Mixto

As I sip my coca tea from a chipped tea cup on this the two month mark of my arrival, I think about everything I have experienced so far. This entry will be more visual as at the moment I am at a loss for words.

This is a photo of Urubamba from the caminata cruz, the white cross that sits high above the city. It's a pretty tough hike, makes the lungs burn at this altitude.

The front of the school where I teach, with local woman.

Pigments for sale in Pisac market.


The only street food I will eat: the baked tamale wrapped in corn husk at the Pisac market. Soooo delicious!


The back yard of Ccatan, the long-term hostel where I am living. This is where we have lunch sometimes.


The kitchen of Ccatan and where we spend a lot of our time here.


The bulls plowing the land in our backyard.


The Argentinian Parrilla we had at Ccatan.
This is the Ccatan family! Volunteers, teachers (like me), local Peruvians and friends.


This is me drinking some mate, in the spirit of Argentina.


Still life of our table during the parrilla.


Cooking the meat for the Parrilla.


Yo.


At Salineras, natural salt pools.


Make no mistake, this is not snow.


Never seen anything like this before.


At Moray. Moray was designed and built by the Incas as experimental crop terraces.


Moray.


Sunset over the Sacred Valley at Salineras. I can't help thinking how lucky I am.

Catching my breath

We are already half way through August and the last few weeks have disappeared in a gust of thin, mountain air; time seems to be passing faster and faster these days and for a variety of reasons I have found it difficult to stop and catch my breath, both literally and figuratively.

The above photo was taken up the gravel road from where I am living. And yes, it is necessary to eat 2 packages of chocolate covered soda crackers (brilliant invention!) just to make it to the top of the hill...

Lately life here has been a study in contrasts and absurdities. In order to adapt to life here and not want to go running home, one has to learn to normalize the abnormal to a certain degree. For example, when the power goes out for the entire day so they can update the power grid I have learned that I have to write out my handouts for class by hand, or handle class in pitch darkness when the power randomly goes out at 8pm. Or when we do not have running water for two days at the hostel I have learned I just have to shower at my friend's house in town. Or dealing with having fleas for the first time in my life, I have learned how to wash heavy, wool bedding by hand, to fumagate, to segregate flea-infested clothing in bags. And all these things, while of course inconvenient for people here, are very normal and routine. I have never experienced fleas in my life (at least not that I know of), but now I know what to do if I ever encounter those little bastards again. I am learning some very useful, practical skills here, if nothing else. And not that we do not have inconviences back at home either, they are merely of a different variety; congested traffic, smog warnings, and the odd power outages as well.





















And then the contrasts. The gap between the rich and the poor here is profound. Here in Urubamba we have the luxury Tambo del Inka Resort and Spa. Check it out if you are interested in coming; the rooms start at $500 USD per night for a single, I believe. But you will always have steaming hot showers with water pressure that will pin you against the wall, electricity, heating, no fleas, everything and way more that you might have at home. The image above is the lobby of the Tambo del Inka hotel.















And then on the other extreme, we have los Communidads Altos Andinos (photo above is of Chaullacocha community, 4500 m.), the people who live high in the Andes mountains with no running water, no electricity, stone houses with dirty, sooty wooding burning stoves, whose main food stuffs are potatoes.

So on one hand, we have this luxury hotel here in Urubamba which is so completely out of reach for 99% of the population here, and on the other the folks who live in traditional communities that have not changed much in hundreds of years. And these communities are in a crisis; they will disappear if they are not supported. And I wonder, where does all that money from those big, expensive hotels like Tambo del Inka go if not to the people whose culture is being exploited by tourism here? Naturally, it goes to Lima and out of the country.

If only those Incas could see their country now...

(Note: Of course this is typical of a developing country and anyone who has travelled in one knows all of what I am explaining is nothing new or novel. This is the reality for most people around the world, give or take a different context.)

On August 11 and 18, I travelled with my friend Helder who works for an organization called RUFADA (Rural Family Development Assosiation or Associacion para el de sarrollo de familias rurales) who are attempting to support these communities by first asking them what they need (not, in the way of some NGOs, telling them what they need), so that they can be more self-sufficient. The project they are currently working on is the native plant project. It is a sustainable project where each community will get seeds and cuttings of species of plants used for making natural tints for dyeing wool. This will allow the women who make their living as weavers to have their own gardens of native plants from which to make their own natural dyes.




















This is an image of a woman from Rumira Sondormayo community in the midst of her colourful wool she is using to make woven belts.

Additionally, this organization is also attempting to support the women in creating alliances between the large, fancy hotels and these communities so that the women can sell their art works at a fair market value, directly to the tourists (which, sadly is not often the case here. Often there is a middleman of sorts who takes the majority of the earnings). In this way these communities can benefit economically by the developing tourism industry and therefore continue to survive.

The following photos are the documentation of my journey to these high altitude communities. In addition, most of these people do not speak Castellano (Spanish), they speak a language called Quechua. The pronounciation reminds me of German actually.




















Woman and her child in Rumira Sondormayo community.















Rumira Sondormayo community.















Community meeting with the women of Rumira to discuss the native plants project.




















Local boy in Rumira.




















They were a little sceptical of me at first, but then I gave them some cookies and we became friends.















These women cannnot read or write, so instead of their signature, they take their finger-print in order to sign the contract for the native plants project.















In Pulqaq community. From left, Arturo (the engineer), Antonio (the architect), Pedro, Me, Raymundo, Helder (organizer). RUFADA is also in the midst of building a community house where the women will be able to work together on their weaving.















On the way to Chaullacocha community on August 18, in the '82 Ford Mustang. That was an adventure in itself. Getting stuck in the mud, crossing precarious bridges, the bumpy, dusty, dirt road; this was all part of the adventure of climbing to 4500 meters in the '82 'stang.















Chaullachocha community















Francesca and family preparing lunch in the kitchen-bedroom-living-room-barnyard.















Eating lunch! Mmmm, rice with french fries and a bunch of other stuff. It was delicious actually and at that altitude you need all the carbs you can get! And nothing beats freshly boiled potatoes, peeled and dipped in salt. Potatoes are their main staple here, and believe it or not there are over 800 varieties. Despite not looking malnourished, the people from these communities suffer from vitamin deficiency and malnourishment and also from a lack of medical attention. Not surprising as their only food source is potatoes (with a little cuy once in awhile!).




















The bedroom-kitchen-livingroom-barnyard again - and the cuy...nice, fat juicy ones too! Yes, they eat the cuy. They think it is very strange that we only have cuy as pets.















Francesca demonstrating her weaving. This particular tapestry will take between 6-8 days, 4 hours each day, to complete.















My new friends. From left, Moises (11 years), me, Luz Brenda (2 years) and Francesca (23 years).

And so I just keep walking, one slow, step at a time (one delicious Peruvian cookie for each step), remembering to catch my breath, to breathe deeply, to get that oxygen flowing, to keep on going.

Thoughts on life in Urubamba after one month

It has been almost one month since I have been wandering the dirty, dusty streets of this small village and I am not going to romanticize or idealize it. Honestly, I cannot say I love it. Life is hard for me here (as it is for many, I think) and I have days where I do not know what I am doing here. I am conscious that I have the privilege to leave if I choose, and so I gather my thoughts carefully and try not to take everything so seriously, but I am not going to lie: it is really hard. And then there are the days where there is a moment where I know I am in the right spot, some little lesson learned, some interesting tidbit of knowledge gained, an interesting connection made and I know I am living less ordinarily right now. This image is from the lookout point of the Caminata Cruz (a hike up to a cross on the mountain) looking down at the sacred valley and Urubamba. Sometimes I have to remember to look up to see in what an extraordinary place I am living. And from this perspective of looking down at the town where I am living, I also gain new insights; somehow in living in this environment it is easier to start to see our lives as much smaller in contrast to the sublime Andes mountains in the distance. It is easy to see the beauty in the landscape but more difficult to see the beauty in the streets of Urubamba, yet I wonder where it is hiding, it must be there!

The streets are indeed dusty, dirty, and shit filled; often they seem to be used as public washrooms for both humans and animals. The infastructure here is very poor, so many buildings built with adobe bricks and concrete, are crumbling and in poor condition, the signs sloppily painted on with house paint. The sidewalks also are crumbling and you have to constantly watch where you step for fear of falling into the random holes and placing your shoe in a pile of poop or a puddle of pee from the hundreds of stray dogs that roam the streets. Familiar sounds are dogs barking throughout the night, and the early morning crowing of my neighbours the roosters that keep me awake at ungodly hours of the night.

Life here is also generally hidden behind closed doors; there do not seem to be a lot of people in the streets at any given time, although most people here do walk most places because it is a small town. When I peek through the double doors into shops that double as residences I see family life going on, the chickens walking around, the laundry hanging from a wire, the fire burning, the moto parked just inside, the baby toddling in a walker, the pile of corn husks stacked against the adobe bricks and maybe a cuy or two if I am lucky. This is an image of my new next door neighbours, taken from my roof top apartment, another new interesting perspective from which to view my surroundings. From the street, you could never see this life going on behind the closed, locked door facing the street.

And because it is a small town, I am beginning to recognize many familiar strangers: the teenager, Amar, who works in the bakery Antojitos from early morning to late night who serves me chocolate cake. Cesar the chef who is from Trujillo and makes the best burgers in town at the Sandwich Lab. The ladies in the internet cafes and locuturios. The police officer always standing outside the bank. I am even beginning to recognize the stray dogs of the city. It is also these connections with people that also give new perspectives on living a life in this place.

And I just keep moving, like everyone else. Another Monday comes around and I find myself walking to the school at 8am along with the rest of the town in the midst of Urubamba´s ¨rush hour¨ which, of course, is nothing like Toronto´s! It is interesting none the less, how despite all the contrasts and differences between my culture and the culture here, life moves on in the same ways. People have jobs, they go to work, they come home, they shop, they cook, they clean, they take vacations, they have relationships, they have families. Of course they do! Life is keeps moving and what seems extraordinary to me here, is of course quite ordinary and normal to the people whose lives I am quietly observing and in whose lives I am attempting to blend in. It is easy to see the beauty in the mountains and landscape of the land but I am finding it challenging to see the beauty in the streets of the village, yet I it is there somewhere, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the crumbling adobe bricks. What do you think?