Restore the Glory

Ancient civilizations on the desert coast poke their noses out from the sand, curiously take a sniff. The salt sprayed air smells different, with wisps of singed petroleum. Their ears buried in the ground fill with a humming noise.

"?" they ask.

Excited archaeologists move sand, step carefully and carve out shapes of what they think the past civilization should look like. Here, a dented collarbone close to a shattered claypot is never a coincidence. Here, this handful of sand is meaningful, soaked in chemical analysis and checked three times. You have to read between the lines.


They say this one is 1000 years old. I can't remember that far back. That's much older than my grandpa. They call it the civilization Moche, since no better name caught on first.


They're still trying to decide what to call this one (Norte Chico or Caral or Caral-Supe). And these ones, they're 4500 years old. I wouldn't be able to tell. Egyptians put up pyramids around then. Who did this? Picture what an imaginary name on an imaginary face did. Two thousand grandpas.

One guide is grateful that the Spanish conquered South America and not the English because the English slaughtered whereas the Spanish integrated. For the other guide, the Spanish conquest was the beginning of the end, a loss of respect for everything and the consequent downhill slide. Restore the glory!

Numbers and worn down buildings and bones is all we have to go off to find a cosy interpretation. A vanished culture always feels like a tragedy. After all, who's not happy to be here.