Watia

     As I was sick for the past week I was not able to partake in either Corpus Christi (a festival of Saints, though on this day I had seven different types of meat for lunch- fish eggs, guinea pig skin, salted pork, unsalted pork, sausage, cow, and chicken) or the much revered Inti Raymi (festival of the sun), where citizens dress up and dance throughout the ruins of Saqsaywaman (one of our first field trips, one of my first blogs), and give services in Quechua, the native language. However I am glad to have stayed home and taken part of the building of the traditional watia (wah-tee-uh), a sort of adobe and dirt oven. Families build their watia during the festival of Inti Raymi, and cook a special sort of potato (they have countless different kinds here) and other foods.

     Ours was constructed in the back yard- Papi dug a sort a shallow hole in the backyard, and then broke adobes with a pick into small pieces (for some reason EVERY SINGLE person in Urumbamba has a pick and extra adobe bricks, of which their house is usually constructed). He then had me and the host brother help him construct a circle of large adobe pieces, and then a row of smaller ones on top of that. First, however, he constructed the door by skillfully making an adobe arch. Eventually I became afraid of breaking the little house (my right ear has ceased to work since last Monday, and my balance is very off because of it) so I contented myself carrying broken adobes to Papi and playing photographer.

     The taller and more precarious it became, the further I stayed away, but the resident niece, Karelly took over my spot. Eventually Papi and Eduardo balanced rocks into a rounded top, and we all threw dirt on it to seal in  the crack . Then, a fire was started within the structure and potatoes were set next to it to bake in the sun.

     After the fire had burned the watia black, the potatoes were thrown into the door, and the destruction began. First, a shovel was used to push the top stones down onto the fire and first layer of potatoes, and the second layer of potatoes was put in. Then dirt and more stones, and this time, chicken covered in corn husks. More dirt was thrown on, more rocks thrown down, and finally 2 bananas were placed very close to the top. The entire thing was smothered in even more dirt, so that all heat and smoke was trapped inside.

    After a short amount of time, everything was carefully unburied. We ate, and though I could not taste anything due to my illness, I could tell it was delicious.

Machu Picchu

    Two weekends ago was our much celebrated trip to Machu Picchu. The entire group had split into three- those hiking (5 day hike, around 300 dollars), those taking a van there (2 days, one night, small hike, around $145), and those who didn't go, or went with their families (no days, lots of money saved). I took the middle option, and we set off on a Friday morning early- extremely early for Kula and me (the only Urumbamba people who would be doing the van option) who had to wake up at 4 in the morning (I didn't sleep at all because I was too scared I would miss my alarm and then the trip), take a 1 hour combi to Cusco, and then a 30 minute taxi drive with a very lost taxi driver who drove in circles for the latter half of the trip muttering "I don't know this" to himself over and over in Spanish. 
     Once in the van our group slept for most of the drive, but woke up to observe the steep ascent across the face of many a mountain, on roads so narrow that you could no longer see the edge when you looked out the window, but rather the dried out bed of the moribund Urumbamba River, blocked by a dam. As entertaining as "car-on-the-edge-of-a-cliff" stories are, however, I have to admit that I never really felt unsafe or like our driver was recklessly flirting with our demise- I'm sure that there are a lot more terrifying roads out there, and less qualified drivers. 

     We debarked at the Hydroelectric station, and proceeded to walk 11 km along train tracks and through the jungle to our destination of the burgeoning resort town, Aguas Calientes. The walk was beautiful and reminded me of Costa Rica (the only other time I've been out of the country). While most of the group shopped, one other member, Detti, and I decided to go to the renown hotsprings, a 10 minute walk from our hotel. There, I was disappointed to find that the hotsprings were actually just water funneled into giant tubs- I had expected a more "authentic" atmosphere, maybe a waterfall and some rocks. I'm glad I went though, even if the notorious healing powers of the water did nothing to keep me from getting sick the next week (more on that later).

     On Saturday we again woke up at 4 in the morning to reach Machu Picchu in time to obtain tickets to climb Wayna Picchu, a gorgeous nub that sits right above the Machu Picchu ruins. Only 400 are allowed to climb it each day, which is why we arose so early. Climbing felt very nice in comparison to Chicon, where I thought I might pass out upon every ascending step. We scurried up Wayna Picchu fast enough to impress our tour guide (good progress, as the majority of us were in the "slow group" for Chicon) and spent the better part of an hour at the top, marveling at the view of Machu Picchu and surrounding mountains. 

     We also saw a 50-some couple from Brazil, thoroughly enjoying the healing powers of Machu Picchu (the landmark is said to be at the center of an energy vortex) as well as the effects of the hallucinogenic drug in which our tour guide informed us that they had copiously indulged. They sang and danced and played maracas (and were very well practiced, too)  to thank Mama Pacha (sp?), the Quechua phrase for Mother Earth. 

     

Sr. Torrechayoc

     Since our arrival in Urumbamba the locals have spared no energy informing us of how lucky we are to be volunteering during the time of the festival of Senor de Torrechayoc, the martyr whom after their church has been named. Two contrasting opinions solidified in the weeks before the festivities- those who adored the dancing, the ribaldry, the crowds that swarm in from neighboring cities, and those who despised the way in which a religious holiday had turned into an excuse to become incomprehensibly drunk for a span of 8 days, or were fearful for the safety of their homes from foreign rateros (thieves). My careful, teetotaling family made sure to always have a family member in the house to guard against the infamous rateros who made their way to Urumbamba every year to prey on the homes of unsuspecting drunks. 

     The inaugural Sunday arrived, and our host niece took my roommate and me to see a series of dances performed by locals sporting the most elaborate costumes that I had ever seen, the most ludicrous being the Diablada dance, in which very revealing fairies, fallen angels and devils danced alongside a variety of different sized gorillas. It was nice to see that the dancing was a family affair- next to the trained dancers small children (also adorably decked in extravagance identical to their parents) fluttered around, some trying to mimic their parent's complex footsteps, others plodding indecisively around the field. My favorite was a baby in a tiny gorilla costume perched atop his gorilla-father's shoulders for the entire ten minute dance, looking utterly confused the whole time.  

     

     The first few hours were quite interesting, but upon the third of sitting in the hot sun on concrete bleachers, each dance began to run into the next. And then the fourth and then the fifth. By the sixth we were huddled on cold concrete bleachers, no longer as enthralled by this display of Peruvian culture as we were in the morning.
     That night however, renewed our enthusiasm. We went to the office (conveniently next to the church), in front of which had been erected 3 multi-story spindly structures, apparently laced with fireworks. The first one was lit at 10 o'clock, Peruvian time (really 10:30) and we watched in awe as wooden spinners shot green and red sparks over our heads. Each structure put on around a seven minute show, complete with wooden wreathes that were shot -flaming- into the air, and then fell (still smoldering) into the audience. Before this spectacle, however, was one of a more dangerous events of the festival- an errant firework had landed on a woodpile next to our office and threatened to envelop it in flames. All of the volunteers, tipsy to the point of bravery, shot in through the gates and found empty buckets to hand to the frantic -and unlicensed- pyrotechnicians who had already scaled the wall and were shouting to each other in Quechua, the native language. Our director Kate frantically called the stoves boss, Jaime, who (under the impression that the office was being robbed, and calling upon his days as the night watchman) abandoned the festivities and ran into the courtyard with his fists bared, ready to hand-fight the dreaded rateros. 
     The next day was the parade, in which all of the dancers re-performed their Saturday dances throughout the streets of Torrechayoc. This was a bit more festive than the previous day, as each dance troupe displayed only their most perfected moves, rather than all ten minutes of the dance.  

     After the parade I got lunch with the Cusco group (a delicious American cheeseburger- perhaps an inappropriate meal amidst such a display of culture, but my cravings for American foods has reached somewhat obsessive), read in the office for a bit, then went home to dinner. The rest of Urumbamba, however, was just warming up for 6 more days of festivities. It wasn't until yesterday (the final and 8th day of the festival) that we heard our final percussion instruments and saw the last group of drunk individuals stagger arm in arm down the street.

The New "Sad House"

     Each work weekday we travel to Janahuara or Ccotohuinchu, divide ourselves into groups of three or four, and each team hikes to their respective house to (hopefully) complete a stove. Each group hopes that their house will hold all of the necessary materials, smooth, pebble-less mud, and a cooperative family. More than anything, each groups will hope that they are not working at a "sad house". 
     In my first four weeks here, I have heard of only two houses being given that title- one in which there was no wall to support the chimney, the other in which a family refused to hold up their end of the deal (mainly by providing workable mud) and had to be left alone until they could take the project seriously. Then today three other volunteers and I unwittingly entered a home that would win the title of "sad house" from all the others.  
    There were two Duke volunteers and two new arrivals, who we were supposed to engage in on-the-spot training. Jaime, our boss, led us to a house where we were not immediately granted admission. We stood back as Jaime yelled through the thin wooden door in Quechua until we gained entrance. We walked in and were met by an old man leaning on a cane. One eye was white with blindness and the other I suspect had also failed, as it neither moved nor focused. He had a a small smile on his face as we delicately crept around him -at Jaime's request that we took extra special care not to bump into his frail figure. 
And then we were on our own. 
     Usually, the volunteers try to work alongside the stove recipient. My favorite stove was one in which the husband -who was perhaps younger than I- eagerly climbed onto the roof to cut the hole (usually one of our people has to do that) while we built the stove below. His wife found us whatever else we needed, and our breaks consisted of playing with their 6 month old baby in the yard. Yet this stove was vastly different. It wasn't that the recipient didn't help, it's that he couldn't. Our efforts to speak Spanish to him came to no avail, and I repeated the one phrase I knew in Quechua ("I am fine") over and over again throughout the morning so that he knew we weren't ignoring him. With difficulty we had to search out every material that usually is provided upon request and when we finally began we had to start not on the actual stove, but on building up the wall for the chimney with cumbersome and back breaking adobe bricks. This consisted of choosing a brick from the pile outside, and (with the help of a pick) separating it from its brothers. Then, haul it inside, hack away at it with the pick another time until it seems the right size, wet it, and finally hoist it up to another volunteer standing on the stove platform so they can use copious amounts of mud to stick it to the brick that lies underneath. The ground team and the platform team sweated equally, but the worst part came when we had to make more mud. As one of the new volunteers hacked away at the pile of dirt above the mud basin we heard a shout- "We've got ants!" 
    Thinking it was merely a few stray insects I ignored the call and continued to work on the wall, only to see out of the corner of my eye the older gentleman ambling across the room. I called to him to ask him what he was doing, and thus found out that he was quite deaf. The commotion outside continued so I followed the man out the door and found that the ants were a bigger problem after all- our mud basin was built at the edge of an anthill that came up to my chest. At this moment our attention was drawn again to the man, who had been making his way to an outhouse that we had failed to notice, hidden 20 feet away behind foliage. His cane was slipping on the underbrush, and he was struggling over the brick that we had unknowingly left in his way. The only male volunteer in our group helped support him there, a service that the man gladly accepted. Meanwhile, we decided to saturate the basin with enough water that the ants would leave the mud, or drown. That worked, but when Jaime returned to check on our progress he found three of us sitting forlorn and spattered in the dirt around the water spigot, trying to tie down the handle which wouldn't close. The other volunteer was helping the elderly man back from the outhouse. Confused, Jaime attempted to stifle the pouring faucet, speak to the old man, and put us back in order before he left again. While we wrestled with the water a pair of chickens had descended on our buckets and the old man had settled himself in a chair facing us, and proceeded to watch our progress on his stove. 
      Finally the proceedings became smoother, and although the work was still unusually difficult we settled into a rhythm. And I began to wonder about the old man. I wondered how he managed to live on this little farm, with no sight and limited mobility. I wondered if he was happy, when a trip to the bathroom took him the greater part of an hour. Later I found out that his wife was a good deal younger than him, and cared for her ailing husband. That made me wonder about the wife, and how her life differed from other women in that pueblo- was it consumed with caring for her husband, or was it less work or more joy than at seemed? What I was most curious about was why the old man was so content to watch us for a hour, although he could not understand us and probably could only barely make out our foreign forms. Yet he watched, with a hearty grin on his face: a look of pure joy. 
     Later, in Spanish class, I asked about the existence of elder homes in Peru. My teacher explained that they have them, but those that enter die quickly. Confused, I asked if this was a reflection of the quality- she responded that while the quality could be quite good, when a man like the one we had encountered has spent so long listening to the birds that chirp outside his home, or the river that runs through his land, or his wife chattering to him about whatever (whether he fully understands or not), moving him to a nursing home is a fatal mistake. Taken out of his habitat, he would die quickly. It was then that I realized why he sat their and smiled- even though he couldn't understand us, we were company. Even though he sat and watched us make a mess of his house, we were entertainment. He knew his life on the farm well, and slippery trek to the bathroom forgotten, he has comfortable and happy. 
     But the aspect of the day that I wondered about the most was how he was when he was younger. Now, we saw him as old, blind, decrepit. All we knew of him were his ailments. But he could only have been this way for a few years. I wondered how his younger self would feel if he could foresee this moment- a bunch of foreign students entering into the home that he had carefully constructed, in which he had perhaps used his big smile and wit to land his much younger wife and subsequently provided for her so that when he fell ill she would have the means to maintain the house. I wonder how the younger, more virile version of this jovial grandfather would feel knowing that we saw him and constructed our judgments of the situation based on this version of him. That we never knew him in his youth. He no doubt spent many years toiling in the rocks of Ccotohuincho, coaching a life out of the arid desert. Yet we have no idea about THAT man, only the old one in front of us, picking his way across the floor. Ninety percent of his life has most likely been filled with labor, self-sufficiency, and perhaps passion. Yet we will never know of that side. I wondered how different the way we saw him was from how he sees himself. I know that when I am old and my health is failing I will still think of myself as the 20 year old who built stoves in Peru, as the adolescent who likes adventure. But how will others see me? Most likely as we see the man- weak and vulnerable. He is a shadow of the man he used to be, yet we can never know that other man for comparison. I very much wish I could know what this old man was like  in his prime, and what would be his thoughts about his position today. 

Orthodontic Emergency: Peru style

     The apples in Peru are some of the sweetest I have ever tasted. Unfortunately, I enjoyed my last one today after an errant bite ripped out my permanent retainer, the one that's been attached to my bottom teeth for the past six years, protecting a $4,000 brace job from my teeth returning to their natural (and very crooked) state.
     I arrived at work and selected the juiciest  of fruits from the communal basket. I bit into the apple, and realized something was off. I felt the area with my tongue, and was immediately stabbed by the rogue wire. "Oh no," I thought, "I broke my retainer and need to get it fixed before my teeth start moving." Then I became cognizant of my whereabouts.
     "Oh no," I thought, beginning to panic "I broke my retainer and I am many miles and even more dollars away from my orthodontist, whom I will not be seeing for another 3 months." For many, this wouldn't be a problem- their teeth would handle the couple of months until their return. Unfortunately, I have a very small mouth and my wisdom teeth haven't been removed- without my retainer my superfluous will crowd the other ones until I've regained my childhood (an embarrassingly awry) bite.
     Distraught, I scurried into our program director's office and pointed over and over at my mouth, and tried to explain the situation. She understood my qualms about visiting one of the local orthodontists whose office's are nestled between hair salons, laundromats, and bakeries. She then remembered that another ProPeru worker is dating a dentist who works in Cusco (one of the bigger cities), who knows how to do permanent retainers.
Thank God.
     Within an hour I'm on a van to Cusco. I get there, and a very nice passenger who sat next to me and got to witness my distress (for an hour, poor man) hailed me a cab and even paid for it. Two hours after my apple, I was sitting in a dentist chair and my retainer was being reattached. The dentist laughed when I told him that a piece of fruit had been my downfall. "Una manzana MUY fuerte (It was a VERY strong apple)", I said, trying to defend my dignity.
     As it turned out it was good that I came in so soon- not only was my retainer broken all the way off (I thought it was only half but the other side had surreptitiousness begun to detach as well) but according to the dentist my teeth were already loosening. Hours after the whole ordeal it's still difficult/painful to eat as my teeth are still being pulled back into their desired position.
    I returned home to find that my host mother had misread my note and thought that I had been hit in the face by something and broke my teeth. I reread my note, and realized that I had made it sound as if I had, in fact, been hit by something and broken my teeth. Thankfully when she called the office the program director was able to explain it better and she wasn't worried anymore.
    What I learned today is that little emergencies happen fast and unexpectedly whether you're in a position to take care of them or not. I'm very grateful that this time I was in that position.