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.