GoMad Nomad Travel

One day last June, I went for a jog with my new friend Shannon.  She had moved to Cajamarca as part of a Fulbright grant to teach English at the university.  While she loved her life in Peru, she missed working with school-aged children and was looking for opportunities to volunteer with an under-served community.  I had been informally teaching English to several children on my street for months.  I wanted to formalize my efforts into classes, but didn’t know how to go about it.  By the end of our three-mile jog, we had decided to start a school.  It was as simple as that.

After a couple meetings, we bought some markers and a dry erase board and began teaching free English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Following the principle that you don’t need a building to have a classroom, we began to teach in the street where the kids usually play soccer.  After two classes, a neighbor quickly volunteered a few child-sized chairs and the use of a roofed patio outside of his house.  Over time, more and more children came consistently and now we have an attendance between 12 and 18 children per class between the ages of four and eleven.  With geese, chickens and dogs wandering around us, we sing songs, play games and walk these kids through basic English. 

As terrible as it sounds, for most of my life I have not been a fan of children.  In graduate school, I dabbled in Pediatric occupational therapy but quickly became disinterested; preferring to work with a my-aged or older, even geriatric population.  Perhaps I hadn’t met the right kids.  For some reason, I find myself drawn to these children, who, despite the bad hands they were dealt, manage to be seemingly happy-go-lucky kids. 

Some of our students have it better than others.  Some eat three meals a day, others are lucky to get one.  Some go to school, others don’t.  One of my eight-year-old students lives in a closet-sized mud-and-grass hut with her 13-year old sister (who raised her).  Her parents live in the countryside and don’t want her.  One of our brightest students, Pepe, can’t walk due to a congenital spinal deformity; this seven-year-old boy crawls on his hands and ankles.  The family has been given money twice to bring him to Lima for a surgery that would give him the ability to walk, but they used the money on other things.  No matter what, each afternoon the kids gather to play soccer in the street with their worn ball and smiles on their faces.  Pepe is a surprisingly good player.

Each kid has a story.  These kids are TOUGH.  These kids rarely whine, cry or ask for anything more than for me to play soccer with them after class (a disgraceful sight).  In my opinion they need so much.  I want to give each one the same opportunities I had growing up.  However, saving the world or even one child is far more complicated than one would ever imagine (trust me, I’ve tried).  So, I offer free English classes twice a week to anyone who wants to come.  The kids and parents show extreme gratitude and have graciously welcomed me into their close community.

Not only are these kids happy, grateful and tough…they are SMART!  One day as I was conversing in Spanish with a small group, I asked a question and soon realized I already knew the answer.  “Duh!” I blurted out in English.  “Duh!” I heard the kids repeat.  From that point forward, I began to hear the expression “Duh,” used commonly and appropriately throughout the children of my neighborhood.  I was proud.  Fortunately their quick acquisition of the language carries over to more useful expressions such as “hello” and “how are you?” which I am greeted with frequently nowadays.

Shannon and I have faced challenges and worked around them.  No funding and lack of materials in English has not been a problem.  It forces us to be inventive.  Originally it was hard to get the kids to show up on time (four o’clock, gringo time tends to translate to four thirty or later, Peruvian time). We nipped that one in the bud by using constant reminders, starting class at four whether all the kids have arrived or not, and teaching classes that kids want to attend.  If you ask one of our students when the next class is, they will respond in English “Tuesday at four o’clock, punctual!”

The greatest problem we faced was that of classroom management.  With a teacher:student ratio of about 1:50 in the public schools, you can imagine it would be difficult to structure things.  In the local school that our students attend, the teaching is done mostly by lecturing in the front of the classroom.  During the first few classes, when we asked a question the children would either shout out the answers or stand up and wave their hands in front of our faces pleading “please miss, me, please!”  At the end of class when I read a book, the children would crowd me, trying to all sit in my lap at the same time.  Okay, so THESE kids are tough, happy, grateful, etc. but I don’t like them enough to get suffocated.  The chaos needed to be controlled and fast. 

Shannon, being a more patient person than myself and a more experienced teacher was good at ignoring the more outgoing children and calling on the polite ones.  I, on the other hand, couldn’t focus with this disorder.  First, I tried changing my typically “fun” demeanor.  I looked at the children who were talking amongst themselves with a frown on my face and disappointed and said “what are you doing?  Listen to your teacher!”  This was effective for about 15 minutes. Eventually we implemented rule: “when my hand is up, my mouth is closed” which has had a longer lasting outcome.  Generally we structure our lesson plans to keep the kids active and engaged, eliminating opportunities for them to act like brats.

While I spent time in the States in the early fall, Shannon continued to teach classes and upon my return in October I was greeted warmly by our students.  At that point we decided to get this on paper.  Shannon and I (both being major nerds) enjoyed long work sessions during which we wrote our mission and guiding principles, methodology, a profile of the community we serve, lesson structures and more.  After a couple weeks, we had our first draft of a portfolio.  All we lacked was a name and who better to ask than our bright young students? 

The one-and-only naming session was productive.  Shannon, myself, and several of the kiddos made suggestions.  Some were stereotypical names given frequently to schools, churches, buildings, and programs in Peru. “Escuela del Corazon,” (School of heart) “Escuela de las estrellas,” (school of the stars) “Escuela bonita,” (beautiful school) to name a few.  There were a few humorous suggestions such as “escuela de las gringas” and “escuela de los monos” (after their favorite song about monkeys jumping on the bed).  While the name “school of the monkeys,” was amusingly tempting (both to me and the kids), the final decision came down to a vote.  The winner?  “Mundo Maravilloso”.  In English: Wonderful World.

We’ve got a lot to do and a lot more kids to cater to.  At least 20 children have recently asked if they can join, but with Shannon back in the States, I’m putting a pause on new admissions.  I’m developing a long-term (3 month minimum) volunteer program under the principle that children need consistency to learn efficiently.  Little by little, I’ve gathered a box full of books, scissors, markers and a few other supplies to improve our activities.  Shannon and I are working together in the upcoming months to develop a set curriculum with matching lesson plans.  But Mundo Maravilloso has a great beginning and lots of exciting things to come.

–Danielle L. Krautmann

 *If you are interested in learning more about Mundo Maravilloso or receiving a copy of our portfolio, please contact me directly via my email: DanielleLParker [at] gmail [dot] com.   

By Noel Lau

“There’s no cheap way to get to Machu Picchu,” said the guide who was trying to sell me a tour. Seeing Machu Picchu had always been a dream of mine but I wasn’t going to join a tour. Getting to Machu Picchu can put a dent your pocket. I was at the end of my South American trip, so I couldn’t afford the expensive Inca trail nor did I want to cheapen my experience there by taking the train.

The ruins close up: Terrace planting field on the left, temple in the center and living quarters on the right.

Arriving in Cuzco, I set out to find information about an alternative route I’d heard from other travelers. I found that it’s quite easy and straight forward; I could do Machu Picchu in two days. So that night, I went back to the hostel to pack a small bag and left my big one at the hostel. Most hostels allow you to do that without extra charge.

The Alternate Route

The next day I left quite early to catch the 7am bus from Cuzco’s Santiago bus station to Santa Maria. There are departures every 15-30 minutes. The bus ride usually takes around 6 hours and cost 15 soles ($5 US). However, since it had rained heavily two days earlier causing some landslides, my journey took eight hours. Besides two German travelers, most of the people on the bus were locals returning to their villages after doing their business in Cuzco. Women and men with gurney sacks and shopping bags squeezed their way into seats, while salesmen came on board and talked for hours selling all kind of medicines and goods.

Local women selling food on wheelbarrows by the side of the road.

At around 12pm the bus stopped at a small roadside village. We got off the bus to be greeted by local women and children selling cheap ($ 1-2 US) and delicious food on wheelbarrows. There were passengers from other buses and lorry drivers too. The whole road was blocked for us to have lunch. It soon became a market place with people standing, sitting and squatting in the middle of the road enjoying their meal.

I arrived in Santa Maria just after 3pm. It’s a tiny crossroad hamlet with a few shops and restaurants. There are combi (shared taxi) waiting to take people to the nearby villages. The one I took cost 8 soles ($3 US) and took 45 minutes to the village of Santa Teresa. As this alternate route becomes popular, drivers will charge foreigners more, so make sure you bargain and check with the locals if they are paying the same. The road to Santa Teresa is unpaved and there are many blind corners. My heart stopped every time the car turned a sharp corner or drove close to the edge to let on-coming cars through; it didn’t help that I was sitting at the window and could see the 200m drop to the ravine below.

When I got to Santa Teresa I took another combi to Hidroeléctrica (the hydroelectric plant and the last train station) for 4 soles ($1.50 US). Since there are not many people going there, it could be a long wait to fill up the combi. I was lucky to be with the two German guys and we found an old man going that way as well so we got to Hidroeléctrica in 30 minutes. If you don’t want to wait, you could walk there in two hours. And if your timing is right, you could hitch a ride with the lorry that takes workers to and from the plant. On my return trip, I hitched a ride this way from the plant to Santa Teresa.

Me at the beginning of the track along train track to Machu Picchu village.

From Hidroeléctrica, you could take the train for 18 soles ($6 US) and in 30 minutes you’ll be in Aguas Calientes (Machu Picchu village), but there are only 3-4 services a day. Or you could walk along the train tracks for 10km to get to Aguas Calientes.  We decided to walk. We chatted, enjoyed the view and saw some small ruins. When it got dark, I was lamenting for missing out on seeing the scenery but then fireflies came out of nowhere and accompanied us all the way. I felt like I was in a fairy land. That really made my day.

Shoestring Accommodation and Food

We arrived in Aguas Calientes just after 7pm tired and dirty. We went straight to the Tourist Office to get the entrance ticket for Machu Picchu. It costs 126 soles ($45 US) for adult and 63 soles ($22 US) for students with ISIC card. At night Aguas Calientes is like a well-lit amusement park surrounded by dark imposing Andean Mountains. There are hotels and restaurants to suit all budgets, however finding something for shoestring budget proved to be a challenge. Finally we found a room for 12 soles ($4 US) each at Hotel No.1. There’s no street name, so to find it, go up the street where the Tourist Office is and take the 2^nd right turn, you’ll see it at the end of the street on your left just before the river. But the hot water was out so after a freezing shower, we went out looking for food.

Macchu Picchu from a look out point.

Not wanting to pay $10 for a meal, we decided to explore the little village. On the next street just behind the hotel, we crossed a bridge and found ourselves surrounded by locals, there were no tourists at all. We entered a simple but nice restaurant and had a set meal for 8 soles ($3 US); it was delicious and filling, just what we needed after a long day. As not many tourists venture to that part of town and it’s where the locals hang out, things in the supermarket are cheaper. We bought our snacks there for the climb to Machu Picchu the next day. You can’t bring food into the site, but bottled water and snacks are allowed in a small backpack.

Climb to the top

I woke up at 4am and had a small breakfast before setting out. The gate at Puente Ruinas only opens at 5am. From there it’s a steep climb to the top. It took me one huffing-and-puffing-hour. I stopped many times to catch my breath; even chewing coca leaves didn’t help.

Me on top of Wayna Picchu with Machu Picchu below.

Alternatively, you could catch a bus near Puente Ruinas for $7 (one way). The first one departs at 5:30am. There’s usually a queue so make sure you get there early. In high season, I was told that people start queuing at 4:30am.

Your Machu Picchu ticket also allows you to go to Huayna Picchu. But since they only allow 400 people to climb daily, it’s advisable to get there before the many bus loads of people. I was really happy to find out that I was among the first 400. Although it’s another hour of steep climbing from Machu Picchu, the view from up there was spectacular and make Machu Picchu look small and ant-like.

The Return

Machu Picchu far exceeded my expectations. I was so happy and smiled like a fool the whole time I was there. It literally took my breath away. I was there during low season and I was able to find moments and places to be alone to feel the mysteriousness of the place. After spending more than six hours drinking in the amazing sights, it was time for me to leave.

Getting down was much easier. I was back in Aguas Calientes in less than an hour. After a much needed lunch and before starting my return journey, I rested at the main square watching the goings and comings of the people. I saw a local woman combing her daughter’s hair outside her small restaurant as they waited for their first customer; I saw an old European couple, tired and dirty after conquering Machu Picchu, enter an overpriced western restaurant; I saw children in their school uniforms chasing each other without a care in the world; I saw two young Japanese ladies smiling as they looked at photos they had taken. It was hypnotizing. Reluctantly, I started my journey back; the same way I came.

However there is an alternate route: walking along the train track in the other direction, towards Cuzco, for 10 hours to Ollantaytambo. From there, you can take a shared taxi for 10 soles ($3.50 US) back to Cuzco. I was really tired and couldn’t imagine walking another 10 hours.

The going was slow and in Santa Maria, I had to wait four hours for the next bus. I was so exhausted I fell asleep on a bench next to a sleeping old man. I finally reached Cuzco at 2am. Lying in bed overwhelmed by fatigue, a sense of bliss and contentment washed over me. After fulfilling a dream, it was time to dream another.

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Noel Lau has been traveling and working his way around the world for the past decade. Most recently he has been living in Colombia after a year of slowly crossing the South American continent by bus, boat, and plane. He blogs at Wander2nowhere.com

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did  it get to be this late?  I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca.  Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra.  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours.  When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau.  Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it.  After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color.  But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with).  I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in.  Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass.  I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet!  Stay!  Chat with me!  Just give me one more horita of your time.”  Violeta pleas.  And again, how can I refuse?  My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro.  She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one.  So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her.  A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common.  She has a child, I don’t.  My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish.  She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama.  My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom.  Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection.  Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito  and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed.  I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up.  As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party.  Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way.  After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa!  Duh!”  She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon.  She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is.  “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.”  She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie.  From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night.  You’re culture is so impressive!”  She went on with wide eyes.  “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced.  Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…”  As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit.  With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV.  After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off.  This is what impresses her?  The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.”  The Peruvian dream.  Really.  If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States.  I can’t take any more of this.  I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade.  I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.”  I tell her honestly.  I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people?  I think to myself as I run home.  I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch.  Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas.  “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious.  Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice.  “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors.  It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else.  They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct.  Ugh.  This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt.  The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small.  After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets?  The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing.  I yearn for “the simple life.”  I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them.  I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another.  Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion.  As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’  We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.”  This is true.  When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch.  The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait.  I want to show you to my children!”  I kept running.  People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know.   “Hello!”  they call.  “Gringita!” they yell and wave.  Children follow me and ask questions.  “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention.  I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”  I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime?  I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time.  I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like.  I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth.  They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through.  If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too.  Thank Pachamama we still have diversity.  People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this.  My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be.  I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids.  Turns out, I’m representing a culture.  “The gringo culture.”

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Alternative to department store.

As my taxi weaves its way through the streets of Cajamarca, Peru, things look different than they did my last visit.  Perhaps it’s because last April, I was a tourist from Lima.  This time I’m here to look at apartments.  I will be moving to Cajamarca in a month.

The taxi driver grumbles to himself about the traffic as I look out the window.  I notice that every store on this block sells cleaning supplies.  Brooms, mops, bold colored buckets and dustpans clutter the shop fronts to draw you in and deter you from the next store which sells the exact same items.  The next two blocks are filled with peluquerias (hair salons).  Each store front is covered with out-dated posters of models from the 80’s displaying voluminous hair styles.  I wonder which of these peluquerias I will go to.  Does it make a difference?

The next block is where you buy your canned foods with faded labels while the one after is filled with hardware shops.  Is this a weird dream?  What planet am I on?  Why don’t these people just go to a department store?  Finally, as the taxi approaches Hotel de las Americas, I notice every other building on this block sells nothing but cheese and yogurt.  All I can think about is how I will describe this strange phenomenon to friends and family when I return to Lima.  Then it hits me: these are the places I will shop and these are the streets I will need to learn.  Shit.  This is going to be like starting all over….AGAIN.

One of these guys is not like the others

I step out of the taxi and take a look at the locals.  When I visited in April, the people of Cajamarca (many of whom still wear traditional Andean clothing) contributed to the rich cultural experience of visiting this beautiful mountain town.  They walk the streets dressed in sandals, knee-length wool skirts with petticoats, with 3 to 5 sweaters layered over each other (never mind it’s hot out).  A tall hat made from woven palm leaves shades their dark leathered faces and covers their black hair which they wear tied back in one or two braids.  Today, these women are no longer photo opportunities, but my new neighbors.  The majority of Cajamarcanians sport modern attire as they would in Lima, but there is still something very different.  All of a sudden I become keenly aware of the lyrics to the song I’ve been humming to myself for most of the taxi ride.

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger.  Faces look ugly, when you’re alone.”

You said it Jim Morrison.  How the heck am I going to live here?  How will I make friends?  Lima is one thing, but this place is just a little too different.  I try to remember why I wanted to move here in the first place.  Something about the mountains, something about the culture, something about getting out of the city, and something about Brandy being able to run free off her leash.  These things seem trivial and I’m ready to hop back on the next plane to Lima.  Loud lonely Lima all of a sudden becomes lovely, luxurious Lima, where I have friends, and can buy everything I need in one store.   Alas, I am supposed to go and see eight different apartments tomorrow so I’ll stay the weekend.

I guess it doesn't look all that bad, does it?

The taxi driver says “gracias señorita” as he dumps me off at the hotel and drives away quickly.  I catch myself humming The Doors again, “No one remembers your name, when you’re strange, when you’re strange.”

Change is hard, moving is hard, and after moving nine times in the past five years (I’m not exaggerating), I can safely say, it doesn’t get a whole lot easier.  But I have learned there are a few things you can do to get through the adjustment period a little more smoothly.

Leave the house every day

Easier said than done.  At any given time, I can think up at least five reasons not to leave the comfort of my own home:  It’s not safe. I can’t understand anyone. I’m tired. there’s too much to do around the house. Brandy doesn’t want me to leave her alone.  There, easy.  That was five.  Stop making excuses. Even if it’s just to take a walk around the block, get out of the house.

Get your bearings

Figure out where you are. You can look at maps, but the best way to learn the streets is by walking them.  When I moved to Lima, I was so nervous about getting lost, I would only walk around the block, so that’s where I started.  Then it became two blocks, then trips to the grocery store, then I learned the bus system.

Talk to people, start conversations

Everyone has a story to tell and most have good intentions.  Of course you must keep safety in mind, so perhaps if there is a “gentleman” standing on the corner making kissing noises, don’t approach him and ask him if he wants to be friends.  Aside from that, put yourself out there, you’ve got nothing to lose.  “People look strange, when you’re a stranger.”  So don’t be a stranger, talk to everyone.

Accept every invitation

Take advantage of every opportunity, even if it’s not your thing, keep an open mind and go anyway.  If you get invited to a gathering, a Tupperware party, a trip to Gamarra to see the Shaman market, to train for a marathon, whatever, GO!  Every invitation you accept will get you more invitations, and you’ll never know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it.

Finally, go easy on yourself

Moving is hard.  It doesn’t matter if it’s to another country or the next town over.  In Peru, we use an expression, “poco a poco”  which means “little by little”.  That’s how things happen and that’s how we adjust.  It won’t happen overnight.

So now, I suppose, it’s time to take my own advice.  In a month I will move to this place, I will shop in these stores, get lost in these streets, and befriend these strangers.  Time to find an apartment, check out the local market, and find someone to talk to. Here we go again!

If you’re looking for a mover, this Moving Company Los Angeles comes highly recommended – They are the Wizards of cross country long distance moving, commercial moving, residential moving, and much, much more.

There’s a time and place for most everything.  A time for walking amongst midgets and a time for walking in the shadows of giants.  The Cordillera Blanca falls into this latter category.  Surrounded by 6000 meter peaks, the Santa Cruz trek (a few hours, via public transportation, outside of Huaraz, Peru) is one of those experiences that puts the word beauty into its overused place.  A striking, and humbling, landscape that apexes with the crossing of the 4,750 meter high Punta Union Pass.  This four-day trek is a must-do in Peru.  And best of all, you can do it yourself.  No guides, no map, no donkeys.   Just some food, a few water purification tablets, a tent and a set of high altitude lungs.

Photo and text by Jason Vickers.

Jason blogs at Manifest Destino. To read more about his trek in Peru, go to http://manifestdestino.blogspot.com/2010/10/huaraz.html

Submit your photo of the week to be featured at GoMad Nomad!  Send a photo with a paragraph or two describing the photo or your experience to gomadnomadtravelmag [@] gmail.com

New Hampshire foliage

Have I ever told you how much I love the Jorge Chavez International airport?  Well, I love it so much that I try to arrive early.  If check in goes smoothly I have time to sit outside the security gate to watch Peruvians say goodbye to each other.  Entire families go to the airport with their loved ones to participate in the dramatic parting ritual.  The traveler tearfully makes his or her way through the group, kissing each person, telling them they love them, telling them “cuidate” (take care of yourself), promising to call the second they arrive, then more kisses, hugs, tears,  and handholding while exchanging longing looks.  Family members who are staying in Peru cry and hold each other for comfort.  

I love it.  I hope to someday partake in such a dramatic goodbye.  Charlie has little tolerance for the production.  He feels it’s excessive and whether the traveler is going for a year or a week, they do the same darn thing.  He gets annoyed when they block the entrance to security and you have to push your way through, which we did as we made our way through the airport for a visit home to the United States.  To Charlie’s credit, he spends far more time at Jorge Chavez than I do, and I’m sure it gets old.  I looked back as a family of seven parted with their young adult.  As they wept and held each other, I pretended they were saying goodbye to me.  “Goodbye for now, Peru,” I said to myself as I popped a sleeping pill (courtesy of a typical Peruvian pharmacy at which you can get any drug you desire without prescription) and boarded the plane.    

Charlie and I eating Fenway Franks and drinking beer at a Red Sox vs. Yankees game.

After sleepwalking my way through a layover in who-knows-where and customs, I found myself in Logan International airport surrounded by gringos.  Finding a bus to my hometown of Concord, NH seemed too easy to be true.  I had become accustomed to the simplest tasks taking at least a half day in Lima.  The bus arrived on time and the ride was tranquil.  No slamming on the breaks, no bumps, no one cutting anyone off and no horn honking.  I had almost forgotten that for the most part, in the United States of America (home of the brave), we follow traffic laws out of fear of getting a ticket.  I looked out the window and appreciated the cleanliness along the highway, allowing the grass to show its bold green color.   Here I was on the other side and the grass was definitely greener!

I looked around at the other passengers on the bus and something felt strange.  No one was looking at me.  No men making kissing noises, staring me down, or proclaiming “I lub you!” in thick Spanish accents.   I waited for the feeling of relief to set in.  After months of enduring sexual harassment whenever I left my apartment, after walking around in sweatshirts hiding my identity as a gringa rubia, after daily rants to Brandy about the perverted men in Lima, I could finally relax.  But a different feeling overtook me: disappointment.  I looked just like everyone else.  On this bus, there was absolutely nothing special about me that would cause a person to look twice.    

I must say, it was nice being home.  Autumn in New Hampshire provides an incredible display of changing seasons causing people to come from all over the country to marvel at…leaves.  Ironically, the brilliant foliage is a sign that the leaves are dying and NH will soon enter into another terribly long, excessively cold winter.  But the leaves do not accept their fate quietly.  They put on a captivating show of fiery reds, oranges and yellows before they go.

A typical American making apple pie

I spent three weeks enjoying the foliage, visiting with family, drinking savory beers from local breweries and eating far too much delicious American food.  Charlie and I celebrated our anniversary hiking in the White Mountains without need for guides or worrying about being held up or having our packs taken.  I appreciated speaking English, feeling safe, the familiarity, cleanliness, and law and order to everything.  When I’m in the States, everything makes sense.  I have never enjoyed NH or my family as much as I did this past visit.

But this trip to New Hampshire felt different.  Over and over again I found myself feeling like a foreigner.  I wanted to kiss everyone I encountered which doesn’t fly in the United States.  I had almost forgotten that in the USA, we shake hands when we greet.  After months of kissing my friends in Peru, my maid, my driver, and anyone else I got introduced to, I felt like I was being rude NOT to kiss my parents’ friends, my brother, or my best friend’s boyfriend.  There were several times I found myself going in for a kiss only to have a hand thrust in my direction for a shake.   I was constantly reminding myself “Don’t kiss strangers, Danielle.  They’ll think you’re weird.”  

My cousin Kate thought I was weird when I tried to negotiate the price of a hotdog.  This vendor wanted to charge me $3!   “Three dollars for a hotdog?” I asked.  “That’s ridiculous!  I’ll give you a dollar.”  The guy paused and looked at me, then replied “Sorry, three is as low as I can go.”  I assured Kate, “Don’t worry. I do this all the time,” then said “Two fifty, no more.”  He appeared irritated, “Sorry, these hot dogs cost $3.”  To his credit, it was a good hotdog, but I could get a whole meal for that price in Peru.  

Kayaking in Keene, NH surrounded by foliage.

Mom thought I was weird when she noticed me taking pictures of everything from cars stopped at traffic lights to Charlie doing yard work with my brother, Brent.  “Act natural,” I told her as she stood elbow deep in a bowl of flour at our kitchen counter.   “This will be a great photo.  Its so typical.  An American making apple pie!  I can’t wait to show my friends!”  Mom rolled her eyes.

After three weeks, I was sad to leave.  I sniffled my way through security checks at the airport and anticipated my return to loud, lonely, Lima.  I feared that after 3 weeks of speaking English, I would be back at square one stumbling through words like an idiot.  I filled my carry-on bag with enough magazines to last me a month, boarded the plane and popped a sleeping pill.

I woke up as my plane landed at Jorge Chavez.  As I fumbled my way through customs and baggage claim I mentally prepared to be harassed by taxi drivers who would approach me the second I exited the airport.  On the contrary I was greeted by Carlos, who of course, before anything, gave me a big kiss.  Funny enough, that was all I needed to remind me that there are a lot of things I love about this place.  

I’ve heard that life experiences that are most difficult are the ones you remember the best.  I found that the things I complain most about ended up being the things I missed while visiting the USA. The men in Lima who make kissing noises are jerks, but they sure make me feel attractive, even when I’m in baggy sweatpants and having a bad hair day.  There is much less structure, law and order in Peru, making simple things take sometimes days to accomplish, but when I do complete a task, I feel triumphant.  While my Spanish has improved, I continue to struggle to communicate all I want to say while projecting my personality, but each time I have a deep conversation in Spanish, understand a joke, or use a new word, I feel successful.  I stand out here in Peru, and for that am a target for crime, scams, and higher prices, but learning about and living in a culture so different from my own has been the experience of a lifetime.  

I got back to my apartment and took Brandy out to the park.  I looked around and noticed the grass was a lovely green.  Not the same bold green as in New Hampshire, but bright green.  Not more or less green than it was on the other side, just a different shade.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Danielle will chop your head off with this machete if you complain while on the rainforest expedition!

It’s 8am and I am in my best mood, sipping coffee, sitting alone in the open-air lobby of the main lodge writing in my journal.  For almost a month now, I have gone to sleep and dreamed of spending my days walking through tangles of vines, trees taller than my apartment building, watching animals eat other animals, nature unfolding in front of my eyes.  For almost a month, I have woken up in the morning to find that it was not a dream and today I will walk through the forest again.  I allow my thoughts to flow onto the pages of my journal with little attention to spelling, grammar, or whether or not my audience will like it.  My journal is only for me.  So I write this morning’s thoughts…

“Dear Journal, I never knew how many different shades of green existed until this past week when I started working on names for them in my head.  When Crayola gets word of this I want to be the first employee who’s job it is to label the colors.  There’s leaf-cutter-ant green, naked-tree green, Mealy-Parrot green, and we can’t forget Orange Cheeked Parrot green, the purest green of them all.  Am considering changing my favorite color from yellow to…”

I pause from my writing as a flustered middle-aged woman plops down next to me with a dramatic sigh commanding me to look up from my journal.  As I raise my eyebrows towards her she declares “If you are writing about this company, I hope you write about what a bad job they do preparing their guests for what to bring.”

I have no choice but to acknowledge her and at least appear that I’m listening by using the age-old trick of staring at her forehead.  She continues, “They said on the website that I should bring long-sleeved shirts, so I brought three, but I get hot when I hike and I only brought two short-sleeved shirts which will get covered in sweat.  And they said it might rain here, so I brought a rain jacket and rain pants, but it hasn’t rained so how can you explain that?”

I know she will go on, so I allow my mind to drift back into its stream of thought. I contemplate a decision as critical as changing my favorite color.  Have you ever tried to name all of the hues of yellow?  Would it be fair to Yellow to replace it without first visiting the sun or at least staring at it for a long time? I think to myself.  Then…Darn.  The lady is looking at me and awaiting an answer.  How long I have been staring at her forehead?  What was her question?

“Green.” I reply, then quickly try to recover, “I mean, um, what did you ask?  Sorry, the birds are so loud it’s hard to hear.”

She appears irritated with my lack of attention and responds “I know.  You would think they’d do something about that.  They could AT LEAST keep them further from the lodge.”

I can’t pretend to listen any more.  This is the first time I’ve felt irritated in weeks.  “What was your question?” I ask in the nicest voice I can muster.

“I asked if you’re writing about what a bad job the company does of telling people what to bring.”

“Um, no.  But when you fill out your evaluation, please try to be clear in what you felt was lacking.  But no, that’s not what I’m writing about.”  I respond apologetically only to be scolded with a “Well, maybe you should!” before she stormed off.

I work for, what is in most guest’s opinion one of the best ecotourism companies in the world. What I have learned most from working in the tourism industry is that some people travel for the sole purpose of complaining.  It bothered me a lot my first three weeks working in the Amazon.  I would ask myself, guides, other tourists: How in the world can you come to such an incredible place and find something to complain about?

While most travelers who visit the lodges are in awe and have an amazing time, I would find myself trying to scope out the bad eggs.  When a new group came in, I would think to myself, which one will it be?  Well, today I remember that she isn’t the first and won’t be the last.

But with less than a week left in this place, I cannot worry about her sweaty armpits.  So I take a sip of my coffee, and return to the most important decision I will make today.  I don’t think I’ll change my favorite color, but I’m definitely gonna write Crayola when I get back to Lima.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

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.