Chaski of Coca

I met a young woman on the road carrying more coca leaves than I thought one person could comfortably manage. A basket hung from one hand, full nearly to the rim, while a woven bag at her side held still more. She walked carefully under the weight, and I found myself wondering how far she had already carried them.

As she passed me, several leaves slipped over the edge of her basket and scattered across the road. She didn't notice at first, so I called after her and bent to gather them before the wind could carry them farther. When she turned and saw what had happened, she hurried back, laughing as she crouched beside me.

Together we collected the leaves from between the stones. She took each handful from me and tucked it more securely into the basket, then adjusted the woven bag against her hip before thanking me and continuing on her way.

I had encountered coca many times along the journey. I had seen leaves chosen carefully for offerings and watched them handled with attention during ceremony. Until that moment, I had thought mostly about coca after it reached someone's hands.

Watching her walk away made me think about everything that came before. Plants had to grow. Leaves had to be harvested and gathered. Baskets had to be filled. Someone had to carry what the land produced from one place to another, and sometimes a few leaves fell along the way and another pair of hands helped pick them up.

There was nothing dramatic about our encounter. Still, I liked knowing that for a few minutes I had helped her carry what was needed.