Guest Blog: Sue McGhee

This week, we're welcoming author Sue McGhee, whose novel When the Eagle flies with the Condor begins during the turbulent 1960's, where the impact social change and warfare alter the characters' lives. Sue is here to talk about the book and give away a copy. Leave a comment for a chance to win. Here's the blurb:

When the Eagle flies with the Condor, there will be peace and brotherhood among nations. This is a two thousand year old prophecy and the underlying theme of the novel.  But the novel is about more than that. It is a story of brotherhood and love, revolution and war, survival and friendship, and begins with two coddled American youngsters whose father builds roads in an attempt to bring commerce to the natives of the backward and poverty stricken country of Bolivia. Their mother, uncomfortable and plagued with anxieties generated by constant political unrest, fills her days with trivialities and alcohol.

The children's care-free lives are disrupted when they must return to the U.S. for reasons unknown to them at the time. What follows is the boy’s anti-social response to what he ultimately deems a godless universe and his sister’s painful withdrawal caused by fears of abandonment by her family. As the children move into adulthood, their reactions to these inimical forces result in his joining the army and deploying to Vietnam, and her returning to South America as a sort of apprentice shaman ministering to the needs of the natives.

Their lives are played out against the backdrop of the 1960s and everything that volatile decade represents. They are players, yes, but they are astute observers as well, recognizing the similarities among the indigenous people of the world with their knowledge, latent power and untapped potential for good. Thus, the prophecy of The Eagle and the Condor comes into play with its message that at the beginning of the fifth Pachacuti (approximately the year 2000), the balance of power will shift and the indigenous peoples of the world will begin to resume their rightful place among nations. 

Q & A with Sue McGhee

                                                    

How did you become involved with the indigenous peoples of Bolivia?

As a child, I spent years in Latin America and learned to love these people. The natives live a hard life especially in the Altiplano and have been oppressed for centuries. I was friends with Olympia, Francisca and Simon or their proto-types, and the story of Olympia’s practice as a medicine woman and mid-wife was real as well as my involvement in it.    

Are you currently involved in supporting them?

No. Unless you consider this book a means of support. But I think their story is important. The current president of Bolivia, Evo Morales, is a native “cocalero” and he should appreciate what I’ve written about the coca leaf. I did sign a petition in January (2011) directed to the Secretary of State (Hillary Clinton) to remove the UN ruling of 1961 banning the natives from chewing or brewing the coca leaf in their own country because I felt it was an arrogant and embarrassing interference in the rights of the native peoples.   

The novel is about the sixties and not exclusively Bolivia. How were you able to write from the perspective of a soldier serving in Vietnam?

Well, I have a lot of audacity and as a result may get some flak from veterans though I haven’t yet. The philosophy of the warrior is innate within me. That may sound contradictory, since the theme of the book is really anti-war. But in presenting Nick’s side of the Vietnam era, I found I was more of a “Cincinnatus” (as he saw himself), than a “Rambo;” that is to say, if you have to fight to protect your family, your country and save your metaphorical farm from marauders, then take up arms and go fight. But don’t invade countries you have no business being in and becoming, as in the case of Rome and Great Britain, imperialists.  

How did you learn about shamanistic rituals? 

From my childhood living with Olympia and also, when I visited Bolivia and Peru in 2007. I needed to confirm my early impressions, which turned out to be amazingly accurate after all, the intervening years. We stayed with a family who lived high in the Andes with no indoor plumbing, no electricity and no phones. The grandfather threw the coca leaves as I’ve described in the book and his predictions turned out to be extremely insightful. Olympia’s grandfather who was a member of the Kallawaya was patterned after this gentleman. But the real Olympia was a very talented medicine woman/shaman as well.  

What is the relationship between Nick and Bernie supposed to signify?

I’m not sure. But I kept going back to the refrain, “write from the heart,” and I wanted to be honest. I wanted the relationship to reflect honor, commitment, love and devotion in this life as well as a universal spiritual connection and I believe I accomplished that. The kind of love between them is either “agape” or “philia” in the Greek and I’m not sure which one best describes it. I think that he is like a priest or teacher to her. I tried to make that clear in the book.     

Can you articulate an over-all theme of the book?

Brotherhood! And service. I believe we are all connected, that the indigenous peoples of the world are moving into an era where their voices will be heard and we will realize the importance of their contribution; that we must strive for peace and brotherhood among nations. Maybe that sounds corny, but I believe it will someday happen.

What advice can you give beginning writers today?

Learn the craft and stick to your vision! Take yourself very seriously even if others do not. It takes courage to put yourself, your beliefs, all that you are – out there for others to view and take pot shots at, so you need to develop a thick skin. Whatever the finished product is, it is, after all, your “baby.”    

Thank you, Sue, and best of luck with When the Eagle flies with the Condor.

Excerpt Thursday: When the Eagle flies with the Condor by Sue McGhee

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming author Sue McGhee, whose novel When the Eagle flies with the Condor begins during the turbulent 1960's, where the impact social change and warfare change the characters' lives. Join us Sunday, when Sue will be here to talk about the book and give away a copy. Here's the blurb:

When the Eagle flies with the Condor, there will be peace and brotherhood among nations. This is a two thousand year old prophecy and the underlying theme of the novel.  But the novel is about more than that. It is a story of brotherhood and love, revolution and war, survival and friendship, and begins with two coddled American youngsters whose father builds roads in an attempt to bring commerce to the natives of the backward and poverty stricken country of Bolivia. Their mother, uncomfortable and plagued with anxieties generated by constant political unrest, fills her days with trivialities and alcohol.

The children's care-free lives are disrupted when they must return to the U.S. for reasons unknown to them at the time. What follows is the boy’s anti-social response to what he ultimately deems a godless universe and his sister’s painful withdrawal caused by fears of abandonment by her family. As the children move into adulthood, their reactions to these inimical forces result in his joining the army and deploying to Vietnam, and her returning to South America as a sort of apprentice shaman ministering to the needs of the natives.

Their lives are played out against the backdrop of the 1960s and everything that volatile decade represents. They are players, yes, but they are astute observers as well, recognizing the similarities among the indigenous people of the world with their knowledge, latent power and untapped potential for good. Thus, the prophecy of The Eagle and the Condor comes into play with its message that at the beginning of the fifth Pachacuti (approximately the year 2000), the balance of power will shift and the indigenous peoples of the world will begin to resume their rightful place among nations. 

**An Excerpt from When the Eagle flies with the Condor**

Every few months, Bernie drove the 382 kilometres to LaPaz by winding roads both asphalt and dirt in order to scour the shops for trinkets for Catalina and the few native children she was teaching, and to arrange for the supplies she needed for her work. Sometimes Ray came with her and they’d enjoy a weekend there together, visiting the shops and the small cabarets that seemed always to be filled with people who had the money to spend on a pisco sour or a local brew of cerveza. They’d rent a hotel room, take hot showers, have a civilized dinner with wine and dessert and make love throughout the night on comfortable beds.

She still knew a few people in La Paz who kept her informed of the local politics, those who lived within the diplomatic corps, some who remembered her parents from years before: English, Americans and Bolivian officials.  Early in the year, she made the trip alone. Ray had gone back to the States for a month’s vacation, after having served over two years with the Peace Corps. It was on this trip that she ran into Norwelia.

After Punta del Este, they had gone their separate ways. Norwelia, still smitten with the idealistic persona of Che, had returned to Cuba through his intercession, apparently kept safe from any reprisals against her rebel newspaper father and stuck it out there during Che’s reforms.

Che had parted with Castro, but was still regarded a hero in Cuba. He was rumored to be in Germany, in the U. S. and back in his native Argentina. It was said that he was in Africa. It was reported that he was in Moscow. No one knew where he was but everyone speculated. Rumors of his whereabouts had been the focus of conversations within the diplomatic community for at least a year.

When Norwelia walked into El Gallo de Oro, it confirmed in Bernie’s mind what had until then been rampant speculation–that Bolivia was a prime target for the Cuban supported guerilla campaign to convert the peasants to Communism.

Bernie knew that the Communist Party was active in Bolivia. On an earlier trip to La Paz, she’d been introduced to a guy by the name of Mario Monjé Molina, their party chief, at a masquerade ball thrown by her mother’s dearest friend from Cochabamba, Mama Ortega. She wondered if Norwelia had developed a contact there.

Norwelia’s eyes found Bernie’s almost immediately. She had lost the soft, tawny luster to her skin; her face looked gray, with the muscles of her jaw clenching spasmodically. Bernie was struck with the wild, caged look that seemed to dominate her face. Yet she was flooded with an irrepressible excitement that she could not define and for a moment she wished fervently that she could re-live the past few years, bringing her to this moment of danger and intrigue in which she now found her friend.

She became exhilaratingly cautious. Her breath came quickly as she excused herself from the bar where she had been seated with friends and joking with the British bartender, Ned. She ordered dos cervezas from the rattan bar, blew Ned a kiss and led Norwelia as unobtrusively as possible to a small round table at the back of the cabaret.

Bernie had many questions she desperately wanted to ask Norwelia, but she managed to control her curiosity and her voice.

“Are you looking for work?” Her heart pounded with anticipation.

“I have a job for now, Bernicita,” Norwelia answered. Her hands were shaking so badly, she clasped them tightly on top of the small table.

“Really?  Here in La Paz?”

“Si. I have a work permit.  A newspaper job here in La Paz. And I clerk in that shop where they sell souvenirs, on El Prado.” She spoke in English and Spanish, her Spanish softer, more like the Spanish of the Argentine.

Bernie leaned forward, her mouth open, her lips raised in a calculated smile. Norwelia whispered something with a slight lisp that Bernie could not understand. She leaned forward again, motioning with two fingers for her friend to do the same.

“I said,” Norwelia continued in a husky whisper. She glanced from side to side and back to Bernie “... that I am here under Argentinean passaport.”

Bernie straightened in her chair quickly, trying to think. The smile she had been forcing on her lips froze.

“My God, Norwelia.”

“Por favor!”  It is Rosa–Suarez.” Norwelia whispered. She wet her lips and began again in a shaky, trembling hiss. “Please be careful with how you call me. You must try to forget what I just told you, Bernicita.”

Norwelia touched the bottle to her lips, but she did not drink. Her eyes locked in to Bernie’s. There was palpable fear there. Bernie felt sick. Norwelia went on, having gained some control, in a more natural voice, describing her reasons for coming. She had obtained Bolivian residency and a job because she needed the money, she said, but she was just a tourist really, wanting to get some local color, intrigued by the history and the tradition of the country. She had gotten bored with her life, she told Bernie. She remembered how Bernie had talked of Bolivia when they were kids together in Miami. It was a spiel designed for any eavesdroppers in the bôite. She wasn’t stupid. She surely knew that Bernie had figured it out. Certainly the

passport was the clincher, and she would not have told Bernie about it, if she had not wanted her to know. Unless, Bernie thought, she wasn’t thinking clearly, out of fear, out of nerves. Because of Cuba’s revolution, the rumors about Che, and the general edginess of Bolivian officials, a Cuban passport might have been subjected to serious scrutiny. Argentina would be considered merely a sister state, a neighbor with the same fears and concerns about an imported revolution as Bolivia.

They talked of family. Norwelia asked about Nicholas of course and then after thirty minutes of trivialities, they stood and touched each other’s hands and tried to smile for the benefit of the other customers. Norwelia’s trembling fingers were thin and cold, her large chocolate eyes were streaked with red. There was still a heavy curtain of reserve between them, but suddenly, as though on some unspoken cue, they both leaned forward, touching cheek to cheek. Bernie hugged Norwelia to her, patting her shoulder and trying not to cry. It was a gesture that indicated a more intimate friendship than they had been trying to portray and she hoped it went unobserved.

“Hermanita,” she whispered. “Vaya con Diós.”

Norwelia pulled away tentatively, her chestnut brown hair intruding on the suggestion of a smile, her eyes wide but steady.

“A Diós, amiga.”