From One River
“They believe,” Tim explained, “that as you move from one valley to the next, you must thank the mountain guardians for their protection. Every time they cross over a divide, they place a quid of coca on the rock cairns that mark the high passes and blow prayers into the wind.”
“For everything there must be a payment,” Adalberto said, his thoughts and Tim’s finally achieving a certain symmetry. He lifted the chukuna stick from his gourd, placed it into his mouth, and bit down on the lime-coated end. A small trickle of green saliva ran out the corner of his lip.
“You are not Christians,” he said.
“No,” Tim agreed.