Category Archives: peru

mixed bag of future, past & present

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Well, I’ve finally got myself that cup of coffee and computer time that I’ve been craving. As well as a messy pile of stained notes and unorganized photos documenting my day-by-day account of the adventures unfolded in rural Dolpa; all to be composed and posted soon. But first, as we rewind, I’m gonna pause on Thailand and do a quick “detox camp” debriefing as it’s also a story worth sharing. And then, if we fast rewind all the way back to where the tape snaps off, you might even remember a trip to Peru, around this time last year, where I helped document a community service trip by talking to a camera and taking notes (reflections of which are posted here as well as published in the beautiful new, World Nomads Book of Travels). Well I’ve just learned that that Peru footage is now being played on National Geographic Adventure (but have yet to sort out the TV schedule) as well as many airlines in-flight programming. The man behind the camera and production, a Mr. Trent O’Donnell (pictured above), quickly became a favorite friend, and has PROMISED me that I look wise, witty and beautiful (and also that he edited the toilet bits documenting my bouts of parasite-infested intestinal disease). I have yet to see the documentary, but if you happen to catch it, do let me know if all he claims is true.

And that’s the mixed snack bag of future, past and present. Now let me get to my coffee and serving something we can actually bite into…

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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A Final Footprint in Peru: conclusion

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Before we leave the village of Quelqanqa , we take one last tour of the sites laying (quite physical) tribute to the successes of our manual labor. We walk down the valley to visit the new stone bridge and draw our names in a small patch of its still-soft cement. And then we turn around and follow a mile of trenching up towards the reservoir, stopping at one of the houses along the way to, ceremonially, turn on the tap for the first time.

As I strap and snap myself into my backpack and double-knot the laces of my boots, I recognize that I am- all at once – dirty, satisfied, exhausted, excited and ready and sad to leave. I can’t avoid the allusion to the trip being a mountain range of emotions; physical symptoms, energy levels and sentiments that have risen and descended in just as dramatic elevations as those we’ve climbed.

There is a final Andean value which is appropriate, now, to introduce: ayni. Ayni refers to reciprocity and the exchange of kindness, knowledge and/or labor between humans, nature, spirits and the environment.

On my plane back home from Peru, the flight attendant passes a UNICEF donation tin down the isles and through the passengers. And as the coins jangle and make empty sounds in the metal bin, I can’t help but hear an absence of ayni in the transaction. We name it a “bridge”, or a “reservoir”, or a “community service project”, but its physical form — of concrete or water or stone – is never as important as its function as a channel. And I am very happy to borrow such a nice little word to name that channel and call it both the essence and highlight of my adventure in Peru: the exchange of kindness, between humans, nature, spirit and the environment.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 10: collective breaths

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Our bridge is only a few hundred hauled-stones away from completion when I wander up the hill following a rumor that the men of the Quelqanqa are constructing a traditional “earth oven” or pachamanca in which the feast, celebrating the completion of our mission, will be cooked.

Indeed, on a hill overlooking the soccer field, I find a few dozen men squatting, squinting and otherwise overseeing the construction of the last of three pachamancas. The process of stacking the stones is quite similar to a game of reverse-jenga; it’s a delicate equation in which the placement of every stone is crucial to the whole of the balancing act and yet a single weak or teetering point can send the whole thing tumbling down.

And tumble down is exactly what I watch the aspiring pachamancha do twice before I add my own two hands to the twelve already collaborating. Our strategy is to slowly build up, and then hold down, the vertical walls, while making a bridge of locking vertebrae stones that will function as the skeleton of the pachamancha.

After ten minutes of careful construction, we reach the roof of the dome and, with a collective held breath, finally connect one side to another. At the same time, we each quickly reach for smaller stones to stuff and support the cracks. But we pay dearly for this lapse in concentration as the entire pachamancha crumbles, in a mere fraction of the time it took to construct, to a clumsy pile of rubble on the ground. All the men lean back on their squatting haunches and exhale the long breath of tested patience. And I do what I always do in most situations of emergency, exhaust or fury: I laugh. In response, one of the men tosses out a comment in Quechua to which all the rest fall in fits of laugher and then he turns to me and says, “Every time, you laugh!”

He says it with a sincere smile, but I suddenly take into account, for the first time, that I am the only woman represented at this party. I begin to fear if perhaps I have crossed inappropriate cultural boundaries, or even worse, will be blamed for cursing the work! I’m horrified at these prospects but shake the new fear from my hands and follow quick suit as the men all lean forward to begin construction again.

I work on a small front wall and begin to pride myself on how sturdy my interlocking rocks are proving themselves. When the stones on the top of the dome finally begin to reach across and link solidly together, this time, without lapsing our concentration or held breath, we manage to swiftly snap into piece all the smaller supporting stones until every hesitant hand has slowly released its grip and we tumble back in a simultaneous gasp of satisfaction.

I am particularly happy that I have proven myself not to be a curse and, unable to hold back my laugh any longer, am delighted when everyone joins me in sounding our shared joy and relief.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 8: one stone at a time

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a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

Our first mistake is thinking that we’ve come to organize and/or manage; our first lesson is realizing that the locals coordinating this project are professionally skilled and competent, and that the most valuable things we really have to offer are our servitude and sweat.

Having felt heavily burdened by the kindnesses and services that our porters heaped upon us while on the trek, I am greatly relieved by the opportunity to work side-by-side, and ultimately FOR, those that woke us every morning serving tea and morning greetings.

Our group’s tasks consist of two projects: creating a new reservoir and digging the trenches to supply the village with water and building a bridge over one of the rivers so that, during the rain season, people will still be able to travel to and from town and fewer animals will be lost to the swift currents that normally take such annual sacrifices. The bridge project is explained to us as a project needing less brain and more labor and I rush to the side of the party designated to this project mostly because, being a visual person, I want to see something complete and concrete when we finish.

We all file down to the river and ponder the heaps of boulders and stones collected for our purpose. It’s hard for me to envision just how we are going to elevate piles of stones into a traversable arch and I’m busy trying to sort out where to begin when one of the villagers on our work crew walks over to one of the piles of stones, picks one up, walks over to the site of the bridge, and puts it down. Ah. Brilliant. So that’s where we start…

One stone at a time.

And so that is what we do. We form chains to move them more efficiently. And we organize crews to search for specifically sized stones. Some people dedicate themselves to laying stones, while others to carrying or sorting. But the theme is consistently simple: one stone at a time. And that is the best way I can describe how our bridge begins and continues its slow construction.

Since Incan times, it has been a tradition of Andean peoples to organize communal work parties to harvest crops or build irrigation canals and terraces. These parties are called faenas and I find this community spirit especially well-illustrated by the picture of an 80-year old man and his 4-year old grandson, both, with equal vigor and enthusiasm, hauling rocks and handing them to us. In fact, if there is any one memory that captures my time in Peru in a single snapshot, it is the sight of these two people, and the multiple generations between them, united without hesitation in this timeless tradition of what Andeans call, llank’ay, or “the spirit of ceremonial work.”

And even for me, an extranjera, there is a certain amount of tetris-like finesse and ceremony to the work. I assume responsibility as one of the stone layers and so it’s my job to decide on the flattest side of the rock and then determine the best fit of its angles so that it snaps into a pretty place within its neighbors. I find it a delightful task and wonder, even, if perhaps others think I am taking too much time to express my creativity and delicate design work with the stones.
Not as delicate or delightful, and certainly less pretty, however, is the chunk of bloody skin dangling from my right ring finger when, in an overextended reach to take a heavy rock from the arms of the 80-year old, I drop the stone — with my finger still under it. Luckily I have two pairs of gloves to buffer the cut and bitter coldness to numb it.

After attending to the bandaging of my throbbing finger I take a step back and sit on the river bank to watch the work progress. It’s clumsy work, and even more awkward is the mix of dark-skinned locals in traditional striped costume and pale-skinned foreigners in odd and unnatural block colors. I decide that we, like the cluttered pile of odd-sized stones, are a funny bunch to envision functioning efficiently together. But somehow, something seems to be forming. Slowly but cohesively, as a group, we begin taking on a solid shape together — one stone at a time.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 7: walking a fine line

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a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

“Oh! It’s just so beautiful! To live in this amazing valley, pulling your meals from your garden, surrounded by your extended family, breathing fresh Andes air with views of glaciated peaks out your windows, all while living so close to the ground and sky at the same time!” I sigh wistfully with this exclamation to which Javier responds plainly….

“Stop romanticizing.”

In fact I do have a tendency to taste things sweeter and see things rosier – so I appreciate being called out on my naïve fancying of my own imagination.

Javier and I are slowly climbing a hill to scout the water reservoir that is our group’s task to restore. While by no means an old man or needing it, Javier is walking with a wooden cane – and the added tap that slowly counts our steps imparts an essence of added wisdom to his words….

“Yes, it’s beautiful and easy to romanticize, but life here is not easy. Not at all. Life can be simple and healthy and good like you’ve described it, but it’s also very susceptible. A simple illness can fester into something terminal quickly. And just imagine what any, even small, natural disaster would do to this village. In the case of any emergency, there is no back up, no support, no reserves. And things get very serious, very fast.”

I remember that 54% of Peru lives below the, “poverty line.” But I still don’t understand how a poverty line was designated by dollars when the same majority harvests most of its meals from their own fields and trades, from the same, for many of their other needed provisions. And I wonder how one measures “wealth” without taking into consideration the value of mental stability, a strong sense of community, and a fostered connection with nature. Not from any statistics, but only from my personal experience in rural villages in places like Fiji, India, Guatemala and Peru, I have found in these modest little one-room homes – more warmth, love, respect, support and mental health, than I’ve ever witnessed in an insured and pantry-stocked, six-bedroom house on my block, back home, in upper-class America.

But I also agree with Javier, because I too have seen the quickly cascading effects of minor or major emergencies. I’ve seen monsoons leave families homeless, and epidemics leave children parentless, and droughts leave families childless. And I’ve seen these refugees, of both catastrophes and wars, left with no other option, but to migrate to the squatter communities outskirting major cities. And it is these communities, cities of the displaced, that I fear – where the “poverty line” is calculable and defined. Where those who have been removed from their land, culture, family, community and everything that they know, are left to struggle on the fringe of a foreign city-culture that is measured in currencies, and exchanged in languages, they don’t understand. It’s this “urban third world” to which thousands migrate from their small villages every single day in Africa, Asia and Latin America, chased by one or another natural disaster, political turf squabble or war-related violence. It’s in these places, where 600,000 million people have been left and live right now, unprotected and prone to extreme pollution in their environment, gangs and organized crime to define their sense of community, and no one to represent or respect their rights as human beings. As Javier has indicated, it’s a fine line to walk and not romanticize. This village, as most its size and population, is only an epidemic, mudslide or earthquake away from evacuation or extermination – the two often, in the end, being the same.

The sound of Javier’s cane slowly and soundly tapping the ground brings me back from the spiral of hope and fear in which I just spun out. I feel for the earth below my feet again and scout the horizon in order to ease my mind back into a malleable form.

As we climb the hill, we see that the digging has already begun in preparation for the new water piping system. Our group will pick up this work, and I begin to get very excited for the manual labor; digging and moving stones has never sounded like such a blissful exercise. Lacking other steps to take, and even though they are small, they are footsteps in the right direction of buffering the “fine line” in order to protect this village from the emergencies that constantly endanger.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 6: a welcome to the house of great mountains

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a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

As we descend into the valley, I can’t help but feel like I’m strolling through a doctor Seuss picture book; it’s an awkward but fanciful arrangement of skinny trees with knobby tops, boulders sprinkled like bread crumbs from an earth-sized muffin, curlicue streams poured on the land like molasses, sheep and llamas dressed in perfectly color-coordinated camouflage, and little dashes of bright red, visible from infinite distances — climbing a hill, chasing a goat, tending to a field or trailing a cluster of other dashing red dots.

I don’t know what I expected of the Andes, but it is not until my descent into the valley that I realize my imagination would have been aptly challenged with the task of a preconceived vision as colorful, dimensional and whimsical as the one I’m witnessing. In between long sighs trailed off with adjectives whispered only to myself, Reality takes a full box of crayons and colors in the black and white image with which I came.

We arrive at the bottom of the valley where a particularly large cluster of small red dots has been pulling hair, investigating insects and poking at old body wounds in the boredom of our long-awaited arrival. Teachers quickly smarten the little bodies and limbs into erect and organized lines and set the step for a march towards our group. Each child is dressed, from hat to toe, in rainbows of home-woven clothing and accessories. Though each shawl took months of detailed attention by tremendously patient and skilled hands to create, the children are not dressed up for this occasion; this is their traditional dress, the same as what they wore yesterday and will wear, again, tomorrow.

I am immediately shocked by the familiarity of the rosy mountain-pass-chapped cheeks and earth-toned and tough skin; apparent adaptations for those accustomed to living in close(r) quarters with the sun. I recognize many of their faces as fraternal twins to those I’ve encountered in the Himalayas of India, Nepal and Tibet and realize that they must be siblings in the family of those who have made for themselves the same home, on different continents, of great mountains.

Each child in the procession carries a white flower. The flowers were brought from the lowlands and their drooping faces, which evidence their exhaust from the distance they traveled, are a comic contrast to those of the children whose heads are upturned with expressions widened in excitement and unabashed curiosity.

The teachers urge the children forward and, with this encouragement, one of the young girls approaches me. When I kneel down to her eye level, she hands me the flower with one hand, pours confetti on my head with the other, grins, gives me a quick hug and runs, giggling all the way, back to her group. Low to the ground, I approach her group and whisper the question as to if anyone speaks Spanish. They all just bat their huge black lashes and giggle. I’m sad that I’ve forgotten my Quechua phrasebook at home, but will learn later that while these girls don’t speak Spanish, their older sisters do; Spanish being reserved for late primary school.

As the children continue with the rituals of their reception, and our initiation, to their village, I decide it to be the sweetest gesture of the Quelqanqa community; sending in the most precious of their possessions in life, to make offerings of welcome and greet us as their guests.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 5: a healthy humbling

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In my defense, I have to point out that it really should have been the responsibility of Javier and Jairo to inquire as to my personal definition of “favorable weather” before asking me to make the offering to the Apus. In consideration of their logistical roles as mountain guides, I suppose, for them, “favorable” meant something more to the effect of, “sunny and fair.” But as they quickly found out the next morning, upon hearing the unzipping of my tent and sequential shrieks of joy, was that the wish for weather that I had subconsciously raised to and requested of the Apus, had successfully been answered in the form of a snowstorm.

Javier begins to use the word, “blizzard” which I think is a bit of an exaggeration. Nonetheless, an earth- and heat-hugging layer of ice that formed overnight allows a lacy blanket of white to be thrown over every vista. The weather suits the mountains and mood well as not just me, but the whole group, is as giddy as if Santa himself were about to ride into our valley on a sleigh of a dozen llamas.

Our morning trek is delayed by the, “blizzard” and being well aware of which is the warmest tent in our party, I flap open the door of the kitchen tent, feign distress with bitter coldness and accept Enir’s insistence to sit on the stool next to him by the fire.

I adore Enir; there in nothing not to love about this man. And his smile and presence always warm me as much as the fire. I have already learned a little of his story: that he lives in a mountain village outside of Ollantaytambo, that he has three children but that his wife died years ago, that he speaks Quechua (the language of the Peruvian indigenous majority) and that he’s the best head chef in the Andes. I feel quite comfortable with him and finally ask him the question that is really on my mind…

“Enir. No one else is here. So now tell me the truth. What do you really think of tourists and the people that come to your country on these trips? Aren’t they arrogant with presumed superiority of their culture? And ignorant of the complexity of yours? And they come in these terrible hordes and leave messes and take millions of pictures and truly understand so little of what they are seeing and hearing! And then they invade your natural resources and are such ungracious guests. Don’t you think that we’re terrible? Tell me the truth.”

But Enir hardly flinches. He just casually stirs a pot of boiling vegetables and says, “Yes. They take a lot of pictures, but what harm is that? I enjoy my work very much. I love to be able to travel our country, and make people happy with our food, and share some of the most beautiful parts of my land, history and culture with others. In the off-season, when the foreigners do not come, that is when it’s hard and I work in the fields and find odd jobs to support my family. But this is very nice. I love living in these mountains and I am very happy to host those that visit my country.”

It makes so much sense that I’m bothered by the reply. I squint my eyes and try to discern if he’s telling me a story that he thinks will make me happy. But I look through him and find only transparency to uncluttered honesty. And so I turn the eye on myself instead and wonder how, why and when I became such a cynic.

But just in case, I decide to ask Jairo the same question. Nonchalantly, he responds in like, “Oh no. It’s not like that at all. We really appreciate that tourism is our main industry. I’ve learned English and soon I’ll be studying Chinese and it’s wonderful to be able to learn about other peoples’ countries and share with them what I love about mine. Machu Picchu was just named one of the seven wonders of the natural world, so we are very excited for all the people and business it will bring. What’s wrong with a photograph if someone takes it back to their country and shows it to their friends and family and tells them how beautiful our country, history and people are? Tourism is hardly the worst of occupations to dedicate yourself to.”

And isn’t he just exactly right? Are not his reasons the same as mine for why I work as a guide in the same industry? Do I not love opening doors to new worlds and escorting people through? And sharing in their enlightenment of the mysteries suddenly unlocked by the clash of foreign and home cultures? Is it not an equal exchange? Who is the ignorant and arrogant one to point her finger and claim exploitation when she knows nothing of it?

The lesson is a healthy humbling.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in Peru, Day 4: appeasing the apus

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“I knew you were better as soon as your laugh woke me up,” declares Javier.

Indeed, while my mental facilitates napped through a 13-hour siesta, my body, with the assistance of the antibiotics, regained control of my gut, stomach, head and mind territories. And when I am healthy, everyone knows it for I am a sensitive little creature, who is especially happy when she is healthy. So the sound of my echoing laugh wakes camp to its simultaneous relief and annoyance.

The tips of tents, noses and fingers are all nipped by the frost of 6am at 4,400 meters (14,520 ft), so as soon as the sun steps a foot in our valley, everyone in our party makes a dash for the growing gold streak that graces itself upon one of the rocky walls enclosing our camp. We’re all shifting our feet, stretching our fingers and otherwise encouraging blood to run its warming course when Javier raises his arm and voice to ask, “Would anyone like to learn how coca leaves are traditionally used here?”

This invitation is enough to coax me from the warm rock on which I sun towards the circle surrounding Feliciano, our head porter. I volunteer without hesitation, “Yes! Please. I would like to try!”

Feliciano pulls out a plastic bag full of muted-green and brittle looking leaves. He shows me the contents and then rifles through to find a choice few. I learn later that this process, of selecting the best leaves, is part of the ritual. But I am, as typical, still ignorant at this point, and so after he has carefully selected a few and then offers me the bag, I clumsily grab an ugly pinch full of small leaves and stems, which I now, looking back, realize must have been slightly insulting. Sometimes I have no choice but to forgive myself my clumsy, cultural fopaux.

Feliciano instructs me to put the little layered bundle into my mouth, chew just enough to put my saliva to the task of breaking down the leaves, and then push the little package for safe keeping to the side of my mouth. He then carefully selects another choice leaf and, with it between his two fingers, pinches off a small edge of a little black rock of tar-like substance. He sandwiches this scrape of black paste within the coca leaf and then hands it to me with the instruction to add it that which I have already amassed, like a chipmunk, in my cheek.

By now there is a very distinctive flavor being juiced by my teeth from the leaves. Unfortunately, because I do not have a refined leaf-eating or -distinguishing palette, I’m unable to classify this flavor as anything other than, “leaf.” I do, however, have experience in the dentist’s chair, and as an unmistakable numbness spreads from my cheek to my lips and chin and I begin to wonder if I’m drooling, I recognize the sensation as a sister of Novocain. Then my stomach starts to churn to the same tune as a shot of espresso and I’m overcome by that slightly jittery and attention-deficit symptom of caffeine overdose. Whew! Even a little heat flash passes over and I look around and ask if any the others participating in the experiment are feeling the same effects. They grimace at the flavor and shake their heads, “no,” which is not abnormal: I also get drunk off one glass of wine; as proof to the aforementioned: a sensitive little creature.

Bu the effects of the coca leaves don’t last long. Technically, the chewing process involves constantly selecting and adding perfect leaves and precise pinches of the catalyst (which, in this case, I learn, is the ash of burned quinoa) to keep this yanatin (sacred pair) effectively secreting the stimulant. But I’m still entertained by the buzz which seems quite equivalent to that which the average North American gets from sipping on coffee through a day in an office cube. The difference, I suppose, being that Peruvians don’t have desperate addictions to a drug whose base ingredient happens to be our normally harmless crop. And that Peruvians don’t, then, point the finger at us for being responsible for the bad habits that plague their social elite. And in response, Peruvians don’t declare a “war” and shadow our lowlands with warplanes that drop highly toxic pesticides on the innocent bushes that naturally grow like weeds around our gardens, houses and animals. Yes. I guess that would be the difference between the United States’ and Peruvian buzzes.

My shame and anger at my country make excellent fuel for my ascent up to the 4,672-meter (15,417 foot) pass. On my way, I overhear one woman exclaim that the climb is more difficult than childbirth. Another participant says it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. The air is thin, but I still manage an unbelieving sigh when I realize there is a 15-year old girl walking in front of me, a 72-year old man on my heels, and a shared goal that has managed to trump that 57 years of age difference with ease. Equally shocking is the fact that our ageless Peruvian porters are carrying twice our haul, yet climbing twice as fast, and doing all this in simple, leather, open-toed sandals. I laugh when I imagine the big mountain retailer brands shuddering at the sight of such tech-less efficiency.


one of our llamas looking over the pass

At the top of the pass, I remove the wad of chewed coca leaves and deposit them, delicately and with respect (as I’ve been instructed), on the ground. Javier and Jairo (another one our guides) wave me over to a cairn that the group has constructed by having each person carry and contribute one stone to the rock formation. Jairo hands me a small bunch of perfect coca leaves and says, “Raise it first to Veronica,” and I follow his instructions and raise the leaves into the air in the direction of the mountain Veronica. Jairo then rotates my arms about 40 degrees and says, “and now raise the offering to the Apus.”

At this I turn to him and ask, “What is Apu?”

And he answers, “The Apus are the mountain spirits. We’re asking for their blessing of good weather for our journey.”

I’m intrigued, but don’t ask questions.

Instead I just hold up the coca leaf offering and hope it will appease these mysterious Apus…

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in PeruDay 3: living in my tiny, little head

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I call it, “living in my head” and am usually sequestered to this claustrophobically small space under one of the following conditions: my 12th consecutive hour in an office, my 4th cup of coffee in one hour, falling in love or severe physical illness. In this case, it’s the last.

I can feel my peripheral vision shrinking by the second and grab my head with both hands in a last attempt to salvage or stabilize a single awareness beyond my shaking body. But there’s no escape; I’m cornered. The contents of my stomach make threatening lurches up my esophagus. Flaming arrows pierce my upper abdomen by the dozen. An externally audible gurgling suggests my stomach has been hit and is sinking with speed. And my skin, fighting first with fire, and then retreating with crawls of chills, cries violently that this battle has only just begun. I set up camp next to the toilet, conflicted only by the question of whether to sit or kneel. In the trenches of the bathroom, I crouch through (what feels like) countless delirious hours of darkness before the sunrise sneaks an early ray of light through my window and I wake to the terrible but telltale clue confirming my condition: sulfur burps. For those lucky enough to not know them, sulfur burps are the notorious signature and unquestionable evidence that a body has been massacred by, none other than, the infamous Giardia parasite.

I walk out the door of my hotel but, still navigating the narrow hall of a body that’s turned all its attention inwards, am oblivious to the horizon expanding effect that fresh air, mountains, and sunrise usually have upon me. My world stops about five inches from my body and my mind resists any attempt to cross that frontline. So I bundle up, get on the bus that will take us to our trek start point, collapse into a seat, lean my head against the window and, unable to even look through the glass, catch only a withered, pale and pathetic reflection of my face before closing my eyes and falling asleep.

When I’m “living in my tiny little head,” everyone knows it as I am a sensitive little creature who is especially miserable when she is miserable. As well, since I spend a good amount of my breathing on showing my amusement, the absence of my laugh is louder than any condition of which I could complain. When we arrive at the clearing where our porters and lamas have gathered, I have to pick up my body parts along with my pack and urge them all to a comfortable stone on which I can collapse.

Javier, our acclaimed and ruggedly handsome guide, puts a tanned and tough hand on my shoulder and says, “Ah. Pobrecita. I’m glad you brought your antibiotics. As soon as we get to camp, we’ll unpack and you’ll start them.” I don’t like taking antibiotics, but there’s not a finger of resistance in me and I agree with a feeble nod.

One of the men from our trekking crew approaches me. He has rosy cheeks chapped with mountain air, little twinkles in each of his eyes like that of a cartoon character, and a smile so earnest and natural that I have no memory of him without it. He introduces himself as Enir, the Head Cook, and puts his hands together in the motions of concocting as he explains that what I need is an infusion of anis and apio to calm my stomach. I’m too tired to even raise an eyebrow at the ill-matched combination of licorice and celery, but manage a weak smile of appreciation.

When we finally reach out first campsite, I crawl into my tent, unpack my bag, pull out my emergency antibiotics and swallow them without hesitation. I then insert a fleece liner into my 0 degree sleeping bag, slip in, and, as advised by Javier, stuff my entire bag-encased lower body into the duffle bag as well. Finally, my chills are, if not absent, contained.

Having not eaten for 24 hours, I can actually feel the antibiotics clearing a path through my body. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but with the dropping of the atomic-antibiotic-bomb, the gurgling comes to a shuddering halt, and all is suddenly quite on the southern front.

Enir appears at my tent with a mug of steaming liquid and passes it through the A-frame of my door, “Apio y Anis; specialty of the house, just for you.”

I muster all that’s left of me to sit upright and accept the tea. I take a sip and sigh my appreciation and Enir is happy for my apparent approval of his home remedy.

A chronic classifier of the events that befall my life into what meaningful omens I can make of them, I have been struggling all day to sort out what conceivable purpose this terrible parasite could have that would pile up in advantages against the hole in which I’ve been buried.

I take a sip and ask, “Enir, what happens when people in the villages here are sick like me?”

He calmly answers, “Well. We have our own remedies, like apio tea, which we can use at first. And if things get really bad, we have to travel to town, which can sometimes take a few days. And there, it can be hard, because the people that live out here are not accustomed to the city, and can be taken advantage of. It’s good you have brought your pills and can take them. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

I will feel better tomorrow. It’s a luxury of my economic advantage (access to medicine, proper alimentation and care) and I know it. I also know that this 24-hour experiential lesson in the illnesses spread by waterborne diseases, such as the giardia parasite, is a demonstration of exactly the type of disease outbreaks that our service project has the aim of alleviating. Our primary project is to repair a reservoir and trench the piping that will allow the village of Quelqanqa access to clear, clean and potable water. And the timing of, and appreciations inspired by, my illness, do not escape me – as I hand back the empty mug, muster a weak smile, collapse back into my bag, and pass out.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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Footprints in PeruDay 1: puncturing peruvian skin & yachcay

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Plaza de Armas, Cusco, Peru

“Where are you from?”

It’s the same first question every shoe shining boy in the Plaza de Armas has been trained to ask.

“The heavens,” I reply in Spanish.

He shakes his head strongly in disagreement and, with confidence, states, “No, you’re not. You’re from the United States.”

Curiosity piqued by how he distinguished an American from the hordes of equally white German, French and Dutch visitors in Cusco, I challenge, “How do you know that?”

He doesn’t even glance down at the evidence, but holds my gaze steady and references, “From the brand of your sandals.”

I laugh out loud, as Chacos, indeed, are predominately worn by persons, and of a company, North American.

He continues, “The capital of United States is Washington, DC. President Clinton had a dog named Buddy and a girlfriend name Monica. Now there is President Bush. He has a dog named Barney.”

I had this same conversation, regarding presidential pets, in this same plaza in Peru, eight years ago. And I’m caught off balance for only a second, startled by the circles life has a fondness for spinning us in. Peru was my first backpacking adventure abroad, and now, some 40-something traversed countries and six years later, I marvel at how many times I orbited the Earth in order to find myself on the exact same bench where I opened up the first of (what would become) a bookcase of travel journals and scribbled the opening chapter chronicling the turning of an insider, out.

I presume that the point of these little life pirouettes, is to 1. realize that no matter how fast or far we spin, we end up in the same spot and 2. recognize, if lucky, either in our environment or selves, some change.

Well, today, the stars have aligned in my favor because I sigh in relief of the observation that although my bench has proven itself quite static, for all the rotations around the sun, neither Cusco nor I remain the same. Cusco is brighter, cleaner, prettier and while I can’t claim the same, I will give myself credit for a, since, acquired proficiency in Spanish and the six years of experience that age and separate me from my first memory of this bench.

I note an example of this difference when a boy selling postcards approaches me. Eight years ago, this same encounter ended abruptly with a wagging finger. This time I ask the boy where he’s from, what he does in school, and who painted the picture on the postcard. He takes a seat on the bench next to me and explains: He goes to school in the mornings and takes painting classes in the afternoons. He shows me, in order of difficulty, the layers of watercolor that he himself has impressed upon the paper. He explains that the lama faces are the most challenging of strokes and he shows me the places where his teacher assisted by using her own brush, and then proudly indicates to his own signature and name on the bottom of the card. Eight years ago, I relented to persistency and bought the postcard to keep the picture captured on its front. Today, I buy the card to capture the memory of the conversation and pat the pride of accomplishment displayed upon the boy’s face.

Perhaps I am a petty travel snob, but I hate being grouped as a “tourist” and love to think that if I can only penetrate those shallow layers of first impressions and interactions, then even in this district that reportedly relies on tourism for over 60% of its income and employment, I will be able to find unique and authentic exchanges with the people and country of Peru.

That is my question, goal and hope.

The reason I have come to Peru is to participate in a community service project in a tiny and remote village called, Quelqanqa that is hidden, without road access, within the glaciated peaks of the Urubamba mountain range. I hope this mission will provide me a path that will penetrate through Peru’s sun and time-toughened skin. I have only two weeks, so I don’t have any expectations of reaching the heart of a country that through years of strife, struggle, myth and mystery is most certainly escondido (hidden) to even those who are born within its borders. No. If anything, my global travels have only convinced and resigned me to the eternity of being an outsider. The heart I dare not hope to touch. But just under the skin. That’s my modest aspiration.

In my pre-trip online investigation of the area, I have learned a Quechua word and principle of Andean life: yachcay. It means, “to learn, to know and to remember” with the understanding that all true knowledge comes from direct personal experience guided by insight and intuition. Perhaps it’s a easy mission. Perhaps it’s intricate. Sitting on this bench in the Plaza de Armas, surrounded by tourist busses, trinket hawkers and a hundred different lines each rehearsed a thousand times, it does not seem a simple task.

And so with an appropriate challenge of yachcay, I venture forth…

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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