Happy (Dead) Leoncio Prado Day

This morning, I woke up to find the park outside our house occupied by about 150 armed troops. It was not a coup. The guys in camo and cadet uniforms and 19th-century calvalry getups were members of the Peruvian military taking part in a tribute to Colonel Leoncio Prado, a hero/martyr in the War of the Pacific (1879–1883).

Today marks the 125th anniversary of Prado’s death in 1883. The colonel led Peruvian troops in the ill-fated war with Bolivia against Chile, which resulted in both Peru and Bolivia losing valuable land to the victor. Peru has never recovered from the trauma, which lingers like an open wound in the national conciousness. The country still feels oppressed by Chile. The closest thing I can compare it to in the United States is the South’s ongoing resentment against the North.

Col. Leoncio Prado didn’t win any major battles, but Peruvians exalt him because he sacrificed his life for the Peruvian cause. He fought in the last battle of the War of the Pacific, the Battle of Huamachuco (July 10, 1883).  Like most of the war’s battles, it went badly for the Peruvians. Two-thirds of the Peruvian troops died, included many officers. Col. Prado was one of those captured; the Chileans gave him the option of putting down his arms or being killed. He chose the latter and was hauled in front of a Chilean firing squad on July 15, 1883.

Adios, Leoncio.

As El Fotografo likes to point out, Peru is full of memorials to a war that it lost. The streets of Miraflores are named for the generals who fought in the war against Chile; parks are named for its heroes/martyrs. A museum in a nearby park features lurid oil paintings of Chilean soldiers tearing the bodices off respectable Peruvian ladies and breaking old people’s tea sets. The point of these paintings is to ensure that the Peruvian people never stop holding a grudge against Chile. I found that out when I visited the museum with El Hijo, who asked what the soldiers were doing to the women. I found myself having to explain to a 10-year-old what rape is.

He listened intently.

“I hate the Chilean Army!” he exploded.  

There’s no escaping the War of the Pacific in our neighborhood, which was one of its key battle sites. Remnants of the war are literally underfoot. Every once in a while, a construction crew will uncover a war-era skeleton while they’re digging the foundation for a new high-rise. 

Workers found a skeleton about six months ago, in a plot of land two doors down from us, where a four-story apartment building was going up. The builders didn’t tell the city because it would have entailed a lot of paperwork. I found out about it because every day I would ask the men wheeling out loads of dirt, “Hay un esqueleto?”

This morning’s Leoncio Prado celebration was officious and solemn, with soldiers parading along the concrete paths that are normally lined with necking couples and guys in cardigans doing the crossword puzzle. The soldiers carried guns. El Hijo kept asking me why. “Who are they going to shoot?”

 I had to use a telephoto lens because soldiers posted along the perimeter of the park told us that onlookers couldn’t step foot inside.  That restriction struck me as weird, as in profoundly undemocratic. After all, this is a public park.

So who was all the hoopla for?

Dignitaries in dark suits, sporting ostentacious medallions. There were also a fair number of Peruvian masons in attendance, wearing their ceremonial aprons. I don’t know what their connection is to Leoncio Prado.

The Peruvian soldiers alternated between stone-faced solemnity and goofiness. Either they were glowering at me or hamming it up for the camera. A number of them would turn around and preen when they heard my shutter click (see below). This struck me as undisciplined behavior for battalion of soldiers. 

The event went on for about two hours. A priest spoke, people from a miltary academy spoke, a brass band played the Peruvian national anthem and other martial tunes. I could hear it all from the window of my office.

Toward the end of the ceremonies, a speaker exhorted the soldiers to live up to the ideals that Prado stood for.  The soldiers shouted back, on cue. It was creepy-fascistic, if you know what I mean. I do not like rallies in which people get carried away by some ideal that involves their dying or killing people.

Then it was over. I looked out the window, and the soldiers were gone — every last costumed one of them.