It was one of those days that would take me through a journey unlike any other, but it started such as ninety-nine percent of all days do, with no indication that it would be so much different from the rest. Although this type of spontaneity was more common as a gringo living in the isolated central highlands of Peru, this particular day would flirt with my soul's obsession with the unique for years to come. Breakfast was eggs and bread, the eggs scrambled and the bread oval rolls spiced with anisette that my host father baked twice a week. Coffee was instant, the kind of instant with caramel flavoring, which I enjoyed and could only find in Peru. The air was crisp, dry and chilly, with the sun shining brightly onto the village. I was slightly nervous since my boss would be visiting Vitis to check in on me and talk with my host family and the community to record how projects were progressing. My nervousness was unfounded, since the visit was fairly uneventful, so much that I don't remember much of it and so won't describe it here. It was during the visit that we discussed a town in the same province of Yauyos that had held onto its very own language, Jaqaru. It was said the people of Tupe had their own culture and dress apart from the rest of the highland towns in Lima, which they had defended in the faces of the Incas and Spanish using slingshots. If you visit now, I had been told, the people speak Spanish, Quechua and Jaqaru. But there was no public transportation to Tupe; one had to take a private vehicle. Diego suggested we use the SUV he drove to visit the volunteer sites, and we would go with my Peace Corps friend and fellow volunteer in Yauyos, Jared Brandell. The way to Tupe is to take the alternative route between Lima and Huancayo, which cuts through the Nor-Yauyos Cochas Landscape Reserve we lived in, and from there the road to Tupe. The way down from Vitis to the cutoff for Tupe is easy enough; you just follow the road until you see a small green sign near the town of Catahuasi reading "Tupe" and "Aiza". The locals told us the sign was for the "desvio" towards Tupe, which incorrectly translates to "detour". In actuality the sign pointed to a pair of tire tracks that went up the dry Andean foothill, criss-crossed by even more tracks and disappearing after a bend. With the exception of some cacti and bushes, there was no vegetation on the red-brown landscape. With multiple tracks going in varying directions, we were hoping to be on our way towards Tupe. Fortunately we picked up a local, who after attempting to speak to us in his language transitioned to Spanish. In return for us dropping him off, he guided us to the hamlet of Aiza, which he explained was part of Tupe. The actual town of Tupe was going through a contentious debate about whether or not to be connected to the highway, and so was only accessible by walking roughly one hour from Aiza. At first I was disappointed that our time constraints would not permit us to visit Tupe, but this was alleviated by the fact that we would visit an even less-known town that preserved the same culture and language. The poverty and isolation of Aiza were palpable upon entering the town. Buildings were made of adobe and tin or straw roofs, and there were electrical lines. However there were no open stores or many people for that matter; most likely they were at the fields working the crops or attending to the animals. Most telling in this part of Peru, there was no cell phone service, internet, or satellites for television noticeable on the roofs of homes. The climate was drier and less conducive to agriculture than the towns at higher elevations, and a lack of public transportation meant residents often had to walk hours to exchange and buy goods. Eventually we met up with a priest who was from Spain and had lived in Aiza for two years. He was accompanying an older woman who spoke three languages (Jaqaru, Quechua, and Spanish). She wore a dark red bandana and plaid dress, much like her people did generations ago. She even had a slingshot for herding cattle, presumably similar to the ones used by her ancestors to fight off invaders. Jaqaru, she and the priest explained, was still used in homes and taught in the schools, but migration by the young generation and ever-creeping outside influences were making the language's future uncertain. While some grandparents in Aiza could not communicate with the priest since they did not speak Spanish (and he did not know much Quechua or Jaqaru), grandchildren were forgetting the language they grew up with as they moved to Lima to study and get jobs. This bleak diagnosis is not unique for Jaqaru as an indigenous language. However it brings up a philosophical debate. Does learning a world language guarantee one will be better off? Every poor person I knew in Peru spoke Spanish; it is not a magic pill that instantly makes lives better. On the other hand, nobody has lost opportunity due to speaking multiple languages- at least, not justly. Limenos who have heard of Tupe tend to thing of the town as a novelty that is an experience to have or a jewel to be nurtured. Many, likely including people from Tupe, think these languages should die off. But is that really necessary? The Bible has been translated to over 1,500 languages and Google is already available in 149 (and counting). Perhaps when humanity's own prejudices, whose roots come from colonial mindsets, are erased, we are suddenly able to provide resources in non-majority languages. It is noteworthy that languages such as Italian and Swedish, which are from parts of the world that were historically colonizers, are not in the same danger of being lost as languages in geographies that were typically colonized.
After a few hours in Aiza, we had to turn back. Diego drove us to the main road, where he turned towards Lima and Jared and I waited for the bus back up to our towns in Yauyos. The bus only came once a day, and our wait of six hours was spent in a very average Andean town next to the Canete river. We spent the time eating ice cream, which was unavailable and very much missed in our sites, sharing beers, and then throwing rocks at other rocks in the river. We also had the time to reflect upon Aiza and Tupe. These towns were in the same department of the modern city of Lima yet were in reality worlds apart. How must the worldviews of their residents differ from ours? Who is to say whose worldview is superior, and how can we measure what is lost when we fail to appreciate, or even worse, lose, language and culture? The people of Tupe and Aiza are the bearers of a culture that beat back the Inca and Spanish. But will the culture survive today's exodus of young people to the city? Most people may tell you such languages and cultures are on a path to disappearance. But our future is never determined until it becomes our present.
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9/15/2018 0 Comments I see dead peopleDuring our time in Matucana, Janina's job was to investigate and make official recordings of traditions in the small towns of the province of Huarochiri, in the department of Lima. This often involved visiting pueblos during their traditional festivals, interviewing participants taking part in their age-old customs, and taking recordings of the event organizers explaining the meanings and histories of the events. Since the transportation, lodging and board were paid by her office, it was like Janina got paid to go to parties and interact with revelers. It was undeniably a tough job to beat. And so when I had the time, I accompanied Janina on these trips. The one that sticks out the most today is our trip to Collana, a small town with no electricity or public transportation located on a mountainside not far geographically from Matucana. The festival organizers set up transportation from Matucana to Collana, which was a short mini-bus filled to the brim with people. The bus left Matucana, crossed the highway, and started up a dirt road that I had never noticed before and which steadily became less noticeable as we continued. About forty minutes after leaving Matucana, our seemingly overmatched bus made it to the end of the supposed road and we entered a pueblo of about a dozen adobe buildings with a mix of straw and tin roofs. Below was a valley that included a river and the central highway, which connected Lima to large cities in the middle of the country and might as well have been light years away. I had lived in and known plenty of small villages in Yauyos, but Collana was perhaps smaller than all of those. Normally there was someone there to meet Janina and show her where to stay and eat and to present her to town authorities and leaders. But in Collana, nobody met us, and there were no stores or restaurants. Supposedly a woman had offered for us to use her home as lodging, but she wasn't present. Regarding food, we would eat during the festival, and that would be enough. Yet that didn't start until six, and it was just past lunchtime. So having nothing to do after taking the time to walk around Collana, we took an hour hike to a beautiful waterfall, which shared the name of the village. The trail was not well-marked and resembled a walking path through the grass, bending around the hillside. We talked with locals that we passed to confirm that this indeed was the correct path, and were told to leave an offering to the spirit of the falls upon arrival to ensure our safety. Throughout Peru, particularly in the Andes, villagers respect individual mountains and waterfalls as powerful beings who demand respect and homage. The path took us down to a wide, squat-like falls no more than fifty feet tall. The people of Collana claim you can see a face if you peer into the falls, and that this is the water's spirit. I wasn't sure that I noticed the facial features, but Janina said she did. We were the only people there, which along with the tales of the fall's spiritual power gave an eerie sensation. We left our offering- a piece of chocolate. After that short excursion, our time was spent waiting for the festival to start. Activities in rural Peru are rarely punctual, and Collana stuck to that "tradition" in the extreme. Six o'clock, the official start time of the party, came and went, and with it the sun. At that moment I realized how much higher in altitude Collana was than Matucana; we could already see our breaths. Janina stood shivering and wondering out loud why her puffy white coat and colorful scarf weren't keeping her warm. Her coat was unzipped, the scarf was laying untied on top of her shoulders, and her wool hat wasn't pulled down to cover her ears. When I asked her why she didn't adjust her clothes to be warmer, she, the girl who grew up in Lima and was from the upper jungle city of Oxapampa, replied that it wouldn't look as fashionable if she was bundled up. Seven o'clock came and went, along with it many claims that the party was about to start. At around eight a procession began and led us to the town's candle-lit chapel. After a few short words were said, everyone walked outside to join revelers who had started passing around liquor and lighting cigarettes along with the occasional firework. Janina tried to interview a variety of people to get a good perspective on Collana's festival; older women with colorful blankets on their backs, men half-drunken passing around the warm liquors, adults who now lived in the city but visited for special events, and the brave souls who wore an apparatus named toro loco (crazy bull), bamboo structures held on one's shoulders that were fitted with fireworks and sparklers which shot in every and each direction, as the wearer chased down partiers in a surreal and strangely thrilling adaptation of the running of the bulls. I balanced my time by accompanying Janina, taking part in the festivities, and trying not to drink too much before we finally received food, which was to be served at seven but actually was ready around ten. It was a warm beef soup cooked in gigantic pots over woodfire and served with large wooden ladles. The dozens of us sat at wooden tables and used candles, flashlights, and headlamps to see. Weary from the combination of a long day, lack of food, and alcohol, Janina and I ate the soup silently. Until that moment, we had only been worried about when we'd get our next meal. But we still had not met up with the woman who was supposed to give us lodging in her home for the night. Janina asked around for the lady but word-of-mouth said she was still helping the party organizers. With what, I had no idea. After dinner the festival's character changed. It had been transformed to about a dozen stragglers, some barely standing, passing around beer and conversing in such slurred speech that it was indecipherable. A woman was looking over the fire as the next day's food was already being prepared. We opted to hang out next to the fire to stay warm. At some point between sunset and that moment, Janina's coat had become fully zipped, her scarf tied around her neck, and her hat pulled down past the ears. She still looked cold. The woman finally picked us up around midnight, when she told us she'd walk us to her house. She was a squat, square-faced woman who wore a colorful manta on her back and a baseball cap on her head, and her main form of communication was by short bursts of sentences, told, loudly, in Janina's direction. She spoke as if someone had pointed a remote control at her, turned the volume up four notches, then threw the remote off the mountain. This squat woman told us her house was a quarter mile up the mountain, away from all the others, and since there was no path leading up to it, we would have to walk through farms and at one point through a dry stone drainage ditch to arrive. Along with the dark, the cold enveloped us and threatened to sap the warmth that our clothes had obtained from the fire. Making the experience even more miserable, my headlamp had died, and the moonlight was barely strong enough for us to see our own breaths and feet. The squat woman did not talk to me at all, despite my attempts to engage her. She did address Janina though, and I quickly learned to follow her heavy voice and Janina's flashlight to prevent getting lost in the dark as we plodded up the mountain. Finally, after what seemed like a cold, dark eternity, we stopped, bodies weary and eyelids half-open. Although there was not enough visibility to confirm this, there was a feeling that not one soul or building was within a fifteen minute walk from us, and that might as well have been a million light years' distance in Collana. The woman explained that her house had one room with five beds, one of which Janina and I would use. I figured that for one night, it wouldn't be too bad. We took off our backpacks, emptied our pockets and put their contents in our bags, and immediately jumped into bed and covered ourselves with five heavy blankets. Our eyes closed and well-deserved sleep started to finally come to us. We were comfortable, warm, and ready for a good night's sleep. Deep sleep came quickly. Our slumber was soon interrupted by a noise outside the door. Who could be there, so far away from the city and the party? What would have followed us through the dark? The intruder knocked again, this time louder. One of the people in the other beds started to murmur something. Another responded, sounding slightly perturbed but maybe also fearful. Another knock, more powerful this time, slammed the wooden door and with a loud BAM!. The sound of feet shuffling came from the doorway, but as no person was visible I sat up, peering over the bed towards the entrance. Still, no one was there. The person must have been on his knees, or crawling, I thought, for us to not see him. Then he spoke. The moo was low and long. Then, upon the realization she opened the door, the cow barged through, mooing in every direction. Her owner, the squat woman, jumped out of bed and tried to shoo the cow away, but this just drew the cow's attention to the owner's bed, the end result being the cow turned away from our bed and promptly started hitting my face with her tail, much like a housecleaner uses a duster on a dusty bookshelf. But this duster smelled of mud and grass, and at the other end of it was a large white-and-black ass. To get the cow to leave and secure the doorway, the woman and her family turned on their flashlights. Janina woke up and reached over to turn hers on as well. I asked to borrow her light to use the bathroom outside. After being woken up, there was no way I was going back to sleep with the drinks and soup I had drank and eaten, unless I put my jacket and glasses back on to brave the empty cold to use the bathroom. Upon re-entering, I was sleepy and in the drowsy state of near-sleep, and I gave one last look around our part of the room before taking off my glasses for bed. Janina was already softly breathing under the mountain of blankets. On the dusty wooden floor next to her was her backpack. Further up the wall was the wooden mantle on top of the bed, right above our pillows. Then, there it was, no- there they were. Sitting above my bed. On top of the dusty, wooden mantle. Human skulls. Both staring at me through their blank dark eye sockets, which were surrounded by white and yellow-stained craniums, their jaws closed shut as they stared at me with a few holes in their toothy smiles. I instantly woke, completely and totally alert. It was like a shot of adrenaline instantly applied to my senses. Here I was, far from home, far from cell phone service, far from any other living person outside of this home, far from anyone who even knew me, in the house of an obviously strange woman, perhaps a maniac, either way a woman who didn't even acknowledge my existence when I talked to her. The terror hit my eyes, and at that point Janina started to wake as the flashlight stayed fixated like a laser beam on the mantle above her. I told her I had to show her something outside, then managed to walk, not run, out of the house. Once outside together, I froze. Janina said something but it went in one ear and out the other. I tried to explain there were two skulls above the bed (in fact, I didn't know the word for skull*, so what I said translated to "head bones"). She calmed me down a bit, explaining people use the skulls of dead relatives, specifically, grandparents and great-grandparents, so the spirits will look over their homes. Apparently it is a well-known practice, although not common in all parts of Peru. That made me feel better, until we re-entered. I looked at the mantle again, trying to reason with this new intercultural challenge and appreciate the ancestors' looking over us. If the squat woman was indeed a maniac, perhaps these spirits would protect me. But something was off about these skulls. They didn't seem to line up with the dimensions of adults. I realized, terrified, they were not normal skulls. These were the skulls of children. This freaked me out. All night I tossed and turned, wondering why someone would have children's remains in her home. In her home, far away from all the other houses. A lady who refused to acknowledge me all night. The most comforting thought that came to my head was, they were her children who died, and she kept their heads. That was the most comforting thought that came to me all night. Needless to say, it was a sleepless night. It was also a peaceful night, for those who were not sleeping next to skulls with their imaginations running wild. Nothing happened. No spirits, no crazy lady doing anything after she thought we were asleep, nothing. The next day the woman finally did talk to me, as if some curse had been lifted overnight and she could finally talk to the gringo, and we learned the skulls were from a site of ruins near town. The woman found two skeletons and decided to bring their skulls to her home. What she did with the rest of the remains, no one cared to ask. The rest of the day was a blurry, exhausting walk back to Matucana. The transportation was only provided for the first and last days of the festival, and we were not staying another night. We walked down the mountain to the highway, from where we took a bus to Matucana. The hike probably lasted about four hours, and if not for the adrenaline of fear still lingering in my body, it would have been even more tiresome. The promise of my own bed, in a familiar and so-not-creepy room, served as a great motivator. For the record, I have since spoken to various Peruvians on the subject, even those who use the skulls of great-grandparents to protect their homes, and they confirmed grave-robbing children's remains to decorate your house is not normal. Who would've thought? Happy Halloween *it's "calavera" Note: This is from a post dated 6/25/12 in my old Peace Corps blog, but edited up a bit. It seemed timely given Halloween is approaching. In the actual story, the cow enters the room after my realization is made. Photo taken from public domain 4/22/2018 2 Comments back in the towns of yauyosNothing stays the same. As a returned Peace Corps volunteer coming back to my original host site after nearly seven years, I kept this in mind on the way to Vitis. Other returned volunteers told me how their sites were different now; some of their friends were no longer there, or rapid development seemed to get in the way of the authentic, traditional customs and day-to-day life of small towns. The changes were to be expected and, I was told, negative. You will not feel the same there; worse yet, the sad realities of daily life in marginalized communities had not changed or had gotten even worse. I braced myself emotionally for this. It wasn't necessary. The warnings of change from other returned volunteers were less accurate than a common saying about development in the Andes of Peru: it happens, but very slowly and one small step forward at a time. There were only a few changes to Vitis that I noted, all good. Cell phone service had finally truly arrived. We could even text message my family back in the USA. The large flows of tourists that streamed to neighboring Huancaya had branched out to provide a small but predictable trickle of visitors who stayed and ate meals in homes in Vitis, creating a steady extra source of income for some families. Most notably considering the number of deadly accidents from buses and cars going over mountainsides, guardrails had been placed along dangerous curves on the road from Huancayo. More stayed the same than had changed. The endless trails up and down hillsides and along cold, peaceful turquoise lakes, the drumming of sky-blue cascades, rivers full of local trout and birds, and far-away snow-capped mountains are still there for the adventurous to explore. Often you'll pass by villagers on the way to their small farms, carrying fresh cheese and milk on their backs and walking alongside their animals. The women wear the traditional bowler hats and colorful blankets called mantas and men often wear ponchos. I was surprised that a number of them commented that I would have forgotten them by now; I replied the only way I could, by asking how would that be possible?! We had come to see the people and towns and also to realize a cultural project. We are going to publish a children's book of a traditional Vitis myth called Ashincuy (see our GoFundMe campaign here!). The book will be in Spanish, English and Quechua, a native language that is used in Vitis but is disappearing. Having the book in all three languages and about a story that many Vitisinos know helps children to be proud of who they are and of their own heritage, a pride often lacking in small towns that feel forgotten by the rest of society. We are going to include illustrations by children from Vitis in the book. Initially we were told that only five children would participate, but the day we arrived the school arranged an assembly for us to explain the project. We ended up with about fifty drawings and held a contest for the best of each grade to receive a monetary prize and to be included in the final publication of the book. It was a much bigger success than we expected, and we left feeling very optimistic about local interest in the project. We stayed in Vitis for three nights, and the first two were cloudy. It was the shoulder season, so there was some rain. The last day was sunny and cloudless- a perfect day to go on a short hike and say our good-byes to Maritza, Allico, Joel, Danilo, Mama Pilla, and Papa Pancho for their good company and food and to Raul and Elena for their good company and for providing us with rooms and beds. We weren't sure when we would see them all again. Our post-dinner tea in the house of Maritza and Allico was longer than normal since we wanted to extend our last moments with them and put off stepping out into the cold. After we finished, Janina and I stepped onto the cobblestone street and closed the creaky tin door to the house, using our headlamps to guide us through the unlit streets. Our insides were warm from the multiple teas drunken. We steadily made it up the incline and could feel each stone under our boots as we passed the adobe homes of tin and tiled roofs. The smell of firewood burning stuck to our jackets and was also wafting through the cold crisp air as families finished up their meals. We discussed how we were ready to go back but also would miss Vitis, yet mostly we were excited about the progress of the project. Then, upon deciding to take the long way back to Elena's home, we walked alongside the cliff that separates the town with the dirt road to Huancayo below and I noticed that we didn't need our headlamps anymore. It was the first cloudless night and we could see all the stars and constellations, even the Milky Way. They lit up Vitis and our feelings of wonder and awe. Within just five minutes we spotted three shooting stars. At 12,000 feet and with no light pollution, we were closer to the cosmos than we had ever been. Moments like these make you feel that you better understand Andean culture and the Incas and their predecessors. The relative permanence of the mountains below and the immensity of the galaxy above make you feel like a small temporary speck on an orb, more a part of your surroundings than the controller of them. The experience reminds you why the Andes are special; it's not just the variety of cultures, foods, history, and archaeological sites, or the fact that people and animals have lived in this difficult terrain for thousands of years. It's something the local cultures know and that visitors travel thousands of miles to get a peek of. The Andes are a truly magical place, providing special moments that tug at your soul and stay with you forever. 3/21/2018 0 Comments deep thoughts in shallow mancoraI remember having a rare moment alone during the sunset at Mancora. Sunset at the beach is where the perfect time meets the perfect place- the most beautiful time of the day and the ocean with its inviting calm. In Mancora, salt water laps the sand as small waves crest over, and a warm sun sets and turns orange over the sea, creating silhouettes out of the fishing boats and remaining surfers. On this part of the northern coast of Peru, sunset is a quiet time of the day. The long night has yet to start, and beachgoers are making dinner plans or resting until the evening really begins. Memories of the night before are a cloudy mix of drinks, food, people, and loud pulsating beachside dance scenes. Here the water isn't cold, but is never particularly warm either, and the beach is pretty and provides solid waves all day long. But ask anyone who's been, and you'll hear people come to Mancora for the nightlife. Catching the sunset alone was a special thing here. This was not a town for travelers looking to find isolation or quiet. Yet here I was, sitting and looking out into the never-ending sea, whose rhythmic crashing into shore enshrouded me with calm. I thought I would possibly live in Peru forever- I would move to the coast and make money teaching English, or maybe working for a conservation NGO, or perhaps learn to surf and set up a surfing school. I figured I would make enough to make by, surrounded by good food and the ability to travel the continent a couple of times a year. More than anything, the possibilities seemed fun and exciting. It didn't happen though. I moved back to the USA, sometimes wondering if I would ever live there if it weren't for my family and friends. Maybe that's because the USA is so familiar to me that it can't thrill like another country, or maybe because it feels like a giant monoculture. Probably my thinking that day was influenced by the scene and sounds of the beach, helping me forget about the problems Peru faced and the differences between volunteering and being a working resident. But there’s something about my home country that doesn’t bring out my excitement to explore quite like Peru does. Peru, despite all the difficulties it threw my way, had me enchanted that day in Mancora, and to this day has not let go. It was the first country I visited or lived in outside of my own, and it caught me young and open to what was to offer. But also, Peru has something exciting that makes it impossible to get tired of exploring. It is not a melting pot, but rather a fusion, a result of centuries of disparate civilizations clashing at and ultimately influencing one another. Yet despite all the history, there is an energy in the cities that makes the country feel new. Part of this is explained by Peru's large young population and the huge gains in economic growth since democracy was restored, growth which was pent up and not allowed to occur due to the conflicts of the 1990's. Peru is still inventing itself- its fusions of food and cultures, and new challenges and opportunities brought on by development have made the country one that constantly is tying the past with the present, in the most colorful, unpredictable, and exciting ways. |
AuthorBrad Goodman Archives
April 2019
CategoriesAll Andes Beaches Ghosts Halloween Lima Mancora Peace Corps Peru Rural Tourism Yauyos |