Natalia

I like Cajamarca. The streets aroud the Plaza de Armas are packed with little cheese shops, selling the local quesos, as well as their own version of Edam. Right on the plaza there is a Heladeria Holanda, where the serving girls are dressed in orange T-shirts :-) I came in (not revealing my nationality yet) and told them I came for the ´helados famoso´ and was promptly stuffed full of tastings of all kinds of bizarre ice cream, ending with ´cerveza´ ...

The town is the site of one of the most momentous schemes in Latin American history, the capture and subsequent murder of Inca Atahualpa by Francisco Pizarro and his small band of conquistadores. An amazing and horrendously bloody story, but most of you know how I respect a good well-executed back-stabbing ploy. (See the ´history links´ on the right panel for the story of Atahualpa and Pizarro - read it !)

The latinas here seem to be more charismatic than in other towns, and although they are generally not my type, appeal more to me here. Is it because they eat all that healthy cheese, or have I had too much cerveza ice cream ? I will tell you a story of the most beautiful of all.

Yesterday I had retreated up the hill overlooking the city center to write in my diary and study a bit of Spanish. It is a bit of touristical place but I managed to find a nice and quiet spot on the grass. Or so I thought. Ten minutes into my diary, a beautiful girl came up to me and she sat down next to me. She had that marvelous long raven black hair and her inquisitive eyes shone from her dark shiny pupils.

She smiled at me and then looked a bit puzzled at the assortment of books and writing material spread around me. She asked me where I was from and I responded without any hesitations, stutters and blushings that usually appear in these circumstances. No, she didn´t know where Holanda was but I convinced her it was far far away. Her name was Natalia and unlike most people here, she had no trouble with mine. I know you must never ask a lady, but I just had to know. How old was she ?

Seven lovely and innocent years she had (I thought at least eight, good I didn´t guess) and she was facinated by the fact that I was learning Spanish. She couldn´t read, but wanted to see all my books and notes. She laughed at my handwriting and with that sweet laughter she stole my heart.

A regalo ? She asked, pointing at one of my books, but alas, I could not grant her that boon. A pen was my gift to her, and I gave it from the heart. May it help her on her way to the knowledge of the world. Her eyes shone again when she said ´gracias´ and then she was gone. Fare well, little one !