All I could concentrate on at present was the little shaman, too shy to look at us, sitting by the fountain, huddled in his poncho, his face hidden under his large hat. He was dressed in a traditional red poncho, homespun black pants that barely covered his knees, hand made sandals and a bowler type hat made from pounded wool. He was supposed to be leading a ritual of purification for my group to prepare us for the pilgrimage. We had come to this quiet place early in the morning to meet up with Don Ramon, the Q'ero shaman who was to be our spiritual guide to the Qollyur Rit'i Festival. The Snow-Star Festival.

For fifteen years I have attempted to break down the barriers which separate travelers from the true indigenous healers in Peru. The Peruvians have had to hide away their native children in order to keep the Andean Religion alive in the face of conquering Catholicism. It is easy to find "market shamans", people who feed tourists a mix of new age thoughts along with a smattering of Andean mysticism. But it is almost impossible to locate a true healer, who has the ancient knowledge still intact, and is willing to share with Westerners.

After fifteen years of forging this tentative trust we were finally sitting at the water temple with Don Ramon, who is a Q'ero Pampamesayuq, a 'knower' of the profound secrets of Pachamama, Mother Earth.

The sharing of our cultures began in that laughter which washed away our mutual sense of inadequacy, of being judged by a culture foreign to our own. We were just humans sitting on a mountain together, laughing at our human foibles. The hills echoed with our laughter. His uninhibited and natural joy, a joy and depth of life unrestricted by social conditioning, ran through him in that laughter and was shared in increments by my group. Our pilgrimage had begun.

I was first told of the Qollyur Rit'i Festival by another shaman. For years he urged me to attend, but was hapless when it came to finding words to describe why. When I finally went to the festival I was struck speechless, too. Words can't do it justice; even the mind has difficulty grasping it. It is a medieval epic, a pre-Columbian pagan dance, a primal spiritual expression of human devotion to the sun, the snow, the spirits of the mountains; even strong devotion to the Christian God and Jesus is thrown into the mix. It is devotion and love of life and the Divine expressed through 80'000 natives coming together to pray, dance, and affirm life in ancient ritual.

The journey should actually be measured in centuries, rather than miles, as the broiling, devotional, exuberant humanity at my feet has little to nothing to do with anything modern man can comprehend. It is elemental in its force and sweeping in its magnificence, but a subtle order and organization underlay it. 80'000 people come together in this small high Andean valley which can only be accessed on foot. All supplies are brought in on horseback or by people making numerous trips up and down the mountain to bring their possessions or wares up. 80'000 people, all camping in makeshift tents, lots of money changing hands as people buy their supplies and items for prayer; and no police, no crime. It is the only time in Peru when I was not told to watch my bag, be careful of my pockets, be conscious of my valuables; it is a turning back of the clock to pre-Columbian Peru. The conquistadors were astonished when they could ride right up to the main city and temples without being stopped and challenged. The Peruvian people are at heart peaceful and devotional, ready to laugh and dance.

There's so much more I'd like to write about. I'd like to tell you about the Ukukos or Pabluchas, the soldiers of God as they are called.

They are the real mystics in this ceremony, in their shaggy costumes, knit masks, whips and high pitched voices. I'd like you to know about the secret all night ceremony they do on the glaciers; from which some of them, they say, do not return. And the magic of their descent the next morning from the glaciers, deep sounds emanating from special bottles they blow on, as they come down in long dark columns, each nation distinguished by the flags they carry. They bring back large chunks of ice on their backs from the heights of the mountains, symbolizing the crystallization of the prayers of their tribe, the nourishment of their nation.

In this time of painful religious ideology I wish the world could learn their lesson of smoothly moving between their love for Jesus and their love for the Apus, the spirits of the mountains, love in all devotional forms is celebrated.

I'd like to talk about the timing of the festival, a few days before the June solstice, the darkest, coldest, harshest time of the year, the hardest and hungriest time of the year for these mountain dwellers here in the Southern Hemisphere. I'd like to write about the prayers of affirmation they act out on the side of the mountain, building their dreams out of the rocks in this power-spot, praying fervently that the mountain spirit, the Apu, hear them.