The Last Speakers by K. David Harrison Page B

to weather outcomes has a payoff, Krupnik notes: “Each wind is known to bring a certain type of weather, snow, or ice movement. By identifying…its Yupik name, an observer can make a quick judgment and even make a basic forecast of upcoming conditions.” 12
    This knowledge is of immense value, both cultural and cognitive. The Yupik cataloging of local conditions gives them a sophisticated understanding of a topic that modern science is still trying to codify. Such specific knowledge extends far beyond Arctic ice, though. If we are willing to explore the margins of the world’s many peoples, we find many other bodies of knowledge that are of immense potential value to humanity, all rapidly vanishing. Among them is crucial knowledge of healing.
    A PLANT FOR EVERY AILMENT
    The Bolivian Altiplano (high plain) is one of the most desolate landscapes on the planet. It features mostly loose clay and rocks, with scrubby vegetation growing here and there. Being a lowlander, I found it very hard to breathe at 12,000 feet above sea level. Even climbing a short flight of steps left me winded. Despite the dryness and severity of the landscape, the Altiplano is rich in culture and in biodiversity, especially animals found nowhere else (alpacas, vicuñas) and a wealth of healing plants.
    I went to Bolivia in 2007, along with my fellow linguist Greg Anderson and a crew of three filmmakers, drawn by the prospect of encountering one of the smallest and most unusual languages on Earth.
    We landed in El Alto, at a dizzying elevation of 13,600 feet, then descended into the deep bowl that is La Paz. Taking Diamox to prevent altitude sickness, we needed several days to adapt. During that time, we met local scholars and a group of intrepid students at the University of La Paz who were translating Windows software into Aymara, the major indigenous language (with over four million speakers) of Bolivia.
    As soon we could, we headed up and out of town, in a convoy of two Land Rovers. Our destination was the mountain redoubt of Chary, where we hoped to meet the mysterious Kallawaya medicine men (los medicos) . These famed healers of the Andes not only possessed unparalleled secret knowledge of medicinal plants but also had developed a secret language to protect that knowledge. Handed down for at least four centuries, since the collapse of the Inca empire, the knowledge has been fiercely guarded, in part, by allowing only young male initiates to learn the language.
    After eight hours on the steep, winding passes, we arrived in the tiny hamlet of Chary. Asking around, we found a man who was a local healer and claimed to speak Kallawaya. We eagerly set up our cameras, microphones, and prepared to interview him. Disappointingly, he turned out to speak only Quechua, one of the most common indigenous tongues of the Andes, and Spanish. We thanked him for his time and pressed on.
    On our way back to the decrepit hotel, we passed a man bearing an enormous cloth bundle on his back. He waved us to stop, asking for a ride into town. By sheer luck, he turned out to be Max Chura Mamani, a renowned medicine man, a speaker of Kallawaya, and just the kind of person we were seeking.
    As guardian of an ancient knowledge base about healing plants, Max wielded considerable power and authority. People would come from miles away to consult with him, and he was used to being accommodated. Back at the hotel, we agreed to have him perform a ritual for us, and he cast coca leaves to determine a good time and place for it. He scolded us a bit for our haste and eagerness. We gave Max money to make the necessary ritual preparations, and then settled in to wait and drink tea as the fog rolled in. More than a day would pass before Max resurfaced, as we impatiently paced the floor and wondered if we had been fleeced.

    Antonio Condori (left), with his son Illarion Ramos Condori (center), both Kallawaya healers, talking with David Harrison (right) in Chary village,