For Peru's Sake

Not that anyone wants more of this girl writing, but here are two articles that I have had published about time in Peru:

-South American Explorers Magazine: Little Hands -- Here is an account of volunteering with Peru's Challenge; it might be similar to earlier posts.

-Global Journalist: On the Beaten Path -- This story untangles the mix-ups that Machu Picchu puts on the table. It is a grand site all should see, but that idea and reality is tearing it down and shooting prices up to the points of the local Peruvians not being able to see the mighty haven of their ancestors.

Enjoy.

When Birth is A Burden

Families up in the mountains have an average of six children per family. I came across families with many, many more: nine, 10, 12. Each child just as precious as the next and each child one more mouth to feed and body to clothe. As I have mentioned before, it isn't about material possessions in these mountains, but it is important for children to have food or shoes or be healthy. And US$3-5 a week doesn't go far with so many mouths. A family welcomes many children, but it is hard work.

These families don't family plan or use preventatives. So a few months ago, when a 45-year-old woman was pregnant with her 12th child and was working in the fields, she had a miscarriage. Her daughter found her and took her to the hospital. The hospital wouldn't accept her without a payment of 300 Soles. There wasn't any way to pay that, so she called Peru's Challenge who, from their emergency fund, was able to pay for the mother to be taken care of. But what are all of the other mothers who have similar circumstances doing? What if your body isn't healthy or prepared for a baby? Or you work hard while pregnant? Or you can't afford any help while carrying or having the baby? 

The sad thing is that this has become such an issue that CNN picked it up as a story titled, "Peru Has High Maternal Mortality Rate."  The UN is saying that for every 100,000 births, 240 mothers die. In wealthier America nations, nine mothers die for every 100,000 births.  Between the lack of resources for families, working conditions for these women and the health care systems, there are a lot of odds built up against you as a pregnant woman in the rural areas. 

I am so thankful for Peru's Challenge's ability to help the mother in the fields that day. We need to make it possible for mothers to have a child and not have such scary numbers in their face. 

What's Also Hidden in the Andes

My Perusing here has been quite minimized as of late but I still think about the smiles and little hands hidden in the Andes every day. And then, opening up The New York Times to read stories that make me crazy that people aren't just not helping but being pro-active against helping the gorgeous people in these mountains. Here's a story. 

On the Photo Above and Holding Hands

I didn’t know that the last time I went up to the communities was my actual last time. For those of you who know me, you are probably nodding, thinking Good; it’s better that way. You would be a mess. This is true, but I still get that burning feeling in my nose when I think about not going up for “one last time” or making sure I squeezed those little shoulders extra hard or let the children know I think they are intelligent and beautiful, and they have changed me and thank you.

I was going up for Mother’s Group/Talleres, and we were bringing a method of dying cloth for more colors, colors that made the mothers gasp and slip the leftover examples in the blankets wrapped around their backs. Talleres is inspirational to be a part of. These mothers face the hardships of a third-world country: poverty when trying to provide for many children, alcoholism, domestic violence, hard work in the fields, and, quite simply, one of the most selfless existences I have witnessed. Here, they sit at tables and laugh and stare in awe at the crafts they are going to learn to make, learning to speak up for themselves about who should lead the groups or which colors they want or how important it is to attend the sessions. They listen to Jane, replying with “Si, amiga Jane” in between glances towards her and down at their busy, rapid hands that are creating something beautiful: a scarf, a painting, a hat, a wall hanging—a  means to an income, a Christmas, a health campaign, pride.

The children run in and out of the room, telling their mothers through tears who did what or chasing the dogs or creating games on the grass outside with each other. I have to remind myself to stick with the mothers instead of running with the kids, who pull on your hands and ask you to play a game with them. To hear the giggles over the mother’s Quechua chatter and to have your eyes catch on the colors and slight details fills your senses with an inner joy.

As we walked through the hills to Quilla Huata before Talleres started, the sun shone and there seemed to be glitter strewn on the swaying, tall grass. On the adjacent hill, I looked up to see the silhouettes of five children greeting us, with the sun at their backs and the wind in their hair. As we waved back, they began running, allowing the downward hill to pull them towards us as they yelled their welcomes. My heart doesn’t always know how to handle those situations.

The littlest girl fell easily behind the others, and I waited for her. She took my hand in hers and took the lead going into the village, pointing out her house and her family’s cow. I held on tight, swinging our arms in the glistening sun and listened to her stories.

I have spent four months here, leading volunteers or lessons or chimney-building endeavors. I have learned a lot about how leading with education and ideas is the only gentle leading that is self-sustainable in a community that has goals and with an organization that is there to assist, not give hand-outs.

And to feel my time in those hills ticking as I walked through with the dirty, tiny hand in mine, through a place where I have been lost in time but stuck in an ideal of helping lead a community to work towards lives they desire, to follow the little black braid and timid smile, I was simply happy to be led. 

Lesson Learned: Climb Waynapicchu

In the pitch black dark, someone rustled our tent, a husky voice saying, "beunos dias." I look at my watch, and it is 3:45am, and it is time to go. The rainbow day had come - the 4th and final day of trekking to Machu Picchu, the day we see what we have thought about each night as we fall asleep in the cool mountain air, somewhere in the Andes. 

Machu Picchu has been getting a little too popular, so the day has its structure. I wonder what it would have been like to be Yale University's Hiram Bingham, to be led by the hand of a small local boy as Bingam brushed away the historic site's blanket of trees and bush and moss. To enter the Sun Gate and overlook the Incans' site unfolding upon steep terraces of beautiful green hills. We however, packed up our gear and waited in a line about 6.5 km away from the Sun Gate, our first "checkpoint." 

There were five of us that wanted to climb Waynapicchu (meaning "small mountain"), the straight-up, narrow mountain behind Machu Picchu ("big mountain"). They only let 400 people up in a day and when those who took the train are usually the first ones into the site, the hikers have a race to run. Our guide led the five of us down the original Inca trail, by other trekkers and through misty jungle. The rocks are unsteady and the climbs steep, and when you are fighting for a place at the top, you have to sprint. So we ran, finally reaching the Sun Gate that was covered in clouds. We continued to sprint through the site as I wondered if this was a terrible idea, pushing off the splendor that surrounds me to breathe hard and ignore aching knees and the 20 extra pounds on my back. We will have time later, I thought.

The line was long, and the 10am spot had just filled up. There was only one group of hikers that beat us there, and they were high-fiving, proud to be going up at 10. At first, we were crushed. We were exhausted and had wanted that climb bad. Our sweet guide said he would give us a tour separate than the rest of our group (who were walking in three hours what we had just run in one hour), and we could go up at 7, right now, but the clouds might block all views. We had run all that way, it was worth a shot. 

The views as we started our upward climb were, even in the clouds, some of the most beautiful sites I have ever seen. When we looked down into the valleys with sun gleaming through the clouds and onto the Urubamba River that flows between the mountains that made me feel the smallest I have ever felt, it makes you look up to the higher peaks, the ones you want to reach to see even more. I felt like I was in Peter Pan, when the audience sees Neverland for the first time and flowers bud at amazing rates and the green is slightly visible through mysterious clouds. We hiked straight up for 45 minutes and looked around, getting nervous. We could feel we were high up but a thick fog blocked all views. So we sat, wondering where we should be to see Machu Picchu below. 

It didn't take long. Our rushes of adrenaline had slightly slowed as we dangled our feet over the ledge, waiting, but they picked up as clouds began to move and the vast spread-out of Incan ruins from nearly 600 years ago slipped into vision.

 

The Incans knew what was up; they seemed to magically pull and push rocks we can't dream of moving today to have a haven with views so splendid, the clouds wrap themselves around to remind you to open your eyes when, each morning, they unwrap the splendor like gifts. Their ideas of survival that simply formed out of necessity inspire me every time, making our techno ways of life seem silly, lazy, unintelligent. We walked around the sun dial, the towers, the tombs, the royals' rooms, the altars, feeling the straight-cut, perfect stones for the royals and the more jagged, imperfect stones for the regular class, hoping to maybe lay a finger on a spot that was last touched by a citizen before Machu Picchu was abandoned in the 1530s. 

Exhaustion took over our tour, and I wouldn't hesitate to go back again to lose myself in another era and in those Andes mountains. Let me know if you want to go. 

The Inca Trail and Its Rainbow

Here is where I am supposed to rave about Machu Picchu, how its splendor is indescribable and too majestic for words. It was named one of the Seven Wonders of the World in 2007, for crying out loud. And I agree with all of these things, but I am aware there are only so many times we can read about these monuments and the grandiose fascination they bring us. And besides, getting there was 3/4 of the fun. 

Hiking for four days was beyond a breath of fresh air because it was perhaps the freshest air I have ever breathed in and, believe me, I was heaving it in. The thrill of the escape to a completely untouched environment where you are swallowed by mountains and suffocated by a sky of stars brought tears to my eyes and a new definition of awe to my knowledge. Yes, sometimes I would use my surrounding splendor as an excuse to stop on an uphill climb, but there were many times where I would stop and stand motionless, trying to remember this feeling of being lost in the best way possible. 

The Inca Trail to Machu Picchu is about the length of a marathon in total, with the second day climbing 1,200m with 90-degree staircases and hills that continue for about five hours. The trail is unique because of its mixture of microclimates: the Andes mountain and the Amazon jungle. A jungle in the clouds is a cloud forest, and the trees, flowers, mosses and views change every few minutes from a rushing waterfall in wet, forest green to bright pink flowers under the complete shade of moss-covered trees to coming up on peaks to views of bushy green. Just like hidden Easter eggs, Incan ruins pop up randomly. The fortresses lie in areas with amazing views, as the Incans needed look-out points. Looking up to always see snow peaks and sunshine gleaming through narrow valleys became a comfort, even if I was taken aback every time. 

We camped at night and would be in bed quite early. The days were filled with hiking, and the second day included crossing Dead Woman's Pass; the name gives the pass's threat away. Our trek group played Charades and grew with that camp-fire closeness, and Annie and I would snuggle in our sleeping bags after staring silently at the stars only to awake at 5am or earlier to a cup of tea and brisk mountain wind. Our layers would be off within the hour though, as the sun shines hard when you are up so high. Groups of alpacas and donkeys passed us, and the monarch butterflies had an army. And the thought of the views at the top pumped energy into us for the endless, tiring climbs. 

I'll save the last day for another day. I might have read a lot about it, but it still deserves a post of its own.

Melanie

I met a girl the other day. We were about 8 years apart, but we weren't that different. She approached me in the plaza as I was reading before Easter festivities, and we spoke in a little bit of Spanish, and then she asked if we could practice her English, which was quite good. 

Melanie told me that she was in school to work very hard because she wanted to help "her people." "What do you think of the people here?" she asked me as she handed a begging man a coin, a coin I did not give. "What do you think of our government here?" Her questions caught me off guard - so unlike the usual questions those trying to sell something rehearse. With each of my answers - answers I have been trying to put together for three months now, she nodded and smiled and would usually say, "yes, I know." 

We agreed that there were some terribly poor situations here, and that no child should have to live starving, dirty, without education, sick, begging, the list goes on. Like the children I come across on a daily basis. Like the children she was passing on her way to school everyday so that one day she could grow up and help.

"Do you believe in the God." Yes. "Yes, I love the God very much. I talk to the God all of the time. I read the book about the God. I ask Him to help these people, and I ask Him when I need help." 

"You are like me," she finally said. "You travel and you help the people." I told her she was well on her way. She made me want to work harder. Melanie wants to work in the government - law, in particularly, so she can fight for the thousands of poor that stumble along Peru's cobblestone streets. 

I cannot think of many girls that young walking up to a stranger to sit down and pick through the observations of a tourist concerning the government, the state of poverty, her own neighbors, her dreams. I was left thinking more about the Peruvian government and about why Peru's Challenge is here. And I was left in awe of this young mind and huge heart that wanted to work so hard to do work similar to what I was doing. We plan to meet again, one day. But she left smiling, repeatedly saying she was happy to find someone with her own dreams. 

Annie and I head to Machu Picchu tomorrow - a 4-day trek that is going to test the amoebas, giardia, salmonella, UTIs and other things that are now living in us. We can't wait. 

An Andes Reenact-mint: Sounds of Silence and Knowing Community

The other day, I walked the 1-hour-15-minute climb uphill to the Pumamarca school. I carry an iPod around with me a lot of the times, and I assumed this would be one of those times that I would stick the buds in and feel like I was in a movie, as I do so many times while wondering downtown Cuzco, blasting Coldplay into my ears as I am convinced Cuzco was a recording spot or inspiration for Viva La Vida. But today, I didn't.

And I am so glad for that. If I would have, I would have missed out. A full hour of almost pure silence in the Andes would have been a lost opportunity forever. It would have been a much more self-centered experience. I would have only known the wind by it hitting my face rather than hearing it move the eucalyptus trees. Drums and guitar I could listen to anytime would have overshadowed the birds' morning songs. I would have nearly run into the donkeys into the road instead of hearing their chewing and shuffling on the dirt road, alerting me I would need to move around them.

Sometimes it is exhilarating to hear your own breathing, your own heart beat, your own foot steps. While being surrounded by green you swear could swallow you up, you gain that tingly feeling of life, of being alive. We don't take much time to do this or always have hills upon mountains to witness such budding and growing and natural splendor. 

I got to hear quiet greetings as men and women walked soundlessly down the street, carrying rustling loads of vegetables. A little girl on the side of the road looked up, smiled, and said, "Amiga." Who would I have been if I had been plugged in? Women chatted with each other and men whistled as they worked the fields. My favorite sound was as I turned a sharp corner to come to an overlook across miles and miles of green land and yellow flowers, and I heard the clucking of chickens and a small boy's tender voice saying, "cook, cook" as he tried to move the chickens to their pen. 

One of the volunteers, Tyson, was talking about the sense of community he felt while in these villages. Each person knows everyone and is willing to sacrifice a little from themselves in order to serve the greater community. There aren't TVs, computers, video games, iPods, etc. to take us away from celebrating our neighbors and our human kindredness. And we all have heard it before in third-world countries. "The people were so poor, but they were just so happy!" Tyson talked about how we watch crime on the news, sit in front of computers, care about money and drive cars with four empty seats in them and then "come home wondering why we are so miserable." 

"Without wanting to romanticise being on the edge of poverty," he said, "I envy a simple way of life that relies on sharing, cooperation and close units in order to function effectively." They probably wouldn't dream of walking their own streets with an iPod to block out the tangible world right there. In a life of not many material values or screens, sounds or "luxuries" of lonely spaces, community is their greatest possession. It is easy to see why these people are so happy.  

One Village in a Huge World

A very interesting article on the vast amount of impoverished people in third-world countries, the fires they use throughout the day, these effects on our environment and just another reason to fight these circumstances : NYT reports

Here's to the chimney building. 

A Little More In Focus

The week in Urubamba was absolutely stunning. I came back to my desk in Cuzco feeling refreshed, exhausted from pressing one little button Tuesday through Thursday and simply inspired. Some of the realizations I am left with are as follows: 

• Jane and Selvy, as mentioned in the previous post, are an unbelievable couple. They have so much love for other people and each other and deserved the best day to celebrate that love and their hard work. I hope it was. Just meeting their families and friends solidified this even more, and I am so thankful for all who I met. 
• It is absolutely amazing that so many family members and friends could be there; about 20 Australians flew over for a week, and Selvy's family from Lima all came. The fact that they were all gathered in the same yard made both the bride and groom cry as they thanked all for making such efforts to come. 
• Culture clash should be part of our lives more. I rode a tuk-tuk early that morning with the bridesmaids to Jane's hotel and place of preparation. Everything throughout the ceremony was said in both languages. We had Australians trying to speak Spanish (el baaan-yo) and Peruvians trying to speak English (what's a dunny?), a Peruvian nut-flavoured cake underneath Jane's favorite chocolate cake, traditional drums and pipes followed by "Land Down Under" or Jason Mraz, Pisco Sours or Cranberry vodkas. 
• I miss my guy friends. Selvy's groomsmen were hilarious to be around and salsa with, and I left thinking, wow, my guy friends are men I truly respect and enjoy being around. 
• Dancing is pretty great. Twinkle lights under twinkling stars, salsa music and a ready-to-go crowd makes me feel alive. And there is a new favorite song. Another reason cultures should clash more.  
• I loved photographing a wedding. Instead of just seeming nosy and obsessive about asking about all of the little details of the dress, hotel, jewelry, flowers, etc., I had to capture each of these things. Scurrying around trying to document each moment was a rush and made me appreciate the finer details. Making everyone stop, slow down and smile on such a crazy day turned out wonderfully. 

To see a few of the photos I took from Jane and Selvy's wedding, please visit my Flickr site. There are many, many more photos, so check for updates. Thank you, Keith, for everything. :) 

A Few Love Stories

In a few minutes, I shall head off to the beautiful Sacred Valley to celebrate (and photograph) the Peru's Challenge founders' (Jane and Selvy) wedding. Their story is one for the books, and it is much better to hear her tell the long version while he sums it up in three sentences; my admiration for their passions, dedication and just love for people in general -- all as a couple -- is swelling as we approach a day that has been in the making for going on eight years now. I don't know many couples whose single love story revolves around so many other love stories.

Jane came from Australia in 2002 to South America, eager to explore this side of the world before heading off to Europe. Peru was one more pinpoint on a map before she flew over the midland mountains and into Cuzco. Cuzco grabbed her and didn't let go. She decided to stay a bit longer. A bit longer turned into Jane not wanting to go to Europe immediately, but, before she left, her friend made Jane get an apartment, a job and Spanish lessons all before they parted, leaving Jane merrily on the cobblestone streets somewhere between cathedrals and alpacas. 

I think I long to feel that feeling, that surge of knowing, of a wind that seems to be sprinkled with magic and whispering "stay." With that, Jane taught English and learned Spanish, all in an apartment complex surrounding a courtyard. One day, over eggs and bacon, a man walked into her open door. "I thought, he's cute," she'll say. Enter Selvy Ugaz, a man from Lima who was working in Cuzco with impoverished children, especially those born with disabilities. He had bribed a taxi driver to take him to his apartment on a day of transportation strike, so needed to pay up, but he only had US Dollars, since he had just arrived from England and had no local currency, and could he maybe borrow some Soles? Of course. With that, he asked if he could take Jane out that night to show her around. "The rest is history," she says. 

There was (and is) love. And Jane went to work with Selvy, falling in love with him and the children who they helped every day. When Selvy asked Jane to take a boy home after school, she knocked on a door that was answered by an intoxicated aunt who was quick to take the boy and put him in an outhouse. "How could you make me do that," she asked Selvy. She loves Peru; there is more to it than the pretty mountain side and historic monuments, he wanted to show. That is love. 

And so Jane fell in love with the man, the children, the country and the idea that she and Selvy could make a pretty good team when it comes to serving. They pushed past obstacles concerning finances, language, government and red tape for 1 1/2 years to create Peru's Challenge, challenging and perfecting their love, all the while creating something new from it: an organization that allows them to keep loving, keep helping, keep providing, keep learning, keep growing. Maybe every couple should have to work on something like this, working with each other to serve, before they move on. It tests everything but probably gives back even more. 

They can both speak each other's language practically fluently, but that doesn't guarantee their conversation will stay in one language. She thinks he drives crazy, and he thinks she is too planned. He thinks she is funny and has gorgeous eyes, and she's simply nuts over his intelligence and passions. She might flip over a rut with the organization, and he is the one to make it right. And so on a beautiful April day in the Andes, Australians and Peruvians will celebrate this love, these accomplishments that have sprung from it and just the mere ability for us to be able to give so much love in so many different forms: a new classroom for 30 children, a hot meal for a family, a fight for government recognition, an open home for travelers, a kiss, a promise, a life shared. I see their love for each other and places in each other's lives, but have experienced what their relationship has shared with so many others, from impoverished communities to volunteers from around the world, and have therefore seen this unselfish love and am thankful for their presence in my life. 

French Inspirations

Today I had the pleasure of sitting in a balcony above the Plaza with three guys my age from France. We talked about how the sun shined, how San Blas has particularly gorgeous views, what we wanted to order for a mid-morning drink and how to change the world. 

Quentin, Martin and Killian, engineers by study, have stopped off in Cuzco from a trip around the world. "Youth shakes the world, three students go round it," they say. Throughout these three friends' studies and travels, they have noticed an impeccable trend; today's youth has dreams and acts on them toward a better good. Today's youth takes action and gives time and energy towards a cause. It's inspiring, they say. So upon graduation, feeling the looming pressures of finding a job, the guys decided they wanted to travel the world before any type of settling down, but they wanted to do it with purpose, with an outcome. They created Youth Planet. 

The guys travel the world and see the sights, but, in most cities and definitely in each country, they meet up with people serving for a common good--in NGOs or cleaning the environment or any way of acting on a vision. They write articles about these projects and ideas and spread them as they travel the world, taking an idea from Ghana and suggesting it to a similar organization in Bolivia. They want to show youth in action. They want to promote the exchange of proactive ideas through the single idea of us all helping each other out. They want to see the world and the good in it. 

I told them about Peru's Challenge - probably talked their ears off, actually. But sitting there with these new friends who are so interested in projects such as this, who are looking for passion and sweat and broken hearts and the remedies, I can't help but let the facts and goals spill. And I was eager to hear about other organizations they had talked to and if those would want to partner up with us and where I could find these guys on a map next. 

It's a pretty cool idea--traveling the world to, one, figure out the issues others face, the devastating facts and dire situations and two, see how people are stepping up to challenge those facts. You'd come back with a lot more than some good photos. 

Para la Mama, Con el Amor

Hi Mom;

I was having a think about moms today and missed you from so far away through admiring those mothers right here. That reminder of missing is everywhere: the bus, Pumamarca, the market, the streets. The eyes of the mothers here are on tired faces but still twinkle when they hold little hands and wipe little tears; in these glances and obvious sacrifices, I see my mom, too.

The mothers here work hard; they need to be able to provide for their children (and families are large) and care for them all day, but things like food and clothes are hard to come by, and childcare is mostly out of the question. So you often see mothers, in their top hats and worn sandals, carrying a box of empanadas or fruit cups on their fronts, and they have a colorful bundle on their backs. If you watch carefully, little hands and curious eyes peek from behind these blankets and grab at their mothers hair or whine for her attention. It's a heavy load to to put on one's back all day--up hills and past tourists not buying their products--but the mothers carry their babies; that is what mothers selflessly do.  

In Pumamarca, Peru's Challenge has helped the community set up a Mother's Workshop called Talleres (workshop). It's here because some mothers have 10-12 kids. It's here because some mothers are abused by their husbands. It's here because some mothers have taken to alcohol. It's here because otherwise mothers would be strewn strictly to the identity of their husband and his crops and her role to her children. It's here so mothers can feel community, independence and pride, too. 

At Talleres, women meet, have lessons on a craft and then sit together, talk and work diligently on beautiful products--scarves, sweaters, hats, blankets, etc. Peru's Challenge then has tour groups come through to peruse these colorful, handmade items and let visitors purchase at their own will. Please don't feel obligated to buy, we say. Just having you look and comment on their work gives them pride and encouragement. When there are purchases, part of the money goes into a kitty, part goes towards materials and part goes directly to the seller. This workshop gives women a chance to become friends and share about their lives and gain confidence and pride in their own work, a work they can feel appreciation for as opposed to the undying dependence of their children, unnoticed expectancy of work in the fields and sometimes inferior feeling to the men. Domestic violence and alcoholism still exist in the community, but it has greatly decreased with newfound communication and educational sessions on the issues. Mothers have a lot to worry about. 

 At the end of the year, the kitty money from Talleres is used for something that will makeyou smile, Mom. Each mother gets a Christmas hamper--usually 15-20 kg (35ish lbs.) with a fresh turkey so that she can give her family a Christmas dinner. Before, Christmas dinner didn't really happen. The past two years, there has even been money left over. In 2007, they decided to hike Machu Picchu, and they were the first in the community to do this important trek. 

This past December, the mothers decided the money should go toward a health campaign for pap smears and complete coverage for their children. They want to provide. And by being able to provide something for their children and families, they are providing confidence and pride for themselves. They deserve at least that. 

These sacrifices and the beyond-understanding love are things that go across international boundaries. I know you work and love hard too, Mom. It might not be in the fields or figuring out if we can eat today or literally putting us in colorful blankets on your back, but you still carry us. In the same way these mothers carefully, tightly wrap their children and hold them close, your words, support, sacrifices, sweat and love have nurtured us and held us close, made us colorful. I think the moms here would love you because you are electric and understand their sacrifices and know love. And I love you, too. 

xo, Lu

When We Dream Together - Please Vote

These are the little things that work. You see, all of our dreams, in one way or another, weave together. Today I got an email from Lucas, a person I have never met and who I don't know anything about. But here I am, writing about him and encouraging all to help him out because we have some similar interests, similar goals. His outlet for this is photography and mine is simply being here with Peru's Challenge. But we have an opportunity to work together towards a goal of learning about and perhaps helping the people who lives miles above us in the mountains. 

Lucas is chasing a dream of photographing the people of the mountains, those who are born with lungs to breathe in the altitude, those who work every day in fields and those who have vanishing communities. This interesting perspective and dream could come true if he wins the most votes for the Name Your Dream Assignment, a contest that gives the winner $50,000 to complete the dream assignment, like photographing those living in the mountains. Lucas wants to come to the Andes and see the communities we work in and document them. If he wins, he will donate some of the prize money to helping these communities. And that last part is a bit of my dream. I can guarantee you more opportunities and financial support make up the dream bubbles that float in and out of the huts and schools in places such as Pumamarca, bubbles that have too often been poked and popped. 

The pictures here would be beautiful, and the help of Lucas would be greatly appreciated. If you have a few seconds, please click here and vote for Lucas so we can all contribute to his dream and the dreams of so many others. It only take a few seconds and could just be a simple way you help today. 

That was a click here. Thank you and let me know of your dreams, too. 

The Road to Education

This might be a long one, but this dusty road to proper education is longer and too important to disregard.  

When Peru's Challenge first started out, Jane and Selvy wandered into the mountains to find a community, Picol, that had a school. This school had one classroom. Inside of this classroom were 12 children, running around and dirty, not being taught by a single teacher--a man who was drunk. 

This school, along with 600 others, had just been abandoned by the Department of Education because the schools were seen as poor and hopeless and unattended, and the Dept. doesn't have the funding or resources to waste. You see, in these mountains, there is an evil cycle. The Department leaves the school, and the parents in the community see no reason to send their kids to a school that isn't supported when the children could be working in the fields. Therefore barely any children show up to the school, and the Department of Education nods their heads and says, "see?"

Peru's Challenge addressed the community and, in a little under three years, had built six classrooms for 170 children and six teachers. Eventually, the organization came to Pumamarca, where there was also one classroom that had a ceiling about to fall in and no windows, door or floor. Jane and Selvy went to the Department, asking for their support and were quickly denied. You can't change the community of Pumamarca. You can't get 100 kids to go to school there. If we can, Jane and Selvy asked, will you support us? Laugh, chuckle, sure. 

At a community meeting, it was decided Peru's Challenge would pay 10 fathers to work on building the school. Also, Peru's Challenge would buy all of the materials from the community. On the first day of building, every person in the community showed up with willing hands and said, do not pay us for our labor, only for materials. They wanted their kids in a school. Within three weeks, there were two classrooms. Jane and Selvy knocked on doors with a banana as a gift, asking if the parents would send their children to school--where they would be looked after and fed. On the first day of school, 140 kids showed up with ready minds and an eager energy. The Department of Education now didn't have a choice. 

Today in Pumamarca, there are now seven classrooms- each brightly painted and decorated with art the students have made. 150 children, kindergarten through Grade 6, attend, each class with its own teacher. Peru's Challenge used to pay for four teachers' salaries, while the department covered the rest but now is only paying for two.  The children, who before were coming to school having had a cup of tea, now get a small breakfast, fresh fruit three times a week and a hot meal for lunch. There are two kitchens that mothers work in to make these meals; they bring food from their homes, use the vegetables from the school's multiple gardens and use eggs from the school's own chicken coop. Self-sustainability is key. 

I go up to these schools and see children in the classrooms perfecting the cursive G and taking turns with the jump ropes. They know English phrases and sit in desks where they get their own pencil and notebook. At PE, they would rather skip and play futbol than our silly relay races. They brush their teeth at the new sinks with filtered water and can excuse themselves to use a proper toilet. The teachers make them mind their manners and stand in line. It's school, just like what I would expect, except I wasn't surrounded by mountains and green when I jumped rope on a playground. And it breaks my heart because these kids love to go to summer school. And it breaks my heart to think of what school used to be like for them and still is like two communities over. That community is farther down the road, but definitely still in our sight, and children retaining a proper education makes it worth traveling down.

*Thank you, Jane, for help with this information.

(Pumamarca School)

More on Water

The water that flows through Pumamarca is over 200 times the safe-drinking water level. I can't even comprehend what is in this water, but I watch the school kids drink it and wash in it, and they don't know what that 200 number means either.

In fact, they literally don't know anything but this stream of water that flows through trash and animal wastes--from the taste to the temperature. A few months ago, volunteers took the time to wash the students' feet, an act that, to me, means a lot more than just wanting these kids to have clean feet. There is an aspect of heart-felt service in this act. They boiled water and let it cool to a lukewarm temperature, a water we would love to soak in for an hour if we had some bubbles and candles. 

The kids pulled their feet out; it was too hot. But it wasn't hot. They hadn't felt warm water and couldn't handle that bit of heat. 

Tonight I took one of those freezing cold showers that makes your head ache. Lauren told me that whenever she has to bite her lip and step into freezing water, she thinks of those kids who don't have showers at their homes, who drink in disease, who took their feet out of the warm water. My cold shower was great. 

Profiles: An Array of Faces

The New York Times has started a brilliant features section called One in Eight Million, just finding the tales of The Big Apple's people and telling them through photos and audio; everyone has a story, they prove. It got me thinking about some of the faces here--the ones I see everyday and the ones I catch mere glimpses of that create fuzzy snapshots in my head. 

Most days, Santusa comes to clean the house. She has terrible arthritis in her arm so wears a cast but still leaves a room shining--if not from her cleaning than from her smile. She helps me with my Spanish and brings me coca tea if she notices I don't look well and makes sure there are cakes for special occasions; she just yesterday shoved Annie's face in a birthday cake, laughing to display the gold in her mouth and sense of humor I sometimes miss because of my poor Spanish. Santusa ensures the comfort of those in the house to the point where she has to be reminded by her husband it is their daughter's birthday. 

There is the bundle that usually lies on our couch and, just when you think it is just a blanket, cries; Santusa's nephew is a gorgeous baby boy that I hold when the work in front of me seems intangible. There is Sandra, the 3rd grader in Pumamarca with huge eyes who I practiced cursive with the other day and who told me she just really wanted a banana to eat as I thought of the bunch I just bought. There is the girl behind the counter at the gym who always enquires with chocolate-brown eyes about one of us if we four girls don't all come to try to keep up with the swinging hips of our Peruvian aerobics partners. There is Edgar, the busy Pumamarca school director who has the keys to the supplies and medicine cabinet but is also the 4th grade teacher and who teaches the kids to say, "good morning, amiga" when you enter the room. 

I think about the family who owns the bakery where we get empanadas from--the grandfather who usually has happy toddler Ricky on his knee, the mother who can guess what we are about to order, the son and daughter who are usually watching a cartoon with a plate of bread but will stand behind the counter when we come. They know we will want our pastries warm and that we will always blow Ricky kisses goodbye. 

There is the wrinkled man in the newsboy hat and three-piece suit who I sat by on the bus who asked if I needed directions or help because he was "kidnapping the whole bus and you never know where I'll feel like going." He has lived in Cuzco for 51 years, is originally from Arequipa, was "surprised to find an American girl on this bus," is 78 years old but has a grandmother who lived to be 103 so he figures, he "has a while." Thank goodness, too, because he has a theory to publish that would blow Cusquenians out of the water: "the Incas never cut a single stone," he whispers. "It was someone before them, but I don't know who. Can you imagine what will happen when I get published? I'll be exiled." He is aiming for National Geographic and when I asked what name to look for, he tipped his hat and said, "Dante" as he promptly got off the bus. A true, conspiracy-buster gentleman in his prime. 

There are too many more faces and, as I see I touch ground in the States exactly two months from today, I'll aim to keep clearer snapshots. 

Viva La Vida: Weather Happens Outside

I sat, all folded up on the floor, while the weather did its thing today. That happens everywhere you go. Today was not like any other day here, but it isn't what I am used to. March means that awkward Missouri transition from winter to spring. Monday is 70 and sunny and Tuesday is 30 and gray. Though not as drastic temperature changes, we get the random weather surprises within 24 hours. 

I sit here, peeling from sunburn, in a T-shirt and shorts. I could contemplate getting a sweater, but there isn't really a need, especially if I go outside where the sun, which hangs right over your shoulder, uses this height of the mountains to beat down with a livening strength and works its magic to warm up all things having the slightest shiver. That is one of the best feelings in the world, going into that sun that seems to beam life into you. And it makes the sky bluer and the grass greener than anywhere I have ever been. 

Within moments, thunder grumbles from the distance. The sky splits in half, with light waging its war against the quickly oncoming darkness. The clouds are mighty warriors--ominous and dark and rolling in fast. Light hides while the rain pours. It is a rain that falls when a cloud seems to have been ripped at its seams, letting go of all that it contained. That rain seems to pound the house into the ever-thickening mud. Then it hails. I sit in my shorts and watch it hail, trying to take in the sound and make out the mountain that seems to have disappeared behind the ice. 

This all lasts for 10 minutes, and I grab a sweater because, although light might have won the overall battle and reappeared, the darkness left its presence in the atmosphere with a drop of the temperature. And so I love the mountain weather--something that always leaves you refreshed--and wear every type of clothing possible in the span of one day. 

Two more things: we ate alpaca last night (I am sticking to the fact they are too cute and fuzzy to eat--the taste and chewiness weren't my favorite) and Feliz Cumpleanos, Annie!

The New Race: Traveler or Non (please check one)

At the beginning of each month, Peru's Challenge extends a welcome to 15-20 new faces from around the world and looks to them to build school classrooms, construct chimneys, plan lessons for 140 anxious children, grow gardens and liven up the sunny yellow house on the dirt road in Larapa. The past six days have been one big welcome party with people who, although I have never met in my life, are also in search of an adventure in a foreign part of the world, who have this little part of them that wants to change the life of a child. We aren't as unknown to each other as I thought. 

There is a lot to learn about Cuzco. There is also a lot to learn about each other. So Annie and I have been walking backwards, explaining when you can go inside of the Plaza's main cathedral and why its better to get meat from this grocer while we listen to stories of the occupations left behind, of the cities traveled right before Cuzco, of the kids who will be missing their mothers for this month. 

There is an automatic bond when you throw 20 people from around the world into one house, each with the same goals of exploring Peru and wanting to see a change in our neighboring communities. Of these new friends, many have traveled. For some, this is their first adventure, but this time in Cuzco will be immediately followed by pinpoints practically covering South America. Mornings ago, we all shook hands and questioned as to each others' home countries (UK, Ireland, Canada, Australia, etc.) and, finding ourselves in this new part of the world together, greeted each other like kin. 

Just as people descending from the same small town or from an ancient-old religion, travelers do this. Each knows the other has the secrets to some destination they haven't yet unraveled, and it is hard to contain the curiosity of it all. You want to grab a map and share stories, get suggestions and find the one common place you both have been to. The conversation could go on for hours. You know the other will give you the best tips, relay treasures about the sparkling cities and looming peaks and little cafes by the the sea that are, at the moment, just a dream.  

I am thankful for these world travelers and the unspoken bond that sits in a room when we all sit down to decide what to teach Grade 1, go over issues in the community when a drunk man lay in the street on our way down the mountain or discuss the must-sees of (fill in any continent here). We have worked to make sure the new visitors don't get sick or lost, but they have reached out to us just as far. Anne, Francis and I walked half-way to town for the Sunday market where they encouraged me to buy all the flowers I wanted. Brugh has promised to use his recent marketing skills/contacts to aid me in my endless-seeming quests. Kristy has given me Spanish tips and teaching advice I quickly jotted down. Anne held my hand and talked of soothing things when I recently had to get blood taken, and Keith hugs me after inquiring about my health. Erin plays me Britney Spears on her ukulele, and Heather and Chelsea couldn't be better people to just talk to. It's only been a few days.

It isn't often you get to live with a group from around the world, all eager to write their own travel book. I am going to soak in this traveler bond; I want to hear about these people's experiences so I know where to go next. I'll store their travels in my head and relish the time we'll have similar ones, all about a place called Cuzco.     

An Andes Reenact-mint: Welcome to Pumamarca

On the way to the sky, there is a village. 

It is not easy to tell; there isn't a "Welcome, this many people live here" sign or a high-rise that boldly establishes the village as somewhere important. The houses are hidden behind neighboring valleys or thick green eucalyptus branches, but you know people live there because fields are neatly kept and women walk, carrying what looks like half of these fields on their backs. And you know it is a village because these people smile and welcome you to it, and that is all I need for anywhere to be established.

Welcome to Pumamarca. There are 200 families that live here, and each family has an average of six kids. It is quite common for three generations of the family to be under one roof. Also under this one roof are no other rooms, chairs, tables or beds. The family usually sleeps where they cook the food; that heat is necessary when it gets to -20 degrees C in those mountains that are too high to block winter winds. You just have to tolerate the cold as part of your surroundings; the windows aren't closed in and there isn't a door, so your home needs to mold into Mother Nature's arms--whether comforting and mild, soaked from a shower or stand-offish and bitter, biting cold. 

There is a family in Pumamarca with six kids, two parents and a grandmother, and they all sleep in one double bed using clothes as blankets. They don't have a chimney, so they breathe in that wood oven 24/7. 

Each of these families is in charge of 2-3 plots of land. Now, these plots are not owned by the family, but by the community, so they cannot be sold. Families sell their products in the market, earning S/ 10-15 (US$ 3-5) per week, but it costs to get to the market and back, so make S/ 2 disappear. 

In Pumamarca, you will not find a piece of machinery. Instead, you will find worn and weathered hands that are strong, defiant and don't know what a "day off" means. 

A few years ago, a person trying to win an election made electricity available here for a price most families wouldn't even make in a month. So we can stare at the wires, but we don't know what they do. Some families illegally connect, but those people who wanted to put light bulbs here quickly come and disconnect them. 

The water that doesn't run into houses for taps, showers, toilets, etc. has been tested. It is over 200 times the safe-drinking level, but it is what is available to drink. Everyone knows the human body needs water. 

There are a lot of stories here in Pumamarca, whistling in the cutting mountain wind and slicing the long blades of grass in the fields. Some are joyous and many are not, but right now in Pumamarca is a lot better than three years ago, a success story for another time. 

And right now in Pumamarca, school reopened for the soon-to-come fall, and there are children--more children in school than ever before-- waiting in new desks with new pencils, papers and hope. These are children whose stories aren't quite definite yet in whether they are going to shoot for the sky that literally seems within their grasp or stick to the ground where the water runs dirty. Their eyes look to combine ancient traditions of colors and hard work with literacy, art and feeling loved, and are hopefully looking up to where the birds soar; I have come here to help because I climb up the steepest heights to Pumamarca to see how close these kids are to the sky and a just-as-bright future. 

There is a village on the way to the sky. 

They Play Soccer.

On Sunday, Cuzco's beloved Cienciano matched up against arch-rival Universitario from Lima at the Estadio Garcilaso de la Vega, a circular stadium that is one of the easiest landmarks to point out when standing atop Cuzco's surrounding mountains. Cienciano paints the town red, and game day, which happened to be a final celebration of Carnival, brought red flares, fireworks and heaps more water fights. We made our way through the celebrations amidst vendors selling red Cienciano jerseys and the traditional Peruvian snow hat decked out to support the local team. Annie and I donned Kirkwood (red) t-shirts and made our way through the crowd, getting a few direct hits with shaving cream and water balloons. Go Cienciano. 

The lines around the stadium to get in were like the diagrams we draw of an atom with many electrons on many orbitals; they seemed to form perfect circles without an end, so we just had to smile and try to get a spot so we could flash our tickets and enter the stadium. They only give you the stub--no grand, etched-in-gold ticket to keep for a memory. The stadium is said to hold 30,000, but I have no idea what seats they are counting; we walked into our section to find the concrete steps that serve as bleachers overflowing with people and many more standing in the aisles. We just sat in the aisles, scrunched between those standing, those thinking they should continue going down the steps for perhaps a magical space to appear and those who had marked their territory and were ready to see red rule. 

They don't really pretend to have sportsmanship at these games. They face the fact that one team is the bad guy. Therefore, the police come out and, with their shields, create a tunnel for the opposing team to come through. This blocks the food and water coming from the stands. Whistles apparently are the same thing as when we in the States boo; the whistles are almost emasculating cat calls, so I guess it works. An opposing player that lies on the field injured creates an atmosphere like each head turned when someone absolutely stunning walked by; no room for polite claps here. 

People come here to see the sport, and they don't pretend that there is something else to see. They come here to see head balls bounce into the corner of the net, bicycle kicks act as the defense's last breath to get the ball out, goalies grow wings to save a shot and footwork that makes our heads spin. And there aren't any distractions from this; you can't really ooh and ahh over your seats or the stadium or the food or the Build-A-Cienciano conveniently located by the hot dogs. You ooh and ahh over what happens on the field. Concrete and $.33 Pepsi in a styrofoam cup get a little too uncomfortable for you to focus on anything but the men speeding by, pushing each other and juggling their feet, and we loved it. The attention was on the skill and the team, not how grand of a setting we were in. You buy a ticket because you want to be amazed by the human body's capabilities, and that is where your eyes stay.

Cuzco was ahead, 1-0, until the last few minutes when Universitario got a free kick on goal and made it. I swear, you could go grocery shopping in what was thrown at the celebrating huddle of Lima men--corn, bread, soda, cookies--as they celebrated their goal to close the game with a tie. South America soccer might be the real thing. I say this because it is truly about the sport; there are no gimmicks, no cover-up to think we are going somewhere fancy when really it is time to show guts and glory on a simple pitch. The fanciest thing about going to a game is the footwork on the field, and I believe that is the way it should be. 

Viva La Vida: The Wheels (and doors) on the Bus

Transportation in a new culture can be similar to trying the food: you have to try a few different options, there will be something that will throw you for a loop, some of the options will make you sick, but it is all part of the experience. It's not like there is some outstanding, unique form of transportation here, like if I could say, well, people here fly in miniature spaceships. We walk, take a taxi, take a bus, etc. It is just the way we do these things. 

We walk a lot, and this is wonderful. I breathe in fresh mountain air like it is the water I need to survive, still breathe extra hard going uphill and always, no matter what, have mud caked up to mid-shin. The mountains are too beautiful and the neighborhoods too curious not to walk.

I have ridden one time in a personal car of Jane's, and we saw how well that went over (see a few below). Traffic here is exactly like China and nothing like the US. There aren't really rules. It is OK to swerve in and out of lanes (or just drive in the middle of the road) or be in the far right lane but still somehow make a left turn at the last minute. It is almost like a game where you try to get to your destination without crashing but coming as painstakingly close to it as possible. Our rigid rules of "do not pass here" or "drive with caution at the speed limit and only switch lanes after a blinker and a good look into your mirrors" are replaced here with simple honks--an individual car's rule they set for the other cars around them. It makes it seem like the US has a rigid, strict road, and it makes for car rides that make you feel like you are racing playing PS2's Gran Turismo. 

The buses are our main form of transportation. By buses I mean vans that have extra seats in them so that they technically could seat 10-14. They have names like "Servicio Rapido," "El Mirador" and "Batman." You stand on a corner and hope ones drives by, flag it down and, without stopping, a sliding door opens for you to jump in; think sweet Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine. There is no limit to how many people can be on this bus. I one time sat on a crowded Rapido, and the man next to me asked if, where I was from, they would ever let it slide to have people sitting on others' laps, people standing, others almost hanging from the bars on the van's ceiling. I smiled and said, probably not. 

My favorite bus experience has to be when Annie and I caught the last Rapido of the night to go home and, since it was packed, we were bending over some other passengers and rubbing skin with the girl who opens the door for everyone and collects the S/ 60 ($0.20) it costs to ride. On this particular night, we were swerving around when the girl flung the door open, let someone in, and then couldn't get the door closed. So Annie and I, with the wind in our hair, held on for dear life. At the next stop, the driver tried to get it closed but only pulled the door off of its hinge. There was a lot of yelling from him, and some people got off, but we rode with the poor girl holding the entire door on the bus and then trying to open and close it with much difficulty any time a passenger needed on/off. Our stops is one of the last ones, and I guess the driver wanted to call it a night because he didn't take us up the hill to our stop. An unhinged sliding door can be a problem.

Taxis are quite cheap; we can usually get to a destination for S/ 4 - S/ 7 ($1.30-2.30). There is also the idea of a "collectivo" taxi; if you have a large group of people going to one destination, everyone piles in until the trunk is full, and each person pays S/ 1. That saves gas. Rides to downtown Cuzco are quite eventful, and the gorgeous ride to Pisac is all up and down hills and around hairpin bends on the sides of mountains. I have had one driver cross himself as we headed out of Pisac. I didn't know to feel comforted or more afraid. 

However, I think the way people drive here almost makes them keep their eyes open more--no rules makes for a huge window of the unexpected, so it is impossible to just feel safe and sound in your lane, listening to music and not being aware of one crazy driver. No room for surprise here, so maybe I feel a bit more safe?

War & Pisac

Every February in Peru, the carnival season seeps through the mountains towns like the steady showers the rainy season brings. And I am beginning to see we are in the wet season for more than just the daily rains. 

For a weekend getaway, the four girls decided to head to Pisac to stay a night. There is a beautiful hotel there that has hot showers with pressure (!), a fireplace to eat your Peruvian dinner by, walls the colors of their extensive gardens and huge beds with down comforters. It was perfect. It was the flowers that graced the grounds that officially made me think I was in a tropical paradise: calla lilies, roses, hydrangea bushes, magnolias and drops of color I had never seen before. These line the sidewalk as you stroll towards the tennis courts and pool. We swam both Sat. and Sun. because, beside this pool being perhaps the nicest I have ever been to (OK, not the Water Cube), the sun was out, it is summer here and we wanted some wet exercise. (Yikes, on that we spoke too soon.)

After a wonderful evening of getting behind the bar to help the bartender make our drinks (that turned out well and responsible) and playing cards in the refreshing night air, Sunday was Carnival. In tiny Pisac, the central Plaza is filled with treats for the eyes and entertainment. The streets leading up to the Plaza are back-to-back markets where glistening silver and soft alpaca fur makes you stop to ask how much. Carnival celebrates tradition and fertility. They give thanks for the women and hope that the rains encourage successful farming--hence the ribbon- and balloon-decorated corn stalks. There is constant dancing and singing in traditional costumes--skirts, vests, hats, blouses, etc. The men step lightly and play flutes while the women twirl, their skirts like pinwheels in the wind. Some dancers are dressed as alpaca. 

Then there are the kids. Of course, the littlest of us clap and buy ice cream cones and wander the square away from parents to see what the festivities have to offer. But Carnival is known for a tradition I have already experienced, and that is the act of soaking anyone and everyone. We should have kept our swimming suits on after the pool. Annie and I returned from a sunny weekend to hang our jeans and sundresses out to dry. Kids, from the age of two to well, they say you're never too old, run through the streets with H2O ammunition: balloons, buckets, super soakers and cans that spray like shaving cream. You simply existing is reason enough for you to be soaked so, out of nowhere, splat: a balloon at your neck. Whoosh: a gallon of water down your backside. Squirt: you look like you just won the World Series. Annie chased a few kids down with our water bottles, but otherwise you just have to laugh and hope the clouds don't cover the sun. 

Even more entertaining was to watch the battles the children had between themselves. War raged on these streets, and I saw no mercy. 

No one really cares they've just been hit; you can say "no, por favor" all you'd like, and it is like the predators don't speak Spanish. However, we did watch one man, not once but twice, go up to kids who liquified him with a knife. He would point the knife into their side and circle them, sternly speaking. The police caught on, and this man who liked staying dry a little too much left the plaza. For more on the water getting out of control, click here. 

It was all absolutely stunning--the weather, the swim, the bed, the flowers, the growing friendships, the music, the dancing, the smiles any celebration in a little cobblestone town locked away in the mountains brings and, really, the chance to enrich ourselves with a tradition that, although not technically ours, opens our eyes to what others see as beautiful and important ... even if we do need goggles. 

Viva La Vida: To market, to market

Each weekend, my two roommates and I gather plastic shopping bags and head to the outdoor markets that grace Cuzco's side streets. 

Sidenote: We love the Peruvian food one can find in the restaurants here. If you go out to eat for supper, you can usually get a wonderful hot plate for S/ 15 - 20 ($5-7) where as a lunch sandwich might be S/ 8-10 ($2.50-3.15). I prefer La Menu--the set meal for the day at a set price. I have paid S/ 12 ($4) for this, and I have paid S/ 3 ($1) for what usually is a soup, drink (chicha, made from corn) and main course of a meat, rice and potato/vegetable. That's a deal.

But we also love (and can more easily afford) to cook. So we escape the sun and head into the shade of the market, a place where your nose is attacked and forced to surrender to the smells of our survival needs--some as sweet as flowers or fruit and others stink bombs (unknown meats, old cheeses, rotting produce). 

Some people sell scarves, hats, gloves and skirts. We usually stop to get fresh-squeezed juice of every fruit (as long as you ask them to use bottled water). There are young children who walk around with carts on wheels. In the bottom cage, there are two little birds. On the top of the cart are two bowls of eggs: one peeled, the other, in shells. Talk about fast food. 

We walk through bags of oats and dried corn seed, nuts and dried fruit. We hit the meat section, and my stomach turns. Entire carcasses of pigs, chickens and the like hang, easily recognizable and not at all appetizing. I keep my eyes on the mangoes and make a bee-line forward. In my favorite section, women sit up high and call from their thrones of color: bananas, star fruit, peaches, plums, apples, pineapple, mangoes, papaya, strawberries. We point, and they weigh, and it takes a lot of self-control to wait for boiling water before eating. We hunt for veggies and meat and, on the sunniest of days, I buy flowers because the day just wouldn't be the same without a bundle in my arm. 

Most fresh food is cheap. Here's a cheat sheet (the Peruvian currency is the Sol): 

1 bottled water: S/ 1 = $0.33

1 kilo carrots: S/ 4 = $1.33

1 red bell pepper: S/ .53 = $0.18

3 mangoes: S/ 2.50 = $0.83 

6 peaches: S/ 4.50 = $1.50

3 avocados: S/ 3 = $1

1 jar all-natural peanut butter: S/ 12 = $4

6 slices of cheese: S/ 3 = $1

2 freshly baked ciabatta rolls from the local bakery: S/ .50 = $0.16

3 large breasts of chicken (on the bone and with some blood): S/ 15 = $5

Pack of 24 Oreos: S/ 3.50 = $1.15

1 L orange juice: S/ 2.50 = $0.83

Cold milk--oh wait, it doesn't happen here. So to me, it's priceless. 

The groceries are quite funny (and it was like this in China) in the fact that over half of the store seems to be bread, cookies, candies and puddings. The rest is meat, noodles, yogurt and some beverage aisles. 

The freshness of these foods makes us want to turn eating into an art; in order to savor the locals' produce, we take every opportunity to cook and experiment with recipes so that we sit down for supper, nod our heads at each other and smile a silent "well done." Those trips to the market and the freshness of our food are things my senses have awoken to and grown a deep appreciation for. I wish I could invite you over for dinner. 

Viva La Vida: Intro

There is a pulse-raising art to traveling. With every train or bus or plane, my mind and heart start racing, competing with the wheels that carry us off to somewhere new. The adventure can be a bit wearing, actually. There are too many sites to see and cultures to experience to sleep in a bed that isn't yours. You wake up with the sun to work out a mode of transportation to your travel book's next suggestion. Sunlight ticks away with the clicks of your camera and lost steps of your feet. Curiosity makes you read the little signs on benches or under random artifacts --signs that, at home, you might never read. It's guaranteed that something will happen in this new place that will make you remember that you are off to somewhere else tomorrow, and you wish you had one more day here, in this place you could easily never return to.

 

But, then you spin the globe and smack your finger down on a city, and let traveling get mixed up with a bit of life, and you are somewhere completely foreign but get to live there, an unbelievable opportunity. You get to have a bed and closet and street that you always tell the taxi drivers to bring you home to. You are traveling but, within a few weeks, don't feel like a traveler. We have to take a break from our tourist mindset and explore the hypothesis, "if I lived here in Cuzco, I would...."

Hopefully this will be the first of many reenactments on living a life here in Cuzco, because it seems impossible to live everyday like a tourist trying to breathe a city in in 24 hours. We have work to do here, need things we are used to in our lives and need time to just be. When a new city, especially one of such history and beauty, seems to knock on your window with promises of adventure and new culture, it can be hard to close the curtains and stay in for dinner or a DVD. But how amazing is it that the city will be there tomorrow and the next day, never taking back its invitation? You live here now. Take it all in with a refined balance.

Our day's events unfold, and I feel molded into its schedule--nothing like a tourist. But there are surprises. This morning I woke up to a note from our wonderful roommate, Julia, saying she had made us pancakes with fresh fruit for breakfast. Later, the girls on staff were going out to lunch and, on the way, in Jane's newly acquired old-school Volkswagon, the car stopped in the middle of the road at a stoplight. I got out to direct the crazy traffic around the car, shielding my eyes from the sun in the middle of a street where basic instinct rules the road over any law. Standing there with my arms waving and my non-Peruvian features, I was dealt a dose of humility in the forms of water balloons (a direct hit), through-the-window high-fives, Spanish curses, Spanish cat-calls and men leaning out their windows to give me and my still mostly-English-understanding ears instructions on how to start the car. To most of these, I just smiled and nodded and motioned to please keep moving around. A turkey walked by on the sidewalk.

Going out to lunch to plan Jane's wedding was a girls date that had us gushing about wedding plans to the point that the sweet waiter brought us complimentary truffles to have with the lemonades and fresh juices we hadn't even finished because there was too much to talk about. We do our work and try to finish before our daily step/aerobics class that has us laughing at the amount of leg lifts our energetic teacher can do as she smiles and encourages us to her Elvis and salsa music. We cook dinner. We dance with soapy hands and dirty dishes. We watch Friends episodes. We play cards. I'm on my fourth novel. We need that. We need that because our lives are here in Cuzco and that doesn't change the fact we enjoy exercise or need rest after a day's work or want to take time to cook a family-style dinner. 

It all makes me love living in Cuzco even more; I can tour ruins, pet alpacas, shop the markets, get lost going up cobblestone hills, practice Spanish with the girl behind the counter where I buy apples, spend time with kids anxious for our love and, at the end of the day, come back "home," ready to work hard and explore more cracks and crannies of the Andes the next day. More on living the life of an average day later. 

Feliz dios de san Valentin!

I spent Valentine's Day falling in love with a city. The city had flower petals strewn on the cobblestone streets for under my feet. It supplied consistent background music, whether spicy Latin beats or symphonic renderings. Red heart balloons winked at me as I passed through doorways. Cuzco's cathedral's ancient walls against a bright blue sky and children laughing at its steps sent butterflies through my stomach.

Carrie Bradshaw always claims she has a relationship with New York City; they go on dates, find themselves in unpredictable situations and have bad days, but she goes to bed every night knowing her city is right outside her window, serenading her and ready to surprise her with unbelievably beautiful moments and a day of adventure.

We didn't even start the day in Cuzco but in Pisac, a hidden city about 45 minutes outside of Cuzco in the gorgeous Sacred Valley. Annie, Julia, Lauren and I took a taxi through the Andes, unable to see the tops even as we craned our necks and stuck our heads out the windows. We saw the rocky and green but could see snow-tops in the distance. Who was it who deemed the mountains "majestic?" They must have had a key to each human brain, because that word was written on my surroundings. Pisac is a quaint city that seems like it could get lost among the mountain air. The small central plaza had two outstanding trees in the center. One is a palm tree, as if perhaps it would be a luxurious detail mentioned in a travel book on this town that literally lies below Incan ruins. We shopped in the markets and took time to sit in colorful beach chairs as Pisac treated us to coffee and Valentine's cookies. I guess Pisac was the stand-in date as Cuzco prepared itself for the evening. 

Coming back to Cuzco, it was quite chilly, but, being the perpetual gentleman, there was an array of colorful alpaca-woven socks, sweaters, hats and gloves, all handmade, at our fingertips, if we decided to spend the Soles. 

I think it is the people that really get my heart fluttering when spending time with Cuzco. Each person that passes you seem to whisper a different story. With some, you have to play the guessing game as to where they are from and where they have traveled and where they are off to. There are other faces under traditional top hats, faces that seem to have a wrinkle for each year of life and hard work and times they have walked these streets. Mothers carry babies on their backs, and the miniature faces glance out from rainbow blankets to giggle at your waves. Alpacas greet you as you round a bend and barely miss getting hit by a taxi on the narrow roads and winding hills. 

Annie and I walked these streets and, peering over rooftops into a blanket of stars, could feel the love affair this city offers to its dwellers. 

Dinner was served high up on a balcony where Annie and I perched like birds with our pollo con arroz. Everything moved fast below us--taxis, friends off to clubs, Peter in boots, tourists with monster backpacks, women trying to sell one last thing--but Cuzco gave us the time of day just to watch, breathe in the mountain air and feel slightly special and removed, even if we were in the middle of the Plaza.

We took a combie bus home, and my ride was paid for by the nice man who I sat next to and who thought I knew more Spanish than I let on; that was a Valentine's gift in itself. The slight rain that was falling were our good-night kisses from a city that, even in 2 1/2 weeks, has put us in a construction-paper heart labeled "mine." 

A Little Food/Water for Thought

Today I read about water and the lack of it.

C'mon, Lauren, you might say; you have water literally being thrown at your feet and in your face (see below). 

That's true. There's also at least two scruffy dogs for every 10 feet I walk here, but I don't have a cuddly puppy of my own yet. 

Peru's Challenge was looking into the organization charity:water, a group tackling the fact that 1 in 6 people on Earth do not have safe drinking water. The fact that 80% of all sickness and disease comes from this problem. That around 35,000 children under the age of 5 die each week because of poor sanitation and unsafe drinking water. 

Coldplay claims, "you could see your future inside a glass of water." And it's true; the integral part of our planet's future rests in water. I am trying to look at it glass-half-full style, but clean drinking water is a problem we in the States barely give a second thought to as we happily shower, clean, garden, chug, etc. all with the turn of a knob. 

Water makes our world go round. And just as Benjamin Franklin said, "when the well is dry, we know the worth of water." The water that comes from the taps here in Peru is not safe. We pay for and then carry huge tanks of purified water uphill every few days to quench our thirst. There are sinks in the house that are strictly forbidden to use, even if you think, I'll just boil it. We use that water to flush the toilets when the water goes off completely. We take water from the taps with filters on them to boil so that we can wash the dishes and cook--but still don't drink this. We boil water so we can scream and curse as we pour it over our fruits, vegetables and hands as it is still bubbling, because you can never be too sure. 

And the water does go off-- quite often, actually. I am not one to complain about the fact that a shower is literally impossible to take, but we often find ourselves sweaty with lots of dishes in the sink, awkward restroom conversations and laundry hanging on clotheslines, having skipped the whole water/washing part. 

But I am not complaining. A few miles directly up, there isn't safe water to drink, either. The people of Pumamarca make up some of those statistics charity:water so boldly claims. The water there has to be used for washing, cooking and drinking, and it is all the while where the animals stand and do other things. Disease is obviously a dreadful risk. The women and children there are responsible for walking to a clean water source--usually at least two miles away--and then carrying whatever they can manage back to their houses. Peru's Challenge wants to help, and the project proposal currently involves finding a safe source, building reservoirs and putting in pipes. If you have some extra money in your pocket, let us know.  

The author of The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, said, "Water has no taste, no color, no odor; it cannot be defined, art relished while ever mysterious. Not necessary to life, but rather life itself. It fills us with a gratification that exceeds the delight of the senses." I had never thought about water that way; water delights us in a way we don't even need our senses for, and I wish everyone could experience that daily. But I have been spoiled --and probably even bored-- by a glass of water. That is not how it is for the developing countries of our world. 

Maybe it is just because water tends to be somewhat of a chore here compared to when at home that I have been considering this grave issue; and by chore I mean just something that takes a bit longer than usual. Nothing like just drinking what is available and risking disease or walking for hours for a single, heavy bucket or watching your child suffer fatally from the only thing you can offer to quench his thirst. I got shots to protect myself against the thing our lives revolve around to come here because the thing our lives revolve around here could harm, ruin or take my life; that doesn't even make sense. 

I'll now go drink from our ritzy blue tank and take its clean contents into the bathroom to brush my teeth with. I'll raise a glass and hope the future inside looks clear.

An Andes Reenact-mint: Holy Smokes, A Chimney

The closest I've ever been to the Andes is when I stand drooling over an array of the crisply wrapped chocolate mints, shelved like books in the box they come in. I love those Andes.

That little mint candy was founded by Andrew Kanelos, hence Andes, p.s. But how did the little mountains come to coat the wrapper? Maybe it's the green. It has to be the green.

We are currently experiencing Peru's summer and rainy season. It's that wonderful mountain weather where the sun beats down hard (who knew we were so close to the equator and should don sunscreen every time we dress?) even as gray clouds roll ominously over spread-out Cuzco, like a blanket for the city's quick, scheduled afternoon nap. It pours, and the sun shines, and the world is green. 

The first day we were in Cuzco, Peru's Challenge had a scheduled house visit. (If you are unsure of what our organization is about, visit the website; it is inspiring.) This involves volunteers heading up to the village of Pumamarca to help out a local family; it could be anything from construction to agricultural/livestock assistance to intervening with a violence/alcoholic problem. On this day, a house needed a chimney. We climbed into a rickety van and took hair-pin turns up into the mountains until there was no road to drive on, and we could only reach the family by foot, so we got out of the van and jumped, like Mary Poppins, into the picturesque scenery we see surrounding us everyday. 

I do know I was out of breath, but I am not sure if it was the new altitude or view that was taking it out of me. We were in the Andes, in a village that has been alive since before Cuzco laid itself out below as an expanding city with seemingly unnecessary things like grocery stores or cinemas. You don't drive out here. You walk, and you carry whatever you need on your back--flowers, a lamb, a child. 

Up here, you work around the beauty that lies in the sloping hills and wildflowers. Tiny huts seem to stand there embarrassed, as if impeding on the more-triumphant nature's ground. Cows, donkeys, pigs, chickens, goats, cats and dogs run freely. The curves of the untouched hills seem to go on forever against the sky's backdrop; it's The Sound of Music's Maria's heaven, and it took a lot for me not to twirl through, looking for the brook that trips and falls. 

It is even more beautiful to pass those who live here in their colorful clothing, welcoming smiles and cheerful "buenas tardes." The women have a load on their backs, a goat on a string and children in a wheelbarrow. Groups of people stand in pits of more carrots than I've ever seen in one spot, using water and their feet to clean them all. As I walked by, a little girl came up to me, offering one of her orange prizes. I pretended to take a bite and said, "mmm,

 delicioso," and she laughed. They were still working two hours later when we walked back in the dark, the moon shining just enough to see orange.

The beauty that is here is that of a double-edged sword. The poverty competes with it for the most outstanding feature. The family of four receiving our visit today lives in one room with Earth as their floor and no lights or furniture. The yard behind their fence is pure mud and manure, but the two children had us as guests; they still wanted to play with us in it, so we rolled up our pant legs and headed in, following their smiling, dirty faces. 

When the rainy season hits or the cold nights start to set in upon the mountains, the families cannot have open doors or windows in their houses. However, they need fires to keep warm, cook, boil water, etc. In a closed house, the smoke fills the room and presents health problems and annoyances, especially for the young and elderly. The solution? A chimney. We cut some surrounding bamboo and wood, did some magic with hammers and nails to create a flat board of these materials, put this board into the mud wall of the house in front of where we had created a hole and then threw wet mud the father had dug from their yard at the wood/bamboo. This was sprinkled with water and spread out to dry. There, using the Earth I stepped on and the trees I swayed in between, a house has a chimney; a family can breathe a bit easier. The children, amidst chasing chickens, asked if we would take a picture with them, and the mother hugged and kissed each one of us, speaking in Quechuan, the local language. 

Her delight in our simple task lifted my spirits so that I didn't even notice we were treading through water or trekking up rocky passages in the dark as we walked back to the van, which all of a sudden looked so out of place. We climbed in, and some of the local boys ran after it, laughing and staying right at our wheels until our speed picked up, and their waves ushered us out of their hills and back into the town where those hills are once again just the picturesque scenery. 

I know I love these Andes, too, crisply wrapped in their green.  I hope we spend more time jumping into the painting rather than just admiring it. 

Showering of Welcomes...it's wet.

Most people know "welcome" in a few different languages.  

Even if you drive away from the St. Louis airport, there is a bold green sign spelling out "welcome" in perhaps 10 different languages. Sure enough, we hopped off our Florida-to-Lima flight to a huge "Bienvenidos" sign glowing in the summer night air. We made it to South America. But the welcomes to this new place (it's been two weeks since we left the Midwest's freezer, Chicago) have seemed to go beyond language barriers. 

For example, on our first day here, Annie and I were trekking the coast of Lima when a car drove by and literally dumped a bucket of water on us, the only people walking on the sidewalk for as far as I could see. Annie's mouth was filled with salt water, and we both had soaked clothes.  

As we wandered through the ancient streets of Cusco this weekend, shadows I swore were birds turned into sopping explosions at our ankles; someone had thrown water balloons from a mystery tower above. Today, as I took a walk around my neighborhood--a good 20 minutes outside of downtown Cusco--I caught those same shadows out of the corner of my eye as a truck slowly drove by, kicking up dust that quickly turned to mud at my feet as a water balloon landed on my Reefs. Ten minutes down the road, one barely missed my head. At least it's warm here.

These welcomes are surely just open arms to Peru; it just takes a bit of interpretation. 

The bucket of water in Lima said, "you made it to the ocean! Did you get so close you could taste it?" The water balloons on the cobblestone streets of Cusco say, "just wanted to keep you cool in this equator sun warmth!" 

Or there is the man on the street who made my head and heart explode with anger when he couldn't keep his hands to himself. 

We stand out a bit here so take these welcomes with a grain of salt. 

It is impossible to be in Cusco's beautiful Plaza de Armes without a welcome from a local thrusting a painting or alpaca socks into your hands. "Will you buy?" "Where are you from?" "Oh, America, capital: Washington D.C. President Barack Obama. Welcome to Cusco; how long are you here for?" These way-too-young vendors each have their welcomes rehearsed and bask in your compliments on their English and gratefulness for the invitation to their city, even if you deny what they are selling.

But there have been other welcomes, too. 

I can't describe the feeling of flying on a 56-minute Lima-to-Cusco flight to our new home and having the Andes underneath, like open arms ready to catch our fall and hold us so tight we can hardly breathe (that might be the altitude). The mountainous expanse the rainy season has turned Cusco's guarding gates into is like walking into J.Crew when their spring line comes out; the green screams life and growth. The mountains bid you to come out and play. 

Lima held the welcomes whispered by a roaring ocean and, as we sat in a park, the welcomes from those who never make us ask for love--those from children. A family walked by and, as we waved at the youngest, the mother made this little boy, who was maybe two, plant kisses on our newly sun-kissed cheeks. Gracias, Peru.

There is the welcome of getting off of a plane in a foreign city and hearing your name being called out by a complete stranger--but your name sounds sweet and the stranger's voice familiar because you weren't sure if anyone was going to show up or not. The welcome from Peru's Challenge made us feel quite at home just because they all, too, have been first-time visitors at one point to this city nearly 11,000 ft. above sea level. We awoke that first day from naps to meet Peru's Challenge's beloved mother figure, Sentusa; she had apple cake and, although I knew about three words of Spanish at the time (luckily Annie is a pro) and nothing that Sentusa was saying, that piece of cake and smile made me love where I was. 

The list of things like this could go on. I was merely walking down a street by two little girls playing, and they ran next to me and both took my hands and looked up and laughed like we had been playing dolls and house and simple things for hours. 

And so we take in our new surroundings, accept the welcomes--whether verbal or not--as they come and, all the while, try to stay dry.