Pilgrimage Part I: In the Dark Early Morning Hours

In mid-August 2017 in Cochabamba, Bolivia, I was nearly finished with Spanish language studies and in no hurry to return home. There was so much I loved about this place: the mountains, always in the distance; “Amiga,” rather than “hey you,” as the standard term of address by strangers; the value placed on a meandering walk and conversation. I liked that here, I was no more than a foreigner with limited language skills who seemed kind enough.  I easily fell into the rhythm of life and was overwhelmingly at peace. 

And my home was… where was my home?  My belongings were currently stored in multiple peoples’ homes, none of them my own. The preceding years had been a tale of chaos – a broken marriage, the stress and shame of obscuring this from my Catholic employer, quitting my job to join a Catholic Worker, which did not, well… work. I was about to turn over a new decade and appeared to have nothing to show for previous ones: no family, no relationship, no job, no committed lifestyle in solidarity with the poor and vulnerable. God, I had really messed up.  

In going to Cochabamba, I did what I often do when I fail, namely, what my heart pulled me toward earlier. I attempted to ignore or delay. Yet for all the spiritual healing I had received during my stay, I had not received many, if any, answers.  And most of all, I didn’t yet know how I would manage to spend Part II of my life more wisely than the first half. I needed more input. Now. That is how I became fixated with making the pilgrimage from Cochabamba to Quillacollo in order to plead my case with the Virgen de Urkupiña, who is believed to have appeared on the hilltop there. 

On August 15, the Roman Catholic Church celebrates the day the Blessed Mother was assumed into Heaven, body and soul.  On August 14-16, Bolivians celebrate that she lingers on the hilltop to gather their prayers to heaven, where they will be transformed into all that they ask for – love, health, money, jobs. It is its own cultural, religious, and popular feast, marked by traditional dancing, processions, masses, and sales by ambitious street vendors.  Between August 15 and 16, en la madrugada, the dark early morning hours, pilgrims walk the 15 or so kilometers from Cochabamba to Quillacollo.  By daybreak, they have ascended the mountainous hill of the Virgin’s Sanctuary to present their hearts’ desires. Some take rocks from the hillside to signify their request for money (the bigger the rock, the bigger the payout).  Some carry away a blessed miniature that represents their petition. Others return and leave rocks and miniatures which signify answered prayers. I wasn’t sure how I would present my desires, but maybe a night’s worth of walking would inspire me. 

So, I made plans to be at the town plaza at the departure time on the appointed night, “a las dos,” as I recalled my teachers saying. I let my host family, self-described former Hare Krishnas, know I would be leaving the house at 1:30 am.  
I found the plaza empty when I arrived. As the minutes ticked by, I grew anxious. Was I at the wrong spot? Finally, a couple street sweepers entered the square. “Where was everyone?” I asked. “Ya se fueron, hace dos horas.” They had already left.  Two hours ago.  My foreigner’s ear had turned las doce (12am) into las dos (2am). I had not listened well. I was too late. I don’t remember returning home, only that I tossed and turned the rest of the night, furious with myself. 

End of Part I. This story will continue tomorrow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angela Paviglianiti was ruined for life in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps around the turn of the century.  She is what happens when you mix women’s studies, social work, and seminary.  Angela is indebted to Ignatius of Loyola and Dorothy Day, although she probably wouldn’t have gotten along with either of them. She still believes in fairies, and the Gospel according to you and me and us.