The Healer

by Danielle Bringier (United States of America)

Making a local connection Peru

“How much you paid?” Andres stopped rinsing the shower to look at me with shock on his face. I felt my shoulders rise and head lower as I said “35 sol.” What began as an innocent recap about my journey to his house that day was apparently anything but. I watched the anger cloud over his face as he muttered something under his breath in Spanish. “What?” I asked. “Didn’t you notice it was barely five minutes drive? He took advantage of you.” He shook his head and wiped down the shower for me. “Ah well...you’re here now. I’ll just have to go everywhere with you.” He smirked and just like that he was back to humming a tune while I continued to follow him around the clay house. “Okay, the water tank is full so there is no problem with the shower. Here is the kitchen, help yourself to the kettle and bags for tea. Miguel and Clara drink coffee so it’ll be you and me for the tea. I looked at the quaint “kitchen” area that was anchored by the living room on one end and the bathroom on the other. There was a small table with two chairs against the wall with his visiting friend Miguel in one of them. He was drawing some design with an intent that made us not disturb him. I was invited to Andres’ brown clay house in Peru after deciding to leave the Ayahuasca retreat center I was working with just a few days ago. The gifted healer had picked up on my disappointment that my time in the Sacred Valley had been cut short and thought he’d show me around his hometown of Pisac. After getting me settled for the night in the communal room outside his bedroom Andres sat on the floor in front of his door, rolling his signature lavender and tobacco cigarette and filling me in on his plans for us the next day. His voice grows excited as he tells me about the fresh made juice from his favorite vendor in the market or how he hopes the cafe is open cause it’s a Sunday. “How come you don’t know the hours if it’s your favorite?” He looks at me and smiles. His hands never missing a beat or breaking their calm. “It’s not like America, if the day is beautiful and money made for the week, he will close some Sundays.” He finished rolling and held it out in offering. I shook my head and started to get comfortable. The routine was familiar now after sharing a communal room at the retreat center for over two weeks. Even though I declined every time he still offered. I guess that was the healer in him. “Good night. Clara may be in later so don’t be startled. She comes and goes.” He shrugs and lights his cigarette before closing his door. I could hear his humming through the gaps in the wood floor. I’ve never been in a house like this before. Turning on my side I pulled the blanket to my shoulders and looked around. The wood floor was more like cut and sanded tree trunks. Made to fit together instead of the perfectly matched hardwood floors I was used to in Atlanta. The clay walls were melded to the wood floor by hand and the ceiling was more of the same. It was breathing. At least that’s how the handmade home sounded as a warm breeze came through. I felt so...safe. Like the house was inviting me to match its breathing. I guess its a healer too.