In the yard in front of the hut a little three-year-old Indian girl stood with her finger in her mouth, watching us with big brown eyes.
"She's probably never seen anybody parked here before in her entire life!" breathed Dean.
"Hel-lo, little girl.
How are you?
Do you like us?"
The little girl looked away bashfully and pouted.
We began to talk and she again examined us with finger in mouth.
"Gee, I wish there was something I could give her!
Think of it, being born and living on this ledge – this ledge representing all you know of life.
Her father is probably groping down the ravine with a rope and getting his pineapples out of a cave and hacking wood at an eighty-degree angle with all the bottom below.
She'll never, never leave here and know anything about the outside world.
It's a nation.
Think of the wild chief they must have!
They probably, off the road, over that bluff, miles back, must be even wilder and stranger, yeah, because the Pan-American Highway partially civilizes this nation on this road.
Notice the beads of sweat on her brow," Dean pointed out with a grimace of pain.
"It's not the kind of sweat we have, it's oily and it's always there because it's always hot the year round and she knows nothing of non-sweat, she was born with sweat and dies with sweat."
The sweat on her little brow was heavy, sluggish; it didn't run; it just stood there and gleamed like a fine olive oil.
"What that must do to their souls!
How different they must be in their private concerns and evaluations and wishes!"
Dean drove on with his mouth hanging in awe, ten miles an hour, desirous to see every possible human being on the road.
We climbed and climbed.
As we climbed, the air grew cooler and the Indian girls on the road wore shawls over their heads and shoulders.
They hailed us desperately; we stopped to see.
They wanted to sell us little pieces of rock crystal.
Their great brown, innocent eyes looked into ours with such soulful intensity that not one of us had the slightest sexual thought about them; moreover they were very young, some of them eleven and looking almost thirty.
"Look at those eyes!" breathed Dean.
They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother when she was a child.
We saw in them the tender and forgiving gaze of Jesus.
And they stared unflinching into ours. We rubbed our nervous blue eyes and looked again. Still they penetrated us with sorrowful and hypnotic gleam.
When they talked they suddenly became frantic and almost silly.
In their silence they were themselves.
"They've only recently learned to sell these crystals, since the highway was built about ten years back – up until that time this entire nation must have been silent!"
The girls yammered around the car.
One particularly soulful child gripped at Dean's sweaty arm. She yammered in Indian.
"Ah yes, ah yes, dear one," said Dean tenderly and almost sadly.
He got out of the car and went fishing around in the battered trunk in the back – the same old tortured American trunk – and pulled out a wristwatch. He showed it to the child.
She whimpered with glee.
The others crowded around with amazement.
Then Dean poked in the little girl's hand for "the sweetest and purest and smallest crystal she has personally picked from the mountain for me."
He found one no bigger than a berry. And he handed her the wristwatch dangling.
Their mouths rounded like the mouths of chorister children.
The lucky little girl squeezed it to her ragged breastrobes.
They stroked Dean and thanked him. He stood among them with his ragged face to the sky, looking for the next and highest and final pass, and seemed like the Prophet that had come to them.
He got back in the car.
They hated to see us go.
For the longest time, as we mounted a straight pass, they waved and ran after us.
We made a turn and never saw them again, and they were still running after us.
"Ah, this breaks my heart!" cried Dean, punching his chest.
"How far do they carry out these loyalties and wonders!
What's going to happen to them?