Chapter 18: Celebrating Our Great Victory

We had planned something very special for the last Saturday in June: a celebration of our great victory over the invaders! It had to be something very special, something truly unique, a celebration that would honour our incredible triumph and bring joy and encouragement to everyone in the valley - an unforgettable event that would go down in the history of our collective. So, I asked everyone to come up with ideas on how we could make this special celebration of our hard-won victory as impressive as possible. My advisors were full of ideas. Ramona promised to learn a new song with the older students and Luisa wanted to prepare a special feast, a big dinner and barbecue.

But as we all know, nobody was crazier than me. I was looking for a cultural group from Trujillo and wanted to bring them to the valley for the victory parade - in a way that would eclipse all previous celebrations.

On the Internet I found an incredibly powerful video of the students of the Gran Unidad Escolar - JOSÉ FAUSTINO SÁNCHEZ CARRIÓN school marching. In the video, they marched through the streets of Trujillo with perhaps hundred musicians to fantastic marching music. Many people lined the streets and cheered the musicians enthusiastically. And the best part was that the marching band was made up of teenagers and young men, people who would make the hearts of our girls and women beat faster. I was sure it would not be easy to get so many people along our makeshift road, but it was definitely possible. It could also be just a small part of the huge, magnificent orchestra.

I contacted them by email. The school management were not particularly enthusiastic about my idea, but we agreed to meet at the school after I had assured the head of the music group in writing that I would pay each participant a small fee and make a larger donation to buy new instruments if they would perform at our celebration.

First I had to check the condition of our road and remove the remains of our barrier in the hollow. The mine road had been partially blasted through the rocks here over fifty years ago and it looked like a long ravine. Unhindered access was essential if we were to bring guests to the valley. On Monday, Daja, Luca, and Diego accompanied me to our stumbling block at the end of the gorge. It looked bad. First we rolled up the barbed wire that was still usable and hammered the steel rails out of the ground. Luca used a chainsaw to cut down the trees that had served as a barrier. With the help of our Landcruiser, we managed to pull the trunks out of the gorge and store them on the hillside. Using some strong branches attached to our car, we ‘swept’ the road and pushed the stubborn parts of the trees down the slope. The rest we burned on the spot. It was exhausting, but the work was successful and we had a lot of fun doing it.

When the road was finally safe to drive on, I wanted to inform the villagers up the road about the events of the last three days. Luca and Diego recounted their experiences with great enthusiasm and excitement, and almost the whole village gathered around the big table at the entrance to the plateau. The people were surprisingly emotional, celebrating the Indio boys and looking admiringly at Daja and me. I don’t know what heroic stories the boys had told, or how much they had exaggerated, but there was a good reason for our visit. It was immediately clear to me that the villagers had seen the military vehicles pass by with great fear and had not expected us to be able to stop the attackers. They had also heard the noise of the fighting and the helicopters. I am sure they feared for the lives of their families who had moved to live with us. Luca and Daja whispered to each other. They had developed a way of communicating with each other, partly in English, but also mixed with Quechua words. In any case, they understood each other. Then Daja explained to me the words of an old man. “Apu was with you. Our mountain god does not abandon good people”.

The old man’s words touched me. The thought had been in my mind for a long time. Was it fate, or was there a higher being holding a protective hand over our community? It was not until the evening after the battle that I realised how incredibly lucky we had been. As a scientist, I smiled at my confused feelings, but deep down I was moved by the thought of supernatural support. My prayer of thanks on the night of the victory went against my convictions, but that couldn’t hurt us. Only one thing was clear to me: it had to remain my secret. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my ambivalent feelings, let alone unsettle them.

We also had to inform the people of San Huano about the outcome of the battle. They were probably still very excited and frightened. An armoured vehicle, a jeep, and several armed men on their way to our valley - they had probably never seen anything like it before. But we didn’t have time; we had to get back. I wanted to tell them about the fighting the next day. An exhausting day had come to an end, but it had been worth it. The road to Mersto and Trujillo was open again.

On Tuesday, our doctor, Mrs Liebknecht, and I drove to the provincial capital of Trujillo because we had some urgent business to do. But without an interpreter, we would not have been able to act properly. So, I asked Olivia to go with us. She was ready in no time and was looking forward to the trip. Her younger son, Nicolas, was almost six months old. Zarina and Alejandra were happy to look after him. Olivia’s older son, little Michi, was well looked after at the nursery in the Palazzo. As the oldest child in the group, he clearly felt at home there.

Willka’s request was that we have toys for the children. She especially wanted small, washable picture books and building blocks. Then I had an idea. She was the only one who knew Trujillo, her hometown, and she would be a great help. Our kindergarten teacher whispered to the two young Indio women, discussed the group’s care and asked Luisa to help feed the children. Then she clapped her hands happily. “Thank you. I’d like to go with you.”

We stopped back at the guesthouse where Priya was waiting in the delivery room to deliver her second child in the next few days. She immediately agreed that our doctor could leave the valley for a day.

“Esther will help me again. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And the due date is only three days away”.

We hugged the expectant mother and left. Ramona was visiting the big city for the first time and was looking forward to discovering parts of our host country.

When we stopped at the petrol station, the attendant, Raul, greeted us with a bandage on his head and a broken nose. The mercenaries had trashed the station like vandals, beaten up the owner, filled up their cars without paying and stolen a lot of goods. Fortunately, there was little money in the till, but the few SOL was also the bandits’ booty.

Olivia told him that they had attacked us but lost the fight. He didn’t want to believe it. “They’re all dead, really? But they had a tank.”

Olivia said laughing, “And a big helicopter too. But we were stronger.”

Raul hugged all four of us. Some of the locals had gathered and could hardly believe the story. They rejoiced with us at our victory over evil, as they called it. Olivia and Willka had to tell them details again and again, and were hugged and celebrated.

Meanwhile, our doctor had treated Raul, stitched up his head wound and, after a local anaesthetic, repaired his nose and held it in place with a makeshift bandage. Ramona was unsure if the nose would heal properly. It should have been treated on the day of the accident, but Raul thanked her warmly. Because the San Huans suspected the bandits would return, everyone had gone into hiding, and Raul had not dared to take the road to the doctor in Mersto.

We had lost a lot of time, but it had been necessary. As we continued our journey, Willka told us how happy all the Indios were about the doctor’s help. Some women had received some medicine. Ramona had also given a young pregnant woman a quick check-up, a vitamin supplement and some advice on what to do in the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Willka told us that there were about eighty families living in San Huano and that most of them were farmers. This was new to me. I had always thought of it as a tiny settlement on the road. Our kindergarten teacher was shown the wide valley along the smaller river behind the mountains. But it wasn’t as beautiful as our valley she said. There were only a few trees and every inch of land was used for growing vegetables or raising livestock.

We discussed the order in which we would do our errands. Our doctor was amazed when I told her during the trip that Trujillo had more than three-quarters of a million registered residents at the time, but with the many illegal residents it was already a city of a million. Ramona enjoyed the green of the parks and the many people, most of whom were neatly dressed. On the way to our first destination, I gave Moni my mobile phone. She read us some passages from Wikipedia about the provincial capital. We were amazed to learn so much new information about Trujillo and its surroundings.

Olivia and Willka sat on the back seat. They were having a very lively conversation, in Quechua of course. Somehow Olivia was trying to reassure the pregnant Willka, to give her courage for the months to come, I suppose, and that was a good thing. I was happy about it.

Unfortunately, my plan was wrong. The ‘school’ was not a school, as I had thought, but a fairly large university for students aged eighteen and over. Some of the men and women at the university were much older. I was very generous with my compliments during the tour and the final chat, as Ramona and I were really amazed. Despite the great impressions, we were unsure. Everything had a military feel to it, maybe the police or the military were involved, or maybe this university was even complete for the armed forces.

In any case, I quickly abandoned my idea of holding a parade in our valley with some of the university’s hundred or so musicians, especially since the commander, as they called the head of the music corps, only found obstacles. Too short notice - too far - too complicated. He was right, it was a crazy idea, born out of the intoxication of my senses after the victory over our enemies. But I was happy to accept one piece of information. His son led a student group from which the university recruited some of its musicians.

The leader of the school band, Wolfgang Acasuzo, was about Ramona’s age and immediately caught her eye. He showed us around an old hall where his band rehearsed twice a week. He laughingly told us that he got his first name from his father’s love of Mozart. The instruments looked rather worn out, most of them having been discarded by his father’s band, but at least the children had a chance to learn an instrument.

Wolfgang was enthusiastic about the idea of holding a parade in the Andes if we covered all the costs. He suggested that they travel in two minibuses. We would still need a van to transport the instruments. It could start on Saturday. Wolfgang wanted to take care of the buses, which could then follow the van with the loaded instruments. The parade could take place shortly after arrival, by 2pm at the latest. His teenagers would be delighted to dance with our young ladies for two hours after their performance. If necessary, his boys would even sleep in the buses if the journey back in the dark were too difficult.

Everything seemed well organised when the first two boys arrived for training. They were fifteen years old, dark-haired, radiant, full of joie de vivre, a real eye-catcher for our girls and young women. But there was a problem. Most of the boys in the band played football for a club, and on that Saturday of all days they had the honour of playing their first qualifier in the main stadium of the CD Universidad César Vallejo, before the championship match. We had no chance. I could not and did not want to postpone the date of our party, because the women in the valley were preparing for the celebration with great enthusiasm and were looking forward to Saturday.

Finally, Wolfgang put us in touch with a ‘funny Indio band from Cajamarca’, as he put it. They would come to San Huano in a minibus and we should pick them up. We agreed on a fee of one hundred SOL per participant, two hundred SOL for the bus driver, and free food and drink. Wolfgang and I agreed to hold a parade in our valley next year.

Then we went to the immigration office to get our doctor a permanent residence permit for our host country. There was a long queue in the corridor. We had little time, but it went on and on. So, I looked for the room of the director of immigration, with whom I had recently had a particularly cordial conversation. Mr Ruiz’s secretary would not let me see her boss, so I just knocked on his door.

He greeted me warmly and asked what I was looking for. Soon the four of us were sitting in his spacious office. His secretary, who had been so unfriendly at first, served us coffee, tea, and water. He looked at Olivia for a some seconds before speaking to her. “Are you the famous ‘Mama Olivia’, are you really here in my office?”

We then talked generally about the situation in Peru and the problems of the many illegal Indios in Trujillo, who had hoped for a better life in the big city but found themselves living in appalling conditions, often humiliated or abused.

He had to turn down my request for permanent residency for our doctor. We discussed all the options. In the end, he agreed to give her a work visa if she could provide a work contract and prove an annual income of at least US$12,500, as required by Peruvian law.

Mr Ruiz shared my laughter when I confirmed that Dr Ramona Liebknecht was paid £5,000 a month for her work as a doctor. “But part of her salary has to be paid into an account in Peru,” he pointed out.

“But she is not allowed to open a bank account in Peru without an identity card or a permanent visa.”

“You’re right, Mr Berthier. We will arrange it immediately.”

He dictated a letter to his secretary at the BCP bank in Trujillo, saying that Mrs Liebknecht could get an immediate work visa if at least $2,000 a month was deposited into her account, and that a current account could be opened for her immediately.

In the meantime, I had drafted a handwritten employment contract. Ramona immediately signed it, agreeing to provide free health care to the people of the valley for $3,000 a month. In Ruiz’s presence, I gave her $6,000 as her salary for last month and this month, to be deposited into her bank account as soon as it was in use.

The manager laughed again, so heartily and infectiously that we had to join in.

“That solves everything. You are a very practical man, Berthier”. He called an employee to issue the one-year work visa.

The secretary, still dismissive, handed her boss a newspaper. Even I understood her Spanish: “I think it’s them”. Ernesto had published an article the day before about the attack on our valley. There was a photo of Olivia in her famous ‘Mama Olivia’ outfit. A large photo of Babette in her hospital bed was the lead story. Three photos of the helicopter shot down, the armoured car blown up, and the jeep destroyed showed the extent of the fighting in our valley.

Mr Ruiz looked at the pictures and kept looking at me, completely dumbfounded.

“This is unbelievable. It can’t be true, foreign troops in our country. What did they want with you, Mr Berthier?”

“It was a gang of bandits, not an army. We wouldn’t have had a chance against an army. They probably wanted the alleged treasure of the Rus, which doesn’t exist. That’s all we found in the valley.”

I showed him my bag, which still contained $14,000.

Unfortunately, it was not possible to end the conversation quickly. Ruiz wanted to know far too much, kept asking questions, was extremely interested in our lives and struggles, but we had to move on, we urgently needed to go to the BCP bank in the Real Plaza. I finally managed to change the subject by pointing out that Olivia had no personal documents.

He explained how it would be possible for Olivia to get a Peruvian identity card, called a DNI (Documento Nacional de Identidad). Only the specially created organisation RENIEC was allowed to issue identity cards and birth certificates in Peru, for example for Olivia’s children. It was like a chain of registry offices, but centrally run from Lima. He had us print out a sheet with their website so we could find out what we needed to do to apply. I thanked him for the information, got up and we said our goodbyes.