..a picture postcard from Perucho..

The night is fresh but not cold. We’re sitting outside the old wooden church in Perucho. After the bell rang at five thirty and we hurry down the street, an hour and a half passes sitting in mass, waiting to take photos for the tours the following day and observing from the side wings the small congregation of old rugged faces, hats removed placed on pews, warmed by dusty coloured ponchos. The church is wooden and the roof beams slope at a gentle angle making the space seem very communal. The church is surrounded by elaborate figures of saints. The altar is spectacular and it’s from here that most of the light emanates from the church. The service is long and children wander in and out and I’m left with no doubt that the dog by the altar has fleas. He is in some discomfort wriggling and twisting and turning to try and scratch every part, ending up with his paws wrapped over his nose, scratching scratching.

Eventually I get to take some photographs of the saints and we climb the wooden steps to the bell tower. It’s dark, the light has faded, I need to come back to take photos tomorrow. As we leave the church we go to shake hands with some folk Michael knows. They are in no hurry, there is no urgency in their grip. We stand and talk and I listen to Micheal and the older people chat; firstly locating me in their filed of experience with other foreigners they’ve known, then reminiscing and singing old songs. I like people who know how to talk to people. This village is very small and people are friendly.

It’s dark now and the orange glow of the plaza illuminates the front of the church. High up above in the night sky unusually I see the lights of an aeroplane bound surely for Quito. My eyes pass back down to the old people singing. Their features captured frame by frame. In front of me the portrait of a man in his 60’s, a face worn with years of life, but his hair neat, combed and gently gelled in place. The older lady in track suit bottoms and a cardigan, her figure long disappeared in order of importance. Both are singing and filling each other in on words that have disappeared with the years. I am atent but unable to join in the singing and my eyes glance back up to the plane. I think of how many times I’ve been in a plane at night flying over remote tiny pueblos like this one, the little conversations on street corners and millions of individuals lives going on all at the same time.