The Pilgrims

Today I drove past a line of pilgrims walking along the PanAmerican Highway. They were lugging backpacks and sleeping mats and filed against the backdrop of sugar cane fields and rice paddies. Some were carrying crosses. Huge, giant, slabs of wood, decorated with flowers and cloths. Others carried children. Balancing sacks and babies through clouds of dust and passing exhaust.

Most, I'm sure, carried prayers.

They walked in clusters. And alone. All with a single destination: Ayabaca, a town in the highlands of the coastal department of Piura. It's surrounded by green and drowned in the rainy season. But for a week in October, it's the central location for a spiritual celebration apparently worth this impressive trek. A festival to pay homage to el Señor Cautivo.

Year-round, el Señor Cautivo hangs on dashboards and from rear-view mirrors. He looks out over dining room tables and around the necks of his followers.

I don't know anything about this saint. But he reminds me of Jesus. Not the typical light-skinned, bearded Messiah, but browned by the Piura sun. With a crown of thorns and a cross.

It's said that he heals. That he brings blessings on to those who ask for it and watches over those who need guidance. Which is why, I suppose, so many people make this journey. In the merciless sun in the land of eternal summer.

I wonder what their reasons are. To leave their homes, their work, school, their families. To travel for weeks to arrive at the foot of this saint's church. What could they be seeking? Thinking? Praying?

But I only have a second to ponder the possibilities. The van I'm in speeds forward, leaving nothing but dust behind to shroud their pilgrimage.