My Mailing Address

Hello!

A few of you have been asking after my mailing address.  The post office here doubles as a minimarket, and there's sometimes adorable kittens running around.  It's also the same place I pay my electric bill.  There's a pile of mail there and if the woman is in a good enough mood, she will let me go through the whole pile and pick up mail for the staff at the office.

Becca Williams
c/o Sacred Valley Health/Ayni Wasi
Pilcohausi s/n
Ollantaytambo, Cusco
Peru



The "s/n" means "sin numero", or "without number".  I've seen mail delivered to people with only their names and "Ollantaytambo, Peru" written on the envelope.  It's not preferred, and it makes the woman a little angrier. 

If you would like to write a letter, I would love to hear from you!  Also, anything over 2 pounds will get sent to the main post office in Cuzco which is two hours away. 

Lima

6/21/13

I am enchanted with Lima – it’s a certain kind of dark, sprawling poverty that is different than the stagnant, dirty poverty of rural Ollanta.  It’s precious, homely, beachy, comforting and uncomfortable.  Misty and glorified in the way typical of big capital cities, history peeking out in the faces of the unbecoming.  It’s something I will always miss, even when I’m in the middle of it.  It reminds me of a younger, idealistic me, discerning the right from wrong, falling in love and wanting to live in these places, taking a step back and realizing I already do.  It’s a dark, damp place that brings out a fighting spirit.  It’s a cultural divide, a racial divide, a lack of access that spurred my undergraduate delight.  It’s a thinking cap heaven, a sprawl, a sprawl unbeknownst to the human imagination until it’s there, and I’m grateful that throughout all my travels I still have never actually seen a place like this, although my heart feels at home.  Ollanta, cold and dirty, a poverty that is simple, a simple negativity, not a justified positive, just a rural way to not have any ends meet.  Lima, Lima, a big city so massive with its 68 districts, makes me feel like I’m riding a motorcycle through Togo, driving my car through LA traffic on a sunny day, and meeting to play backgammon with Puerto Viejo locals all at the same time.  It’s pertinent, sweaty, the first place where the cold and humidity meet and I play with it delicately while drinking beer and eating ceviche.  The colors make me want summer to happen. I want to sit in a window with Afro-centric music playing, drinking a sweaty drink, looking out at the colors and feeling incredibly busy and weighted at the thought of everyone else trying to get by.  I want to live here, love here, be here, forever warm and eclectic, searching and finding these social problems as they exist in the pounding hammers of the construction workers, in the broken down homes in the black neighborhoods, in the desolate, desolate frighteningly alone road to the south where people put up one room homes only to be blown away by the light wind that creates the sand dune highways.  Lima – wow!

This is the way I live!

June 8^th

Oh my, how this place is different than that other place-that other heart and soul place, that other life and green place, that other smell and sight place, that other home and hearth, that other heartbreak and alone place, that other heat and death and warmth and light.  How this place is different.  Different?  Different!  I wake up, heart slowing me down, blankets all around, bed swallowing me up like its meaning to eat me alive, thoughts running slowly slowly through my head, slow motion like life here.  Adrenaline leaving me as quickly as I think the thought that it might be approaching me.  Heartache?  Elephants?  Sweat?  Skin and whiskey and hot rain and rivers and genocide and freedom and bugs and bugs and love and oceans are a fast thing of the past.  So fast they leave me, so far behind they run from me.  Here I smell like cold dirt, here I feel like I am being built upwards and outwards, not inwards and sideways.  Here is slow slow slow, energy and heartbeats enter and exit in my dreams and even then, it takes me layers and layers of eyelids to push past them, wake up and see that this place, oooh this place has slowed me down.  How is life here, life here in Ollantaytambo, so…steady?  So steady.  I am here and I am not going there, there to that place and this hostel and with those people to this restaurant at this time with these drinks and then to see that temple and then on this night bus I am just here. 

In comparison to Mae Sot this place does not compare.  I do not feel dangerous, I do not feel harshness, I feel warmth leaving as soon as it enters my body.  As soon as I leave the warm circles of water in my shower, I am back to being cold.  I feel a lack of adventure, a riskiness come and gone.  (am I growing up?).  I saw a need and filled it.  I work to provide people health services.  I network to begin a mapping project in our communities.  I discuss the utility of obtaining domestic violence and sexual assault statistics in high altitude regions to begin an awareness campaign.  My roommate and I talk about, over breakfast, how I can implement a program whereby our promotoras teach his program participants about reproductive health, and in exchange they can translate for us and get free food.  I have never worked this hard in my life.  This pace of life is slow, so slow and so easy at times.  I wake up, make my bed, eat breakfast, hike Incan ruins, go to work, work about 10-12 hours, then drink a beer, or not, make dinner, or not, and go to bed.  And I think I love it so far. 

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.