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!

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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

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