In the land of the Condor, near the base of the tallest mountain in the Western hemisphere, an Incan community lived. The people hunted, along the sheer hillsides, they farmed, they collected water from the river gushing from snowmelt. They had children, built families, and passed on traditions to generations of descendants.
The land was cold, inhospitable, but their village grew and their community thrived at the far Southern reaches of the vast Incan empire, in present-day Argentina. Today, centuries have passed, the people are gone, but the stones and dirt that made their homes remain. The stories and language of their ancestors have been lost to time. But their spirits remain. And the ruins remember.
This is episode 60 of Stories of Resistance—a podcast co-produced by The Real News and Global Exchange. Independent investigative journalism, supported by Global Exchange’s Human Rights in Action program. Each week, we’ll bring you stories of resistance like this. Inspiration for dark times.
Written and produced by Michael Fox.
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Transcript
Michael Fox: In the land of the condor, near the base of the tallest mountain in the Western hemisphere, an Incan community lived. The people hunted along the sheer hillsides. They farmed. They collected water from the river gushing from snowmelt. They built families. Had children. Sons and daughters. Grandkids. And generations of descendants.
The land was cold. Inhospitable. But their village grew and poured over the hillside. A way station on the transit road across the Andes. The far Southern reaches of the vast Incan empire.
Today, centuries have passed.
The people are gone, but the rocks, stones and dirt that made their homes remain.
They were here when San Martin marched his troops over the Andes.
When the railroad came and went, its tracks now grown over, or broken and buried by landslide and avalanche.
They saw the bridges rise and crumble.
And they smelled the asphalt, as the excavators, and the dump trucks and the bulldozers and the road rollers crushed the land flat, and laid its surface smooth.
Today, thousands of cars and trucks speed by the village. Their tires spin. The sound of traffic reverberates across the rock walls. The choke of the air brakes punctuates the mountain breeze.
No one stops. Even though the village is just feet away. Just off the shoulder, down a tiny dirt road, beside a sign post reading: “Tambollitos Incan Site.”
No one stops. But the village ruins don’t care.
The stories of their ancestors have been lost to the tongue of those who speak. But their spirits remain. And the ruins remember. They carry the stories, etched in the broken and crumbling walls and the cold, hard mountain dirt.
They’ve seen the seasons change. They’ve watched the snow fall and melt. Felt the warm sun as it slides across the thick blue Andean sky.
And they will remain long after those of us driving past can remember.