A dose of reality

June 1st

I saw her, limp and lifeless in pajamas still pink, with dust and a little dirt on them, a little dirt from the town that she was not from, from the town she should have left that morning with her family had they arrived at the bus station a few minutes earlier to get back to her home, her home with her toys, her food, her kitchen, her clothes, her life.  Her life left her here in this strange place and her eyes, open wide and unmoving, looked past me, past the crowd and into the mountains where her soul must have been playing.  Her hat was left outside our office.  Her blood is still there, and on some mornings now, if I’m not careful, I step right on it, and curse myself later when I think about it.   

Her hat is gone now.  She is gone now, I knew she was gone when her eyes were open, unmoving, open and crusty like little girls’ eyes are, looking at me, through the crowd and into the mountains and the air moved through me and I realized I am old now.   Looking back to a movie I watched when I was young and in it, a little girl died - she was sick, on a bed, and when she took her last breath and died, her eyes closed.  I cried and my dad comforted me, ensuring that she wasn’t really dead because when people really die their eyes open.  This was real death now, little pink pajamas, my boss and co-worker yelling, pumping her chest, her family silently beside her, shocked that two minutes ago she was playing on a street corner before the minibus came barreling through.  I stood there quietly, pushing curious children behind me so they wouldn’t see, holding a box of latex gloves, watching this scene, watching her eyes and knowing she had left.  She was three tiny years old, and her family missed their bus home that morning.  I walked back, after her body was taken to the hospital, back to the crowds waiting in front of our office, back to expectant eyes.  Back to questions – was she alive?  Was she breathing?  I wiped my eyes and told them no, saw their faces and realized I didn’t know who I was talking to, and quickly said, no sé, I don’t know.  I don’t know. I walked up to the office and sat down, letting her eyes be open and open and open in front of me.    These days, I feel life slipping away from here, from me.  As much as I feel I have blossomed here, I recognize that certain sadnesses will never stop.

Choquekillca Round 2 (Becca's Version)

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 May 24th

Now, for my version of Choquekillca.   As I mentioned earlier, my host mom had some cargo deliveries to make, so I graciously assisted, unaware of what I was getting myself into.  My host sister tagged along for some deliveries, and a friend for another delivery. I assumed these deliveries would be like the toffee deliveries I used to do for my mom during the holidays – I would go with some bags of food up to the front porch, engage in a short but meaningful conversation with a person I knew meant a lot to my family, then hop back in my car and listen to my teenagey music.  I knew it was different when I walked around behind my host-family’s kitchen and saw a battle occurring: woman vs. cuy (guinea pig).  This is what we were delivering.  Every day of the fiesta had a different food theme – we were delivering cuys for Cuy Day, which was Tuesday.  Ana Maria grabbed the cuys by their necks and threw them in a bag, being sure to give families equal parts boy and girl cuys because they taste different.  The cuys screamed like baby pigs, then, as Ana Maria told me, quieted down because they knew they were going to die.  As I carried bags of guinea pigs to these parties, they would sometimes move, and I wondered about the loveliness of these gifts if I were to be bringing them to a similar party back home.  We went to the first cargo at 11am.  Women were preparing food in the kitchen, and although it was pig day, the men outside were skinning the head of a cow.  There’s really no other way to put it.  It wasn’t pleasant, but they placed it in a friendly position for me to take a photo of it, before yelling at a child to not sit in the blood.  Then they gave the child a piece of raw head meat to play with.  Then they served me, my vegetarian friend, and Ana Maria some corn and beef.  I ate the beef while looking into the eyes of its owner.  I think I’ve grown a lot since I’ve been here.  They gave us beer to drink as well, as a gift for the gifts we gave them. 

We arrived at the second cargo just as the dancers were returning from their stint protecting the Senor.  I knew Ana Maria had a plan to mooch some lunch off this cargo, so I played the part.  I got a beer right away, and also got Ana Maria’s beer, since she wasn’t drinking.  We sat at the VIP table for some reason, and watched the latecomers and newbies get whipped.  Ana Maria gently sipped her Inca Kola while murmuring insights like, “Jose?!  I can’t believe he would be late.  And Sonya!  That girl.”  It was like watching a strange sporting event.  They served us tripe and stomach soup, along with chicha, a pisco and papaya blend, and that brown water-bottle liquor.  I drank for both Ana Maria and myself.  After the tripe soup, my food nemesis arrived:  lechon de choncha.  Pieces of pig, roasted with the hair still on it.  It smells terrible, and there is about one full bite of edible meat available, of which you have to look anxiously for with your hands under the thick, hairy pig skin.  Children often pull at the skin with their mouth, causing me to gag.  Last time I ate this dish, I was unable to get out of bed for the next two days.  I had to do it again though!  I washed it down with more beer.  I wasn’t feeling too sick, due to Ana Maria’s foolproof plan for lechon eating: first the lechon, then pisco, then the brown liquor, then cold water.  No water while you eat the lechon, though. That’s what I did wrong last time.  A few hours after you eat lechon, you have to drink mate, or herb tea.  I did all that, as recommended, and did not feel sick.  After sitting there for a while, surrounded by people dressed in full costume, masks included, we went to the third cargo to deliver that last cuy installment.  Here, I was handed one more huge beer.  The owner of the cargo poured me some chicha, at which point I regally declined, saying I already drank too much and ate too much, and pointed to my bloated belly.  She begged me, “please mamacita, take this one glass of chicha, its just one glass, it only has natural alcohol.  Please do me the favor, please”.  I couldn’t say no!  They then sat us and served us, I kid you not, more lechon de chonca, which I started in on again.  I don’t know where or how my stomach expanded to fit all of this into – I think somewhere after looking into the cow head’s eyes my brain maybe shut off.  Buckets of pig parts were being brought in and brutally chopped up, and I munched on my lechon and drank my chicha, telling girls in their costumes they looked like princesses.  Looking back, I’m betting by this time (about 2pm) I was pretty toasted.  Ana Maria didn’t seem to mind though.

We realized then that we were late for the bull fight.  This day keeps getting better!  So we ran back to our neighborhood, where the corrida was conveniently occurring.  It was my very first bullfight, and Ana Maria convinced me it would be g-rated.  We sat two rows up on cement seats and watched as very drunk people let the bulls into the ring while matadors dressed like the animated version of themselves flung pink and red blanked in front of their faces.  Before I knew it, one pompous matador had stabbed the bull with those stick pom-poms and, to the boos of the crowd and Ana Maria shouting, “Don’t kill the bull!  We’re all farmers!” with everyone else, thrust a sword into the neck, and heart, of the bull.  He died right there, and his poor ears and tail were cut off to give to the Spanish matador who did the deed.  We would later eat that bull, but in that moment, amongst tears of children behind me, and boos of the farmers who live in my neighborhood, it was a terrible event to witness.

This type of partying continued on for the next three days.  It never felt like people were going overboard, or had overdone it, or were out of place.  It felt like a genuinely good time.  As I walked through the town at 9:30 in the morning to put more credit on my phone, people would invite me to come drink with them, ask me my name, and then, across town hours later, remember me and say hi.  It was a beautiful time to share with these beautiful people.  As I walked home on my dusty pathway just out of town Monday night, the second to last night of partying, I saw a man by himself in the moonlight, playing the accordion.  He saw me and changed the tune a little as I strode by, guided by moonlight and the glow from the snow on top of Mt. Veronica.  I giggled immensely, my voice tilting and rounding around the idea that I live here now – this is where I live.

Pictures!

Here is the link to more photos. 

Enjoy!

https://picasaweb.google.com/114379609394765551921/PromotoresChoquekillcaAndHealthCampaigns?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCNKM0_H6-5D1IQ&feat=directlink

Choquekillca

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May 20^th, 2013

Choquekillca.  It all started an impossible amount of years ago, in a mysterious place, with a man, his horse, a river, and some beers.  This myth is, of course, according to the nine-year old on the combi ride to the nearby town of Urubamba.  The man, well, the Senor, was drunk.  He was riding his horse around the Sacred Valley and came across a river that had a giant whirlpool whirling around it.  He drunkenly decided to cross the river, using only a few sticks he found to make a bridge.  About midway through the river, right above the whirlpool, the stick bridge broke, the man fell in, and miraculously a cross emerged.  Thus was born the festival of Choqeukillca.  For a more accurate description of the myth behind the 4 days of incessant and belligerent partying, you may want to consult the internet.  Basically, the bare bones of that story still are manifested in present day: beer.  For four days in Ollantaytambo, the town gets wasted.  Old Quechua speaking woman wearing their skirts and beautifully woven capes that carry babies chug beer, toddlers drink chicha (fermented corn beer), teenagers slug back pisco with no regret.  People begin drinking at 4am and don’t stop until 4 am.  The premise is to celebrate El Senor, who on all the t-shirts looks exactly like Jesus.  There are 17 dance troupes that are handpicked and involve about 20 dancers each in incredibly be-jeweled costumes, masks, and whips.  The dances represent everything from the Spanish invasion to the heritage of those living in the high altitude regions.  Each dance troupe has its own party, or cargo, around town.  The party hosts were carefully picked at last year’s celebration, and have spent months planning for a feast – they often hire bands from Cuzco and caterers for this event, and have to cook for hundreds of people, without rest, for four days.  To be invited to a cargo officially, the hosts go around with bread and beer about three months before to each invited family’s home.  The invited person then describes what they will bring as a gift for the host at the cargo.  Typically, the gifts are crates of beer.  My host family hosted a cargo for a dance troupe last year, and my host mom had to deliver gifts to each family that came last year that is now hosting their own cargo. 

Lastly, the most crazy part.  The replica of El Senor must be protected 24 hours a day by the dancers.  The replica is in the church in the plaza.  Each dance troupe, who has a specialized dance they perform, must protect the Senor for two hour shifts, bringing their cargo, or party, with them, including the crates of beer.  They dance in front of the church, with community members, or without them if no one is there.  A few tidbits to explain: to be a part of a dance troupe you must commit three years of dancing.  You also dance at other celebrations throughout the year.  You must stay in costume throughout Choquekillca, unless you are at home resting.  You must eat and drink whatever is put in front of you.  This part is ridiculous, and on one day, the day where all the dance troupes visit all the other troupe’s cargos, only the captains have to eat everything.  That means the captains have to eat about 16 full meals, including 16 huge beers, shots of Pisco, and some random brown “digestive” liquor that is often poured out of a big water bottle.  And glasses of chicha.  As a dancer, you must attend a certain amount of church ceremonies per year, or you will get whipped.  Which beings me to another interesting point.  If you are late for your dance, or are new to the troupe, or mess up the dance (even after drinking 16 huge beers), you will get whipped.  I witnessed this!  They take it very seriously.  They will whip you with huge whips either on the back (in certain dance troupes they tie people up), or on the ankles.  My host brother was in a dance where all they did was dance around on one foot until someone blew a whistle, then one person would whip another person.  There were children involved in this dance as well.  I saw his legs today, they looked broken from the bruising.  The men wear layers of socks, but the women just ear thin nylons under their dresses.  They even whip the women.  There is no tolerance for being late to dance practice.  This is a basic summary of Choquekillca.  By far, the most drinking I have ever seen in my entire life took place this last weekend.  If I went to a huge university, grabbed all of the fraternity brothers, dropped them in on this weekend, and told them to enjoy the fiestas, they wouldn’t make it past 2 days.   This was serious partying.

Pictures of my first week

Here is a link to pictures of my first week!  Enjoy.  This is way less convenient than Facebook, so thank you for your cooperation.

https://picasaweb.google.com/114379609394765551921/FirstWeekInPeru03?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCP-Y0dTKio3VAw&feat=directlink

A little romance

May 2, 2013

Today was my first day holding hands here and I felt pretty queasy about it.  Margarita was in the kitchen before dinner, preparing something with Aleja (an older woman who doesn’t live with us but who cooks, eats, and hangs out at the house all day), and I asked if I could help.  What are you making, I wondered aloud.  Feet soup, they responded.  It’s good for the stomach.  Ok, how can I help you?  I asked, intrepidly.  Margarita had the raw chicken foot in her hand and was scraping it.  Aleja was dicing vegetables.  I thought that’s what my job would be.  Margarita grabbed another knife and told me to take the yellow parts off the chicken foot with it.  What are the yellow parts?  I asked.  Skin, she replied.  Oh.  I skinned the chicken leg, mindful to dissociate as much as possible. I saw how Margarita was doing it, very aggressively, so I copied her.  The best way to assimilate into a host family, I think, is to copy what they do.  The chicken leg still had its nails. It felt like holding a miniature old persons’ hands with only three fingers and a thumb.  Or was it two fingers a thumb?  How good I am at dissociation!  I hold its hand and rip at the skin, peeling it off slowly, trying to make it more fun for myself by remembering that I love peeling off people’s sunburned skin only that doesn’t feel like I’m holding a severed 97 year old baby’s hand while I’m doing it.  I made conversation.  Is this the same chicken we had for lunch, I asked.  It sure is, says Margarita.  Aleja nods accordingly, dicing her G-rated vegetables.  Keeping her hands clean of all this.  What a delicious chicken that was!  I remarked.  They murmured in agreement.  I can’t wait to eat its feet.  I kept that one to myself.  We sat down for dinner - me, Mama Ana Maria (just home from backbreaking labor making stone streets in our neighborhood), Aleja, and Cesar, Ana Maria’s goddaughter’s older brother from a town a few hours’ walk up the hill.  I tried eating a foot.  Ana Maria was very nice about it.  I had to ask her to put one in my soup for me.  I tried it, and for the first time in my traveling years, I felt vomit immediately in my mouth. I put it aside and laughed.  I couldn’t help myself!  Ana Maria ate it for me – it’s nothing, she said, your stomach still has to get accustomed.   

Work is great too.  There is so much to learn, but I love all of it.  This organization has clearly made an impact in the community - everyone I speak with knows not only the name of the organization, but can name one or more people that work here (there’s only about 6 of us).  There isn’t a lot to say about work yet because I’m feeling very overwhelmed by it.   My host family, their lives, and the comfort I feel here are very reachable for me. 

My life has changed immensely in the past week and it is an incredible shift.

At last!

5/1/13

At last!  So many things have happened at last.  Inside the mountains I have found a certain peace, mouth agape, family smiling, joy abound.  I unpack my things in this new home, my temporary placement.  A guinea pig farm, for eating only!  A houseful of mostly women, only one man to speak of, a very timid and adorable man who is in love with his wife and child.  It is here at last!  A walk through dirt roads and cables lining the street, sisters Cati and Ana Margarita dutifully carrying my bags, I see ice-capped mountains in the distance. I have a comfort zone in this incredibly foreign place.  It has not enlightened, nor thrilled, nor exhausted me yet because I have been thrown in and because it is so different.  I just might feel comfortable here soon though, with bugs biting me, walking across a dirt path from my room, adjacent to the room shared by mom, dad, and baby, to get to the dimly lit kitchen where we chat and drink coca leaf tea.  Dogs bark and fight in the distance.  I warily turn lights on, expecting the scurry of creatures.  The kitchen is full of jars and jars of spices and dried leaves, the oven built into a wall, black with soot.  Grandmother Ana Maria tells me she likes to cook everything.  Based on the massive amount of guinea pigs (cuy) she has in the back (piles of them) I’m guessing that’s one of her favorite things to cook.

In the backyard, the cuy murmur in unison.  Under each piece of cardboard box in their pen is another lump of fur!  A “mother with her babies” she would say.  I laugh and laugh (quietly so as not to offend them).  She maybe has 100 of them. By tomorrow it might jump to 150.  I am not yet grossed out by it, but I might be because they are cute, and when Ana Margarita holds one up to me I can’t help but pet it.  Is that how you treat your food?  I don’t know yet.  It is pretty precious, and terrified. Apparently they taste delicious.  The other girls I have met so far tell me they only have it on rare occasion, and in Cuzco it costs about $25 a plate. But not at Ana Maria’s!  I tell them it is my birthday on Friday, and they say they will make something for me, hopefully with a side of cuy.