up on the cracked mud wall.
‘Ah, she was beautiful,’ said the farmer softly.
‘God takes what He loves most,’ whispered his wife.
In the background I made out the atmospheric buzz of a radio. The woman, known to all as Tia, aunt, had switched it on full volume. Like the best chair, the radio was saved for the rare arrival of guests.
José-Luis said I was interested in the ancient people of the Atacama. He explained that I’d come across the ocean, from the ‘Land of Diana’. When he thought I wasn’t listening, he added that my heart was strong; I could not be frightened.
Juan went over to the corner and delved his hands into a cardboard box. He returned a moment later with a parcel, wrapped in brown paper.
‘We found this seven years ago,’ he said, as he handed it to me.
Gripping the package between my knees, I pulled apart the sheets of paper. Had I been a believer in susto, it would have got me right then. I jerked backwards. On my lap was a mummified human head.
Juan said that since they had found the trophy head in a grave behind the house, they had been blessed with good fortune.
‘We honour it at Christmas, at Easter and festival times,’ he said. ‘It’s a part of our family, as much as anyone else.’
The head had all the classic hallmarks of the ancient Nazcan techniques. The skin was intact, although preserved with a clay-like preparation. The eyes were sealed shut, the lips pinned together with thorns; and a carrying string had been threaded through a hole, trepanned through the brow. My interest in tsantsas, shrunken heads, had introduced me to all kinds of trophy heads.
Ethnologists have long debated whether human trophy heads were those of dead relatives, slain warriors, or even of people sacrificed at the graveside. Whatever the truth, one thing is certain - the trophy heads found at Nazca are expertly mummified. The general consensus is that the skin was peeled away, before the heads were boiled. Then, when the brain had been cleaned out, the skin was reapplied and layered with preservatives.
I was struck by the likeness of the trophy to the tsantsas for which I had such a fondness. Shrunken heads, like Juan’s trophy, were typically suspended from a string, and had the lips skewered with splinters of chonta palm. This prevented them from calling out to members of their own tribe. (Similar, too, are the trophy heads from Nagaland, in India’s North-east, which have buffalo horns fixed to the ears, to stop the head from hearing its rescuers.)
Juan was pleased at my praise for his trophy. No house, he said, should be without such a possession, an honour to the ancestors.
‘I’ll get you one,’ he beamed.
‘Where from?’
Juan’s face erupted in laughter.
‘Sigame, follow me,’ he said.
We trouped out of the house, past the sleeping guard dog, and on through the warango trees. The noon sun rained down, scalding our backs. Juan led the way across a flat expanse of dust.
Waving the flies from his face with his hat, he pointed to a steep bulwark.
‘Up there…’
The farmer, José-Luis and I staggered up the bank. The sand was so fine that a footprint disappeared as soon as it was made. It was littered with bottles, plastic bags and tin cans. A handful of thorn trees clung to the soft sand, providing some leverage as we clambered up.
Climbing over the top of the hill was like emerging from the trenches into no man’s land. The scene was one of unimaginable devastation. Not even a Calcutta body dump could compare. There were human remains everywhere. Mummified bodies, recently hacked from their graves, their skin leathery, yet preserved. The plateau was pitted with thousands of tombs,- their sides fallen in, the contents either stolen or strewn about. The bleached-white bones were too numerous to count. They shone in the sunlight, the last remains of an ancient people, forsaken by their ancestors. I saw ribs poking up out of the sand, femurs and jaws, the mummified
‘Ah, she was beautiful,’ said the farmer softly.
‘God takes what He loves most,’ whispered his wife.
In the background I made out the atmospheric buzz of a radio. The woman, known to all as Tia, aunt, had switched it on full volume. Like the best chair, the radio was saved for the rare arrival of guests.
José-Luis said I was interested in the ancient people of the Atacama. He explained that I’d come across the ocean, from the ‘Land of Diana’. When he thought I wasn’t listening, he added that my heart was strong; I could not be frightened.
Juan went over to the corner and delved his hands into a cardboard box. He returned a moment later with a parcel, wrapped in brown paper.
‘We found this seven years ago,’ he said, as he handed it to me.
Gripping the package between my knees, I pulled apart the sheets of paper. Had I been a believer in susto, it would have got me right then. I jerked backwards. On my lap was a mummified human head.
Juan said that since they had found the trophy head in a grave behind the house, they had been blessed with good fortune.
‘We honour it at Christmas, at Easter and festival times,’ he said. ‘It’s a part of our family, as much as anyone else.’
The head had all the classic hallmarks of the ancient Nazcan techniques. The skin was intact, although preserved with a clay-like preparation. The eyes were sealed shut, the lips pinned together with thorns; and a carrying string had been threaded through a hole, trepanned through the brow. My interest in tsantsas, shrunken heads, had introduced me to all kinds of trophy heads.
Ethnologists have long debated whether human trophy heads were those of dead relatives, slain warriors, or even of people sacrificed at the graveside. Whatever the truth, one thing is certain - the trophy heads found at Nazca are expertly mummified. The general consensus is that the skin was peeled away, before the heads were boiled. Then, when the brain had been cleaned out, the skin was reapplied and layered with preservatives.
I was struck by the likeness of the trophy to the tsantsas for which I had such a fondness. Shrunken heads, like Juan’s trophy, were typically suspended from a string, and had the lips skewered with splinters of chonta palm. This prevented them from calling out to members of their own tribe. (Similar, too, are the trophy heads from Nagaland, in India’s North-east, which have buffalo horns fixed to the ears, to stop the head from hearing its rescuers.)
Juan was pleased at my praise for his trophy. No house, he said, should be without such a possession, an honour to the ancestors.
‘I’ll get you one,’ he beamed.
‘Where from?’
Juan’s face erupted in laughter.
‘Sigame, follow me,’ he said.
We trouped out of the house, past the sleeping guard dog, and on through the warango trees. The noon sun rained down, scalding our backs. Juan led the way across a flat expanse of dust.
Waving the flies from his face with his hat, he pointed to a steep bulwark.
‘Up there…’
The farmer, José-Luis and I staggered up the bank. The sand was so fine that a footprint disappeared as soon as it was made. It was littered with bottles, plastic bags and tin cans. A handful of thorn trees clung to the soft sand, providing some leverage as we clambered up.
Climbing over the top of the hill was like emerging from the trenches into no man’s land. The scene was one of unimaginable devastation. Not even a Calcutta body dump could compare. There were human remains everywhere. Mummified bodies, recently hacked from their graves, their skin leathery, yet preserved. The plateau was pitted with thousands of tombs,- their sides fallen in, the contents either stolen or strewn about. The bleached-white bones were too numerous to count. They shone in the sunlight, the last remains of an ancient people, forsaken by their ancestors. I saw ribs poking up out of the sand, femurs and jaws, the mummified
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