In the village of Curva, not far distant from Pelechuco, dwell the peculiar Indian gipsies of South America known as Brujas (witches) or Calahuayas. Like the Basques in Europe their origin is lost in the mists of time; they wander all over the Andes, are horse doctors, herbalists, or fortune-tellers, and are usually credited with occult powers.
“My daughter, whom you’ve met,” [Carlos] Franck told me, “suffered from hip disease when she was young; in fact she was a cripple. You would hardly believe it, I know, but listen to this story of her cure. I had sent her to Germany to see what could be done for her there. Poor girl! She underwent four operations, but was none the better for them, and we despaired of her ever being cured. Then one day after she had come back to Pelechuco one of these Calahuayas visited us and offered to cure her for a substantial fee, on the principle of ‘no cure, no pay.’ I won’t go into details of the concoction he instructed me to prepare, for it was gruesome enough to turn your stomach, and if I had not had a firm belief in the powers of these queer people I wouldn’t have dared to give it to the child. However, I made it, and administered it as an infusion in water. She, of course, had no idea what it was, and believe me, in a week – in no more than a week! – whe was perfectly well, and has remained so ever since.”
“And you believe it was the Calahuaya’s prescription that cured her?” I asked.
“What else could it have been? The child’s case was hopeless and even those clever specialists in Germany were unable to do anything for her.”
“It sounds fantastic – the sort of thing one would think went out with the Middle Ages.”
“Living in these isolated places, very close to Nature and away from the rush and bustle of the outer world, one experiences many things which an outsider might consider fantastic, but which to us are commonplace. I’ll tell you another story about a Calahuaya, and you can easily verify it, for it took place only last week. Have you noticed a solitary hovel down there beside the trail before you reach Pelechuco? You have? Well, it was occupied by a Customs official who lived alone except for a pongo, or native servant; and he treated that poor man pretty badly. It’s a wonder the pongo stayed with him at all; but possibly there was more behind it than we knew. Anyhow, the official caught his servant pilfering, tied him up, slung a rope under his arms and lowered him from the stone bridge in front of the house just above the waterfall. The rope broke; the pongo dropped into the rushing mountain torrent beneath, and was carried over the fall and drowned.
“Three nights later, the official was sitting in the hut, with door and windows bolted, when a stone hit the wall behind him and fell to the floor. He jumped up in alarm, and for an instant thought that somebody must have thrown a stone from outside against the building, but there it was on the floor – inside. How could it have come in? Then another stone – a large one – crashed against the table; and immediately there came a shattering noise as a third landed in the midst of his crockery.
“He seized his rifle and flung open the door, prepared to fire at any movement out there in the dark. His radius of vision was small enough, but he had barely time to turn his head when a stone struck him on the forehead. He reeled back with blood flowing from an ugly wound, and slammed the door.
“Next day he came to me begging my help. Together we went down to the choza (hovel) and he showed me the stones on the floor – fair-sized river pebbles they were, as big as your fist. I stayed with him until night-fall, and as soon as it was dark the stone-throwing commenced afresh. The pebbles seemed to come right through the boarded window or front wall, and were aimed at the official as though from a great distance. Amazed, and, to tell the truth, scared, I murmured, ‘It’s the Devil that’s doing it!’ and at once the stones came in directly at me. I was quite unable to explain the mystery, and so incredible is it that I don’t expect you to believe that part of the story. I doubt I would had I not been involved in it as an eye-witness.
“The official could not continue to live there, and for three months the choza was unoccupied, but during that time several daring villagers went down to witness the stone-throwing for themselves – and they did! You can question them if you like. Then, only last week, a Calahuaya visited Pelechuco and was induced to lay the ghost. He burnt herbs on the threshold and for some hours chanted unintelligible mantras, then pocketed his fee and made off. Since that day there has been no stone-throwing, and the official is again living there.”
I was not inclined to dismiss Franck’s story as a hoax, having heard similar accounts elsewhere. They appear to be genuine visitations of poltergeists, a form of haunting not uncommon in the Andean highlands. The Vicar of Jauja, in Central Peru, told me of his being called in to lay a poltergeist that bombarded a cholo labourer and his family in a choza on the outskirts of the town. All had been hit by the stones; and one little girl was bruised all over her body. Not the least strange part about it was that the stones or rocks hurled came from a very considerable distance, for they were of a kind not found within many miles of Jauja. The Vicar was quite unsuccessful in putting a stop to the visitation. Not only was he himself rather frightened, but he was up against something not recognize nor provided for in his religion. Eventually the haunting ceased by itself and peace came to the choza. No apparent reason for it was ever given.
From Chapter 13 ‘Roof of the World’ of ‘Exploration Fawcett’ by P.H. Fawcett (published 1953, but the book has a photograph of the (disappeared) explorer in Pelechuco in 1911.