otras canciones no muy populares aunque igual de bellas. Además de los solos de piano, tendremos la adaptación hecha por Carlos Bernales a una de las canciones recopiladas por José María Arguedas: Wek'en Upiak, y por primera vez cantaré un tema propio, se trata de un yaraví que he titulado Palomita de Ensueño.

El homenaje a las sopranos de coloratura andina viene en mi segundo disco. Se lanzará en Lima a fines de este año y espero poder traerlo a Nueva York y compartirlo con quienes lo están esperando.

Hay muchísimo que decir sobre ello, sin embargo, mi principal objetivo es traer a la contemporaneidad ese repertorio complejo y hermoso para recordar la potencialidad tan grande de la música tradicional a partir de compositores como Moisés Vivanco, Bravo de Rueda, Benigno Benigno Ballón, etc...

Al inicio Arguedas vio este género como una deformación de la tradición y fue muy duro con Yma Sumac sobre todo, pero luego, creo que a partir de la amistad con Moisés Vivanco y el enorme aprecio que tenía por el destacado guitarrista y compositor ayacuchano, la crítica fue decreciendo.

Yo creo que a la luz de hoy podemos hablar con muchos más ejemplos sobre las exageraciones y reales deformaciones no solo de la música tradicional sino el concepto de lo andino.

3) como vez la dinamica de la tradicion y la continuidad en esta nueva propuesta musical?

La tradición es continuidad pura. Creo que las propuestas musicales que puedan transmitir bien esto no tendran caducidad, con todo lo demás ya sabemos lo que pasa. Lo vemos a cada instante.

4) como encaja tu propuesta dentro del marco de la desfolklorizacion del acervo y dentro del marco del centenario del maestro Jose Maria Arguedas?

Planteamos el concierto Todas Las Sangres como uno de esos que le hubiese gustado oir al maestro, y a todo amante de la variedad musical del Perú.Entonces se convierte en un homenaje a él y a nosotros mismos por compartir esa diversidad.
Particularmente no me preocupo mucho en las etiquetas que puedan poner a la música que presentamos, cuando estamos creando no pensamos en términos de folklore sino en arte... Arte. Creo que eso nos ha liberado de trabas de apreciación hacia nuestra propia tradición. Lo maravilloso de la música es que los discursos sobran y solo hay que sentir esa herencia.

viernes, 22 de julio de 2011

Apuntes arguedianos 1 / Fredy Roncalla

Apuntes Arguedianos


Releyendo al maestro alli allillamanta. Desde los Ríos Profundos a los Diamantes y pedernales y unos ensayos sobre música que hablan bien del Picaflor, el Jilguero del Huascarán y la Lira Paucina pero cuestionan a Ima Sumac mas no al Diamante Negro. Todos registros, vibraciones, huellas hanan de adentro, de hanan a urin, y de urin a hanan, de una música siempre presente trasportándonos a otroeste lugar. Geografía paligada, donde anida la existencia. Desde el aliento vital del zumbayllo, creo, hasta los últimos segundos de rasu ñiti, hijo del wamani. Sonidos desgarradores los del arpista de diamantes al centro de amores turbios y violentos. Más aun en el molino, donde lo pecaminoso marca el inicio de un púber que presencia el forzamiento de una madre por un hacendado y le impide compartir el despertar sensual de una adolescente.

Un doble impedimento, en verdad. Porque a Ernesto también le está vedada la danza libre, complementaria y feliz del ayla. Un estar en tierra de nadie, forastero privilegiado, de adentro. Partido cósmicamente en busca de la unidad. Que es otra forma de decir todas las tierras y todas las sangres. Tras una trayectoria cuyo hilo conductor es la música. El huayno, el zumbayllo, el aleteo de los moscardones, el viento en las alas del picaflor, el canto de los patos de altura en el zorro de arriba y el zorro de abajo dándole al mundo todo un aura encantada.

Es el poder de las palabras. Mágico. Cada lectura de José Maria Arguedas pervive dentro de uno por días y años, incluso cuando va a dormir y lleva a los sueños a un dialogo con el preconciente. Apertura arquetipal. Desde donde salen mas preguntas para seguir entendiendo. Cuánto ha cambiado desde entonces, y cuánto persiste aun?. Es por el poder transferido de la música a la escritura con lo que el maestro nos capta. Y tras unas breves líneas ya uno está dentro, cercado y expandiéndose en el relato. Buscando también el sonido que atraviesa las dunas de Orovilca.

Han dicho muchos que eso es influencia del quechua. Ya ha corrido mucho río por ese wayqo. Mejor sería irse por la bocatoma, más allá del manante. Acaso nomás. Dependiendo de quien lo lea, esta corriente de intraducibilidad, alteridad, y entrañamiento en la obra de Arguedas ha privilegiado al lector no andino, para el cual lo exótico es manachayqa mana imapas de sus construcciones teóricas. Pero como andinos no podemos ver a Arguedas como el otro epistémico. Fuente de alteridad espiritual, ritual, liminal y mágica del lenguaje quizás. Pero el tayta nos habla de cerca, desde la humanidad indígena que somos.

Conversación entre waykis. Con Julio Noriega pensamos que en los primeros cuentos el lenguaje del maestro no acusa influencia del quechua, por lo menos para un hablante cuya norma normal es el español andino. Y en Lima acaba de pedir mas lecturas nuestras, andinas. Y ya antes Nilo Tomaylla plantea que vamos hacia un universo postarguediano, en donde escribimos como expresión de lo propio y no como traductores culturales. Hampuykamuy.

Ganas de releer lo dicho por Odi Gonzáles acerca de la traducción en Arguedas. Ganas también de ver lo dicho por José Luís Ayala sobre la alteridad en los andes. Territorios del Pez de Oro, que extrañamente no tuvo vasos comunicantes con Arguedas, pero donde se define la vanguardia indígena del Perú, y donde están los mejores intelectuales y periódicos actuales. Alguna vez pensé que la poética del espacio tenia íntima relación con el vanguardismo en Puno. Ver a Oquendo Amat recorrer la poesía concreta de los nombres de cerros, lagos, ríos y chacras, para delimitar su poesía espacial al igual que los chamanes de Nazca o los arquitectos de Caral y Puruchuco. Pero tal vez esto es una banalidad frente al friaje, las mineras, y el racismo de la masacre de Juliaca. Pero la antigua división, el abismo aculturante que daba vida y agonía al maestro se va borrando y las formas las nuevas de la creación social vienen del ande y la selva.

Abismo eso si hay en Huambar, de Juan José Flores. Contando las aventuras de Huambar Poetastro Acacautinaja el escritor parinacochano utiliza adrede la traducción literal y desequilibrante del quechua y el español para reforzar el efecto cómico de la pelea de un tayta cura y el protagonista por los amores de una joven: “ me contaron que la juventud “unión dicequeespierna” (Union Chancas), por medio del periódico el Chumbao… me saludó, manifestándome que sentía mi prisión en el alma, en tanto que yo la sentía en el cuerpo”. Ahí el espinazo de la historia son las aventuras de Huambar y las traducciones equívocas de quechua al español y al revés. Necesaria una lectura bajtiniana de Juan José Flores poniéndole un poco de humor a la diglosia. Necesario también apreciar humor como parte de la condición literaria universal, y si reside en los intersticios del broken spanish y el pakisqa quechua mucho mas mejor. Que la dulzura y profundidad del lenguaje, el sentimiento trágico que recoge el racismo y la discriminación, alumbren el universo y la historia andinos es parte del genio del maestro. La increíble capacidad de sus palabras.

Todo esto para decir que llegan los zorros. En pares complementarios. Parischaykukuspa como la antigua división entre cultura occidental y cultura andina. Dualidad complementaria convergente y pallqa a la vez. Pero que corresponde solo parcialmentella a la realidad, porque en el Perú la cultura occidental no existe, es una fantasía.

Untitled photograph/ Carolina Amorouso

copy left and right © Carolina Amorouso

Apiki Kosta Verde kanman. Munaychataq, pintura hinaraq

martes, 19 de julio de 2011

Meditations on And Then 16 / Bernie Tuchman

Meditations on And Then 16

Dear Everyone,
Bernie Tuchman wrote the following medition on And Then 16. Everyone's
piece is written about.

Meditations on And Then 16

Shelley Haven (front and back covers)


firmly planted

And Then


the fruit



Tracy Phillips

seduction without conquest
being in touch
at long last

Eva Qin

body fear
hungry spirits demand repossession

Ahmed Abdullah

the dream is no less real
in the cold light of loss,
but neither is it boundless

Johannah Segers

dancing into the night

Luis Benitez

coup de grace:
the power to kill
without judgment

Rosalie Calabrese

where was I?
only Robert remembers

Walter Bateman

love poem:
before words were processed,
mounting intensity
in the scrawled revisions

Safiya Bandele

in the life that is not being restrained
is all life
and in that life, the pain,
fresh loss
of what is missing


and so the nightmare ends
the power to forget,
paying tribute
to cruelty

Pramila Venkateswaran

seek shock without awe
reclaiming dignity,
a rueful necessity

Donald Lev

severed members
lost connections
phantom pain:

Arnold Sachar

kaleidoscope shards turn
against our will:
sharp-edged clarity
in patterns not of choice
not revolution
but revulsion
propels soul into alternative space

Dorothy August

the fierce modesty of now,
and then, fire

George Jochnowitz

obesity: repression and rebellion internalized
third rail of American politics
watch out Michelle, Barack's triangulating,
eating grease in Iowa


Carletta Joy Walker p. 18

soul space
free vastness
letting go
to the stars
by the force
of levity
the point:
no return

Noah Baen

In the beginning was the picture.
without words
like fugitive stalks
to form

Howard Pflanzer

behind their soulless staring eyes
real eyes
well trained
on joy stick video games
families proud
of their skill
and their service

Marlene Nadle

there is no release
without remorse

no scale of just deserts
comes natural
to set right the balance

for wrongs inflicted / suffered
in mutual violations

only attending
to all the cries
can rest the vengeful crow
in mourning's peace

Eleni Begetis Anastos

visions not to be seen:
far away
and unaddressed

George Snedeker

bereft of grief
the unseen child
looks on
outside the circle
of self-destroying

M. S. Voros

young life:
innocence rewarded
must find a container
absorbing abundance

the container:
banishing confusion
unwanted reception

forming the adult:
the person bound
by limits
which cannot
be seen

yet still:
innocent wonder
to marvel
in new connections

Kato Laszlo Roth

secret of black humor,
elixir of life

Ashley Roth

(without reflection)
straight up terrific!

Patricia Dahlman

out in
self reflection

Gerald Williams

odors' ascent
of being:
wants and fears

Eli Cohen p. 30

I sing
of bodies
charged by
into an army

solo performers
as one
kinetic-harmonic choir

Nancy Ross

child the watcher
leaking tears
your clear crystal vision,
you will not show

Rafael Colon Morales

the prince of whales cavorts

Myrna Nieves

dream power
into being
alternative universes
richer than our own,
the source
of understanding

Jess Amortell

A tatter of tangled towels
For life:
One more cycle

Peter Wolff

"Embracing in the darkness"
"Hoping for nothing"
"And learn to love your fright"

holding onto each other
withholding nothing

as we let go,
an act of faith

the only way through

Margaret Yard p. 36, 1

and in us all
a cosmic jest

gestating deity
perfect blossom
bursting confinement

needing us
suffering creation

to see
in ourselves

God's missing

all we know
is pain and imperfection

naissance interruptus

Margaret Yard p. 36, 2

thinking of Arnie

within ourselves
the better world
where re-born
Arnie belongs

Peter N. Nevraumont

neither dreams nor art,
archetypes happen:
thanks for the memories

Fredy Roncalla

vivid connections
memory-musculature of artists
makes happy accidents

Raluca Soreanu

OK, no magic wings
but dreams
keep us flying
the infirmities and niceties

Rula Kaliroi

yet springing taut
alive in every direction
pivoting points
of self sculpted

D. H. Melhem

in rushing sprays
a fledgling
to fly or die:
Iguazu falls

Ralph Nazareth

Hear, O Israel
the sounds
of Silence

Michael Szpakowski and Christopher McHugh

What I know about art and its use:

art is the presence
that draws me in
conjures image
in me for me
moving, surprising
and changing "me"

an active tool
generating meaning and motive

I am appreciated by art

I know I need art
and (unlike stuff)
the more the better

blessed be the source

Reflections on Colchis:

-- And Then image:
I see
mud and stone
becoming wall
made in place
to confine
to protect
to control

-- Online image:
I see
just what I was looking for:
my new screensaver

Michael Malinowitz

long apart
still connecting

Veronica Jones

rap roun' world
'cause people fight
dead power

Rosario Casatellanos

longing: a palm tree

Stephanie Hart

life's phoenix
many times burnt

resurrects unnoticed
breathing in life

its very presence
only revealed
once again
all is lost

the cycle repeats

Robert Roth p. 51

a wicked tease
love's surest intimacy

Renee E. Neely

two women
withering as gods
blow smoke rings

sit !

rooted on their front porch
a pale mist hovers
then falls

plotting their escape
on gulls facing west

two haikus

William Gordon

(and worst
of the tortures
the unanswered question:
how could people let this all happen?)

Enforcers of discipline:
prison guards
and raters
of bonds

Act without mercy
in defense of the credo:
Domination Brings Order
Just Power Prevails

Evil in context:
Society's Bulwark

Well worth
the Price
For the
Sake of
the Children

in spirit,
the first
to be crushed)

Outside of these
safe walls
No one is living

the quiet means
Crossing the Line

Order beats chaos
No matter the cost

(for you to decide:
which side are you on?)

Martha Globus-Rodriguez

we are all whole
who share one now

separated by

giving up
to the
not free to be

all of the space
to which we are

Paidemoyo Chideya

now is not the time
now is the only time
both are true

every moment
a choice

in the balance

and release

to be



Michael Henry

bare trees
branches extend,
respectfully interlacing

til spring
bursts forth,
leaves jostling
for light's sustenance,
crowding out the sun

Maricella Vera Sanabria

and from the terror
a need for order

words of the father
compelling respect

see us through
the raging storm

Diana Festa

the maker of meaning,
remembers past treasures

ploughs on
through seas
of loss

Eli Cohen p. 59

and suddenly
there is no line

and boundless being
fills all voids

no other side,
just belief

in time
(a moment)

to earth,

(the suspension
of disbelief)


back into terror

Helen Rosen

you can't know who you are
til you find out who you miss

Arlene King

ego moves
projecting ahead
without perspective

the wake
is someone else's

Carletta Joy Walker p. 60

the aftermath

Kihyun Lee

I know who I am
my core is not hidden

the purpose of being
is ceaselessly working
carrying family
forward and upward

mother knows her own worth
by success of the children
fulfilling the task:
the rise of the family

there's only one path
so easy to fail
to fall out of grace
in a life of devotion

my pain is unhidden
with sorrow-resolve
again I am climbing
my failure behind me

I carry my mother
I carry my purpose
forward and upward
my pride is unbroken

Robert Roth p. 62

Proudly I labor
bear my own being
expel my self
from an unchosen

Ripped loose
I tremble

we came from
has ever

Jim Story

entangling knot
no sword could cut through

from mother to son
cord strengthens its will

Kasim Omar Jerome

the wish
the fulfillment

Carol Jochnowitz

in a restaurant

drunk creep
wants a fight
with big man

mocking sex slur
to man's wife

adrenaline pumps
not his pussy
can't get away with it
kill him / break him / scream rage!

make a scene
or, just get up and leave

What should he do?
What should she do?

How would you
rise to the occasion?

Louis Servedio-Morales

cannot drown

it floats

through pools
of awareness

in life
we trust
our only

Richard Kostelanetz


Tom Savage

well enough
for wry

no need
for do-overs

no time
for repeats

Mike Vozick

Is this a joke?
Who decides?
And Then?

David Mills p. 67

how they hypnotize

Gene Brown

environmentalists lament
the fruit of unconstrained growth

sour grapes

see:Sour grapes mean vine needs a drastic pruning

Milton E. Polsky

buses full of
the species

Oliver Ogulnick

and where did they move
when they got old?
(remember, old people
really don't like winter)

Anthony Thomas de la Puente

I moved to 89 Christopher St. in 1966 after returning from grad school in Chicago. I had grown up in Coney Island. And Christopher St. felt like I was living directly on the Midway (minus the Wonder Wheel and other rides). My apartment was up one flight in the back. My neighbor with the front apartment was Marie, whose Italian family had lived in the Village since she was born. She was probably in her mid-70's -- a little older than I am now. She had lived in her present tiny apartment for more than fifty years, and raised children there. I was envious: she was paying less than $50 a month, while my sublet was costing me over $90. On nice days Marie would sit outside on the street, watching a changed world passing her by without notice. One day her apartment door broke at the hinge. The exposed iron was stamped with a date in the 1860s.

I remember in my legendary Village the rise of the psychedelic counter-culture (Flower Power), equal in its intense energy to the rising heat of pre-Stonewall gay life.

There was a store whose name was A Fly Can't Bird, But a Bird Can Fly. I believe that I saw Timothy Leary once give a talk there. (If not there, it was close-by.)

I have just tried to find a trace of this early venture in hippie capitalism, without success. But Google revealed to me the source of the name:

Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie,
A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply,
Cottleston, cottleston, cottleston pie.

- Winnie the Pooh

David Gurin

speeding in our service
metered hurt,

resentful rage

those within hearing
will not be spared

Marvin W. Schwartz p. 70

as cavity widens

rot deepens


Jens O. Magnussen

acrobats of complexity
in promiscuous

tumble through
common space

ignored and observed
you are the show

William Seaton

Does fancy rise
in avian mimicry
to fly and dive,
and then,
in reprise,
sing possession
of dawn's

"The truth's required
to make a warp and woof
with which the mind
may weave
a high-borne tale
to lift itself and
all the world

Suzanne Ironbiter

letting go
what you want
and need
to hold
in mirrored stillness

reflecting not desire
but "choice":

what is left
absent the option
of having

the scathing
sweetness etching

imprint mirrored
on two souls

Barbara Habenstreit

on the edge
before tide
water's domain:
a question

Mariano Del Rosario

Where I'm coming from:

Art is the answer to:
"What is the question?"

the path of escape
from certainty

closure (the refuge
offered by every system)

the question
yet another
new inside

from where
we grasp
as we were

surrounding limits
now contained

yet know
we cannot know

the unexpressed
to be

and then
... release

an emergency
waiting to happen

as art

The Art Scene:

for what I need
in the fashion-mart

not impossible
not promising

Victor Wallis

in common voice
spirits unite
to break the chains

lift every voice and sing
we shall overcome

(but, never forget:
the horst wessel song)

In solidarity

but also hear
new strains:
critical voices

In differing note and key
resounds a greater music
beyond harmony

Alma Karmina Eidus Kastan



(you can see
bubbles in the picture
replace the dot
over each i)


Rosemary Drescher

nightmare's lullaby:
the cradle will rock

Jasper Aquino

sick of waiting
the cure is you

David Mills p. 82

Middle Earth Transit Authority

meet you
at the last stop


Tatiana Susol

you lose what you want

so you can have
what you can't imagine

Robert Roth p. 83



too well

Robert Roth p. 86

Complacent Humor,
muse of aggression

never innocent
and rarely
fully conscious

acts out
-- the template
of conventional

the props:
a spoiler.

the empire
strikes back:

Can't you take a joke?

Robert Roth p. 87

we forget
what we cannot use,

what we need
not to know

and then
it happens

drown us
blow us away

and what remains

joy the fix
sings off
madness and pain

and tells all
we need to know

to go on

Vincent J. Tomeo

giving up
not even a choice

core being
missing nothing

in darkness

working with
what works

the poet

Andrea Cauthen

each name
a boundary
that must be
to own
one self

Art Gatti

with the


and finds


Ana Lopez-Betancourt

how much is life worth
to suffer pain
and disfigurement
loss after loss
and know that others
close others
must give and give and give
for your life to go on?

how much is life

without an outside Meaning,
a program
to save the world,
to carry forth the word,


simple repetitive
normal life
how much is it worth?

that spirit-force
which will not suffer

of comforting

but blindly
holds self
in place

how much?


The Sticker Dude

for the win
fuck the world

lickety split

in no time

the present

you know

is no more

David Neiditch

for the light of life

Joel Shatzky

walls are monuments
to hopelessness

vanity as security

closed within walls
pressure builds

cannot be contained

the enemies outside
are found within

and must be
and cannot be

to breathe,
spirits rebel
however long

until death grip,
the encroaching wall,
weakens and

the question is:
how will we live
in its ruins?

Marlene Terwilliger

in place of place

born again
in acceptance

one's own
prior orders

gut wit
to knit balance

but knowing
to embrace
once more


nets widening

and in play
in each other's

discover grace
all densities

the way

Marvin W. Schwartz (inside back cover)

to own
in a world
that seeks
to possess him

sábado, 16 de julio de 2011

PRISON BRIEFS, Safiya Bandele

Directed by brother Roberth Roth the free and diverse And Then 16 poetry magazine has just been released. Safiya Bandele and Borther Robert have been so generous in allowing us to publish Safiya Bandele's Prison Briefs.

Chayraqmi And Then poetry magazine qespirin. Chayqa waykinchik Roberth Rothmi qespichisqan. Chaypiqa ancha laya qellqaykunam kachkan. Wakinku sumallaqana, wakintaq chawacharaq. Manataq And Thenta imapas qukunchu, free kancha kasqan rayku. Qakutun sunquyyuq kasqankurayku Safiya Bandelepas waki Robertpas Prison Briefsta reqsichinaykuna qasiwanku.

Safiya Bandele

The Elements
It was November—late evening—dark, gray, windy. It seemed as if everything was scurrying—
bits of debris, people exiting the subway making their way home. K. and I often exited the same Brooklyn IRT subway stop and had on this day agreed to rendezvous at a tiny neighborhood coffee shop.
We had tea and conversation. Having just met a few months prior, we were (or I was) dancing around meaningful or honest conversation. We only knew for certain that we liked each other’s company. Especially each other’s Otherness.
This was (pre-Starbucks) Winter 1969.
17 years later—Spring 1986—a gray rainy day. No scurrying or bustling. All is relatively
quiet this weekday in the Visiting Room at GreenHaven Maximum Security Prison in upstate New York. Our 1969 friendship has steadily evolved along with our resolve to remain friends (if not lovers)—no matter what. This stance had seen us through decades of his incarceration and my parallel journey on the outside. On this visiting day, we had been outside in the Prison Yard before the rain began. Back inside, we sat for awhile then naturally, rhythmically gravitated towards the open door leading to the yard. I’m sure we were aware of the subversive nature of such a move, but as we stood side-by-side in the doorway watching and listening to the rain, “prison” seemed so far away. By this time, we had grown in loving friendship and emotional intimacy. A prison visiting room, however, is not the place for such expressions. Indeed, certain gestures can result in your visit being terminated – for that day or beyond. The guards watch, eyes hovering, and are quick to call the prisoner out if there is an “extended embrace”—a violation of prison rules. Prisoners must remain seated at their own (usually assigned) table—“no cross-visiting”, no going to the vending machines, no standing, no crossing the yellow line painted on the floor— someone called it “the demilitarized zone”.
At GreenHaven Prison, side-by-side in the doorway in the rain. How many such moments? Let’s see, We met in June 1969; he was arrested January 1974. We have had thousands of prison visits, telephone calls, and letters since his arrest, conviction, and sentencing (November 1974). 36 years and still counting. The fight for his release has been lengthy and complicated. But that story is for another medium.
The elements have always figured in planning the visits. The extended forecast becomes crucial—determining how to dress (layers for the upstate cold) or whether or not to travel if the forecast calls for snow or ice. The condition of the highways and the experience of the driver are major considerations.
Once travelling by Prison Van Service to Attica (an overnite trip) in bad weather, the bus skidded on the icy highway and went down an embankment. This was after the visit; we were about an hour outside the prison town, and as usual, we—the wives, girlfriends, mothers, and children were dozing. We awakened to motion and commotion, gasping and
yelling. Thankfully, the driver was able to control the bus so there were no injuries and we were able to climb out of the slightly vertical bus. The nice townspeople allowed us to wait until a replacement bus arrived.
So, snow and ice often remind me of prison highways enroute to prisons. I’ve sat in prison visiting rooms with K. looking out the window at the rain or snow, and inevitably, as the end of visiting time draws near, I begin to worry about the return trip home. During the visit, we might have sat forehead-to-forehead, scaling the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, but the guard’s announcement “Visiting Hours Are Now Over!” brings us back to prison reality. Separation reality. The reality of competing emotions: not wanting the visit to end and wanting the visit to end. Ready to escape K’s probing eyes and questions but not ready to deal with the return trip home. The prison van trips to and from were frequently high drama. That, too, is another story for another medium.
Sunshine: Image: riding the prison van early morning, departing Brooklyn in darkness,
dozing, awakening to a beautiful sunrise, and watching until the van speeds onward. Image: sitting in the visiting room near a window with the sun coming in directly on K.’s face and eyes - a beautiful sight and feeling.
Water. Wet. Back in the day (early 80’s) we could sit next to our loved one with arms around shoulders—an allowable gesture. K. and I shared many intense intimate moments. Occasionally, the emotional feelings were so strong I had to stifle a moan as a delicious orgasm made its way forward, the wetness coming through my underclothes and clothes, ending up in a spreading ‘juice’ stain on the fabric-covered visiting room chair. Afterwards, I would arise shakily from the seat and head for the bathroom to reassemble my emotions. As soon as I stood up and saw the seat, I knew that circle was duplicated on my dress. “Is it…?” I would ask K. anxiously, not wanting anyone to see it. He would nod, smiling, affirmatively. These prison relationship erotic accounts are sometimes referred to as “wet panties” stories, which some editors prefer, being less interested in our battles against the state’s prison policies and prison injustices.
The Prison Bus Trip
The night before the visit was anxiety-laden: “Lord, please let my alarm go off in time so I won’t miss the van”. There was a group camaderie as we shared that peculiar language and culture of prison rules and regulations, parole denials and releases, prison engagements and marriages, infidelity, and gossip about “that bitch who had the nerve to come see somebody’s else’s man on the last visit. Sometimes a woman was arrested on the spot at the prison for attempting to bring in contraband (generally drugs) though contraband can sometimes be defined as a greeting card with glued cutouts.
Most prisoners prefer to be locked up close to New York City so they can have more visits. The upstate prisons,—e.g. Attica, Clinton—are a 10-hour drive. In the late 1970’s when K. was at Attica, I would take the Prison Bus to see him. This adventure is repeated
weekend after weekend. Go to 59th St. Columbus Circle in Manhattan on any Friday or Saturday night and you will see hundreds of (primarily) women of color and their children waiting to board one of the buses headed upstate. My first such trip to Attica was filled with incredible anxiety and tormenting questions: Will I be able to see him? Will he be in the box? Will they turn me away for some reason? (we learn to wear wireless sport bras to avoid setting off the metal detector) Will all the items in the package I’ve brought be allowed in? Will he and I have an argument about something he accused me of? A lady vendor boards the bus at 59th Street selling items to help us get through the long night: Tylenol PM, pillows, blankets, bottled water, batteries, “Vibrators”? she asks, to laughter. I just pray for relative quiet. An all-night talker is my worst nightmare. In order to look and feel fresh and refreshed, we wear old clothes to sleep in and change at a “Rest Stop” near the prison. There we would pile into the Ladies Room and change clothes, brush our teeth and comb our hair. The transformations are always remarkable—even to ourselves.
59th Street
One night we’re gathered at 59th Street waiting to board the prison bus. (There are generally
four or five 45—passenger seat buses). A Central Park Horse/buggy clomps past with a group of giggly young women, likely tourists. As they slow down near our group, one sings out gaily—“Hey, where y’all going?” We all just stare at her. She asks again, laughing,
“Hey, whoo whoo, where you going?” No one answers. It was strange. We were bound, not so much out of secrecy, as knowing she could never understand: To prison?
Another time, a group of 4-5 dressed-up folks passed us and asked “what’s going on?”. We were silent for a moment, just staring at them, then someone in our group responded in a serious tone - “We’re auditioning for American Idol.” The passersby smiled but looked skeptical. I imagine we were a somewhat motley crew, dressed as we were for eight hours of sleep on a bus, our “change-of-clothes-to-meet-our-lover” neatly folded awaiting those breathless moments of transformation. Of course, there was sometimes tension and a little unpleasantness when a woman took too long to change. Eyes would roll and you could almost hear the remark: “All that time and she still don’t look much better.”
The Men’s Room
When the bus had a Bathroom Stop at some gas station where the bathrooms were outside on the side of the building, we would line up shivering in the cold, having dashed from our slumber. We would commandeer the Men’s Room since it didn’t make sense for it to be empty while so many of us had to jump from one foot to the next and wait with our impatient bladders. Often, when a man approached the Men’s Room, we would say sternly: “You can’t go in there- a lady is in there”. The man would look at the sign—Men’s Room—look at our glaring faces, and decide to pee someplace else

miércoles, 13 de julio de 2011


El treinta de Julio podremos ver y escuchar la conjuncion de dos talentos del acervo musical Peruano en la


Saturday July 30, 7pm Baruch Performing Arts Center 55 Lexington Avenue

Todas las Sangres: Peru, One Country Many Nations

Indigenous poetry meets anthropology with traditional and original compositions
Contemporary and Traditional Peruvian music

This Peruvian ensemble is the result of a collaborative process between composer and pianist Carlos Bernales Vilca and soprano and anthropologist Sylvia Falcón.

Inspired by indigenous people and novelist Jose Maria Arguedas’ masterpiece ‘Todas las Sangres’ (translated as ‘All Bloods’), the concert features poetry in Quechua and Amazonian languages set to original and traditional compositions.

Traditional and Contemporary Peruvian Music by one of Peru's brightest sopranos and anthropologists Sylvia Falcon, and Master composer-pianist Carlos David Bernales Vilca.

A must see for Music Lovers, followers of Latin American Culture, and all who want to celebrate our beloved world wonder: Machu Picchu.

New York, NY - Iati Theater presents its fourth annual 2-week festival "PAM 2011" (Performing Arts Marathon 2011). The festival wll feature the musical concert "Todas las Sangres (All Bloods). Peru. One Country, Many Nations." for voice and piano at the Baruch Performing Arts Center, 55 Lexington Avenue (at 25 street) in Manhattan, on Saturday, July 30, 2011.

PAM 2011 dedicated to promoting Latin culture and established Latin artists, features 12 cutting-edge performances across a two week span offering the City's best of dance, music and theater. "Todas las Sangres" celebrates the 100th birth anniversary of peruvian writer, anthropologist and ethnologist Jose Maria Arguedas Altamirano, through a select repertoire of Peruvian traditional and contemporary music which nurtures our power to love one another and mother earth. Sylvia Falcon and Carlos Bernales will perform songs from Peru's diverse and rich musical panorama encompassing genres from the Coast, Andean Mountains and the Forest such as carnaval, wayno, zamacueca, tondero, yaravi among others that were made famous by world renowned singers Yma Sumac and Luis Alva Talledo. They will also debut some of their latest works inspired heavily by the peruvian musical tradition.

"Todas las Sangres" will be performed:

Saturday, July 30th at 7pm.

Tickets are $20 online and $25 at the door. To buy online, go to www.iatitheater.org. Tickets for seniors and students are $18 online and $20 at the theater door.

More information: www.iatitheater.org, www.sylviafalcon.com


Carlos David Bernales Vilca: Peruvian composer and instrumentalist Carlos Bernales has recently been awarded the NY ACE (Association of Latin Entertainment Critics) 2010 award for his original composition and live music performance for a contemporary production of "Oh!Yantay" by Rasgos theatre company of NY. Bernales has written music for solo, chamber and symphonic orchestra; for theatre (Repertorio Espanol, La Tea), television (NBC, HITN) and radio (WBAI). His works have been performed by the Mannes College Orchestra, the Americas Ensemble from Julliard, and he himself has played at venues such as the United Nations 'Dag Hammarskjold' Auditorium, Mannes College, Queens College, Rutgers University, Flushing Town Hall, Peruvian National Conservatory. among others.

Sylvia Falcon: Sylvia is one of Peru's leading andean voices who has been working for the past few years with one of the greatest masters of peruvian andean guitar, Daniel Kirwayo. Their duo has resulted in an exquisite CD production entitled "Killa Lluqsimun" (2007). With this intimate format Sylvia has captured different audiences in different parts of Peru, in each performance she entrances the public with her genuine indigenous sonority, conveying with the power of her voice the spirit of the peruvian andes.
As social scientist, she leads a multicultural educational project for the appreciation and conservation of Quechua language through music.



Get your tickets at:


(212) 5056757

Find Sylvia Falcón

and Carlos Bernales Vilca

in facebook and youtube

martes, 12 de julio de 2011


Nuestro amigo Luis Benitez, pana tambien del brother Robert Roth, nos da la noticia de la publicacion bilingue de un libro suyo en USA. Comparte tambien un hermoso y sabio poema "El pescador de perlas", que nos cae como anillo al dedo, con la dificil sencillez de las cosas profundas, siempre. Ama hina kaspaykichik chay poemata leyiykamuchik. Ama qella kachu yaw pasna maqtakuna.

La editorial Ravenna Press, de Seattle, EE.UU. (www.ravennapress.com) acaba de editar una antología del poeta argentino Luis Benítez (Buenos Aires, 1956), titulada "A Heron in Buenos Aires. Selected Poems" (ISBN: 978-0983598237). La selección y traducción de los poemas de Benítez fue realizada por el poeta estadounidense Cooper Renner y el volumen se cierra con un ensayo epilogal de la traductora argentina Carmen Vasco Fernández Morenhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifo. Disponible en www.amazon.com, la información proporcionada por Ravenna Press señala que es esta la primera antología, editada en inglés, abarcativa de toda la obra de Benítez. Por su parte, la revista española de crítica literaria La Biblioteca Imaginaria , en su edición del 7/7/2011 concluye su reseña manifestando que: "A Heron in Buenos Aires. Selected Poems sintetiza la obra de Luis Benítez, un escritor y una poesía ya fundamentales para la lengua española”.


Luis Benítez ha recibido numerosos premios nacionales e internacionales por su obra literaria. Sus 32 libros de poesía, ensayo, narrativa y teatro han sido publicados en Argentina, Chile, España, Estados Unidos, México, Venezuela y Uruguay. Es miembro de la Sociedad de Escritoras y Escritores de la Argentina (SEA), de la Academia Iberoamericana de Poesía (EE.UU.), de la World Poetry Society (EE.UU.), de World Poets (Grecia) y de Poetry Press (India). Ha recibido el Premio Internacional de Poesía La Porte des Poètes (París, 1991); el Premio Joven Literatura de la Fundación Amalia Lacroze de Fortabat (Buenos Aires, 1996); el Premio Internacional de Ficción (Montevideo, 1996), el Premio Tuscolorum di Poesia (Italia, 1996) y el Premio Internacional para Obra Publicada “Macedonio Palomino” (México, 2008), entre otros.


Esta tarde y parte de la noche
volví a sumergirme en el espeso mar
donde flotamos los seres y las cosas.
Bajé por perlas que mostrar a los hombres
que temen siquiera el riesgo de la orilla.
Esta tarde y parte de la noche
estuve en ese silencio, en esas profundidades
donde el más infinito placer sería disolverse
y supe que en todos los caminos
hay monstruos para quien los teme.
Llegué nadando adonde no se ama ni se odia,
sencillamente se flota sobre un eterno presente
y todo lo que miras es tu contemporáneo:
nada más traen las olas del atrás y el adelante.
Tomé allí esta perla y ahora te la ofrezco.
Pero cuando quise volver,
no vi a ningún hombre en la orilla.
No vi orilla. Todo es el mar.
Esos que temen la orilla
no saben que caminan en el mar.


This evening and partway into the night
I sank again into the dense sea
where we beings and things float.
I went down for pearls to show to men
afraid even to come to the shore.
This evening and partway into the night
I was in that silence, in those depths
where the most immeasurable pleasure would be
to dissolve oneself, and I knew that on every path
there are monsters for those who fear them.
I swam to that place where
you neither love nor hate,
you merely float over an eternal present,
and everything you see is your contemporary:
the tides bring nothing from the past or future.
There I found this pearl, and now I offer it to you.
But when I wanted to return,
I saw no one on the shore.
I saw no shore. Everything is sea.
Those who are afraid of the shore
do not know they are walking on the sea.

(Versión al inglés del



Israel Julca

¿Porqué se van?

En los países de origen, debido a las pocas oportunidades de conseguir un trabajo estable que represente un ingreso semanal o mensual promedio; o cuando se logra obtener un trabajo, los salarios son muy bajos. Todo esto hace que la situacion de vida se vuelva incierta. Estas condiciones se unen a la conciencia de pertenecer a una sociedad pobre -- carentes de servicios basicos en muchos casos -- o comunidades involucradas en programas de emergencia alimentaria (“olla común”). También la conciencia que sus gobiernos son gobiernos que prometen y no cumplen, “expuestos al soborno” y sumidos en la corrupcion en todos los niveles. Todo esto hace que los pobladores sueñen que hay un pais con mejores oportunidades económicas y como modelo de vida; volviéndose candidatos en potencia para emigrar.

Ganando el pan y perdiendo dignidad cada día en el destino…

Estos últimos años el abuso al trabajador indocumentado se ha incrementado. Esto es debido a que muchas pequeñas y medianas empresas (permiten trabajadores indocumentados) han tenido que cerrar temporalmente o desaparecer. Entonces el reducido mercado de trabajo se encuentra abarrotado de oferta de mano de obra barata, lo que hace que los empleadores negocien precios bajos de salario (salarios ilegales), con extensas horas de trabajo, así como el maltrato verbal y físico (gritos, insultos, empujones). Se preguntan dos trabajadores latinos que decidieron dejar el trabajo: “Entonces quién se quedo allí? Juan, el mexicano? Tenía que ser así… esos mexicanos se dejan tratar como animales”.

La ingeniería de la explotación al trabajador indocumentado se muestra en diversas formas. Por ejemplo, los dueños de restaurantes que tienen un trabajador indocumentado con una alta productividad, pueden pagarle más “propinas”. Estos pagos promueven una ficción de “estabilidad laboral” porque no figuran en los libros ni se adhieren a ningún seguro laboral. Además, al no establecerse los horarios de salida claramente (hora final de trabajo), el trabajador inmigrante tiene que esperar el consentimiento del empleador para abandonar la estación de trabajo. De este modo, cualquier tiempo adicional no forma parte del tiempo extraordinario remunerado y no se respetan los días establecidos para el pago de los salarios. Esto trae como consecuencia el retardo de los mismos, por ejemplo, una o dos semanas. En estas circunstancias el trabajador solo le queda acostumbrarse, porque si reclama “mucho” pierde el trabajo, no teniendo otra opción que escoger:

- “Cuánto te deben?” le pregunta su amigo, el responde
- “Casi cuatro semanas”,
- “Porqué no lo demandas?”
- “Es que si no, no tengo más trabajo”

Muchos trabajadores en el sector construcción ya están acostumbrados a que el empleador le deba, “ya cuando vuelva a tener más trabajo me llamará, entonces mejor espero”.

La regularidad con la que usan estas maneras de manipular al trabajador inmigrante representa la característica principal de este modo de explotación, presentes en los sectores agrícola, construcción, y servicios e.g. restaurantes, tiendas. Es así que este sistema basado en el “estado de derecho” protege e estimula a los empleadores para contratar trabajadores inmigrantes indocumentados. Estos producen una mejor rentabilidad así como un precio final más bajo para el consumidor, conveniente para el pueblo norte-americano, pero en detrimento de los mínimos derechos laborales para el trabajador inmigrante indocumentado.

…pero ganando metros a la pobreza y dignidad en el lugar de origen…

A pesar de todo el inmigrante ya está “instalado” en los EEUU, quedando atrás todos los riesgos y sacrificios que significó todo el recorrido de cruzar la frontera. Ahora ya empiezan a enviar dinero a sus países de origen logrando las familias disponer para la construcción de sus casas, los muebles del hogar mejoran, los artefactos eléctricos son más modernos. También el “status” de esas familias “mejora”; en la comunidad barrial son mirados como personas sujetos de crédito y gozan de servicios también con otros niveles de privilegio, “logré que me esperen un mes más en mi crédito, eso es porque saben que mi hijo está en los EEUU y me manda dinero” “Puede llevarlo nomás vecina le dicen en el mercado – cuenta la señora a su hermana”… ”Mira antes me hacían muchos problemas por fiarme, eso es porque ahora saben que mi esposo está en los EEUU”, “Señora el servicio de parqueo es solo (usted sabe) de lunes a viernes pero por esta vez se lo cuidaremos”. “Esto es increíble” comenta la señora dueña de un carro (que lo usa para el servicio de taxi), “lo que pasa es que saben que mi esposo está en los EEUU y él decía a los vecinos que compraría más carros una vez que esté allá”.

Cambios en la sociabilidad en la ciudad de destino

Ya al pasar los años el inmigrante enfrenta cambios causados por la situación de ilegalidad en que viven, y con el caro anhelo de satisfacer sus necesidades afectivas – al estar lejos de sus familias y no encontrar la forma de tenerlos cerca. Es en este momento en que la voluntad se distiende; el desánimo (inconciente) y la ansiedad lo hacen candidato al consumo de alcohol o drogas (marihuana); así como las visitas a discotecas, bares y al mundo de la prostitución. Estos hábitos se convierten en una opción a veces inevitable que poco a poco se van incorporando como forma de vida.

Las expectativas de felicidad y de tener un estilo de vida más placentero es posible para las personas que logran incorporarse y vivir dentro de ambientes con personas del mismo barrio, comunidades religiosas, lengua, preferencia musical, etc. Es en estos ambientes que el “Amor”, la conversación fácil, “dejar pasar las horas”, las fiestas e.g. “polladas” para los peruanos, son muy importantes en la vida de los inmigrantes. Es alrededor de esta dinámica que se hace más llevadera la situación ilegal en el “estado de derecho” al que están obligados a acostumbrarse a vivir.

La economía y política de la inmigración dan mucho que desear…

La “gran meta” para el mercado de los EEUU es reducir los costos laborales para seguir competitivo a nivel mundial. El gobierno se pregunta, reformar, “negociar” o destruir la UNION? ¿Cómo?

Entonces, ¿qué pasará con los inmigrantes si no tienen importancia en la estructura del capital de este país? Los inmigrantes solo son importantes en forma indirecta, a través del “voto latino”. ¿Que pasará con el voto latino si la situación económica empeora?

Que este país necesite mano de obra barata para producir un producto final más competitivo, no es novedad; así como para ganar las elecciones hay necesidad de capturar el “voto latino”. Lo escandaloso es el pensamiento político ‘extremista’ manifestado por los dos partidos únicos. Por un lado, pasan de una posición de liderazgo en defensa de una “Reforma Migratoria” (Mc Kein- Kennedy) a la posición de mostrar los inmigrantes como delincuentes, sujetos a ser expulsados por ser indocumentado (T-party). Elaboran toda una arquitectura legal para demostrar el estado criminal del inmigrante, con la capacidad de convencer y capturar la aceptación de la población.

Por otro lado, la posición “principista” o “doctrinaria” que encarna la reivindicación del derecho del trabajador (que incluye el trabajador inmigrante indocumentado), pero que cuando se ve amenazada por la falta de aceptación en la votacion, automáticamente sus defensores cambian de retórica. De esta manera, la ilegalidad se convierte en la costumbre irónica de este sistema “Democrático”, donde capturar el “voto latino” es la matemática de la ciencia política.

Entretanto, la realidad de no tener acceso a derechos fundamentales es el pan de cada día del inmigrante indocumentado. El inmigrante se acostumbra al espejismo de la esperanza de la legalidad. Y cuando esto no se hace realidad, la “promesa incumplida” se siente pensando en los “legisladores-traidores”. El inmigrante indocumentado no tiene la capacidad de percibir el juego de estos maléficos dioses del congreso que solo están preocupados en cómo saciar sus apetitos de poder político, no importándoles en lo mínimo los derechos fundamentales de la humanidad y, en particular, del trabajador inmigrante indocumentado.

En el debate del escepticismo del “Estado de derecho”? Una clara contradicción aparece por la conveniencia de tener mano de obra barata dentro de condiciones ilegales -- explicadas en los parrafos anteriores -- y el cuidado y apoyo que brindan a los niños nacidos en los EEUU. Por un lado, el sistema trata de mantener a los inmigrantes indocumentados fuera de los derechos civiles fundamentales, mientras que por el otro debe educar a sus hijos nacidos en este país. Lo paradójico es que esta contradicción no se resuelve, porque cuando estos jóvenes terminan la universidad y deban acceder al proceso de su titilación, no son permitidos hacerlo. Por consiguiente, ellos tampoco pueden obtener los puestos de trabajo que le corresponden. El círculo vicioso continua, demostrando cómo esta sociedad establece leyes de acuerdo a sus intereses económicos y no basados en el supuesto “estado de derecho” que se pregona.

Cambios y diferencias de status legal en el país de destino

El inmigrante que ingresó con visa pero que se hizo indocumentado al estar más tiempo de lo permitido por el servicio de inmigración, y acumuló tiempo de estadía y decidió quedarse, puede arreglar su situación de ilegalidad. Este inmigrante se casa con un(a) ciudadano(a) americano(a), consecuentemente regulariza su status legal y puede acceder a todos los servicios, instituciones educativas, y trabajos en EEUU.

Los inmigrantes tipificados como TPS (Temporary Protected Status) y los inmigrantes indocumentados pertenecen a dos historias diferentes. Se diferencian no solamente por el acceso a diferentes niveles y escalas de trabajo, sino también por las posibilidades de construir una familia. Los trabajadores TPS pueden acceder a una licencia de conducir, ejercer trabajos en oficina, consultorías, y entidades públicas y privadas e.g. colegios, universidades. Por lo tanto, ellos pueden tener una regularidad en sus remuneraciones y horarios, permitiéndoles estudiar o especializarse, y por lo tanto mejorar su situación económica y status dentro de la sociedad de destino.

Los sueños, sueños son…

El recuerdo de lo que significó (y lo que aun significa hoy) en los hogares de origen, la noticia de saber que alguien puede emigrar a los EEUU es una alegría incomparable, es lograr un sueño casi imposible. No importa si esto significa sacrificar todos los ahorros, propiedades, hacerse de deudas, etc. Es conocido también que muchas parejas enamoradas prefieren cruzar la frontera para tener sus hijos aquí y así las familias puedan disfrutar de las ayudas económicas que los EEUU brindan a los niños y las madres.

Sin embargo, al pasar los años, aparece el temor semi-conciente que no hay otra cosa que “acostumbrarse” y dejar que los sueños de sus hijos se hagan realidad en un futuro desconocido. Esto es algo que no se dice pero que es elocuente al mirar de cerca la práctica del inmigrante indocumentado: trabajar con denuedo para hacer estudiar a sus hijos, así como cubrir todas las necesidades de la familia en lo posible.

Mientras los sueños de haber salido de sus países todavía quedan como una dulce canción en algún lugar, la realidad cuotidiana es que quedaron totalmente olvidados por las circunstancias y el paso de los años. Esos sueños quedaron absorbidos por una sociedad que lo único que necesita del inmigrante es su fuerza de trabajo, mostrando un interés convenido al no atender sus necesidades de legalidad.

…pero el más caro sueño aun vive

Ante esta situación, las organizaciones de apoyo humanitario y las comunidades religiosas hacen mucho para mantener un mañana de esperanza muy importante para que el inmigrante no caiga en la desesperacion y sea presa de organizaciones violentas, tanto en el campo delincuencial (el inmigrante o los hijos de inmigrantes en las gangas) o en el campo político (proselitismo de organizaciones terroristas).

Las ideas libertarias están en el pueblo, eso explica porque el discurso del partido democrático ganó las elecciones presidenciales. Los apetitos de poder egoístas de los partidos políticos han provocado un descontento general en el pueblo americano. Es por eso que este es el momento de re-entonar la dulce canción que guarda los recuerdos del sueño de los inmigrantes que los trajo a este país, incorporándose en centros de estudios de carreras técnicas, del estudio del idioma Inglés, así como educando a sus hijos.

También los inmigrantes son pro-activos al cambio del pensamiento político que se está forjando desde organizaciones como el Movimiento Cívico de respeto a los derechos fundamentales del ser humano; periodistas independientes… Son los tiempos de confiar con más fuerza en nosostros mismos (americanos e inmigrantes), en nuestras organizaciones cívicas de apoyo a la comunidad, en los proyectos vecinales de actividades culturales (bibliotecas), en los círculos de estudios de las universidades, así como en los jóvenes y sus comunidades parroquiales.

viernes, 8 de julio de 2011

World Economical and Social Survey

El DESA Develoment Policy and Analysis Division de las Naciones Unidas acaba de publicar este importante informe, cuyas palabras inicles ponemos a continuacion. Hawansuyo agradece a AJ, por mantenernos al tanto. Este es un material crucial para la planificacion estrategica de los futuros gobiernos no solo peruanos sino del tukuy planeta

World Economic and Social Survey 2011:
The Great Green Technological Transformation

Enormous improvements in human welfare have taken place over the past two centuries, but these have been unevenly distributed and have come at a lasting cost of degradation of our natural environment. At the same time, we cannot stop the engines of growth, because much more economic progress is still needed in order for people in developing countries to have a decent living. But using the traditional environmentally irresponsible development paths is no longer defensible. To meet both the objectives of conquering poverty and protecting the environment, the World Economic and Social Survey 2011 calls for a complete transformation of technology on which human economic activity is based.

The "great green technological transformation" that the Survey champions will have to be completed in the next 30 to 40 years, that is, twice as fast as it took to accomplish previous major technological transitions. Because of the limited time frame, Governments will need to play a much more active and stimulating role to accelerate the green energy transformation. The Survey details new policy directions and major investments in developing and scaling up clean energy technologies, sustainable farming and forestry techniques, climate proofing of infrastructure and reducing non-bio-degradable waste production.

chaychata hawaykuchik

jueves, 7 de julio de 2011

Pesentacion del libro "Escritura Quechua en el Peru /" Julio Noriega

Este libro, que recoje los aportes pioneros de "Buscando una Tradicion Poetica Quechua en el Peru", publicado en Florida en 1995, es una lectura fundamental kikin llaqtapi. Su publicacion en el Peru era necesaria desde el momento en que fue escrito tocando temas que siguen siendo actuales y sobre los cuales Julio Noriega fue de los primeros en reflexionar en primera persona: como andino, quechua hablante e indigena. Felicitaciones al profesor y wayki Julio Noriega por la claridad de sus palabras. Kunanqa nan llaqatanchikpi qellaqaski musyaspikas hina kachkan. Kusa.

Manto Paracas - Calle Grande 9 / Fredy Roncalla

Copy left and right Fredy Roncalla

miércoles, 6 de julio de 2011

Familia A film by Alberto Herskovits and Mikael Wiström / Carolina Amoruso

A film by Alberto Herskovits and Mikael Wiström

By Carolina Amoruso
Editor of IMDiversity.com Hispanic-American Village

Familia is a refreshingly quotidian narrative that penetrates the very essence of family life. The third in a series of documentaries following one Peruvian family, moved on to Lima from abject mountain poverty, Familia says a number of things, tender and tough, hopeful and irreconcilable,about this much flawed social unit for which we’ve yet to find a more fulfilling alternative.

The filmmakers, Alberto Herskovits and Mikael Wiström, track the Barrientos family in a fume,litter and humanity choked barrio of Chorrillos. Nati, the matriarch, has decided to leave for Spain where a job awaits her. She will send money home to Daniel, her life partner; their two sons, Nataniel, considerably younger than his siblings and a whippersnapping force to reckon with, and Dany, old enough to know better...; an unsettled adult daughter, Judith; Azucena, Dany’s wife, and Guillermo, their pre-schooler. They live in one forbidding new and bare-boned home, and all
struggle, in his or her own way and collectively, to subsist.

With the intention to remain for only 9 months, Nati must extend her stay in Spain to a year and a half while she overtaxes her physical resources and continues to devotedly send money and call home. She returns to find a new, modernized kitchen and Dany’s marriage busted up. Nati is also new. She’s seen the rigors of immigration and racism in her little corner of Spain and has
been unsettled by it, she finds new pleasure in being able to afford luxuries like stylish shoes, and she’s made concert with a community of women, too.

She seems to engage now with her family in a more detached way, although her commitment to them, and her caring, never seem to waver. At the same time, after nearly 30 years of travail raising children and trying to make ends meet, she’s tired and needs the breathing room, even if it
means isolation and great physical strain.

After seeking the council of Judith and Daniel and weighing her own needs and obligation, Nati announces her decision to return to Spain. It’s extraordinary to see a family unit that’s had to devote nearly all of its resources to survival—Nati and Daniel first found each other scavenging at a dumpsite—capable of so much introspection and honesty towards each other. Dany, who’s got a serious drinking problem, along with one of general disrespect for woman, is the befogged

Writ large, and imperatively, Familia cries out an indictment of globalization, of the economic tyranny that forces people from their land, their loved ones, and into an alien world where their pockets will be half full but their dignity running on empty. Familia also offers, through Nati’s employment as a hotel chambermaid and Dany’s atrocious behavior towards Azucena--as well as Daniel’s thickheadedness as to why Azucena must leave--further proof that women in underserved societies have enjoyed precious fewer fruits of women’s empowerment than we, living in the metropolitan countries, have. There’s a hint, in Nati’s more independent demeanor
now that she’s been to Spain, and her newly-found consort with other women, that her sense of self as a woman is changing, too.

The redefined and more intense bonding of Daniel and Nataniel after his mother’s departures (Nata’s loyalty to his mother never wavers; he seems to show that his precocious soul can expand with the unfolding situation as he matures); and the true affection, built upon their shared, hard history, that Nati and Daniel ultimately have for each other, preclude us from faulting her the decision to leave once again. Nati’s decision does not compromise the family’s strength: by her physical absence, the others must rely on their own strengths to maintain cohesiveness and plug

Lima proves an undeniable personage in this film, seen through the claustrophobia of a city grown way beyond its design; the smog and dust, stirred up like trouble by the mere suggestion of vitality; the ubiquitous clotheslines, their streamers of handwash testaments to immuring drudgery, and the bare, sweating concrete walls that dubiously signal well-being. The final scene may at first appear trite, but it is pristine and tells of the city as well as the family: after Nati flies off, Nata and Daniel look out, through the mist to the Pacific. We have seen the filth ahttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifnd dire
conditions at their backs that know that there is filth and oppression at their backs as they gaze out beyond surf and bare rock struggling to penetrate the mist, searching for the other side of life’s vista. It is an ambiguous view that, through Nati, and others like her, is slowly shifting before them.

La Familia's webikanchata qawaykuchik

lunes, 4 de julio de 2011


Por Armando Arteaga, tomado, sin su permiso del wayki de Terra ignea, de un zorro que se niega a ser warmi suwa

Alguna vez estuve en Vito.

Un comunero llamado Telesforo Choquehuamaní Llacta me contó esta historia de cómo un zorro traído de Marccacca entabló una rara amistad con Don Nicolás Yucra Chaquere.

Al zorro lo habían encontrado chiquito por la peñolería del camino a Imalla Pata.
-Ven, zorrito, vamonos a mi casa- le dijo el comunero Telesforo. Y se lo llevó abrazado, y era querido el zorrito por su trompita y sus orejas paradas.
El zorrito se hizo zorro, y hubo que meterlo en una jaula para que no se escapara. Y al zorro le decían Telesforo.
Por esos días regresó a la comunidad de Vito (Antabamba), Don Nicolás Yucra. Venía viejo, renegado y sin mujer.
Se instaló en la casa de su padre que había abandonado desde que su madre murió por la impresión de aquel terremoto lejano que destruyó todo el pueblo. La casa estaba intacta, pero con las paredes cuarteadas. Esa casa nadie la había vuelto abrir, una “percca” había clausurado para siempre la puerta, hasta que rejonguñando Don Nicolás la tiró abajo.
-Aquí voy a volver a vivir- avisó al prioste de la Iglesia San Pedro de Vito, al carpintero Inocencio Félix Ana María que guardaba celosamente la llave del candado grande y antiguo del portón de guarango que solo se abría en las fiestas.
-Bueno será que hayas regresado. Vive allí nomás -dijo también Cecilio Zela Villavicencio, varayoc, juez de aguas, cantor de huaylías, y muy acomedido en las herranzas-.
-Molle qulli patachapi, qulli sara mote cutucucha- dando vivas, excalmó Faustino Gaspar Arone, el capataz de las kaswas y convidado de las taurinas-. Se emborracharon varios comuneros ese día para festejar la buena llegada del retornante.
Pronto Don Nicolás escogió mujer joven y nueva que tomó por esposa, era una mozalbete bonita de Kepanza, le regaló tres caballos, dos vacas y cinco gallinas, era un fortunón todo ese dote.
Llegó Don Nicolás y tumbó las piedras viejas, les contaba. Y nuevamente esa casa volvía a ser de vida recta y cristiana. Nunca más los murciélagos volverían a posar invernales sus uñas en el ichu seco y las tejas rojas de su casa vieja y oscura.
Se le veía al viejo Nicolás muy contento dando vueltas raras en la sala de su casa inaugurada. Y hasta tocaba el arpa con un viejo violinista de Silco que lo visitaba.
Y su mujer le cocinaba. Era un prodigio la vida, profusa y profética, para el vejete.
-Este zorro se lo voy a dar a Don Nicolás- dijo el comunero Telesforo. Entre astutos se comprenderán.
El zorro empezó a vivir con Don Nicolás: Y en el pueblo de Vito había pobreza, siempre ha costado allí mucho la pobreza. Pero ahora, esta vez, la pobreza era fuerte y doblegaba a los hombres de carácter, a cualquiera.
Don Nicolás era un viejo duro, tenía su propia manera de ser.
-No voy a morirme de hambre en este pueblo- dijo.
Se fue al corral y buscó al zorro. Lo sacó de su encierro.
-¿Tú, también te mueres de hambre, zorro, hombre, Telesforo?.
Don Nicolás lo miró a los ojos al zorrito. Tienes que ir a robar comida –le dijo-.
Primero el zorro no quiso ir. Me pueden matar, reclamó, los hombres de esta comunidad son buenos cazadores. He visto como atrapan a las viscachas, hasta los niños se regodean con el añaz, matándolo.
-No voy a ir- dijo el zorro.
-No seas zonzo- le respondió Don Nicolás. Te vas a morir de hambre, y no te voy a defender, ni ayudar. Te voy a botar de la casa. Morirás.
Hasta que el zorro se convenció.
Para empezar, le dijo Don Nicolás, vas a robar gallina.
-Trae una gallina- le dijo Don Nicolás, mientras le abría la jaula.
El zorro se fue por las casas de los vecinos nomás y trajo una gallina suculenta.
Para entonces, el zorro vino hasta el corral con la gallina. Era una gallina negra entre sus dientes, y él dijo a Don Nicolás: ahora sí, pero quiero que hagas gallina frita, no como carne cruda de gallina.
Y don Nicolás mandó a preparar a su mujer gallina frita, y el zorro comió y se quedó dormido –nuevamente- en su jaula.
Pasaron los días y había hambre en el pueblo, y Don Nicolás le dijo al zorro:
-Anda, trae carnero.
Y el zorro se fue por los corrales de Huaquirca y trajo carnero.
El zorro le dijo a Don Nicolás: prepara carnero al palo.
Y el zorro y el hombre comieron carnero al palo rociada con cerveza.
Y el hambre seguía rondando en el pueblo de Vito: No había ni qué comer, los carnavales y las fiestas del Patrón Santiago, San Nicolás, y San Marcos, ya no eran fiestas sino tristezas, ni los chihuacos llegaban a sus ramas viteñas para alegrar las costumbres añejas de los arrieros y los chacareros. Era para ponerse a llorar.
-Anda, zorrito, anda, Telesforo, trae vaca.
Y el zorro trajo vaca. Y comieron vaca. Y después trajo llama, y comieron llama.
Hasta que un día se cansaron de tanto comer. Don Nicolás estaba harto de comer vaca frita, charqui de llama con olluco, charqui con papas y queso.
Pero, el viejo Don Nicolás estaba loco y harto de comer, solo hablaba con el zorro, y el pueblo de Vito estaba preocupado porque un zorro o un puma robaba de noche sus gallinas, sus carneros, sus vacas, sus cuches, sus llamas, y hasta sus cuyes, ya no quedaba ganado para robar en este pueblo de Vito, y el zorro se había ido a robar por Sabayno y Mollebamba, hasta por Pampamarka lo habían visto al zorro. El abigeato había llegado con fuerza a estos pueblos de Apurímac.
El viejo Nicolás arrebatado, le dijo –entonces- al zorro:
-Ya no quiero comer ave de corral. Quiero comer mujer.
-Anda, zorrito, tráeme mujer. No ves que soy viudo.
Pero ya no, el zorro no le hizo caso, una vez que Don Nicolás lo dejó libre de la jaula para que vaya por las punas buscando mujer, y el zorro ni loco que estuviese.
Ya no regresó más, se perdió por las punas frías de Laymiña y Caskañe... Algunos comuneros en las faenas de siembra y en variadas veladas de creencias rutinarias del “cargado del palo” hablan por hablar, todos dicen haber visto al zorro yéndose muy contento con la mujer joven de Don Nicolás.
-Por eso el viejo vive solo, y medio loco.
Siempre habla de querer matar al zorro, y de querer comer carne frita de mujer con ají.