The Wonder of the Andean Agrarian Cycle (Conchucos-style)

Many American and Canadian urbanites can identify with my wonder at the Andean Agrarian Cycle. Being raised a suburb-kid, I remember visiting my relatives on their farm in central Kansas. The early mornings, long hours, and connectedness to the land and animals were very different from streets, shops, sidewalks, backyard fences, and even the well-trimmed prune and apricot orchards I grew up with.

But when your valley floor begins at 3,000 metres (10,000 feet) and spans upward from one Andean granite cliff to the next, the rules are completely different. How do they live?  What do they grow? How do they even survive?

The 1990s in the Peruvian Andes was a time of both climatic and political change. El Niño was a notorious weather pattern scarce heard of until then, quickly traumatizing the entire Pacific coastline of both North and South America. At that time it was very typical for it to rain for 2-3 weeks non-stop with the craziest balls of hail. The results were devastating to thousands of hamlets and towns dependent on narrow dirt roads and footpaths for access to trade to the outside world. Most of the over one million inhabitants in the Conchucos Valley (Chavin Region, North Central Peruvian Andes) had little or no electrical power generation (no hydro-generators and only a few Briggs-Stratton-style diesel generators, with a continual lack of petrol). Most were, as they said, dependent upon their luck and their family ties up-and-down the mountains as well as those on the coast. When you’re living (not visiting) these mountains, you quickly learn the importance of relationships and timing. Who you know and when do you go to them—both were essential.

Most farmers had their own plots of land. In the land of the chuqui (Conchucos) each farmer helped the other farmer during the never-ending cycle of:

Prepare the land - Plant - Water - Guard - Weed - Guard - Water - Guard - Weed - Guard - Harvest

All fields were surrounded with stone walls, mostly to keep out the pigs, goats, sheep, donkeys, oxen, cows, and horses from getting in. I quickly learned the first week of our stay in the home entrusted to us, that both chickens and dogs can climb a wall (even high ones). Preparation and reparation of the walls, fields, roads, and irrigation canals—are also non-stop and require assistance and coordination. The community minka is such an event where all including the children contribute in some way (food, drink, and elbow-grease).

As far as I can recall, the cycle in Conchucos Valley (although varying according to how high up your fields are in altitude), is as follows:

Month	Season	Harvesting Crops
March	End of rainy season	Potato, oka, olluco (tubers)
May	Beginning of dry season	Corn
June/July	Dry Season	Wheat, Rye, Oats, Flax, Alfalfa, Tawri (lupin bean), Quinua, kiwicha (Amaranth)

Finally my sons’ fondest memories while in the village of Cajay [aside, of course, from: hanging on the outside of our Toyota HiLux truck as we hustled around switchbacks and hikes up small waterfalls or running with our 2 Siberian Huskies around the high summit lake of Reparen], are the various harvest seasons:

•       Threshing and winnowing the wheat leading the 3-4 horses to trample on the stalks;
•        Jumping in the wheat straw piles and watching as our Quechua neighbours set fire to some of the piles to cook calabasu (squash);
•        Eating the sweetest corn cane and helping in the cutting of the stalks;
•        Riding our meandering white horse Rayo (“lightning” – ha!) while they triumphantly didn’t have to worry about the fiercer dogs in the community;
•       Watching and helping in the potato harvest and seeing the many varieties and colours (especially the purple ones!);
•       Wretching at the smell and curious taste of toqosh (fermented potato); and finally
•       Roasting coffee over a eucalyptus fire (hmmm!).

Oka

Quinua

Yunta/ Plow-yoke

A “Gringo” in Quechua-land

A “Gringo” in "ever-changing" Quechua-land

Long-standing, traditional beliefs are hard to break. These are largely what forms our ‘worldview’. For example:

·         I never knew how much of a Northern Californian I really was, until I left Northern California;

·         I never knew how much of a Northwesterner I really was, until I left the U.S. Northwest;

·         I never knew how much of a U.S. citizen I really was, until I left the U.S.; AND (wait for it)

·         I never knew how much of a North American (Northern Hemisphere) I really was, until I went to South America!

My fifteen years away from home and my many comfort zones were life-changing and transformative. So why should I have expected it to be any different for the Conchucos Valley Quechuas during this time of great change, not only to their personal lives, but also to their families, towns, and culture as well?

How much did it change in Cajay Village? By the end of 1999:

·         Water was first piped to house-to-house
·         Ashphalted roads began to arrive in the southern part of the valley (by 2000)
·         Sewer systems were installed and some even had indoor toilets!
·         Electricity connections from house-to-house
·         Cell-phone and microwave towers were installed resulting in access to the Internet

·         Finally, the Ministry of Education officially sanctioned a full Quechua/Spanish public education program!

All of this occurred within, what has been considered Peru’s modern decade of development. Politically Peru was able to purge itself from terrorism (Sendero Luminoso, as well as MRTA), and began its slow ascent back to positive GDP import/export development. What did this practically mean to Conchucos Valley? For one thing, many Quechua farmers had sacrificed much to provide educational opportunities for their sons AND daughters, both regionally, and even to sending them to some of Peru’s most prestigious universities (La Molina, U. San Marcos, U. Católica, etc.). However there were cultural and familial consequences: Many returning to their mountain villages had changed to a largely Spanish-dominant mestizo lifestyle and ideological perspective. Their grandparents simply did not recognize them. And some couldn’t even communicate with their grandparents!

As Western North Americans, we were generally considered to be “at the top of the socio-cultural food-chain.” However when these coastal returnees met us in their own home towns, they at first “assumed” we were bringing “the best of the West” to their culture (money, modernization, even English in the schools). Many, who were convinced of this, openly criticized our presence and practices, without question. Others, when they did ask and then realized this was NOT our intentions, criticized us for wasting time and resources, exalting their ‘minority culture’ at the expense of modern/industrialized opportunities. The latter had declared that they had already ‘thrown –off’ what they considered to be the oppression of their subservient social position as mountain Quechuas. Although we had all of the accreditation and documentation from government authorities, etc., we were caught in a vortex of socio-cultural change we really didn’t understand. Of course we spoke passionately on behalf of the richness of their own traditions and folklore and its subsequent educational value. But it wasn’t until the children themselves spoke. Those between 7 and 17 years of age--

• They read;
• they sang;
• they composed … all in beautiful Quechua.

In community after community these children themselves provided the bridge between cultures. And we made sure that the credit in no way fell on us, but rather on the classroom teachers and catechists whom we trained: A grassroots effort which simply took-off! We desired nothing more than to be catalysts, giving freedom for this ancient culture to express itself through the authorized learning-cycle of its future generations.

But only until a few of our Quechua friends began to open up to us, did we then realize just how difficult it was for this change to happen. The ‘catalyst’ was from “the outside” just as most agents of change have been for them for the last 500 years.

From the time the Conqueror Francisco Pizarro landed on the shores of Pachacamac, south of Lima, in 1533, where he and his galleon of soldiers were blinded by the Inca’s castle/fortress guilded of gold, the people of Perú have been forced to submit to the changes required of the next wave of domination and control. These too were “white-skins” [mishticuna] who, once having taken control, sought out a systematic submission or, if not, extermination.  Mishti or misti is the more neutral Quechua term for the Spanish word Gringo.* However the colloquial and broadly thought of term for a ‘gringo’ in the Andes is [pishtaco] from the Quechua verb [pishtacur] to slaughter or to butcher (much used for a pig or a steer). Legends abound of conquistadores slaughtering whole renegade Incan villages. The folklore in the mountains is that ‘white-skins’ are connected to the spirit-world and at night seek refuge in the caves, streams, and waterfalls where other spirits rest [“Why else would their skins be so white?!”]. Let me tell two true events from my experience to support the fact that such legends and beliefs are ‘alive and well’ in the folklore of these Quechua communities.

On Sundays from 1989 to 2002, it was our habit to drive into the provincial capital of Huari. Much of its then teeming population of about 6,000 would always go to market in the mornings before going to misa (Catholic Mass). Cajay Village was about a 40 minute drive (30 min. walk) to Huari [walking down the mountains, one is able to cut out a lot of the switchbacks required by our 4x4 Toyota Hilux!]. After a pleasant lunch in town, we’d head back, but not before negotiating with about a dozen neighbours (including their various bags from the market) for a ride back in the bed of the truck. I noticed some of the older women were using canes and were slower in getting back home, so I would often stop along the way to invite them on board—always met by their brisk refusal. I wondered why until I began to understand some of their murmuring in Quechua: “You’re not getting my fat for your auto-fuel, Gringo!” They honestly felt that my truck had some way of ‘melting away fat’ from Quechua chacwas (old women)! After about 5 years of discussion, prodding and relationship building, some relented; but only some! [By then of course even those who still refused would at least hand us their bags to take up and then pick them up at our village door.]

My second story involves a particular passion of mine: running. I had met and befriended a black Alliance pastor from Lima, Victor, who was assigned to a church in Huaraz, regional capital in the valley west of Conchucos. One day we agreed to run together. By now you understand that there weren’t too many gringos in these smaller mountain communities. And, although Peru has had it’s fair share of blacks on the coast, very few ventured to live permanently in the Andes. But I moved out ahead of Victor, since he was a coastal Peruvian and his lungs hadn’t adapted as well as mine at the time. On a dirt path outside of Huaraz, I approached a ruku (old Quechua man) walking with a cane and he was cucata chagcheycar [chewing oja de coca or coca leaves].  As I passed him he spoke aloud but seemed to be speaking to someone else saying, “Cösa, mishtega päsacuykan” [“Wow! A gringo’s passing by!”]. Now I didn’t hear what he had said when Victor passed him, but as were heading back together, there he was again, this time saying, “Wow, look! The gringo and his shadow caught up with each other!” When I translated this to Victor we had to stop from running because we were both laughing our heads off!

Let me end this with a joke about Gringos a mountain Quechua school teacher once told me.
What three things are: Cute and tender when they're young but ugly when old?

Answer:

• Eucalyptus tree
• Ashnu (the donkey), and (yes!)
• El Gringo!
  
  
  
  

__________________
* Gringo, a term of uncertain origin although the Diccionario castellano con las voces de Ciencias y Artes y sus correspondientes en las 3 lenguas francesa, latina e italiana (Castilian Dictionary including the Words of the Sciences and the Arts, and their Correspondents in 3 Languages: the French, the Latin, and the Italian, 1787), by Terreros y Pando, claims its origin from the word griego (Greek).

Never to get lost is not to live

“Never to get lost is not to live.”

Rebecca Solnit in her book,

A Field Guide to Getting Lost: on How We Find Ourselves

This next submission is not as short but is an intensely personal description of my “worldview journey” into the Conchucos Valley of the North-central Andes of Perú.

We were assigned to work under government contract as "literacy workers." This meant adapting to the culture and discovering ways of using the language of Quechua in the formal and informal education systems. As foreigners, this meant serving as appropriate "change agents" or catalysts for change in order to diminish the illiteracy rates among the Quechuas and to provide them with useful literature publications in Quechua. Of course this also included a translation of the Bible in this variety of Quechua.

Question: What is appropriate? What is, for example, a “proper fit” when it comes to sending leaders from other countries on contract with the Peruvian Education Ministry, in order to foment a radical change in the illiteracy rate among a proud yet struggling people? I have no idea and frankly doubt that it’s humanly possible to find such a ‘fit’. I’ve broached this subject with ‘program designers’ sitting in their plush offices from Toronto to California, Washington DC to Dallas, Texas. One comment was, “Well, isn’t your group professional? Didn’t they provide pre-field screening and training? Why were you so unprepared?” In deference to SIL International, I know of few organizations which provide as much pre-field (post-grad) training as they do. That’s simply not the point.

However after 30 years I can now declare with some confidence:

You can give a person the ‘mind of a leader’ through skill-sets and training. It takes deeply spiritual insight and passion to muster the heart and guts to lead others; that happens “on the road.”

I learned this from my experience with the Quechuas: What they would call ajustando carga en camino (adjusting the packs on the donkey as you go). Terry Smith (SIL translator) once told me, as I had just picked up a brand new Toyota 4x4 HiLux,

• “Do yourself a favor. Go out and get it good-and-dirty and scratched up. The truck is a lot like you: Best when shaken AND stirred.” 

Now THAT shook me! Only after several traumatic events took place that same year did I begin the path to realizing what he had meant.

Assaults, sickness, terror, and poor economic infrastructure. These were the four sink-holes on the landscape of our experience from 1988 to 2002.  So “getting lost” or overwhelmed, whether by driving or hiking through these high alpine hillsides, seemed to form both an external as well as an personal metaphysical constant. “Why?” was a continual question on our lips and in our thoughts. Unfortunately such unanswered questions can erode resolve, program planning and effectiveness.

As a career literacy/development worker, I was trained to carry (both physically and emotionally) the responsibility of such stress. The ‘rubber meets the road’, however, when raising and nurturing a family in this climate. “The frog in a pot of water on the fire” turned out to be the more accurate metaphor in our experience in Perú: Things were heating up but we couldn’t really decipher the signals.

Meanwhile we had an audience in the form of the Quechua communities surrounding us. On the one hand, comments like, “You must have failed as a professional in Canada. THAT’s why you’re here, right?” really should have been better understood as a guess to THEIR questions as to our purposes there. On the other, those who knew us, after a few years, honoured us with their form of intimacy of conversation and celebrations (usually centred in their homes over a deep-dish meal of some kind, uh alcohol included).

So when it came to emergencies (egs., assaults, terrorist incursions, sickness, natural disasters such as floods), these people formed the real information highway – and they were good at it.

On one such occasion our firstborn was about six months old. A few weeks after having returned from the coast Gregorio developed a high fever (44 C/ 104F). Try as we could with antibiotics and cool bathwater, we could not lower his fever [we found out later that he had both parasites and a bacterial infection despite our constant care of him—3,000 metres of altitude is a tough adjustment for any baby!].

A Quechua Evangelical neighbour and house pastor came to us under cover of darkness [we expressed a faith in God but also publicly embraced relationship with Catholics, professionals and non-believers as well].

“I think I know what’s happening to your son” he declared. “You see, I have beautiful children too, so some jealous people in our village have probably attacked you and your family by casting a spell on your son. I will pray for him, which is my Christian duty. But just in case, please follow my advice in cracking a raw egg into a bowl and mixing it with mashed rocoto peppers. Then sprinkle the mix around the perimeter of your house. This should dispel the encantation.” I didn’t follow his advice, but did pray. This was my friend’s solution to the envy and hatred of others in the community and he openly showed me his Quechua/Christian (syncretistic) mix of personally dealing with such a crisis. I thanked him for his advice.

The next day we once again left Cajay village… approximately the same time of day when a column of 200 Senderistas (“Shining Path” terrorists) moved into the valley, dynamiting bridges and calling communities together to ‘judge’ anyone they deemed deserving of torture and death. We escaped about 15 minutes before they came to the village! We like to say that God had used my son’s sickness to save our ‘white skins’!

“80% of field workers in international education and development never return to this work after their first four years.” That was the statistic in the 90s; I’m not sure what it is today. When we returned to North America in 1991 for 8 months’ respite I was burned-out and culturally removed from my Canadian-American roots and surroundings. Only war veterans, photo-journalists on foreign assignment, and other development workers were able to identify with this “numbness.” Actually this “reverse culture shock” had never changed, each time we returned for a 6-12 month ‘visit’ with family, friends, and supporters (1991, 1997, and 2000). In some ways I can say I’m still somewhat numb and removed today, even though we’ve now been back for 12 years. Perhaps these blogs are for me “a way back home” or, rather, a way to accept that my heart/soul is divided between the physical-climatic-cultural distance.

Some have attempted to sympathize, comprehend, and even to give counsel: Appreciation and respect for those who cared. There are particular who helped in various ways, none so much during our final days in Peru as: Al and Barb Shannon, who prayed and sat with us through ‘thick and thin’—Blessings on you both!

Limenians: Whole-hearted, sympathetic and decisive

Limenians: Whole-hearted, sympathetic and decisive

One can survive in Lima when you’re in a good neighbourhood. I don’t necessarily mean “affluent” as  much as I do “heartfelt,” a community that cares /watches out for one another. From 2000 to 2002 we lived in a neighbourhood of Magdalena del Mar (Calle 4, just west of Av. Salaverry and off Av. El Ejército). I miss the beautiful oasis of relationships there (superficial perhaps but always engaging!). It helped us adjust to being dislodged from the mountains due to Tim, my youngest son’s health in the altitude. Polemics and political discussions abounded, for example, while our neighbour Sandro watered his patch of grass in the front, or while we walked (was dragged, more like it, by) our alpha-male black-and-white husky called “Oso” (bear). Christmases, New Years and Fiestas Patrias (Peru’s Independence Day is July 28) were particularly festive and full of setting off fireworks from most flat roofed-homes in the area. Our boys have fond memories of that 3 bedroom home we rented for $450/month!

I distinctly remember one Christmas when the mayor of San Isidro put up a huge poster with: “May the Spirit of Jesus be with you during this season.” Imagine your own mayor in the U.S. or Canada doing the same thing!! People knew their country was struggling and many tried to do ‘something’ though perhaps very meager. I call that heart!

There were two incidences, however, which forever bonded me to that metropolis.  The first was when the terrorist group MRTA (Movimiento Revolucionario Tupac Amaru) invaded the residence of the Japanese Ambassador during the high society’s Christmas Gala on December 17, 1996. Over 700 high level government officials, military and families were taken hostage, one of whom was the mother of Peru’s president (apparently MRTA had no idea, when they let go of the women, children, and the elderly/infirm). All but 70 were released after fierce negotiations. But it wasn’t until April 22, 1997 that a special military force re-took the embassy killing all 14 terrorists, only one hostage and two commandos. 126 days of terror gripping the city and nation in an incredible way—the lives of those nearest never the same again.

During that crucial time, Lima , indeed most cities in Perú, valiantly responded in solidarity by marching on the streets in prayerful and vociferous commitment to the hostages. My wife, children and I also walked those streets. Some walking, in courteous jest, declared, “Look! Even the “gringos” are marching for peace! (unbelievable! Ha-ha!)” My retort to the man carrying the banner “Surquillo por la Paz” (a district of Lima), was, “Hey! My sons were born in the Surquillo clinic!” (Ha-ha!) Then we ALL would point to the next banner, even more surprised at its inscription: “Lawyers for Peace!” (!!)

The second incidence was after Sept. 11, 2001. All of Perú seemed to show-up in major parks in solidarity for those who died in the attack on the Two Towers in New York. Parque Kennedy (in Lima’s Financial district of Miraflores) was packed with people wielding candles lit-up as a sign of prayer on behalf of the fallen and their families. I had the immense privilege of being interviewed by Peru’s national TV and confessed, “My family marched on behalf of the hostages in 1997. Now Perú responds to the U.S. in its solidarity and concern. I just am honoured to be a part.”

Lima has a heart: Really! But it's hard to see from the "outside"

My experiences in Lima are myopic at best, viewed from the outside by visits after coming down from the mountains for specific purposes: government documentation (visas, Education Ministry documents, driver's license, birthing of our children and, yes!, their subsequent documentation), as well as SIL's workshops and conferences. One of my SIL colleagues claimed that the greatest dangers in Peru exist going to and from Lima (there are many examples here but suffice it to say that negotiating traffic on two-lane roads at night can be horrendous in ANY country!). Actually what was amusing was my contact with Limenians as I arrived from the 'hinterland'. They expected a 'gringo' fresh from Miami or Frankfurt and instead they got a jacha-gringo (someone who 'looks' gringo on the outside, yet performance revealed a more "highlander infection" of a truer country-living like some 'weed' -- a gringo knock-off??). They were confused until I'd begin speaking in Quechua! They then laughed and the walls would come down-- Even in Lima all kinds of people continue connected in some way with some Quechua family member.

That is one 'lense of entry' to Lima through which I was privileged to peer in my many re-entries. The other is from the perspective of the SIL community residing in Lima itself, whose offices were located on Javier Prado in middle class Magdalena. "Lima House" and "Cudney Center" were temporary homes for us and our two boys, Grego and Tim. All homes in Lima's city center neighbourhoods are well embraced with wrought-iron 're-bar' spikes or broken glass atop two-metre concrete walls. SIL’s “Lima House” staff had adorned theirs with bouganvillea climbing hedges which flowered brillantly hiding the re-bar/barbed wire within it. The 'hussle and bustle' of Javier Prado Avenue gave life and meaning to any stroll to shops or restaurants. Despite the walls and 'enclave of English' inside, we could still be easily connected to this metropolis (8-12 million people, depending on how you count).

As I shared in a previous blog, we entered this culture at a crescendo of terror when a cochebomba (car bomb) blew out the glass from all Miraflores skyscrapers around Ave. Arequipa and Parque Kennedy (more on this park later). This was a city under stress and you could cut it with a knife. Our first 6 months in 1987 required us to remain in the city, so we worked for a while on the fourteenth floor of the Education Ministry office, downtown Lima. 

Educators and health workers were in continual re-negotiations and strikes. Our vantage point from this building provided incredible views of the Guardia Civil, army, and protesters heaving rocks with the stench-burning tires wafting upwards (I always wondered if somehow yanta = Quechua for kindling and llanta = Peruvian Spanish for tire, somehow got confused!). Both the educators and health workers wanted (deserved!) more pay. But it was the health workers who had the leverage on the streets, threatening authorities with (supposed) vials of suero de CIDA (live-Aids virus in solution). Batons were out and wielded, seeming endless rubber bullets and tear-gas fired, and the gusanos (water-cannon trucks) drove-up spraying high-pressured water in an attempt to disperse the crowds of thousands (rendering dozens unconscious). Welcome to Lima in the late 80s and 90s!

Celebrations and Mournings

I’ll begin again with the world of the Quechuas huarinos or as many have called them, mishi canca runa. Before I do, a disclaimer. If you’ve been following previous blogs you’ll note that Quechua is a multicultural “nation” stretched across five South American countries: Ecuador, Perú, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina. As such, it has a richness of diversity even when comparing one variety of Quechua with another—be it culture, economics, world view or language.  Therefore I’m not here to impose

blanket statements about these cultural varieties, but rather simply to add my thanks and appreciation for what I personally have experienced.  I’m also grateful for SIL International which trained and assigned me to these mountain communities. ‘Nuf said.

I’d like to say that, after 15 years of living and visiting these Conchucos Valley communities, I’m officially a graduate from “the school of hard knocks.” Academically today one needs a master’s degree or PhD in North America to teach in the universities (op. “The world is getting dumber by degrees”). NO SINGLE DEGREE can measure up to what I have learned on the backside of the Peruvian Andes—AWESOME!  I recently had TESL Canada deny my level 3 certification because my experience in the Andes “only” amounted to an M.A. in Social Sciences/leadership. If they could only have taken the time to read my master’s thesis they’d have seen scholarship and professionalism written all over it. No matter.

Those “hard knocks” were primarily reflective of all of the political-economic ‘negotiating’ as a result of living in those remote and inaccessible communities. However for this blog, let me turn to how the Quechuas themselves experience some of these challenges. More often than not, their answer to the how would have been, “by luck.”

At the outset a Quechua farmer seems phlegmatic and a bit austere. Such a man reminds me of the Cree on the prairies of Canada. Let me explain with a contrast. As you participate in a Catholic church in major Latinamerican cities, you come to the part of the “impartation of peace (greeting).” It is customary for a man, for example, to shake hands with those of mild acquaintances, and  to give an abrazo (short embrace) to those who are neighbours, closer relations or friends. With women, it’s a peck on their right cheek (go to your left and you found it!). Of course that’s really a ‘press of the check’ and perhaps a ‘kiss’ in the air close to the ear. In contrast, the Quechua Eucharistic ‘peace exchange’ for both sexes is a mere mutual ‘right hand fingers-two-knuckles-up touching yours’ and maybe the left hand slightly touching the colleague’s right-side of the shoulder: NOTHING MORE. In a single country, notice the differences between the two cultures (Quechua – Mestizo).

Harpist a a funeral

Regardless of this seeming diffidence, Quechuas in general, I find, have a strong cultural sense of what the Spanish call consentimiento. “Sympathy” is the translation and it works, as long as we understand it literally as 'feeling with' – a cultural sense of commiseration with another person.  Again, it is culturally endowed. These men work hard and, as I said before, they party hard.  When they do, their sense of sentiment, good or ill, seem to come to the fore.  Some may say it’s a result of the liquor—be that as it may, its occurrence is consistent enough to note. Most clearly this happens within the context of a growing crisis.

Crises. This could be as a result of accidents, natural disaster, sickness, birth, death, or general politico-economic upheaval and tension.  As we continued living in the village, we were approached for all kinds of projects and motives for help, usually by the mother or father on behalf of their land, harvest, animals or family (yes, it might be in that order). One night, for example, at about 2 AM a neighbour awoke us incessantly pounding on our front patio rustic  eucalyptus door. His wife was having a baby! We rushed down knowing that previously a Shining Path terrorist insurgence had emptied the valley of all professionals and foreigners (medical and otherwise), except the Catholic bishop … and ourselves of course. We entered the musty, candle-lit bedroom only to find a dead fetus on the floor and blood everywhere. The fetus had already been dead for at least two months, meaning that the woman continued to carry it to term in her womb. We participated in velorios (funeral), rezos (prayer service), and entierros (interment into the grave). These had effects on us and on the community: After that we then seemed to be recognized as having become a part of its pain and its movements. The men showed a distinct respect for us that previously they hadn’t given us: They understood that we had SHARED in their pain and suffering.

Then came even more questions, “Why are you REALLY here, Gringo? You must have a better life in Canada than you do here. Why?” It was only when they saw us training other Quechua leaders, empowering and freely giving the skills sets away, did they begin to understand us in a unique way. It was then that they mutually began to invite us over: For meals, taking part in their family celebrations, fiestas and harvest celebrations AS WELL AS to help in the birth, baptisms, graduations, and weddings of the families.

“You felt our pain, now feel our joy!” It was then, for example, that the primicias, the first tastes of ASWA (corn beer) or the best of the JAKAKUY (guinea pig in peanut sauce) would be offered. Their agrarian life-cycle centres around planting and harvest, birthing sheep and pigs and, well, butchering them as well-- all concurrent with the seasonal fiestas of their hamlets, districts and provinces: A never-ending ebb and flow.

Learning a bit of the different kinds of dance in the area: PALLAS, SHACSHA, YURIWAS, and DANSA, was also a joy. These are performed in costumes and in special celebrations. But above all, a favourite celebration annually occurs at the end of Christmas: PASTORCILLOS. This is an unabashedly sympathetic convergence of past, present, and future hopes, particularly for the next generation.

Celebrated on the “Three Wisemen’s Day” (Jan 6^th) PASTORCILLOS is a children’s Christian, yet deeply Mestizo-Quechua performance, totally performed by children from 4 to 18, depicting the coming of Jesus to dispel the evil enchantments of the devil over the valley. A clearly syncretistic expression of the two dominant Andean cultures, the teens are dressed as rucucuna (old men) using coca chaqchay (chewing coca leaves) and function as the spiritual intermediaries and harbingers between the two realities. It’s a mystical performance, where, group after group, in community after community march in full masquerade to the provincial capital of Huari and finally perform before regional authorities for prizes such as burro-loads of dry-goods and money for future schooling. I have never seen such a fully communal, dry (non-alcoholic) festival in our 15 years’ residence in Perú. What a hopeful start for the New Year!

So for a people relative distant and cold on the surface, their homes and lives are, by-and-large, vibrant, endearing and full of hope for their children and grandchildren.