On Riding the Chombi

This Saturday, riding the chombi (public bus) for about two hours in total allowed me to grow accustomed to it’s rhythms, and thus, a rhythm of Lima. The bus accelerates and stops abruptly, over and over and over again. Street vendors move in and out of the bus, selling Sublime chocolate and every type of packaged food: candied reddish peanuts covered in sesame seeds, chocolates with almonds, snacks made of quinoa. Each time we rode the bus, once to the central market and once back to La Molina, some man would board the bus and assertively give the well rehearsed story of difficult life and misfortunes. On the bus ride back, the man also had a child. “they use the children,” my companion told me before he began his speech. The child’s head lolled to the side. I found myself wondering if this child would grow to participate in this lifestyle or choose another. I wondered if he would live that long… In the moment of this thought, I realized I had never seen a truly sick and vulnerable baby, one whose life could soon vanish. When the man finished his speech, I was surprised to see almost everyone on the bus hand a few coins to the man. After my companion gave her coins to the man, he left the bus, all the while feeding the baby a part of a granola bar a passenger had given him. Half ended up falling to the dirty bus steps. “A social problem,” my companion commented after the man left the bus.

As we rode across the city, my companions explained the main streets. “This street we are passing over the top of is Javier Prado. It runs from east to west in the city.” The street we were traveling on was part of the Pan-South American highway. It runs from north to south along the cost of al Peru. “It is the most important highway in Peru. It even runs up to Ecuador and Colombia,” they told me. WE passed the most modern shopping center I’ve ever seen with spectacular modern sculpture, lights, and fountains. 15 minutes later, we passed the mountains of los Barrios Altos, the High Neighborhoods. I was struck by the bricks and thousands of wooden shipping palates stacked on top of the houses and buildings. This is the most dangerous district of Lima.

It was an even busier than usual Saturday in the central market of Lima. First, we visited the Chinese store, where my companions bought some of the most inexpensive tea I’ve ever encountered. They loved to shop, so I felt liberated to explore everything in the market. It seems where ever I go in the world, there will always be a little China town, a Chinese market, and thus a little bit of my friends from home. After their attempt to purchase a quarter of the tea in the shop, we chose one of the countless chifa restaurants (chifa is Peruvian Chinese). We ate so hunger that we were not talking much. As we ate, we heard silverware slam onto a table. A stalky, angry man pushed back his chair away from his family, and stood aggressively in front of the waiter. In an instant, the entire kitchen staff emerged, stepping between the two men, the restraining the thin and firely angry young waiter. The kitchen staff successfully removed their friend, and the family left. When the waiter reappeared, many in the restaurant said things to the waiter like, “what a disagreeable family. It’s not your fault.” To me, the camaraderie for the waiter, and the waiter for his job, was pronounced.

Next, we wove our way out of China town and into the market, where everything you might desire can be found for an incredibly cheap price. “This is the oldest market in Lima,” my companion told me. The inside of the market holds fruit, vegetables, and a meat market. The only circulation in this old two level building is through the door. Here, all the rank odors of the market collect. Out of the many open, rectangular white sacs, we purchased spices and herbs for dinner that night.

Cooking in the Peruvian kitchen is not unlike driving in Peru. Everything appears close to disaster, to boiling over, or to burning. However, it resulted in the most beautiful and delicious meal I've shared here. Surprisingly, we made the exact dishes I chose to cook for my Peruvian preparation dinner: papas a la Huancayina and arroz con leche. In a country of delicious food, homemade still remains unbeatable.

Reflecting on the day in the central market of Lima, I am amazed at the cooking, the market, and my kind friends. However, my amazement is happily based in the present. How good it feels to be here, with myself, and the paper, reflecting on a day simply… lived.

Back in Lima, a friend

Saturday morning at 6am, the warm, humid Lima air greeted my body, overheated and uncomfortable from the seven hour night bus through the mountains. Returning to Lima to escape the cold had been the goal for the last few days. How happy I was to see the familiar sights of Lima. I rode home with Marisol and her spouse, looking out the window at the now familiar billboards, restaurants, stores, the agricultural university and the Peruvian ministry of agriculture lands near CIP. They chatted with me and told me that I should run an 8K marathon with them. In Spanish, a marathon is a race of any distance- not 26.2 miles, or the 42K they refer to The Marathon as. I happily agreed. How nice it is to be back in the warmth- back in Lima. 

Immediately upon arriving home, I washed up, and changed into running clothes. I wanted to do something purely physical after a week of feeling physically inadequate in the field. Ten minutes out, I found myself in the bathroom with the awful feeling of a rebellious stomach. Altitude sickness in the least expected place: from descending the mountain.

That afternoon, I went with Rocio and Nataly out to the biggest shopping center in Lima. Spectacular designer window displays and elegant architectural design reminded me of my small town origins. What a contrast from the fields one day ago in Huancayo. Returning to Rocio and talking to her about what I saw in Huancayo made me feel at home. We stood on the corner of a street in La Molina for an hour waiting for a friend to pick us up for our trip to the shopping center. The hot wind and exhaust of the autos felt normal, I knew how to ignore the whistles of passersby, and while I talked to Rocio candidly about my perceptions, I felt at home with a friend. Anywhere in the world, a friend can bring me a little bit of what I'll always search for: home

To Huancayo

03.06.2013 Lima, Peru

They have me thoroughly scared. "You will go up 1500 feet in three hours. Take the soroche pill every morning and night, and you can stagger ibuprofen with acetaminophen. When I was in the hospital they told me to stagger the codeine with ibuprofen. You will be working with about 30 local farmers. You'll be the slowest one in the pack."

4.06.2013, Huancayo, Junin, Peru

Today was the first day of work on the potato harvest in Huancayo, high in the Peruvian Andes. We left our hotel at 6am and did not reach the filed until 9am. The mountain roads are infrequently traveled by car or truck. Donkeys, horses, sheep, pigs, and people on foot are common. We saw so much of this on the way up the mountain that my thoughts of realizing how different this sight was subsided. Wheat and many potatoes and are grown here. It makes beautiful patches of color on the mountainsides lining the valley. Yellow flowers that remind me of rapeseed lined the road along with grasses that recall Iowa and astounding outcroppings of lichen-covered rock. The sky here is so bright blue with lofty white clouds- it is so different and refreshing from Lima. If I look up at the sky, I could easily be in Iowa. This has to be some of the most beautiful agricultural land in the world. And I wondered if agriculture would take me places...We worked with 22 local farmers. Since they are used to this type of farm work and the altitude, they can work much more quickly than the five of us from CIP. However, it was uncomfortably shocking to me that we were not going to help harvest. The CIP crew and I labeled potatoes all day, and this felt frustratingly simple next to the labor of the farmers around me. Finally, I got my hands in the dirt bagging potatoes. I immediately felt better about my work, even if I was slower than those around me. One woman was nice enough to say, "you're quick!" Since I was slower than the others, I expect this meant, "you are not as slow as I expected!" I took the compliment. 


The farmers cooked lunch to share with us in a special oven, the pachamanca, made by making a hole in the ground. First, a fire is lit and rocks are piled on top. After an hour of heating the rocks, the rocks are removed. Then potatoes, a layer of rock, meat, a layer of rock, and more potatoes are added. All this is covered by another layer of rock, earth, and finally green plants to cook for an hour. The potatoes were served by laying them out on blankets, and enormous portions of meat in tin bowels. There is something about eating meat with my hands, the sight of how my neighbor's portions make up an animal, and the still fresh smell of blood and sheep in the meat that I appreciated. I am going to avoid meat for a while again, but I appreciated that it was impossible to forget this food's origin. As much as I washed and showered, I can still smell it on my hands. 

Tonight I am tired and my body is sore, despite the small amount of work I did. How frustrating. What an adventure today was though! Despite how breathtaking it was, my favorite imagination right now is to go for a run in the Iowa countryside, cook and eat a vegetarian meal.

What a juxtaposition of reality, adventure, and imagination. 





07.06.2013 Huancayo, Junin Peru

It is very cold here. I am still freezing even though I am sitting in the hotel lobby. There is no heat in the hotel. The last two days on the mountain it rained, which made for a very cold an inefficient time harvesting. I am lucky I was not the one who had to harvest. Last night we went out for calientitos -hot Huancayan drinks- and one member of our crew ended up explaining a bit more about Latino culture to me, especially with respect to the local farmers who were working with us. He said as an agronomist here in Peru, you need to be firm, because to have to be able to keep control of field projects. "Our culture is strong. We don't ask please, do this, when we mean do it! I've noticed this from the language people use. Although I already has some idea from Spanish courses, it is different to experience the use of commands. When answering the phone, it's "Tell me," and when explaining things, it's "look at me," "listen to me," all as a command. The last few days, the disparity between the local farmers and our team from CIP bothered me a great deal. These farmers work bent over all day harvesting potatoes, and when I was not labeling, I could do nothing but stand there to wait. I tried to help one man carry a potato sac into the truck, and I got a barrage of "No no no no no no!" from my supervisor. It was good natured, but he also said, "you don't need to do that!" as a command. As much as I tried to help out with any task I could during this week, it was only acceptable for me to help with the tasks that were not physical. I understand this was due to the altitude, although I sense a cultural component as well. At 5000 meters, Huancayo is one of the highest places in Peru. Often, foreigners do not do well here. As out breath as I often was though, I did not feel sick. 

The local farmers impressed and humbled me. In the potato field at the top of the mountains in Huancayo, a favorite song echoed in my mind.
"I could see for miles, and miles, and miles,
And at once I knew I was not magnificent."

The local farmers very long lived- to 70 or 80 years, all are literate, and everyone is well fed. Food security I could tell from the culture around food, working in the fields, and looking at the people. The rest I gathered from speaking to my crew from CIP. The farmers speak a combination of Quechua and Spanish, so it made it difficult for me to talk to them in addition to the cultural that seemed to dictate I should not interact with them too much. I cannot imagine living where it rains so much and is so cold. However, I've worked my days in the Iowa winter as well. Watching them work made me feel horrible though. I know I can't do the work they do, carry as much as they can, or work as long as they can. The whole time I wanted so badly to work alongside them, even if it was for a little while. Even when my body would be proven much weaker and less skilled in the tasks. However, afraid of failing physically and afraid of breaking some cultural barrier, I refrained. I've had a lot to think about.

Holocene

Hol·o·cene adj. Of or belonging to the geologic time, rock series, or sedimentary deposits of the more recent of the two epochs of the Quaternary Period, beginning at the end of the last Ice Age about 11,000 years ago and characterized by the development of human civilizations (thefreedictionary.com). 2011 Bon Iver song off the album for Emma, Forever Ago. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWcyIpul8OE

Lima is the big city. I've never lived in the city before, and many times during my first week, I missed the smell of Iowa night air and running the gravel roads in the oceans of corn. More often than not, the view of the Lima mountains is hazy with humidity and splashed with grey from a dab of pollution. There are mountains though, and the colors of the trees, flowers, and houses enliven the scene. Before, I just tried not to breathe too deeply.

However, something changed this week. From Monday through Thursday, I rode the bus from my room in Miraflores district into La Molina to CIP (El Centro Internacional de la Papa). The first day at the bus stop, I arrived 30 minutes early for the bus. This amount of time allowed one passerby to consider it worth his time to ask me on a date for breakfast. I couldn't understand all of what he said to me, but I what I caught was that if I went out with him we would have the best time. Even after I boarded the bus, he was in the neighboring bus attempting to catch my attention. Unlike the week before, this didn't phase me too badly. Instead, my instinctual reaction was, isn't it a little early on a Monday morning? A week later, it is humorous. Being blonde here is like being a model, and I say this in the most factual way. At first, this was the worst thing for me about living in Peru. At restaurants, Rocio, Nataly, and I can get the quickest and most attentive service, and when we went out on Friday, there a steady supply of young men willing to dance even though I'd never properly danced salsa in my life. First people stared because I was blonde; then people stared when I mimicked the dance style of my friends.

Upon returning to my dormitory at CIP, I had first opportunity in a week to run. I left my room for the run I had looked forward to for a week. I ran through CIP to La Agraria, the agricultural university across the street. Unlike the last time I ran, I really breathed. I smelled the food from the university street vendors, the smell of the bus I ran behind, tasted the dirt on my teeth, and really explored the (what I estimate to be) 100 hectares of campus and agricultural trial fields. Behind the fields, I ran my first time, I found hectares of hidden citrus orchard. I ran up rows of citrus, and in the far corner of the campus, I found my favorite view. Here the mountains of Lima reclined in the sky, and rows of citrus trees with just ripening and brilliant fruits stretched below. The sun was setting, powdering the distance pink and grey. Momentarily, I stopped running to freeze this scene in my mind.

When I returned, I rearranged my room, placing the bed in the corner of the room. More room for activities! After showering, I got to work on another task I had never attempted before: washing three weeks of laundry by hand. Contently, I made myself dinner and hung my clothes, which would take several days to dry. With my things in order, I reflected on my run and my accomplishments. On Friday I would have the first of the reoccurring thought, I can't believe there are only six weeks left...

Tonight I looked back on my photos from Cusco, Valle del Colca, and Machu Picchu. Juxtaposed with Lima, the natural beauty emphasizes a different beauty in Lima: the contrast between natural and human civilization. Fortuitous describes the timing of the journey to Cusco and Arequipa before settling in Lima. Removed by time from the transplant shock, I appreciate the calm, agriculture, and beauty I saw high in the mountains. Lima retains bits of this. Never before have I seen agricultural fields inside a honking, sounding city like I do here at La Agraria and CIP. When I loose myself in the fields, I see Lima, Costa Rica, Sweden, Iowa... holocene.

After the First Week, Lima

What a week. Some hours in the lab were so repetitive and slow, but others flew by. I was counting seeds, extracting seeds from wild potato berries (bayas), and making labels. All this was for the collection of papas silvestres- wild potatoes. These are not edible, but are preserved for traditional breeding purposes. The main operator of this program is named Alberto Salas. He collected about 60% of the entire potato collection here at CIP- 3,000 to 4,000 varieties. The figure on the number of varieties is not exact to this date. Dr. Ellis, the supervisor of the gene bank, told me it is not officially know how many varieties A. Salas collected because many were collected while he was studying under his predecessor. Therefore in the literature, these potatoes were attributed to his predecessor. "We Salas' lab notebooks though," Dr. Ellis told me Friday night. "He was doing 12 or more collection trips per year when others were doing two or three." Dr. Ellis also described the method of collecting, which when told as a story, as he did, sounds like quite an adventure. First they would look through the records to determine the climate, land forms, and areas a potato was encountered and recorded in the past. Then, the collection team would drive there by bus. Alberto would look out the bus windows, and when he saw something promising, he would as the bus driver to stop (baja, baja), give candy out to all the other passengers to pacify them, and jump out to investigate. Dr. Ellis told me that on collecting trips together, they'd do the same,but in their own vehicle. After arriving in an area, Alberto would talk to local farmers, mechanics, and show owners to find where people had seen plants fitting their description. How incredibly rich the local knowledge. Alberto Salas is fluent in Spanish and Quechua, the native language of the interior. I am convinced this is invaluable.

What a legacy this lab has, and I've only just started here. Meanwhile, it is now the weekend, and I have moved to my home for the week in Miraflores. After this week, I will return to the dormitories at CIP. There is much more to see and do in Miraflores, but going out in the city scares me. I never quite feel safe here. There is always an underlying feeling of unease. I cannot blend in at all and I don't understand Spanish when unfamiliar words are spoken quickly. I get a lot of stares, and this makes me so uncomfortable. I went for a myrist run on Thursday evening. Evne though the view was beautiful- mountains, fields of all different types of crops, couples laying in the grass together, a brilliant full moon just starting to rise at the end of my run- I couldn't relax. There was still the backdrop of speeding cars, people speaking a language I strain to half- understand, people looking at me like they had never seen a runner (which cannot be true because I've seen runners here). Perhaps the stares are just my perception and not the reality. I want so badly to blend in and pass by unnoticed, going about my business, thinking my own private thoughts, etc.

This afternoon I began to feel more at ease with things. Dogs played in the soft late afternoon grass of the park nearby my house in Miraflores. How peaceful and beautiful. I had just made my first trip alone to the grocery store near my house. It was a success. I waited as long as I possibly could to go to the store, but after leaving my room, the city was significantly less threatening. This evening Rocio and I went for dinner, and I rode the chombi- public bus- for the first time. On the way back, Rocio told me I would have her respect if I hailed it myself. Success! All the while, I felt at ease. Something is beginning to change. I like it.

Bus from Arequipa to Lima

The Envy Corps blasts about the idling and air circulation system. If an observer guessed I am trying to drown my emotions out of my mind, they would be correct. There is nothing more English-speaking, United States, Midwest, Iowa, Ames, home, than the Envy Corps.

As the plane took off from San Jose, Costa Rica this spring, I looked out the window and inexplicably and uncomfortably found myself overwhelmed with emotion. What exactly I was feeling I was unsure. I am still unsure, but I have a better idea now. I knew this moment would arrive and reoccur in Peru. As I boarded the bus, I found my mind demanding, almost screaming, I want to speak English! I want to speak English at a million miles per hour! "Bienvenidos a bordo?" Bordo? What kind of word is that? Get your own word instead of adding an "o" to the end of an English word. There is clearly fault in this reasoning, and it is difficult for me to write this thought only moments later. Dare I acknowledge it occurred? However, to deny it would make things even more difficult. I realized, this is culture shock. My head is so full of Spanish I can't think of anything else. Even as I write this, my brain flash to Spanish. Mi cabeza... llena con Espanol. Get out! Just let me think!

My eyes fill and I look out the bus window. I put on the most middle grinding beat of the Envy Corps and recline my head back towards the evening sky. I watch a man packing bags into the bus next door, and I think about how real and normal this is. It is easy for me to watch and understand. I look at the lettering on this bus as a point of fixation, and thought of how selfish it was for my friends and family to be so worried when I left. It's my easily harmed small body and mind shipped here. I was immediately not proud of this thought either. This day has been full of primal thoughts such as these.

As I keep listening to the Envy Corps, I feel at home. I never do life the easy way- this is what makes Peru and learning another language my home and a part of me.

Esta vida: vale la pena.

Sunday Morning in Arequipa

The blares of police sirens cause pigeons to flap wildly and fly. Between the sirens, a man speaks over a microphone. It is Sunday morning in Arequipa and there is a demonstration on the street below our hotel. I am sitting on the rooftop and it is the first time in days I've been able to sit outside without a sweater or many sweaters. The iconic Volcan Misti is prominent in my view, and to my left I can see the beautiful colors of the city against the mountain range. The air is not fresh, but it is not rancid either. The city is anything but peaceful this Sunday morning.

Waking up to Spanish with Rocio and Nataly this morning seemed a little more normal, and yesterday I started feeling a touch more confident with my Spanish. Only a touch though. During the tour to the Colca Valley, I was one of three non-Peruvians. The other two were Chilean, and for this reason, I garnered attention simply by being there. There was fascination over my hair and questions about where I was from, followed by questions about the United States. The answer to all of this was that I was from the great corn state, Ohio. The conversations were simple, but I still felt a sense of accomplishment.

Yesterday evening while out to dinner with Rocio and Nataly, I felt a bit more comfortable to ask questions. We had a great time teaching each other different idiomatic expression. You can imagine the laughs over "party pooper"- aguafiestas in Spanish.

The journey thus far has been nothing like I imagined. I always imagined the night of restless sleep before the flight and a feeling of uncontainable excitement. How many times I've dreampt of my departure, always to Uganda in years of past dreams, I cannot count! Instead, most of the time I felt calm and with little emotion. Emotions came in punches, terribly excited and shouting to the sky, scared, and cacophonous mixtures of both. Now that I've been here a week, I still feel there has not been time to process everything. Things are becoming more normal though. The thought that home is three months away scares me a bit, and sometimes I find myself thinking fondly of the reunion I will have with Kerri, Becca, Ellen, Dylan, and IAAS friends from Sweden when we unite for IAAS world conference in Chile. But now my life for the next eight weeks... Vive el presente.