"Oh, très bueno, I’ll be right there. Limpiamos!" The verb "limpear" means "to clean" in Spanish, and it was one of the first new verbs I’d learned, as Sprenich instructions to clean off the dirt and rootlets away from the walls and artifacts.
My crew thought this was a riot. "Oh, Maestro Limpio!" said Julio, slapping Marcario on the back. "Limpeamos, Maestro Limpio!" (Maestro Limpio is the Mexican name for the bald genie with the gold earring who waxes floors in American advertising.)
I set down the 3 meter tape, plopped my notes on the top of the low wall, and made my way across the site. Not an easy task, though—we had just started to excavate this wall foundation and a lot of rubble still surrounded the remnant walls. I knelt down next to Julio and watched as Alejandro, using a small paint brush, cleared off the last clinging earth from the delicate bones. A child. Not uncommon, to find children's burials under the floors of Tlahuica houses, but a little unnerving for someone as young and inexperienced as I was.
"Si, es una hovencita." Alejandro nodded.
Dust Devils and Aztec Archaeology
And as I leaned forward to touch the small orange-ware bowl covering the skull of the child, a whoosh of hot dry air rushed up from behind me and spun around us, dashed across the foundations and wrenched four pages out of my notebook, hurling them 50 meters into the sky.
Together, we watched for a moment as the dust devil kited my precious notes out across the barranca.
And Marcario said, "Allá va volando el espíritu de la hovencita, Kristina." [Sp: The spirit of the little one is flying there.]
And Alejandro said "Mon Dieu." [Fr: My god]
And Julio said "Hijo de la perra." [Spr: Son of a bitch]
And I said "Madre de Dios." [Sp: Mother of god]
