By Danielle L. Krautmann
My senses are heightened in the rainforest.

in front of a Ficus

Despite being legally blind in my right eye, I can see more clearly than ever before….maybe there’s just more to see.  Something as simple as sunlight illuminating a water droplet on a leaf is a vivid representation of the complexity of nature.  I look up to the trees and can imagine which leaf the drop fell from and how many leaves it rolled off before it landed on this one.  I look at the plant it sits on and hypothesize the path the drop will take to the ground and which of the surrounding plants, trees or vines will be nourished by it. This sense of sight can be heightened further with correct training.

Richard, a guide for Rainforest Expeditions (the company I’m working for), who specializes in birds told me how he became so expert at spotting them.  “Practice, Practice, Practice,” he told me.  He began by figuring out how far 20 meters was and practiced spotting birds and other animals.  When he felt good about it, he moved up to 50 meters, then 100 meters.  The other day I went for a nature walk with him and was amazed when he stopped walking, looked around, sniffed once or twice, then pointed directly at the bird or animal without
thinking twice.  I want to be able to do that!

I hear birds calling back and forth.  Some chirp timidly, others caw obnoxiously, while occasionally I’ll hear a terrifying screech, only to figure out that was also a bird.  Tree branches fall, monkeys bicker, insects buzz all at the same time.  It’s loud, but I’ll take it any day over the non-stop noise pollution of traffic, horns and construction which permeates Lima and makes me feel like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

It’s really not that much quieter than Lima, especially in the morning, but its far more pleasant.  Trying to distinguish who’s saying what is initially overwhelming, but when I listen closely, I realize how harmoniously they come together.  It’s as if the all the plants species of the forest along with her animals are in collaboration, functioning exactly as they should be.

If I concentrate and sit quietly, I can listen in on a conversation between two birds.  On a walk today, I heard a rain shower five minutes before it arrived.  The sound of the raindrops hitting the leaves became louder as the downpour approached, giving me just enough time to find an umbrella tree to stand under while the worst of it passed.

I’ve always had a keen sense of smell, but try to suppress it in the city because the scents of food, diesel fuel, and urine do not appeal to me.  I had almost forgotten that to truly experience an odor you must use more than your nose.  It involves breathing through your mouth and using your sense of taste.  You must then allow the odor to infiltrate your entire chest cavity and head until it brings back a memory or creates a new one.  Guides here can smell Howler Monkeys from two miles away.  I’m not that good yet, but can appreciate the fresh air, jungle fruits and nuts, flowers, leaves, even dirt.

Leaf Carrying Ants...these ants carry pieces of leaves, plant them to grow a fungus, and then eat the fungus.

Then there’s another sense.  I’m not talking about that creepy movie with that little kid who hangs out with dead people.  It’s the same full body sensation you get when you first fall in love with someone. When I hike in the forest, no matter how hot it is, or whether it’s raining and I’m soaking wet, my energy increases and I could hike for hours.  Worries cross through my mind for no more than a minute before I’m distracted by a jumble of vines, trees and plants competing with each other for sunlight.  They wrap around each other, always moving upward in a beautiful chaos until they explode through the canopy spreading their branches in every direction to celebrate their triumph.  My worries are forgotten and I realize I’ve been
studying the forest for what feels like hours, but maybe was only seconds.  This sense is timeless and unquantifiable.  It’s the same as falling in love, only this time I’ve fallen in love with a place.

Related posts:

1. Feeling at home in Peru, Finally
2. Arrival in Peru
3. Kissing in Peru

By Danielle L. Krautmann

To access the lodges, I must fly to Puerto Maldonardo, then take a boat up the Tambopata river. You cannot access the lodges by road.

About a month ago I was bored in my apartment for 10 minutes.  Charlie was at the mine, it was eight o’clock at night and none of my movies looked enticing.  I hate the mention of the words bored, boredom, boring and agree with Harvey Danger when he sings “if you’re bored than you’re boring.”  That’s the last thing I want to be.  So I baked a pie, cleaned the house and sat down at my computer.  I tried to write, but nothing came so I began searching the internet for inspiration.  In the process I found a very general classified add in the “journalism” section of an ex-pat site.

Looking for someone to travel to Puerto Maldonardo for 3 to 5 months for writing/social networking.  Length of of time somewhat negotiable.

Knowing nothing of the position, or about social networking, or whether I could commit to three months in southern Peru, I replied via email with my resume and a link to my blog assuming that would be the end of it.  I moved on to bigger and better things and by the time my pie had cooled and I had completed the first half of my instructional DVD on belly dancing, I had forgotten about my informal application.  A few days later I received an email asking about my availability and possibly meeting.  A week later, I found myself in Starbucks sitting across from Martin, my contact for what I’m calling (to myself) the “jungle gig.”  Ironically, I had just finished a segment in Spanish class in which we practiced conducting jobs interviews (in Spanish).  Fortunately this interview was in English.

A happy hiker in her element

Still knowing absolutely nothing about what this position would entail, Martin, the Limean,  asked me what I was expecting from this job.  I correctly took his question to mean what would I expect in terms of compensation.  I decided that I would spar with him in this ambiguity game and replied that I expected that I need not to make money on the gig, but did not want to spend money either.  After several more non-specific questions during which I struggled to get some idea of what we were talking about, I couldn’t stand it.  I had to ask in the most polite professional way I could come up with, “um…now…I was just wondering…well…what exactly is your company and um….what kind of …er…position…are you looking to fill?”  Martin’s reply was to hand me a CD with a cover that said “Rainforest Expeditions” and wait for my reply.  From there I began to learn more, when I got home and saw the company webpage, I was sold.

Rainforest Expeditions is an ecotourism company that operates three sustainable lodges in southern Peru in the Tambopata National Reserve.  My job is to “social network,”  which means that I maintain the Facebook business page, Twitter account, and keep a blog, which essentially brings more attention to the company via the internet.  While I believe in this position and have recently noticed how many large and small companies have Facebook and Twitter accounts, I initially knew very little about this new wave of social networking.  I am currently in the learning phases using books, knowledgeable friends, and online sources to guide me.  For me to do an effective job, I’m going to have to take at least two trips to the lodges to visit them, write about what’s going on there, and interact with other guests, networking the old fashioned way via conversation.  During my interview, Martin mentioned that there would be a “social aspect” to this position and said he was looking for someone with an outgoing personality who would be able to talk to other guests.  Does this sound like my type of job or what?  My first trip is for three weeks and I will be departing Sunday morning.

To clarify, I will not be staying in a 5 star resort.  But to me, this is far better.  Ecotourism means “Responsible travel to natural areas that conserves the environment and improves the well-being of local people.” (TIES, 1990).  I will be sleeping in shared staff quarters except for when Charlie comes for 4 days to visit, during which we will be put in tourist lodging.  The lodges are built from local materials and to minimize impact have cold water only, electricity via generator only turned on once a day, lighting form kerosene lamps and candles, and open air sleeping with mosquito nets.  I picture waking up in the morning to the sounds of birds rather than traffic on Javier Prado, breathing air free of diesel fuel, and seeing an area of Peru off the gringo trail where few tourists venture.

On Sunday I will leave the city with little hesitation other than the last few words spoken by my interviewer in our first conversation.  “This place is addicting.  People who leave always want to come back.”  Bring it on, jungle.  I’m ready.

Related posts:

1. The Rainforest of Tambopata National Reserve, Peru
2. A Day in Lima Contest
3. Arrival in Peru

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Celebrating Easter with a traditional Panetton

The other day I was taking a taxi back from work.  I negotiated the fare to be eight soles, a fair price to go from San Borja to my apartment in San Isidro.  I told the taxi driver to please not take the street Javier Prado explaining “la trafica es mierda ahora,” and asked him to take a different route.  He ignored my request and landed us in stand still traffic on Javier Prado.  He told me if I wanted to continue, I would need to pay 12 soles.  Assessing the situation to be non-threatening, I explained to him that he had two options.  I could get out of the taxi and pay him nothing, or he could take me to my apartment for the price we agreed upon.  I said I had told him not to take Javier Prado and he took it anyway, that was his problem, not mine.  He mumbled a couple swears and agreed to take me for eight soles.  I won an argument in Spanish!  Yes!

Something has changed over the past two months.  I first became aware of it when I started having difficulty coming up with blog topics.  At first, everything felt so new and different that I had a long list of topics I wanted to cover.  Then, I was so frustrated with the differences that I didn’t want to write about them.  Lately, it’s getting harder and harder to see the differences between Peru and the United States because it feels like day to day life.

Some friends over for Charlie's surprise 30th birthday party

I am currently in the process of getting my Peruvian Foreign Residency card or Carnet de Extranjeria.  Don’t be confused, this is not citizenship, it’s basically permission to stay for an extended period of time without a visa.  It’s about as Peruvian as I can get.  While I contemplate what this means for me, I can’t help but recall a conversation I had with Charlie in February when my frustrations hit the roof.  Charlie told me that I lived here now and needed to get used to the cultural differences.  At the time, it was the meanest thing he could have possibly said to me.  How dare he tell me that I live here?  I thought we were just staying temporarily until it was over!

So what’s the difference between being a resident and just staying here?  It wasn’t until my recent visit back to the States that I really felt, for better or for worse, that my home is here in Peru.  When I got together with friends or family, most people’s first question was, “How’s Peru?”  You would think that I would be a pro at answering such a generic question, but it continued to dumbfound me.  I felt like I was being asked “how is your life?” and had no idea where to start my answer.  While three months ago, I would have delved into the differences between the two countries, my answer tended to be something along the lines of “Peru’s good, how’s New Hampshire?”

I have noticed that as Peru has begun to feel more like home, situations that originally sent me running back to the apartment in fits of rage or tears are now nothing more than little annoyances.  For example, paying the monthly bills is a tedious process.  Checks don’t exist here and you can’t pay with credit card so you need to go to the bank associated with the company (for example Telefonica is our cable/internet provider and they use Scotiabank) and deposit money into their account.   Since everyone does this, the lines are usually long and since people feel the need to start every interaction with a polite conversation (taking much longer than I believe they should), the lines move slowly.  The first time I went to pay bills, I quit half way through, storming home after waiting in line for a hour and a half.  Now, I plan the bill-paying process will take at least an afternoon.  I usually spread it out over two days and go to the bank when it’s least busy.

Presenting Charlie with cake at his surprise 30th b-day party

I still get annoyed with los hombres, but have had a revelation.  About a month ago, I walked by two men, dressed professionally in business suits in a nice area of the city.  They were having a seemingly serious conversation about investments (I was eavesdropping).  As I walked by them, one of the men momentarily excused himself, made an obnoxious smooching noise towards me, then apologized to his business partner and continued the conversation.  It was almost as if he was obligated to do it.  Like if I walked by and one of them neglected to comment, the conversation could not continue or one might lose respect for the other.  Now, I get this machoism is a cultural thing and I need to try to accept it.  While it used to cause me to have violent dreams about beating a Peruvian man until he bleeds (seriously), now I just roll my eyes or turn up my Ipod.

I can speak enough Spanish to get by in most situations.  I do not consider myself fluent because I still can’t follow jokes told in Spanish, sarcasm, or quick conversation among groups, but I’m getting there.  I can get around the city by bus and know how much I should be paying for taxis so I’m taken advantage of less.  I’ve got friends in Peru who I missed on my trip back to the states.  I found work tutoring English to children and between that and Spanish classes have managed to keep my days quite full (although I still miss my job as an occupational therapist terribly).  I got sick of telling people that I moved here for my husband’s job, so I’ve begun to tell people I’m either a writer or a teacher (depending on the day and what I’ve done more of).  Although I don’t have the official card to prove it, I will soon and I think it’s safe to say that I’m not just staying here anymore.  I live here.  I’m a resident of Peru.

Related posts:

1. Arrival in Peru
2. Kissing in Peru
3. Transportation in Lima

By Danielle L. Krautmann

We all finished! My running club from left to right: Ricardo, Gladys, Charlie, Gaby, Jorge, Pak Peng, and me.

I can’t take my medal off. It’s bronze colored with a plain navy blue ribbon to hold it on my neck. It’s the cheapest, worst quality completion medal I’ve ever received from a race, and I love it. This one says Lima 42K, 2010 on it…my first marathon. After the race I took a nap and woke up with the ribbon strangling me. I adjusted it rather than taking it off. I wonder how long I can get away with wearing this around the house.

Although I’ve done plenty of half marathons over the past five years, I was hesitant to commit to training for a full marathon. For me, running is something I do to keep fit and clear my head. If it’s a nice day, or I have excess energy, I like to go for a run. If I’m on a run and feel tired, I prefer to turn around and go home. If I’m feeling good, I’ll go further. When I need to “train” for a race, running quickly looses its appeal. Something about adding discipline to the sport makes it feel like more of a job than a pastime.

My first month here I joined a running group through Charlie’s work to meet people and make friends with similar interests. The friend-making mission was soon accomplished, but I kept showing up as the runs increased in length. I enjoyed the camaraderie of suffering through the last couple miles of a long run with friends. So really, my initial training for the marathon was an accident that happened secondary to my efforts to make friends. Although the thought had crossed my mind, it was not until about six weeks ago that I realized I was logging between 60 and 70 miles a week. So I signed up for the Lima 42K.

Me and Charlie. Although he looks like a total idiot with that mustache (grown just for the race), he was my biggest supporter.

I’ve enjoyed running for about six years now. My prior race experience includes nine half marathons, and volunteering as a pacer in three ultra marathons (100 mile races…I didn’t do the races, just helped out). Through all of this, I have learned that there comes a point during which your body tells you not to go any further. Your joints hurt, your muscles hurt, your head hurts, body parts you never knew existed hurt! You feel like you’re running as fast as you can, but know you’re only jogging at best. From here, things can go one of two ways. You can acknowledge the pain and listen to your body, stop and stretch, or walk for a ways. OR, you can remind yourself that its in you to go further and keep running despite the pain. The little engine that could powered itself through positive thinking and I’m here to tell you, it really works!

For me, it was when I reached 28 kilometers and realized I still had 14 to go that I started to feel the pain. I knew completing the race would be more of a mental feat than physical. At that point, I began to fill my head with the most positive thoughts I could come up with to distract myself. Charlie suggested that if I got to that point, I find someone to talk to to keep myself distracted. Unfortunately, speaking Spanish still takes a lot of effort and energy so this didn’t seem like the best option. Instead, I noticed a Peruvian runner with a particularly cute butt going the same pace as me. I strategically paced myself behind him for 2 km until he slowed down and I passed him.

At 32 km, I saw my friend Vanesa and her dog Inca and was reminded of what great friends I’ve made here. At 34 km, our friend Brodie rode up on his bike and chatted with me for several minutes and told me how well my rock star husband was doing (he finished in 3 hours 33 minutes). At 38 km, I passed Charlie’s boss/fellow member of my running group, Jorge, and it occured to me that I was ahead of everyone in our running group except for Charlie.

I'm sprinting across the finish line!

Jorge seemed to think he was going to beat me in the race and thus made a bet with me that if I beat him, he would bring back a People magazine and US Weekly from every trip he takes to the States. The idea of settling down with a cocktail and trashy mag in English every month or so made me run faster. At 40 km I noticed many of the “runners” walking around me. They had hit their walls. I tried to calculate how much time I would lose if I walked rather than ran to the finish, but got distracted by someone with an enormous camera taking a picture of me. In hopes of becoming famous like my friend Gladys and getting in Cosas magazine, I flashed them a huge smile and decided if I had run this far, it would be a shame to slow down.

Just as the finish line came into sight in the distance, I saw my husband running towards me, already wearing his completion medal. “Yeah!” he exclaimed. “You did it! Four hours 35 minutes! You beat everyone from running group! And you look strong!” While I was still running towards the finish, he had a friend from work take a picture of us. He began to ask me questions about our friends. “When did you pass Jorge? How far behind you is Ricardo?” Even in my exhaustion, I adored his excitement for me. I had to remind him that I needed to cross the finish line.

“Charlie, we can talk later, please let me finish,” I huffed out. Then I looked up. There is was! The finish line! My body didn’t hurt anymore and I began sprinting. In the final stretch, I passed two people and completed my first marathon with a smile on my face.

Related posts:

1. Transportation in Lima
2. Grizzly Bears in Lima
3. A Day in Lima Contest

By Jett Thomason

I recently had my first month-long work trip to Rwanda, Uganda, and Burundi. The trip represented a number of firsts. First time to Africa. First time to be jetting around for quick site visits rather than long-term job assignments. And first time to be representing the US government in the field with the official passport and all.

Rwanda was the first country to visit on my tour. In pre-trip reading up on the country, it was impossible to find a travel narrative that doesn’t wax poetic at the sight of small villages nestled in the misty hills and tilled plots stretching up on all sides of volcanic soil-laden slopes. And for good reason, the place is postcard bucolic beautiful. It was also impossible to find an English-language book that doesn’t also drift into commentary on “the unimaginable horror of the 1994 genocide and the subsequent re-birth of the country in an ethnicity-blind, forward-looking example of an African success story”. More on that later.

My first outing beyond the capital was to western Rwanda. In a steep mountain village several hours off the nearest paved roads, my agency has been financing a cooperative of pineapple growers that are trying to produce and sell juice for the local market. Seeing them for the first time, I marveled at the precision engineering imparted from years of selective planting. The plants rise up straight with a single pineapple resting on a short stalk. The long leaves on the top provide the perfect handle for plucking the fruit. The eyes on the side of the pineapple start to get dry just as it is at its ripest, avoiding any question about the best time to harvest, and when ripe the skin slices off easily enough but prevents birds and other animals from getting to the crop before you do.

So far, the cooperative has been making juice by laboriously slicing pieces of pineapple into small chunks and then hand-squeezing the pieces between two cutting boards. Our grant is financing a proper juicer that should dramatically decrease the amount of time and physical exertion needed for this stage. The cooperative has been incredibly productive even with this strictly manual effort, juicing, pasteurizing, and selling thousands of bottles of juice. When I saw the stockroom, the bottles had slightly misspelled English labels, but were fairly professional in appearance. It took me a minute to realize that the cooperative has recovered empty Heineken bottles for re-use. Since the beer company is one of the few in Rwanda to not recycle, it’s the first choice for a locally sustainable and affordable juice company like our grantee.

I thought that my few years of French would carry me far in Rwanda, but English is the dominant non-native language and has been ever since 1994. The genocide that started then ended when rebels, formerly based in English-speaking Uganda, swept over the country and seized control. While this linguistic heritage has served me conveniently in the capital city, out in the countryside I have to rely on the translations of our staff for communication. The Rwandan groups I have met are invariably warm and welcoming, but the intermediary translation has definitely affected my impressions of their culture.

There is a tendency for Rwandans to make a deep “mmmmm” sound as part of conversation. The sound is not a rising-then-falling “mmmmm” voicing of satisfaction. It’s much more a starts-high-then-goes-low murmur that I have decided is a mix of basic acknowledgement, indication of understanding, polite demonstration of the listener’s attention, and sometimes agreement. I have to admit I was startled the first time when the entire room filled up with this sound at exactly the same time.

“We’re very happy to see your strong progress and improvements to the facility as we begin this grant’s disbursement”, I say.

My colleague translates and then suddenly the room fills with the first “mmmmm”.

“My role in Washington is to compile the financial data and memorandums to help get projects funds to you as quickly as we can.”

Translation in Kinyarwanda, then “MMMMMM”. Increased volumes always coincided with statements related to getting funds out quickly.

photo credit: Shared Interest

I then launch into my carefully crafted statement, likening the grant process to the current preparations for the coming rainy season. They have plowed the fields and readied the grain; we are assisting with outside monies that will, like the rain, allow their work to yield a strong harvest. It is fitting, respectful, and I smugly reflect on how well the metaphor applies to the role of a rich donor country in development.

Once the translator is finished, I’m met with a quiet, fairly polite “mmm”. Not quite the rousing murmur response I had been hoping for. As we discuss some grant paperwork, the translator explains one of the first forms to be signed. A commitment to a drug-free workplace, slightly ridiculous in a country and in a village where subsistence agriculture effectively prices everyone out of a market for recreational drug use, is one of the first standard items we have to cover. It is, after all, US government money being used for the project.

Upon translation, “MMMMMM” breaks out immediately and then strong, enthusiastic clapping to this passage. The country representative and I look at each other in surprise.

“I guess they like that one,” he says.

As mentioned, it is literally impossible to find any books in my public library’s system that both discuss Rwanda but omit mention of the 1994 genocide. To broadly summarize, the majority Hutu people, who had until relatively recently been shut out of power and privilege, took up machetes and butchered nearly a million of their minority Tutsi countrymen. In the immediate wake of the genocide, the Tutsi rebel forces swept down into the country from northern strongholds, drove out the genocidaires, and proclaimed the end of ethnicity and a new beginning for the country. They also quietly re-assumed their traditional dominance of the organs of political and military power.

The new arrangement has largely worked with no breakouts of violence for more than a decade and a strong record of economic growth. That being said, for all the discussion of the genocide in the literature and even a Hollywood movie Hotel Rwanda, I have gotten a sense that any actual discussion of the events is something not suited for polite conversation while actually in Rwanda.

Instead, there are subtle clues and hints as to a person’s ethnicity. Many of the persecuted minority spent years in Tanzania and Uganda as refugees. They learned English, were exposed to more modern economies, and they have assumed many positions in international organizations like ours. There is no mention of the word “Tutsi”, but the term “returnee” seems to be an acceptable code word.

During one moment of a heated meeting with a company director on a different project visit, I caught a glimpse of the issue’s weight on the country or at least on how they want to present themselves to outsiders. I had to negotiate access to the director’s financial records by one of our staff members who the director has claimed is out to smear his reputation. As discussion becomes heated, he blurts out, “Do you know about the genocide? Do you know what happened here?”

I have no idea where this came from, we’re communicating in my slow, rusty French, and I am left slightly speechless. His colleagues struggle to jump in at this point.

“No! It’s something that cut to the heart of Rwanda! I won’t back down! I can’t allow this inspection visit from that staff member!”

Five members of his management team alternately plead in their Kinyarwanda language with him, while trying to anxiously steer the conversation away from the whole issue. My staff’s uncomfortable, I can see the managing director is angry and yet also embarrassed at his own outburst, his nearby wife appears mortified. I am more befuddled, trying to understand where this suddenly came from. Maybe a people beaten and subjected to such violence live with the scars under the surface. Or maybe this simply an irrational businessman who is used to getting his way and when pressed decides to claim victimhood so I will back down. There is a vein of truth running below the cultural surface that I won’t understand on this eight-day visit.

After visiting the pineapple growers’ cooperative, my team and I overnight in a small guesthouse.  Rising early, we drive back to the capital on a Sunday morning. The roads are crowded with people, Hutus in this case, who are making their way to Sunday church service. Shorter, darker skinned, and with broader facial features than my Tutsi staff members, there is no way to really believe that the issue of ethnicity and race is behind this country just yet. Rather than talk about the obvious features, I make a simple comment about how these rural people appear to be quite religious and diligent in their observation.

“One hand with the Bible and one hand with the machete,” says a staff member sitting in the car. “That’s the kind of religion these people have.” I say nothing. The other staff member simply murmurs a soft “mmmmm”.

Jett Thomason is now a program analyst managing small grants projects in Africa. The views expressed are entirely his own opinion and in no way are representative of any government or other institution. Over the past decade his travels and work have taken him throughout the former Soviet Republics and Europe to Afghanistan and Iraq.

No related posts.

A Photo Essay of Cajamarca, Peru

By Danielle Krautmann

Charlie and I just got back from a long weekend in Cajamarca, where we celebrated my husband’s 30th birthday. Cajamarca is the city nearest to Cerro Corona, the mine where Charlie works, which is about a tw0-hour drive from the city.  Although Charlie knew he liked Cajamarca, he had never spent much time in the actual town as he’s usually only there for an hour or two between arriving at the airport and going to the mine.  I met Charlie there on a Thursday, and from the moment my plane landed in the middle of the cow field, I fell in love with the place.  Being surrounded by trees, mountains, and green farmlands was just the start of it.  One of my favorite things was being able to walk around without hearing the whistles, kissing noises, and disrespectful comments from Los Hombres.  It is far safer than Lima.

 

 

Our third day, we visited Granja Porcon.  This is a successful cooperative that houses 53 families who all contribute and take stock in the exports of the farm.  Since they don’t allow new members into the coop, marrying between families is encouraged and common.  Incest is best!  I had a dream once that mom made me marry my brother.  Gross!  No offense, Brent.  Members recently decided to allow tourists to visit, and added a zoo and small 10-room hotel to their community.  The drive there took us through beautiful wooded forests.  We drooled over the idea of taking backpacking (trekking) trips through them.  Apparently getting a permit to camp in that area is fairly simple.

On the bus ride there, we stopped to see the work of some stone carvers in the area.  In this photo, Charlie is standing in front of the Inca leader Atahualpa.  Cajamarca has historical significance because its essentially where the Incan empire ended.  In 1952, Francesco Pizarro’s 160 Spanish troops armed with cannons and swords slaughtered 7000 Indiginous people who’s slings and axes were no match.  The Spaniards captured Atahualpa and held him for a ransom for more than a year.  What the Spanish sought was gold, and soon hoards of it began coming in.  Indiginous artifacts and ornaments were melted down to 6000kg of gold and 12,000 kg of silver that would now be worth more than $60 Million US dollars.  Despite the ransom, after learning that Atahualpa was sending for help from his followers in Quito, they killed him by strangulation.  That wasn’t very nice.

We saw women carrying bundles of wood and digging trenches.  I would be curious to know what the men do to pull their weight.

One of the most valuable exports from the farm is Vicunya wool.  Vicunyas are wild relatives of alpacas and their fur is sold for $500 US dollars per kilo.

We visited a shop in the coop where the women wove beautiful rugs and blankets on looms.  They use yarn that they make themselves from sheep wool.  Most of the yarn is colored with natural ingredients from plants and insects.

The zoo housed a surprising variety of animals including an enormous condor, a Puma, the Speckled Bear (only bear native to South America), Jaguars from the jungle of Peru, and the adorable little Peruvian deer that about a third the size of the deer we’re used to seeing in the States.

We were encouraged to feed bread to the bear, who opened his mouth and waited for you to throw it in, and the monkey who reached out through his fence to take the bread from our hands!

 

This is the local fire department in Banos Del Inca.  Complete with cows walking through the field.

The fruit market is enormous and goes up and down both sides of a long street.  Cajamarca’s proximity to the jungle provides them with a large variety of fruits and vegetables.

Here is Charlie standing in front of a woman selling Mamey and Pacae.  Two fruits from the jungle.  Mamey (not your Mamey) is the one that looks like a potato.  The inside is bright orange, and it has a sweet flavor and peach like consistency.  The Pacae is the green bean looking plant.  It has large seeds inside that are covered with a white fleshy substance.  You eat the sweet flesh, not the bean.

This is a woman breastfeeding while she’s selling different varieties of rice and grains.  Cajamarca got its first large grocery store “Metro” a couple years ago.  Before that, I think the majority of people used markets and small stores to get their food.

An outdoor “restaurant” that we ate at.  I had stuffed hen, Charlie ate curried pork.  Both were served with rice and beans.  The clothing you see this woman wearing is the typical dress of the campesinos (peasants).  In the city of Cajamarca, you see plenty of people dressed in typical jeans and t-shirts just as often.  But once you get into the mountains, most of the women are dressed in these wool skirts with petticoats and bright colored sweaters, always with their hair tied back in a long braid.  Their wide-brimmed hats are made from a very fine fiber from the palm tree and serve multiple purposes.  Other than keeping the sun out of their eyes, they use the hats to measure the good they trade.  For example, “I will trade you a half hat of rice for a full hat of beans.”

If we had ordered chicken, it would have been fresh!  These poor chickens were awaiting their demise.

 

Related posts:

1. Settling In
2. Arrival in Peru
3. Arequipa and Colca Canyon Photo Essay

The Wheels of the Combi Go Round and Round

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A Lima bus with a cobrador hanging out

Currently Lima, Peru has no public transportation.  This restricts Limenians to use either taxis, buses, cars, or “combies”.  Charlie and I don’t plan to get a car while we’re here because it’s easy enough for us to get from one place to another.  Plus, with the plan to stay for two or three years, it hardly seems worth it.

Every person you meet has either had a bad experience with a taxi or knows someone else who has. A Peruvian friend of mine took a taxi to get from one fairly safe neighborhood to another.  When he noticed the taxi wasn’t going in the right direction, he said something to the driver.  Sooner than he could stop them, three men approached the taxi, and the next thing he remembers is waking up in a bad part of town on the side of the road.  His money and cell phone had been stolen.  A guy Charlie works with got robbed at knife point in a taxi.  One time Charlie and I were taking a taxi and the driver fell asleep…while driving.

In most of my experiences, except for the frequent opportunist or pervert, the drivers are more or less harmless.  They either charge exorbitant rates to tourists and gringos who don’t know any better, or hit on me the whole time.  They like to ask me questions about myself, where am I from, how do I like Peru, where do I live, would I like to get coffee with them?  They tell me I’m beautiful or sexy (duh), and once, the driver drove along with an obvious erection.  Gladys says not to be friendly, smile, or even talk to the driver.  Wear your sunglasses and a frown.  Every time you get into a taxi, you take a risk.

The payment system is different than in the States.  Since taxis don’t have meters, you negotiate a price with the driver. Before entering the car, tell him where you’re going, all the while scoping out the cab to assess its safety.  If it’s a station wagon, check the back for people or weapons.  If you are a gringo, the driver will give you a price far higher than what you should pay.  “Dies soles,” he might say after contemplating for a few seconds.

Gladys and I with our serious riding-the-bus faces

At this point, you have three options. 1. Take his first offer and pay “el pricio gringo.”  If you’re strapped for time, this is your best option.  2.  Decline his offer and wait for the next taxi who is inevitably waiting nearby.  I often do this before negotiating to show the approaching taxi that I will not accept a ridiculous quote.  3. Negotiate the price.  I’m getting quite good at this.  I will say something like “normalmente yo pago tres o cuatro soles.”  Then he either accepts, drives off because he’s offended, or negotiates further until we come to middle ground.

Suggestions for a safe taxi ride in Lima include:

1. Speak as little as possible to the driver.  In my experience, conversations about myself often lead to the driver either trying to get more money from me, trying to convince me to go somewhere else, or asking me on a date.  I have heard predators will use conversation to distract tourists who want to practice their Spanish.  Meanwhile they might change routes.

2. When you do speak, use as much Spanish as possible to show the driver that you know what he’s saying…even if you don’t.

3. Know where you’re going and if possible, tell the driver what route you would like to take.

4. If you are alone, sit directly behind the driver.

5. Know where the lock to the door is.  Some taxis have auto locks and lock you in when you enter.  Just make sure you can undo the lock if need be.

A quiet day on the bus with very few passengers

In research for this article, I took my first “combi”.  These are mini-vans that go hurling through the streets at top speeds sparing no pedestrians.  They are infamous for hitting people and getting in accidents.  Initially I was not in favor of how close I was squished in between two men, one of whom insisted on making kissing noises towards me for the duration of my ride.  The last of the three combies I took was lacking a floor.  It had wooden boards nailed down along the cross rails between the tires.   I rode along with my feet suspended, fearing for my life as I watched the wheel turn round and round underneath me.  Although not my preferred option, they are the fastest and cheapest way to get around town.

Personally, I prefer taking buses whenever possible.  They are cheaper than taxis, somewhat safer, and far more entertaining.  The equivalent of 40 cents can get you close to anywhere you need to go in the city.  As I mentioned previously, there is no public transportation.  The buses are all private competing companies with no schedules, websites or monthly passes.  “Cobradors” stand on the first step of the bus calling route and street names rapidly like auctioneers.  “Javiar Prado, Prado, Prado, Todo Javier Prado, La Molina,  Molina.”  As the buses quickly approach, you have very little time to contemplate which one you want to take since they rarely come to a complete stop.

Three or four buses approach at the same time, trying their hardest to cut each other off in order to be the first to pull up.  I scan them quickly as they approach, hoping to view one with an open seat.  If there aren’t any, no worries, the cobradors stuff passengers in as tightly as they fit making each journey its own olfactory experience.  You may be lucky enough to be pushed up against the chest of an older woman with musky perfume that stays on you for hours afterward.  On an even luckier day, you have less than an inch of space between you and a sweaty construction worker on his way home from work.  Just make sure you push your way to the front of the bus several blocks before you plan to disembark since, like I said before, they rarely come to a complete stop.  Be ready to jump. As you ride along, you can watch as the standing people get thrown back and forth as the bus forces its way through traffic making brief stops when it gets cut off by other busses.  If you end up standing, your best bet is to keep your knees bent, feet wide apart, with a low center of gravity.  Focus and be prepared for a quick stop-and-go at any time.

While the bus sits in traffic, vendors approach the windows selling cold beverages, snacks and newspapers.  During peak traffic, you can buy sunglasses, wallets, lighters, large maps of Peru or South America, necklaces, pens, and various other trinkets all for sale at the convenience of your bus seat.  There’s a guy I sometimes see weaving his way through traffic selling beautiful handmade pirate ship replicas.  When there are few enough passengers, vendors board the bus and ride from one to three blocks.

First they stand at the front of the bus so everyone can see them.  They sell their pitch, “Hello, my name is Miguel.  I am selling these Pilot pens for a great price.  In a store you can buy them for no less than three soles.  Because you are such beautiful people, I will sell them to you for one soles per pen.”  Miguel proceeds to work his way from the front to the back asking each person individually if they would like to buy a pen.

If you’re lucky, Miguel might be a starving musician who boards the bus to play a song on his guitar, then walks through asking for donations. Despite his filthy attire, pathetic attempt at a performance, and drunken, stumbling gait, people donate!

If you plan to take a bus, hold your purse close to you, try to get a seat, and cross your fingers as accidents are not uncommon.

Related posts:

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2. Lima 42 K
3. A Day in Lima Contest

A Visit to the Zoo and Some Cultural Observations

By  Danielle L. Krautmann

Per suggestion of one of my lovely readers, last week I visited Parque de las Leyendas, a zoo in Lima.  A quick bus ride from my house and cheap admission, the trip was definitely worth it. But not because of the animals.

I can’t say Parque de las Leyendas would be the first or even 8th place (I have a list) I would take a guest of mine when they visit Lima.  Having been lucky enough to visit many zoos in my lifetime, I’m a bit of a critic.  Baltimore and Denver are my favorites so far.  At Leyendas you can find a surprising variety of animals.  Although I get the feeling that, like many things here in Lima, there wasn’t much of a plan when when they built it.  My guess is they constructed the zoo, put in some cages, and got whatever animals they could to fill them.

There were four lions, each in separate cages.  They were thin, possibly malnourished, and sleeping very soundly in separate, seemingly small cement cages with water bowls the size of Brandy’s.  I know lions usually sleep during the day (I’ve been to a lot of zoos), but there was something different about these lions.  The Bengal tiger was a different case.  Also thin, and in a small cage, he was quite active.  I found him quickly stalking back and forth groaning, as if pleading to the crowds to feed it or offer themselves as food.

When a little boy held up his small stuffed tiger towards the cage, the real one stared at it intently and let out a long, frustrated groan.  I heard this boy’s father tell him, “He’s hungry, he wants to eat you.”  My dad would have said the same thing.  For large animals, there were also water buffalo, zebras, and sea lions (also in very small tanks).  The animals that had the largest areas to roam (complete with grass) were the grizzly bears.  That’s right, Grizzly Bears in Lima!  They were struggling to remain in the shade of their one  and only small tree, moving closer to the trunk every 10 minutes or so to savor what little shade they had as the sun rose higher throughout the morning.

While Parque de las Leyendas is not the best place to go see animals behaving as they would in their natural environments, I found it a perfect place to observe Peruvian parents and their children in their natural environments.  It never ceases to amaze me how much you can observe about a culture when you are not completely familiar with the language.

When I think back to my fairly recent trips to the Denver and Seattle zoos, I cringe as I recall the behavior of certain families.  I remember kids whining to their parents to buy them toys or ice cream, screaming “he hit me”, throwing tantrums, or fighting with their brothers and sisters.  I may have behaved similarly when I was a kid, and my sister, Heather was definitely a brat.  I also remember several incidents of parents asking me to move (or some of the less polite ones pushing me out of the way) so their precious angels could see the animals.  Rarely did I hear “wait your turn,” or “let’s let the lady take a look, and then you can”.

In my three hours at Parque de las Leyendas, I did not witness a single tantrum.  Children did not ask their parents for ice cream or toys, even though there were ice cream carts and toy shops on every corner.  No whining, no bickering, no running off from their parents.  No brats!  Oh, and no parents looking like they wanted to pull their hair out either.  Wow, it sure made the trip a lot more enjoyable.  At one point I witnessed a father, not pushing me out of the way so his kids could see, but pushing his kids out of the way so he could take a look at the sea lion, which was in a tank smaller than my grandmother’s swimming pool.

In general, the children who are raised here in Peru are better behaved than the children I have encountered in the United States.  This carries across the economic classes and I’m not quite sure why it is.  After asking around among my friends and a couple complete strangers, I’ve narrowed it down to two theories.  Personally, I think it could be a combination of the two.

1.  They use stricter parenting techniques.  A parent would never be taken into custody for spanking their child here in Peru.  They’ve got bigger fish to fry.  Many upper class families have nannies that essentially raise the children.  In those cases the children are subjected to the disciplinary styles of the nanny.

Having yet to observe children misbehaving here, I have yet to find out what happens when they do, so cannot give you much information to support this theory.  Although I recently read an article in Concord Monitor Online that made me think about different types of parenting styles.  It was about a mother in Concord, NH who kept her child out of school because they were reading a book she did not approve of.  The book addressed the topic of homelessness and it mentioned that one of the children lost a parent.

The mother argues “How am I supposed to address such sad topics with my kindergardener?”  This would never happen here in Peru.  It would be impossible for even the wealthiest of families to keep the existence of poverty a secret.  I live in one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in Lima, but can see signs of it every day.  I can’t imagine that this sheltering style of parenting would fly far down here.  Without being a parent, I would imagine that the best way to address the topic with her child would be for her to talk about it, but what do I know?

Another thing I see from time to time in the States are parents who are afraid of their children and what they might do.  Examples of this would be a mother of one of my friends growing up.  She made sure that every second of a weekend I spent there was structured with snack breaks, craft times, outdoor play, and bed times after which if she heard talking, we were separated.  God forbid we were allowed to come up with our own play ideas, or talk after bedtime…who knows what we could have come up with.

Another example might be the mom who accompanies her 7-year-old son into the dentist office for a cleaning.   She speaks to him the whole time to keep him calm, translating everything the dentist says into baby voice so her not-so-little precious can understand.  What would happen if she sent him in alone?  Perhaps it was the terrorism in the 80′s and 90′s that made the mothers tougher, or made them want to raise their kids to be tougher.  Whatever it is, I have not seen this same “fear” of children or need to treat them like glass vases.  Children are expected to behave and are not constantly tended to here in Peru.

2.  In the United States, we live a lifestyle of being able to get what you want when you want it.  If children want to watch TV or play video games, usually they have easy access to a TV with cable…if not in their house, than at a friend’s house.  Although we complain about cutbacks to education funding, a comparatively good education is far more accessible to children in the United States than here in Peru.  If families don’t have food/homes/money/etc., we have soup kitchens, food stamps, homeless shelters, and welfare.  If people can’t afford healthcare, we have Medicaid and social security.

Fifty-four percent of Peruvians live in poverty. If you think you know someone who is living in poverty in the United States, they have it 5 times better than someone living in poverty here in Peru.  I thought I knew poor through patients I’ve worked with in the United States, but I had no idea.  So, although we may not feel like it, especially with the economic whatever-they’re-calling-it-these-days, we live in a culture of excesses, of things we don’t need.  Perhaps this brings on a sense of entitlement to some of our children.

Admission to the zoo was the equivalent of $3.  Many families brought their own lunches which is perfectly legal.  The low price allowed for many less well-off families to bring their children too.  Perhaps the children knew that their parents couldn’t afford the extra toys or ice cream, thus keeping them from whining.  When I was growing up, I never asked my parents for a pet pony because I knew it was completely unrealistic.  Perhaps it’s just unrealistic for these children to think their parents would buy them a stuffed animal.

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By Stephen Bugno

Enough from the nay-sayers! British food is good!

It is time for the unfavorable reputation of English cuisine to end. In my 20 days in England, I didn’t have a bad meal. The most memorable were the home cooked meals I had in Yorkshire and pub food in the cities and across the countryside.

The full English breakfast

The Full English Breakfast

Baked beans for breakfast?! What a great idea. Add fried eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, mushrooms, a tomato, bread and butter, HP Sauce, and of course, tea with milk. Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a gentleman, and supper like a pauper.

Yorkshire Pudding

Not an easy one to reproduce back home. I’m still trying to get the right amount of oil to the right temperature in the oven. But this is how it’s supposed to look. Best served with  a traditional Sunday roast.

A Yorkshire pudding out of the oven

Shepherd’s Pie

An English dish that needs no introduction. Traditionally put together with leftover lamb from the Sunday meal. The one I helped make was made with ground beef, so technically it was a cottage pie.

Cornish Pasties

Although I’ve never been to Cornwall, the Yorkshire version was quite delicious. These convenient, pocket-sized pasties were originally made by women for their menfolk to take down into the tin mine. Filled with beef, onions, and potato, they are perfect right out of the oven.

Cask Ale

Find the best in Yorkshire. Cask ale, or real ale, is unfiltered and unpasteurised beer which is conditioned and served from a cask, usually without additional nitrogen or carbon dioxide pressure. There was a movement started back in the 1970’s to promote and revitalize these real ales that continues today. The best I tasted was Black Sheep’s Best Bitter or those from Theakston Brewery

Toad in the hole

Enjoying a pint at the Black Sheep Brewery

This one I didn’t eat until I returned home and was served up by some Anglophile friends in North Carolina. It’s a simple dish: just sausages with Yorkshire pudding cooked around it…. What could be better than that? But no one seems to to know where the name comes from.

Fish and Chips. England has the best fish and chips in the world. Yorkshire has the best fish and chips in England. Whitby has the best fish and chips in Yorkshire. There you have it, the best fish and chips in the world. Go to Whitby.

Related posts:

1. Ask GoMad Nomad: The English Countryside in Six Days

Making friends in Lima

Like my Aunt Vicki, I love making lists.  To-do lists are my favorite, but I also enjoy making step-by step instructional lists, lists of places I want to travel, lists of potential blog topics, of men I’ve dated, of men my friends have dated, of men I’m currently dating (short list).  You get the idea.

One time in college, I decided to make a list of all my friends.  I added to it for weeks and it began to fill multiple pages of my Kinesiology notebook.  Not that I’ve ever been super popular.  I was a 90-pound, flat-chested, underdog in high school.  It’s just that I’m not that picky.  Most likely, if we spent time together at some point in our lives and I remembered it, you were on the list.  I included my current sister-in-law, Chelsea.  Though at the time we had only met twice, Charlie and I were not dating, and she was not yet married to Ted.  The two times we met, I really liked her and thought we would probably be good friends at some point.

Gladys, Me, and Gaby (left to right) at one of our beach days

This week, I decided to make a list of all my friends in Peru.  It took me less than five minutes.  I included the members of my running group, the owners of the dogs Brandy plays with in the park, Carlos the driver (who I professed my love to in Spanish my first day here), my maid Gloria, co-workers of Charlie who I’ve met or had dinner with, Becca from Colorado who is studying here (we hung out once and we talk on Skype, that counts), my cousin’s friend Hernan who we met up with one night for dinner, Brandy, Brandy’s best dog friend Inca, and Charlie. Then there are a few select people I’ve spent a little more time with…

Gaby: Mi Salvadora

Knowing how important it is for me to have friends, Charlie tends to seek them out for me.  He’s really good at this.  My first week here in Peru, Charlie decided that I would get along well with Gaby from his work and invited us both to lunch.  Sure enough, we hit it off!  Since then, Gaby has been my savior here in Peru.  The first weekend Charlie was away, she picked me up and took me all around Lima to buy things I needed for the apartment.  I knew we would get along because we both liked gossiping, shopping, Pisco Sours, and working out.  We started having girls nights, going to Pisco Sour tastings, beach trips, etc.  She’s in my running group that meets for long runs on the weekends.  At least one day a week, she meets me at my apartment at 5:30AM, and we jog down to the ocean front to run stairs for 30 minutes.

Gaby studied translation in school and while I am determined to soon speak only in Spanish, it’s really nice to have someone I can gossip with in English.  She helps me with my Spanish, and I teach her slang words that she hasn’t heard of in English, such as “prego”  (for pregnant), “huffy puffy” (to describe being angry), and “douchbag” (to describe a guy we don’t like).

Gladys: My famous friend

One day when we were at the beach, we noticed that Gladys was in the background of a photo in Cosas, which is like the Peruvian version of People magazine.  We joke that this makes her my first famous friend!  She is also in my running group.  Although her English is good, we speak solely in Spanish (we are in Peru, you know).  Fortunately, she speaks slowly and clearly so I can understand.  When Gladys, Gaby and I hang out, we discuss very important topics such as celebrities, male anatomy, articles in periodicals like Cosmopolitan and Cosas, and the word I learned from Gladys “Chaka Chaka.”

Noelle:  My American Friend

Charlie, me, Ricardo, Gladys, and Noelle

I met Noelle in my first Spanish school.  We bonded over the fact that we didn’t like the teaching style there.  The next semester we switched to a better school and began studying together after class.  Noelle’s from Washington, but is a world traveler.  In recent years she has lived in southeast Asia where she taught English and has spent the past few months traveling in South America in hopes of settling somewhere down here for at least a year.

One thing I appreciate about Noelle is her willingness to talk to anyone.  She has gotten herself in trouble a couple times, misjudging the seemingly kind intentions of men who want to “help her learn Spanish” over coffee.  If someone tells her a section of town is not safe, she tries even harder to go there.  Most of the time she just ends up with good stories about the people she meets in her daily adventures.  Unfortunately, in the next week or so, Noelle will be heading off to Columbia to pursue a potential job opportunity.

Vanessa:  My Friend From the Park

Vanessa is from Mendoza, Argentina and is married to Felipe from Santiago, Chile.  We met in the park where Brandy and her dog, Inca, hit it off right away.  We had no choice but to become friends.  Vanessa, like me, has moved to Peru on account of her husband’s job, has plenty of free time during the day, and loves to talk!  We meet in the park, walk our dogs together, and recently started doing errands together during the day.  We’ve had a couple double dates with our husbands, who also get along quite well.

Ricardo, Gaby, Gladys and I at a restaurant about to eat Ceviche

Although now I understand most of what she says, when I met Vanessa, I could only follow about a third of our conversation.  We speak to each other in Spanish and she speaks quickly in her Argentine accent.  I remember coming in from the park one day, trying to tell Charlie about my new friend.  The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Either she’s married, or is going to get married in either April or November.”

Charlie: “Interesting.  How long has she lived in Peru?”

Me: “Either she arrived a year ago as of April or November, or she’s been here a year and it will be 2 in April or November.”

Charlie: “Hmm.  So what else did you talk about?  Are you going to meet again?”

Me:  “Yes, we exchanged phone numbers!  Either we’re going to meet in the park at 5, or she’s going to call me at 5, or I’m supposed to call her at 5.  Either tomorrow, or next Wednesday.  I didn’t follow that part, but I really like her, I think we have a lot in common.”

Some guy named Ralph Waldo Emerson said at some point “A man’s growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends.”  I wonder how long his list was.

-Posted by Danielle L. Krautmann, 02 April 2010

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1. Lima 42 K
2. A Day in Lima Contest
3. Life getting easier…