Natural Inheritance

When I first stared down the open mouth of the Cueva de Palestina in northern Peru I couldn’t help but smile. The rusted gate entrance and vine covered stairway made it appear half man-made ruin, half natural wonder. An appropriate adventure, I surmised. My Dutch friend, Sytske, and I stepped up the faded stones and into the cave entrance. Even with our headlamps on we were swallowed whole by darkness.

Our guide, a twenty-something Geography student named Elizabeth, guided us through the faded recesses. We contorted ourselves to climb through narrow gaps. We entered at a higher point since the seasonal rain flooded half the cavern system. Geography classes would cave dive here, Liz explained, to tour the caves. These students discovered almost all of the wet stalactites that shined under our lamplights. They mapped what they could of the cave system. Hard to imagine when our dry tour involved stretching through several holes half my body size (and I'm not a large person.) Thank goodness for our helmets. I bumped my head several times.

We emerged from the caves to find our taxi had ditched us. We were stranded.  A small woman outside the cave invited us in to her home for tea. She held a chicken she had just killed, was preparing some lunch and maybe we would like some as well. Sytske and I nodded. We would be happy to share what little bread we had with the unknown woman. It was only when she led us to the nearby house that we realized she was the cave’s proprietor.

The thousand-year-old stalactites and stalagmites inside were her family’s inheritance for generations. She showed us old climbing magazine articles and photos, of the Cueva de Palestina, one dating as far back as the 1920’s. Spelunkers and climbers have been visiting the cave for the last 30 years in efforts to map what little they could of the extensive subterranean network. She took us by the hand and led us outside as she explained all this.

There, carved into the rock wall behind her home, was an idol of the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles, small bills, and a water basin. Everything quieted down around the shrine. Insects chirped at half volume and our guide all but stopped talking. The old woman dipped her finger in the basin and crossed herself.

Out here, ten miles from the nearest town, this was Sunday service. The small bills were offerings from other cavers or spelunkers left after a successful expedition. I kneeled down to offer my prayers and slid a fifty-cent piece before the Virgin Mary. I swear I felt a breath of air whisper through the caves, but before I could investigate our long-delayed taxi arrived. Just like that, it was time to go.

As we hugged our goodbyes I realized we would not see this woman again. I offered the most heartfelt thanks I could in my semi-fluent Spanish. She returned our thanks with a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile. Sytske and I were welcome to return anytime, she said. In fact, we were invited to dine with her that same night. It was, after all, Christmas Eve and we were now considered part of the family.