Free Trail of Feathers by Tahir Shah

they trap it, and tie its feet together. They would never harm it, for to do so would be an act of sacrilege. Overwhelmed with joy, the hunters embrace their quarry, and toast its health with
chicha
. They return homeward, with the bird wrapped tight in a blanket.
    As the party returns to the village, trumpets resound, celebrating the capture of the condor. It’s taken away and plied with more food and
chicha
. By the day of independence it’s ready for the extraordinary festival.
    Manolo drank all evening and by midnight he was very drunk indeed. He had made sure the
cuy
were marinated in his secret sauce, and that his wife had pressed his best clothes for the next day. I suggested we go to sleep. Fighting to stand upright, he smacked his hands together.
    ‘How can a man sleep,’ he roared, ‘when there is still
chicha
to be drunk?’
    The central square was packed with people even before the band arrived. No one wanted to miss out on the best seating or, worse still, to miss the main spectacle. They all knew that the
Yawar Fiesta
comes at most only once a year. I heard the crackle of maize roasting on low charcoal stalls, and saw hawkers with barrows of pastries, ripe oranges, and skewers of beef heart ready to be sold. On every wall children were in position, their short legs dangling down, gob-stoppers rattling in their mouths. The old women, dressed in their finery, were fanning themselves with their bowlers. Laughter rang through the plaza like the click of castanets.
    Manolo wasn’t going to let the temperature or a hangover spoil his fun. It was a baking afternoon, in the high 80s, but he wanted everyone to see him in his best clothes. The flaps of his collar stuck out over a green mohair sweater, on top of which he wore a woollen peacoat. Beads of perspiration merged into droplets on his forehead, before cascading down his face. He greeted old friends, bragged about the
cuy
he’d brought from Puno, and drank toasts to the Festival of Blood.
    From the distance came the piercing sound of a piccolo. Then the thunder of a bass drum, trumpets, and cymbals cracking like gunfire. The bandsmen in their tight woollen caps and matching ponchos swaggered towards the plaza. A hundred feet kicked the dust as they danced, hips hula-hooping and hands clapping, as they heralded the arrival of the show.
    Following behind the musicians were a mass of revellers, coaxed into hysteria by a cocktail of adrenaline and drink. Among them, its immense ten-foot wings held outstretched, its beak bound with twine, was the condor. Black in colour, with an ivory ruff and blush pink head, the bird was guest of honour. With the horde pressed into the far corner of the plaza, the serious business of
Yawar
could commence.
    A young bull, unable to move in its tiny pen, was readied for
la corrida de toros
, the fight. A sackcloth saddle was fixed to its back as hands taunted it through the bars. When the saddle was tight, the condor was harnessed to the bull’s back. Facing forwards, its feet were sewn into the cloth.
    Only then, as the band’s cacophony ranted around us, did the free-for-all begin. The gate to the pen was hauled aside and the bucking-bronco ran wild. On its back, writhing like a phantom from the limits of Hell, was the condor. As the bull lunged through the plaza, the bird’s tremendous wings heaved up and down, desperate for flight, its beak tearing into the beast’s back. Would-be matadors, their courage bolstered by drink, stumbled into the square, only to be stampeded one by one. In the frenzy of wings and hooves, bovine and bird blended into a single creature from Greek mythology. Neither seemed to cherish the performance, a fusion of two traditions. The bull symbolises the power of the Conquistadors, and the condor the might of a proud native people.
    When the fantasy was at an end, the animals were cut apart. A bowl of
chicha
was placed at the condor’s beak, and the bull was pushed back into its enclosure. A group of