Speaking Runasimi
An early episode in my process of learning Quechua, and some thoughts on language
Dear Friends,
Many of you already know that for the past year I have been studying Quechua, the language of the ancient Inca Empire that is still spoken by more than ten million people today. Known also in the language itself as runasimi (literally “the people’s language”), Quechua is still spoken in Perú, Bolivia, Ecuador, Argentina, Colombia, and even Chile (though primarily the first three, if I’m not mistaken). I first came into contact with Quechua when I lived in Bolivia on a gap year exchange program, but I didn’t learn any of it except for the occasional word or phrase. I had arrived to Bolivia in September 2018 with very little Spanish ability, so I decided to focus all my language energy on perfecting it up to the very end.
That strategy paid off for my Spanish, but pretty soon after leaving Bolivia in May 2018 I started to wish I had switched my Spanish classes to Quechua, at least for a bit at the end. When I learned upon my arrival to Stanford last September that the Center for Latin American Studies offered Quechua, it seemed an obvious. I had told some Bolivian friends that I would try to take some classes online anyway, so why not take it for credit? Many of you have heard me talk about my Quechua classes this year with my teacher Marisol, who is without a doubt one of the best teachers I’ve ever had (and I’ve had some good ones!). All year, she and I sat down in Bolívar House twice a week for two hours at a time and basically just talked about and, eventually, in Quechua. To describe these class sessions as challenging would be an understatement.
On the most basic level, Quechua is a relatively difficult language to learn with either English or Spanish as a base because the structures are so different from either language. Linguists classify Quechua as an agglutinative language, meaning that the principal grammatical structures operate by adding on suffixes to the base words. So, for example, to say, “I am still learning Quechua,” you would say, “Ñuqa runasimita yachachkaniraq.” You can break down that last word into four components: yacha-chka-ni-raq. The first is the base of the verb “to learn,” then the suffix that indicates the progressive -ing, then the suffix that indicates the subject “I”, then finally the suffix that communicates the word “still.” Sometimes Quechua expresses in a long word of various smashed together suffixes what English or Spanish communicates in a short sentences. I have no idea if a native speaker of another agglutinative language like Turkish would find this element of Quechua easier, but for me it was quite an adjustment, particularly as I’ve moved onto trying to communicate ideas more complex than “My name is Peter and I’m learning Quechua at Stanford.”
Furthermore, I’m in the only person in my Quechua level at Stanford. Indeed, there are only three people at all of Stanford learning Quechua (one undergrad and one other grad student, both of whom are really impressive), and each of us is in our own level. Though we could certainly read this as a sad state for the instruction of Quechua as a world language, it’s definitely been a blessing for my own apprenticeship in that twice a week I go to what basically amounts to a private Quechua tutorial. We can basically go at my own pace, slowing down when I need more time with one concept and moving on when I master a different one. My first quarter (Stanford is on the quarter system, not semesters) I found Quechua class very difficult and even somewhat stressful at times. Having learned several other languages before, I was not used to being so lost in what I think of as one of my natural zones. Furthermore, there was another student in the class for that quarter (until her academic advisors, engineering professors I believe, told her to drop), who was way better at the language than I was and behind whom I could basically hide whenever I couldn’t figure something out. My stress was probably also largely bleed over from my broader adjustment to not only Stanford’s rigorous academic pace but also the general life change I was going through at the time.
Something changed when I got back from the winter vacation in January. I was ready to double down. I wanted to commit myself to learning Quechua, to engaging in serious study. I always tell my language students that the biggest barrier to language learning is not aptitude but practice and commitment, so I figured I might take my own advice. And what happened? I started to get better, sure. When I opened myself to the language, treating it as less a problem to solve than an adventure to undertake, the language opened itself up to me.
But what else? At some point, out of nowhere, I fell in love with the language. Indeed, it resembled the process of falling in love with a person, where you’re getting to know someone, you suspect they might be pretty interesting, worth peeling back the layers a bit, spending a bit more time with her, facing some of the deeper and more intimate stuff about her personality or lifestyle or your own interactions and chemistries, hey this isn’t half bad, there’s something about this girl that I just can’t put my finger on but I like her and want to keep rolling and see where it takes us—AHA suddenly, practically out of nowhere, all you want to do is spend all your time together, know everything about the person, even the hard stuff, especially the hard stuff, pursue whatever this thing is until… Yeah, that was me and Quechua since January.
Every May, the Center for Latin American Studies organizes a celebration of Andean culture called Quechua Night. Beyond just a joyous celebration, it is also a kind of capstone to a series of informal classes every Tuesday night in the Winter and Spring quarters called Cafecito Quechua, where Marisol and her students give some basic language workshops to both other Stanford students and members of the community at large. Many of the attendees are people with Quechua heritage, some even with living family members who speak Quechua, but who themselves don’t speak it. The irony of three white students at an elite university teaching an Indigenous language to people with Indigenous descent is not lost on me, so I hope that I can at least be a kind of bridge that helps fuel the greater interest in the language’s preservation and celebration. In that spirit, I gave a presentation at Quechua Night where I talked about my love for the language and the lands of its origin. Then, we broke out in dance and sang.
Ahead of my travels to Perú, Marisol connected me with a Quechua teacher, translator, and activist named Luis Alberto Medina. When I told him I was in Lima, he was generous enough to invite me this past Saturday to a lunch meeting of various teachers and activists engaged in efforts in service of Quechua vitalization and support. I stopped myself from writing “revitalization,” because that might connote death or moribundity. Quechua, as is clearer and clearer the more time I spend with the language, is a living language, unwilling and unable to be consigned to history or mythic idealization.
I called an Uber to a zone in the south of Lima, far removed from any typical tourist spots. Indeed, I noticed my Uber driver at a stoplight texting someone on Whatsapp, “Creo que este gringo se equivocó,” so I jumped in and assured them we were headed to the right place, that I was going to a meeting of teachers to talk about and practice Quechua. The neighborhood was one of the brick-and-cement neighborhoods full of market stalls and hardware stores and unfinished dwellings that define so many Latin American cities, a sharp contrast from the ritzy neighborhood of Miraflores that’s trying so hard to be the United States that most of the shop signs are in English. After a little bit of confusion and timing arrival (I was earlier than everyone else even though I was an hour late, a manifestation of a classic Latin American trope of never getting to any social event on time but going on for way longer than the agreed upon end time), I met Luis outside the house and we walked in.
I arrived at this event thinking it would be a more formal event, a discussion about some kind of activist or linguistic element of Quechua, but it became very clear that the lunch was more a party than anything. There was a documentary crew that I later learned were from the Peruvian Ministry of Culture, but they weren’t conducting interviews or filming in any particularly structured manner. They seemed simply to be trying to capture a slice of life as it’s lived, as the best artists can do.
I took a seat at the table and introduced myself, at first in basic Quechua before resorting to Spanish. I said that I was from California (I’ve decided to start saying that I’m from California to anyone who asks me) but that I had once lived in Bolivia, where I had learned Spanish but little Quechua. I explained that I was studying with Luis’s friend Marisol, and that I was trying to learn but that I find it difficult despite Marisol’s continual refrain, “Runasimi mana sasachu”—Quechua isn’t difficult.
I spent much of the celebration talking with Eva, a woman from Cusco just a little older than I was. I was excited about how much I understood her and touched by her patient enthusiasm to speak with me, as well as flattered when she said, “Qam sumaq ñawikuna q’omer kanki.” You have beautiful green eyes. I don’t remember any of the other colors in Quechua. Q’omer stuck in my probably because its pronunciation sounds like Homer, as in Homer Simpson. My initial elation at my comprehension floated away when I remembered someone else who used to tell me she liked my green eyes. Wherever we go, we take ourselves, our stories, our memories with us.
The afternoon went on, full of conversations and laughter, stories and songs, in a criss-cross of Spanish and Quechua. I tried to my best to speak Quechua, and I understood some of what was said, but everyone was very generous and patient with my developing skills. It was very clear that they were all incredibly tickled at the notion of a shaggy-haired white guy speaking Quechua, but I never felt like they were either tokenizing or making fun of me. They seemed genuinely happy to have me there, and I get the sense they would have been happy to include anyone in their celebration.
At one point, we talked about one grammatical area where I often make mistakes: the difference between ñuqanchik and ñuqayku, the two pronouns in Quechua that encompass the English “we” or Spanish “nosotros.” The former means we as in everyone; the latter excludes whoever is being addressed. I had run into an interesting snag with this difference while reading a text in Quechua class by Luis himself, where he discussed Quechua people by addressing the readers using ñuqanchik under the (pretty reasonable) assumption that anyone reading something in Quechua will likely be someone of Indigenous descent. When I brought this up to Marisol, she said that anyone who was learning Quechua could be considered a part of the family. That seemed like a generous interpretation, so I chalked it up to the fact that Marisol knew me well.
After several hours, the documentary crew asked to take a photo before they packed up and headed out. I stepped to the side to get out of the way, but Luis motioned me to the back of the photo. They wanted me in the photo? “Sí,” he said. “Ya eres parte del ñuqanchik.” Now Luis was including me in the ñuqanchik, the inclusive “we.” I had no idea that so few words could encompass so much generosity. Quechua will have a long life not simply because so many people are committed to its preservation, but because people like Luis and Eva and Marisol have hatun sunquykuna: big hearts.
On Saturday night, a few hours after expressing my gratitude and taking my leave of the party, I boarded a bus to Ayacucho, the city in which I’m composing this missive. After I arrived on Sunday morning and checked into my lodging, I stepped out to the market in search of a meal. I found a nice stall serving soups and chicken & rice and other hearty fare. I started talking to the stall’s owner, who had been speaking Quechua with some of her clients when I sat down.
“Ñuqa runasimita yachachkani,” I said eventually—I’m learning Quechua. We talked for a little bit more, back and forth between my broken Quechua and safety Spanish.
“Soltero eres?” In the Andes they often put the verb at the end, because of the influence of Quechua’s syntactical structures. Was I single?
“Sí, soltero.” Yes, single. I must have let the word out with a certain intonation or otherwise betrayed my feelings, because she looked at me with the kind of pity that can only be mustered by someone who’s seen it all.
“Qué pasó?” she asked. I couldn’t help but laugh. She started laughing, too. We both sat there laughing as the Sunday market went on around us. At least with the Quechua language, the love never has to end. It can and will only grow deeper.
***
I have been enjoying Ayacucho and its environs, including the battlefield where the Spanish army surrendered to the forces of independence under the command of José Antonio Sucre. The city reminds me a lot of Cusco save for the fact I haven’t seen a single other gringo since I got here. I’ve been doing my best to practice some Quechua with the people I meet, but I often end up resorting to Spanish with some Quechua phrases thrown in. Everyone is very patient with my still-developing command of the language, and they even seem impressed or excited that I’m at least trying. I particularly enjoyed a moment earlier today in a hair salon, where several older Peruvian women were speaking in Quechua behind me while I got a trim. I didn’t understand all of it, but I understood enough from the words and their laughter that they were talking about and probably poking fun at me. When I turned around and said, “Ñuqa runasimita yachachkani,” the collective shock on their faces and their ensuing uproarious laughter was priceless.
Tomorrow morning I’m leaving Ayacucho for the department of Apurímac, a little further east along the way to Cusco. I’ll be in transit much of the day tomorrow, then Wednesday through Friday I’ll be visiting the ancient Incan ruins of Choquequirao. After that, the plan is to spend some time in Sañayca, a small town in the province where my Quechua teacher Marisol was born and raised. Expect an update on the other side, once I’ve left Apurímac and reached the city of Arequipa.
In the meantime, enjoy this live performance of Bob Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate.” I’ve been a fan of Dylan for about a decade but have never really explored the live stuff. Apparently he changes the lyrics around a fair amount. I like the studio version, but I’m liking this one, too. The lyric changes at the end are great—not better or worse, necessarily, just different—and the energy is crackling. The singing is great as well.
“He hears the ticking of the clocks / And walks alone through the city blocks / Hunts her down by the waterfront docks / Where the sailors all toll in / Maybe he’ll spot her once again / How long must he wait? / One more time, for a simple twist of fate”
With love and gratitude,
Peter