Vamos la!

"Un homme toujours se marie avec une fille plus blanche de lui, mais toujours fait l'amour avec une fille plus noire de lui. Fais attention!"
("A man always marries a girl who is whiter than him, but always makes love to a girl who is darker than him. Be careful!")
- an old French lady in Ouro Preto

Despite racially problematic comments like these, I was so excited to be in Brazil, a country with ethnic diversity! Sure, Peruvians come from a mix of backgrounds (variations on the Spanish vs. Incan vs. gringo theme) and have their fair share of racism, but I hadn't seen a black or Asian person in two months.

My two weeks in Brazil were crazy, just a taster of the vast country's rich culture and history. I need to try to get some of this stuff down.
[Photo: from the bus from São Paulo to Ouro Preto.]



I ended up making friends with a big group of guys who hang out in the Praça Tiradentes in Ouro Preto. My main buddy, Sergio, came from a mining family of 7 brothers and 5 sisters who moved down to Minas Gerais from Bahia. With a glass eye and a water bottle full of cachaça always at his side, he fed me caipirinhas and introduced me to his brothers, who, between the blood ones and the friends, made up half the town. One of his brothers owned five precious gems stores, and Sergio worked at most of them, although that usually meant showing up at about 1 p.m. with a hangover and a 5 a.m. story.

Every night was a variation on the same theme; I'd have a caipirinha with Sergio while he'd promise to take me to the nearby waterfalls the next morning. Then, his friend Renauldo would take me to an all-you-can-eat meat buffet, or another would show me the live music scene, or Sergio's youngest brother would screen a ripped copy of the hot film of the moment, Tropa de Elite. Then, the next morning, I'd come to the store, wait 15 minutes for Sergio, to be polite, and then happily go do my own thing.

Doing my own thing became all about the opposing forces of above and below ground. Minas Gerais is full of gilded Baroque churches, the kind that, instead of inspiring spiritual musings, make me think immediately of the Church, the institution, the money. Nothing new for me--Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome has the same effect--but, in Minas Gerais, you can go into the mines afterwards.


This is the Mariana gold mine, where we descended 300 meters in a rickety wooden cart that ran on metal tracks. My guide, Anton, was the son of a miner who used to work in that very mine, which closed in 1985. When I asked Anton about the dangers of working down there, I got the same response I’d gotten from Sergio, Renauldo and countless others: “Yes, it is dangerous.” They don’t deny, but they don’t explain, either.


Anton told me all about the mine, about its quartz, graphite and false gold, about how it closed because extracting only 4 grams of real gold required a lot of work and could only be sold for 200 reais (about $114). Now, the mine is used by tourists and adventurers; you can go scuba diving through the narrow, enclosed lagoons at 400 meters.


A brief, underground glimpse into Brazil’s religious mix. Representing the practices of the slaves who lived in the mines, and of the paid miners who eventually replaced them, these are two shrines, one Catholic and one Candomblé. This distinction, however, is not particularly useful, as Candomblé itself is African religion in Catholic clothing, started by slaves who needed to conceal their spiritual practices, and the Catholic saint in the photo is an example of that. She is Santa Barbara, Mariana’s saint and the patron of underground labor and general catastrophe. Apparently, when Barbara converted to Christianity, her father was the one to condemn her to death, and, at the moment of her execution, he was struck dead by a bolt of lightning. And so, Anton told me, when shocked by a loud noise, many exclaim, “Santa Barbara!”

On the left, Praça Tiradentes of Ouro Preto. Tiradentes, pronounced "Chiradenchis," was a revolutionary during the Inconfidência, which, like many revolutions, took place in the late 1700s. Of his group of bourgeois intellectuals fighting for independence, he was the only one to be made an example of… and what an example! He was decapitated and quartered and that’s why every city in Brazil has a Praça Tiradentes. If you squint, you can see his statue here, in the middle of the square. The building behind it is the Museu da Inconfidência.


Below, some views of Ouro Preto. The second photo was taken on a mound where lots of decapitated thieves are buried!






RIO DE JANEIRO

I met up with Jackson and two of his friends who are also living in São Paulo, and we stayed in a Swedish hostel in Ipanema. A couple of shots of Ipanema beach at night; on the left, everyone is napping.















This is Jesus. Or, the Corcovado. Probably the most touristy thing you can do in Rio, but the views were worth it. And the clouds were sweet. Jesus is huge and, creepily enough, you can see him from most parts of the city. And he can see you.


Despite being in the shadow of the creepy Jesus, the Jews are still happy.































The center of Rio can be best described by the word decadente, which essentially means beautiful old buildings falling apart. We walked through the area on a Sunday and thus couldn't tell which shops were closed for the day and which were closed for life. We didn't see a soul, apart from a drunk peeing on his shoe in Praça Tiradentes.






































Later, we wandered down to the bay, bought a contraband version of Tropa de Elite off the street for 4 reais, then hiked up to a neighborhood called Santa Teresa, which is essentially the Venice, CA of Rio. We followed the small, winding streets to pricey boutiques with cafés attached.
Uncomfortably enough for its ritzy inhabitants, Santa Teresa is right next door to a group of favelas, which are Rio's hillside slums; City of God, for example, took place in a favela. Favelas, however, exist all over Latin America and what distinguishes them is their tax-exempt status and their government by drug gangs. Rio favelas are not necessarily the poorest or the most dangerous neighborhoods; doctors live there, and violence usually only erupts when the police move in for a raid. Nevertheless, most favela residents live at minimum wage, which, in Brazil, is really not sustainable. Many have moved in from the nordeste, building houses on top of flat-roofed houses, making room for cousins and siblings.

You cannot just walk into a favela, however, as the drug cartels keep guards at the entrances and, even in a favela as large as Rocinha (two photos above), everyone seems to know who everyone else is. With some 200,000 inhabitants, Rocinha is the largest favela in Latin America, although some say it comes in second to a favela in Caracas.

You can go in with a tour, however, so we went to Rocinha with a group called Be-a-local. Having spent two months being on the other side of tourism of the poor, I was very skeptical. And, when we got into a van with three Norwegian blonds in booty shorts, my confidence didn't skyrocket. At the end of the day, though, we were pretty impressed. Our tour guide, who was a carioca (from Rio), didn't try to shelter us--he told us that, just last week, there had been a raid, and that people often die in the crossfire--nor did he exoticize the favela life, reminding us that most Rocinha inhabitants live quietly into their 70s.

The day we were there, there were torrential rains, turning the steep, dirty streets into gushing sewers. We happily walked right through the muck, giggling at the Norwegians in flip-flops who were trying to avoid the river of garbage by tip-toeing along the practically non-existent sidewalks. We had arrived at the top of the hill on motorbikes, and I clung to the soaked jacket of my taxista as we forged rivers and squeezed in between trucks, revving our way up and up.


On the walk down, we stopped in an artists' studio, a bakery and a daycare center, which Be-a-local supports. They also get funding from an Italian organization that gives us money, too, and I was so excited to hear that, I fell down the stairs in the daycare. I still have the remnants of the gigantic bruise, which I prefer to call my favela knife wound.

Some of the kids we met on the street, like this one on the left, spoke English, which just goes to show how popular this tourism of the poor has become. I couldn't help but laugh as we trudged by open doorways, which gave us glimpses of crowded kitchens, men sitting around drinking beers, in hammocks, smoking joints, watching us. They laughed back, and our ridiculousness didn't particularly embarrass me. The tour may have been inherently problematic, but it was the only way to see Rocinha, given that we didn't have time to make friends with one of its residents, and I am so glad to have been there.
(This whole experience has made me more sympathetic to the tourists who come to Mosoq Runa for lunch. I usually laugh at their superficial introduction to the Poor Children of Peru, but now I think I get it-- better something than nothing. Within certain limits.)



A last note on the favelas: Tropa de Elite (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0861739/) is a fantastic film about this topic; it's about the BOPE, an "elite" police force that is theoretically more immune to corruption by the drug gangs than the municipal police. They are the ones who conduct the raids, and they're scary as shit. I highly recommend getting your hands on the film, if you can.

Then we went to Ilha Grande, a tropical paradise.

SÃO PAULO: Cuidado Veículos
When I saw that written on small placards by parking garages, I had to laugh; I couldn't think of a bigger understatement.

São Paulo is big. It is so big, it has shocked even this New Yorker. With 12 million people, it has the largest Japanese population outside of Japan, the largest Italian population outside of Italy, a ton of Jews. This is according to Jackson's Paulistano flatmate. Whether he's exaggerating or not, there's no denying São Paulo's diversity.
Traffic is so heavy that watches get snatched off the wrists of waiting drivers. Intersections are terrifying, making huge bridges, like the one above, absolutely necessary.


It's Venice; blown up, modernized and coated with grime. A new skyscraper next to a nineteenth-century Portuguese-style building-- and either could be the dirtier one.

Above, the Mercado municipal, jammed into an old, cream-colored building that looks like a train station. The outdoor market is far more overwhelming, however. I passed shops with hundreds of shoes crammed into the window, a fitting backdrop to the stands out front, selling wooden cutting boards.
Street vendors throw small balls back and forth onto Velcro pads to tune of Jingle Bells, Grease and El Condor Pasa (a nightmarish surprise).



There are crowds, then there's space. There are beautiful museums and well-kept parks, cute cafés and smelly fast food joints. We went to a posh bar with all-you-can-eat fejoiada (a heavy mix of black beans, meat and rice). A contradiction? Perhaps. It's a city you have to live in.

[Above: View from Jackson's swanky law office; his flatmate on their roof; watering the plants]







Out of South America until January 10th.

Love to all.

Royale with cheese

"Ouro Preto. Always wide smiles and open."
- a pamphlet I have
(Original text: "Ouro Preto. Portas e sorrisos sempre abertos.")

See? Translating is a viable career choice!


A moment more for Peru, however...
The last week at Mosoq Runa was a party. Literally. Ccotohuincho had its anniversary, which meant everyone was drinking chicha (made with flour) at all hours, dancing in the streets and neglecting their children-- so business as usual. We also went to Ollantaytambo's birthday party and sampled their chicha... after an incredible hike around some high(er) altitude villages (photos to come).

Last Thursday, Yeni took me to the house of a musician friend of hers for dinner. The house, about a half hour walk through the back roads of Urubamba, was gorgeous-- all wood floors, high ceilings and amazing acoustics... a far cry from adobe. Carlos and his wife, Ysabel, were so welcoming, and I ended up jamming with Carlos for hours. I'd brought my flute with me, but I also tried out some of his instruments. It's incredible how you can hear the material; a simple, heavy wooden flute makes a low, rough whistle, while a tiny piece of bone hums and whines its way into the hollow of your tooth. My own Yamaha's tones are pure and beautiful, but lack the echo of the Andes.
Carlos also has a keyboard, and I was ecstatic to play it; I hadn't touched a piano since I left New York. So we sang and played, and he showed me the instruments he makes himself, guitars and the like. I also listened to a recording of his group, who does experimental Andean music. He invited me to play with them in January, as they need a girl who can play keyboards and sing...
Afterwards, mate and sweet mais. Then, the walk back home, under the starry skies.

My last two days in Ccotohuincho were sunny and gorgeous. I spent as much time as I could with the kids, having water fights and promising them that, yes, I'll be back in January, which comes before February, so, yes, I'll be here for your birthday.

Saturday, I took a colectivo to Cusco and hopped on the 18-hour bus to Lima. The views were insane, and I loved watching the cliffs rise and fall while listening to "Ripple" and Townes Van Zandt. Easing my way back into my other life...?
On the bus, I met a Limeño who also works in an hogar. We got to talking almost immediately about sex ed and the like, which suited me just fine. 18 hours and three high quality films (Shaolin Soccer, Kangaroo Jack and White Fang, all in Spanish of course) later, we arrived in Lima and went to breakfast. Over a jugo de papaya, he poured his heart out to me. It started when he mentioned casually that he was Christian (thanks, buddy, I didn't get that from the huge DIOS tattooed on your arm), and I asked him if he'd been raised that way. No, it happened a year ago, when he was in a bad car accident that left his spine in knots. He was practically paralyzed from the neck down, and his family, his girlfriend and his friends abandoned him, for he was worthless.
He ended up in a bed of some boarding house, where the señora would bring him food and water, which he mostly refused. He read the Bible which was next to his bed and cursed God for not helping him.
One day, the señora asked if she could pray for him at her church; he told her to go fuck herself. The next day, she brought her priest and four church friends to his room, and they started praying anyway. He cursed at them, but they wouldn't go away. Then, the priest said, "Give me your hand." "I can't, you idiot!" "Give me your hand. Have faith." And so on. Until, finally, he was able to move his hand to the priest's, who helped him up from the bed. He turned and saw that his spine was straight. He'd been cured. Since then, he's been a Christian.

I don't even know his name.

At the Lima airport, at the bar, a Goldie Hawn type: "So they're down there praying and I'm up here drinking."
Yes, lady, I thought, and went to get my Quarter Pounder with Cheese (which, sadly, is translated literally into the Spanish).

The flight to São Paulo was short and sweet; only 4 hours. Then a rush to catch the 8am bus to Ouro Preto... 11 sweet hours of dozing, hallucinating that I was on an alien planet where I could almost-but-not-quite understand the language, and drooling over the pretty scenery.
More on that scenery-- the Brazilian countryside was a shock after Peru; it's greener, fuzzier, more humid, stickier, mistier, than its Peruvian counterpart. The magic is different; it doesn't come from the cold, sharp Andean air, but from the mystery of that heat, the dark colors and the heavy odors.
We stopped to eat, twice, at typical (I'm quoting the bus driver here) Brazilian fast food joints; one was called "NYC Burger." Everything was fried pastry, mostly with cheese, and it was yummy. Although now I'd kill for a salad.

I had a mission in Ouro Preto. To find an old friend of Mario's, someone he spent some time with in Italy six years back, a miner of precious gems, with only seven fingers left, named Jesus. I arrived in the Praça Tiradentes last night, having skidded down the cobblestoned streets from the bus station, to meet a shady character who took me to a hostel off the square. He then proceeded to show me a stack of business cards, and I was about to turn to the owner of the hostel for help, when I spotted Jesus' name. Turns out, he's a good friend of Shady and the hostel owner, and his shop is right across the street! Unfortunately, he's in Italy now, but I went by the shop today, met his wife and co-worker, bought a ring, and made plans to drink capirinhas with them tonight.

Well, back to speaking my Italo-spagnolo and trying to understand these crazy, sliding vowels.

Love to all.

Il diluvio

The rains have started. The roads, split open for pipe work, turn to rivers, the temperature drops, the peak of Chicon slips out of sight. My dusty feet are finally clean.

The last three weeks have been so hectic, a whirlwind of events, that I'm only just now catching my breath. The main thing that happened was that Ada, the director of the hogar, got quite sick and had to go to the hospital. During the week she was there, they diagnosed her with everything from terminal cancer to kidney stones, so she decided to go to Milan, where she is being examined by Pietro's father and housed by Manu's parents. We're all so relieved she's being taken care of properly, but we're still awaiting the results, which adds quite a bit of tension to daily life here. Apart from these obvious worries, it's strange not having her here, for the children but also for me. I loved being able to talk to her about the kids, about her life, about what it means to be a gringa doing what she is doing in Peru. Our conversations always resonanted deeply for me. I miss having a strong, older female presence around.

Luckily, speaking of females, the new Italian girl that just arrived, Elisa, is fantastic. Good thing too, as she's staying for six months. Sophia is off traveling at the moment, and I hadn't realized, before, how much I counted on having her around. Should be fun when all three of us are here in January. We might even outnumber the boys for a few days!

Another change is that Mario is back. He's a roman who started up the Italian cooking workshop and bakery last year; Pietro took over from him for a few months. Now, Mario is back in charge-- and how great to hear romanaccio barked from the kitchen! He also plays the sax, and we've jammed together a few times. When I get back in January, he's going to take me to the places he used to play at, a club in Cusco and my favorite restaurant here in Urubamba. We also have grand plans to start up a music workshop in January, during the kids' summer holidays, but there might not be enough time. They're already going to have workshops in English (run by me), computers, theatre, ceramics... So I don't know. I may try to set up private lessons, though, as quite a few of the kids have already asked me to teach them guitar, flute and singing.

There is another idea, though, that might be even more interesting. Elisa, who's studied psychology, is on board. We want to do more with sex ed, and we want to start at an earlier age. In the past few weeks, I've had to confront issues of genital hygiene, puberty, sex... It all started when Princesa, one of the dogs, got VD and spread it all around the neighborhood (dogs). Unfortunately, what she has is contagious for humans as well. Ew. So we told the kids not to touch the dogs and to wash their hands, but, the next day, the youngest girl came to me with itching and burning. Oh SHIT. That night, she had to go home, so I went with her and talked to her mother about vaginal cleanliness and the like. (My Spanish vocabulary skyrocketed in a matter of hours.) I said, "please don't put vinegar on it," because I know that's a common remedy. "Ok," she said, and put breast milk on it instead. But, you know what, that may have worked, as the next day all was well.
A few days later, though, another girl had the same problem, after spending the night at her house. I know that, when she's at home, she doesn't bathe or change clothes... nothing serious, but all this got me thinking...

And there's more: I've had to explain some pretty basic ground rules of menstruation to one of the older girls, even though she started a year ago. This turned into a long conversation about sex, as I wanted to know what her friends say (and do). She had lots of questions, about everything from the mechanics of it to AIDS. "How do you know when someone has AIDS?" she asked. For instance. It made me wonder when she would have gotten answers, if we hadn't happened to have that conversation. I also found out that the two older boys got a condom demonstration at the hogar, but the girls no. Well, obviously that set me off, talking this poor girl's ear off about sexual power balance and, yes, even microbicides.

In view of all this, Elisa and I want to work more with these issues, starting at an early age. Thanks to Bank Street, I knew all about wet dreams and periods at age 8! I know that Ada has already worked a bit with these issues, but, from what I've witnessed, there's more to be done. I can't imagine what it's like to hit puberty in an hogar of 13 kids, without any privacy. Furthermore, the clock is ticking, and, before long, they will be out in the world. It's imperative that, when that time comes, they have a healthy awareness of their bodies and a good understanding of the changes they're undergoing. Especially the girls. Dear God, especially the girls. (Although, actually, if these boys leave the hogar armed with condoms and a respect for women, that wouldn't be half bad.)

---

I leave in a week. It is so strange, imagining waking up to anything but mountains and mate and runny nosed children. At the same time, I need a break; the last few weeks have exhausted me. Yesterday, I had to yell at Rodrigo, which made him cry, which made me cry, of course. "I'm losing my marbles," I thought, which made me laugh. Which made him confused. That crazy volunteer with the crazy hair, and where is she from anyway?
Anyway, I'm really looking forward to Brazil, but I am dreading going back to New York. The rush, the stress, the fast talk... I'm not sure I can take it. At least I have January to look forward to... I can't wait to come back here, refreshed (maybe- I've calculated 40 hours of plane travel in the next two months), and get back into it.

Love to all.

a glimpse!

mototaxi by the river


the garden and the view from Ada's office


el valle sagrado... with the taller de teatro on the left

from behind my house

same view, at night

yulissa and me at a park in cusco

same park, with yulissa's older brother, deiner

ignacio, always photogenic

some of the kids plus simone in cusco

javier, at home

edgar and simone

all the volunteers plus ada

one day, we stripped wood

pisco sours

what we do at night. to the right, the bathroom. to the left, the kitchen.

francesco and princesa

river view in pisac

sophia in the pisac toilet

simone and me at the market in chinchero

Don't be vexin me

(This is from "the Rockers," a film I highly recommend. Of course, being who I am, I got way into the linguistic side of things. Seen? Sight.)

This (writing) is becoming more and more difficult.
I suppose this is my life now, my real life, and it's getter harder to observe.

It's been a full ten days... last week, most of my time was taken up with the theatre workshop, as we had a performance last Friday, at Sol y Luna. They were having a function for a new book on Machu Picchu, written in Quechua, Spanish and English, so all the suits from the local schools were there. Very swanky. Then there was the Mosoq Runa table, all of us in sweatshirts, drinking Pisco Sours. I managed to lead the group of musicians, by which I mean a new Italian guy on sax and Sophia on guitar. And me on flute. It's pretty funny how this instrument, which I never took too seriously, compared to piano, and never thought much of, has become important in my life here. For instance, Yeni (the theatre teacher and Manu's girlfriend) is going to take me to Cusco to meet the musicians that play for her theatre group. I saw them perform at the Urubamba Arts festival for kids last week, and immediately asked Yeni if I could meet them. So hopefully that will work out.

I'm starting to think about what my life will be like here, when I come back in January. Did I mention that before, by the way? I'm coming back in January. I suppose this period feels like a taster, like an introduction, albeit a long, full one. Right now, my objective is to be here, to get to know Mosoq Runa, and not much else. But I realize--both due to my own restlessness as well as my creeping guilt about not having a paying job--that things will have to change next year. First, I'm going to try to specialize my work at Mosoq Runa, teaching music and theatre and English and the like. I'm also going to get a job, probably teaching English, in town. And, hopefully, I'll be playing music with these folks whom I have yet to meet.

Music. To return to that subject... it's crazy how visceral a need it is. I don't really realize it until I'm in a place without a piano, without a singing group, without music lessons. The communal guitar is saving me. I've been teaching Sophia lots of TUIB songs, and we just got the harmony down on Angel from Montgomery, which sounds pretty sweet. This new Italian guy, who's also named Francesco, is also way into music, as he directs music videos in Italy. And the original cook, Mario, who's coming back in a couple of weeks, well, it's his sax, so hopefully we'll jam.

This week has been a school vacation for the kids, so we've done some day trips with them, to a park in Cusco and to a swimming pool in Pisac. Between Sophia and my cameras, there are lots of photos to post, but I forgot to bring the necessary equipment with me today... next time, though.

I've been having lots of fun with the older kids recently. Fidel's 15, Ernesto's 14, Vilma and Edith are 13. Fidel, Ernesto and I play music together, which is pretty hilarious, as Ernesto is musical but tone deaf, when it comes to singing. I've also been teaching Fidel important English vocabulary, like "whoopass." The kids love this stuff, obviously, even though they're always slightly confused, as most of them still think I'm Italian. Meno male.
Vilma and I have taken to dancing in the evenings in the theatre workshop, where there's a big mirror, so I can see just how much of a gringa I am. I've also been practicing at the local club, where one of the only two gay guys (they're brothers) in Urubamba has been teaching me to shake my booty. I think I'm getting better.

In other news: we had an earthquake here! It was at night, and I was outside, on the phone, looking at the mountains, so I didn't notice. But the boys were inside and started flipping out. Apparently they saw, out the window, part of the red cliff fall onto the motorcross track. Yeni told me later that her entire family felt it and ran outside, her father in his underwear. I think the tremor only lasted for 3-4 seconds, so not quite at the level of Pisco, or as important at the meteorite in Puno, but, still, some excitement.

The other night, it was my turn to sleep at the kids' house and, after the usual chasing Ernesto and Fidel away from the Nutella, Ernesto's little brother, Ignacio, started calling my name. He couldn't sleep. I told him to think of happy thoughts, and he said that every happy thought turned into something bad. *One of those "holy shit how do I qualify to deal with these kids' problems" moments* Luckily, however, the topic of computers and Playstations seemed to work, and the idea that my brother works with robots sent him into seventh heaven. So, thanks, Gabe.

Another night, Ignacio's roommate, Rodrigo, asked me to tell him a Christmas story before bed. *One of those "um, you don't know what a Jew is, I have no idea what I'm talking about, what is mirrh anyway?" moments* Fortunately, he meant Santa Claus, and this I am perfectly qualified to talk about. And, of course, there are lots of lessons--about wishing, how all children are good, and the physics of time travel--within that story.

Discipline is tough. I'm trying to follow what Francesco and Manu tell me, so as to fit within the rules of the hogar, which are made with love but quite strict. For example, when Ignacio and Monica were naughty the other day during homework time, I had to scold them at lunch, in front of everybody. I get the idea behind this, as it reinforces the idea of communal living, that we're one big family, all responsible to one another. But this time it wasn't a group issue; Ignacio and Monica have problems following directions, and I felt that this should have been dealt with in private. I go back and forth, sometimes disobeying the rules myself so as to be gentler with the kids, and sometimes being fairly harsh with them. At the end of the day, I do believe that it is my job to listen to what Francesco and Ada say, and to trust that, with their years of experience with this group of kids, that they yell for a reason. Hopefully, though, as time goes by, I'll get better at adhering to these rules, without losing my own independence and beliefs as an educator.

To tell the truth, I'm exhausted, sore from hiking and swimming, and finishing some sort of 24-hour bug, so I'm going to sign off. I came into town mostly to help Vilma write emails to an Italian pen pal, so, with that done, back home. Pietro made lots of biscuits today, there's mate de coca to be had, and all our 4-soles DVDs to watch. A quiet night at home, with good friends.

Love to all.

Conservation, constipation

So there isn't a lot of water here. Although the faenas (mandatory collective work) have just started, and they're working on getting more water to Ccotohuincho and Habitat, so we'll see.

But, in general, not a lot. And it's all cold. When we do the dishes, we fill up bins with the freezing cold water and wash outside. It's chilly. My hands have started to chap and bleed, very nice.
Funny story from a couple of weeks ago-- I spent the first week taking freezing cold showers with a bucket. And loved it; how rugged I felt! This is the real life, outside of the city. Eventually, though, I discovered that Francesco had simply forgotten to tell me about the hot water switch. Ha. Go figure. Not that the water's warm now, or anything, and we still use a bucket. But it doesn't have that same bite. All I have to endure now is the endless teasing. Little Bexy (and yes, they discovered that nickname all on their own) from New York who thought she was so hard core!

Ah, well, there's been lots to deal with this week. For starters, all the kids have been getting sick, with fevers and sore throats and such. This has provided me with a most interesting view into Peruvian medicine, and I don't mean Incan medicine. Incan medicine is pretty fantastic, when used correctly, from what I've seen so far. One of the Italians guys has been practically cured of his dust allergy, which in Ccotohuincho is no small matter. Anyway, the medical care I'm talking about is something entirely different. I took two of the boys to the free clinic, as they both had fevers and one had a sore throat, and BAM! Antibiotics! At double the dose that I'd have thought necessary. Plus, after a quick exam, the doctor tells me that one of the kids has a problem with his lungs and shouldn't run for two days. Then she made me leave. And I stood in the street with these two hyper kids, wondering. Two days of no running for a lung problem? Sounds like a couple of Hail Marys to me.

Then I've had my own health business to deal with, although most of that has been comical. After all that bread and rice--without the cure of Leocadia's lentils, which we haven't had for a while--my body sort of stopped functioning properly. But not to worry, mom and dad, I started to do a tour of Italian ricette della nonna. First Pietro, with his grandma's lasagna with lots of peperoncino and uncooked olive oil. Then Manu, who fed me two more spoonfuls of olive oil. Then Sophia, the German girl, who made me eat apples, very healthy. Then I said no more thank you very much and went off and drank about a litre of coffee and felt better immediately.

So I think I should write a book about these ricette della nonna. Manu was telling me the other day about his great-grandmother, who lived near Bari, who was famous for curing earaches. She would trap baby mice, fry them alive and stick the fat in somebody's ear. The entire town would line up for this miracle cure. And, you know what, after my experience with ear infections, sulfa medications and full body rashes, I wouldn't mind having a bottle of some baby mouse fat lying around.

In other news, we had a night out in Cusco this weekend. And it really felt like a big deal, being in a city. I felt very rushed and crowded. But we went to this great club with live reggae music, in a big group of Italians who live in Cusco, and it was excellent.

I'm off. Have to deliver some bread for Pietro, who cooks and sells food for Mosoq Runa to various restaurants in the area. Then back to Ccotohuincho in time for homework.

Love to all.

Gadol dag

Well, some of you may be pleased to read the title of this post. For those of you who don't know, this is pretty much all that remains of my Hebrew. Big fish. My housemates are very interested in learning all about Judaism, so I told them all I know. Including these two words, which have become very important in our house, because now, the head volunteer, Francesco, has gone from being called "capo" to "gadol dag," or "grande pesce."
Our house has changed a bit in the past week, actually, with the arrival of two new volunteers, a German girl and another Italian guy. We now have language lessons pinned to the wall, with lists of how to say "vaffanculo" in five different languages. It's good for me to have Sophia, the German girl, around, though, because I have to speak Spanish with her and can't lapse into Italian. Also, a little female companionship...!

Another great week. With Sophia around to help in the kitchen, I spent my mornings translating a booklet on Mosoq Runa from Italian to English. As a result, I was in Ada's office all the time, listening to her Dylan and Jefferson Airplane tapes. While translating the booklet, I discovered all sorts of things about the kids, and much of it wasn't so great. Ada and I have now talked at length about the families, the violence, the rapes, and how a gringa can possibly deal with these sensitive cultural issues successfully. All this really plugged into many ideas I've been having over the past few years, about what it means to be progressive, to be a woman, outside of the Northeast US. It's fascinating, what the simplest of tasks at the Home brings to my mind. For example, the three girls who help around the house, teasing me about "platanos"...

Emotionally, sometimes I struggle. For instance, the three year old who went missing last week keeps running off, and has cut his forehead in the same place that his brother did a couple of weeks ago. One can only hope that he really did bump his head on a table... Anyway, having babysat a three year old all summer, having watched her every move (and this for low key parents!), I really can't get used to letting Javier run off home when he wants. But, in his case, his mother is around, as she's the cook, so I have to defer to her. She still has me clean their cuts, though.

There's another group of kids whose house is next door, and whose mother is around. She moved her kids into Mosoq Runa last year because she was ill and had to go to Lima, but according to my housemates she's hasn't left yet. Anyway, her youngest kid, Yulissa, who's six, went home to find her mom a couple of days ago and I found her crying in a tree. I was completely confused, having been led to her by Javier, the three year old. Apparently she'd been looking and looking for her mother and couldn't find her. The neighbor told me she was next door, so I took Yulissa there so she could spend time with her mom, like she wanted. When I asked her later what they'd done together, she said, I watched a video. Like that. Jesus. I don't say this to judge, because these mothers... these women endure a whole lot of violence and many are completely trapped in cycles of abuse that began who knows when. But it's like this every day. I look at this five year old and I don't know what to think. She's extremely seductive, always kissing and hugging and asking to be carried, and... I don't know what to think.

I could tell you stories... but you can probably imagine. A mentally retarded girl in the Home, who's my age, was raped by her stepfather and her school janitor. A twelve year old girl, who was abandoned by her mother on a doorstep, was taken back by her father, raised by him, and then taken away eight years later by her mother, who accused her father of sexually abusing their daughter. Now, the father is all she has, and he's in jail. But he abused her! But he loved her. He took care of her. She loves him. She's only twelve years old. And she is lovely and at the same time old and young and all the kids love her. She lives at the Home full-time and is the only one who doesn't have a sibling there too.

I suppose what makes all this all the more confusing is the Home itself. It's an equalizer, and I don't know what their actual homes look like! They wear nice clothes and keep a strict schedule, getting up as early as 5:30 am to make breakfast. One of them plays a little guitar and fingerpicked "Dust in the Wind" for me. I'm teaching another boy how to play my flute. He's quite good.

But don't you see how confusing all this is? Compounded by the fact that I am living happily there, with Italians who I'm actually growing to adore.

I don't suppose I'll ever be able to say much more than "this happened, then this," and that's fine. There's analysis, yes, but it's not going to fit into much of anything.

What else happened: today, I took a couple of the kids to the motorcross, which we watched with all of Ccotohuincho from a clifftop, as the motorcylists raced around a course across the river. The backdrop was a red cliff, the same as the one I see from my front door.

Last night I lay on the big rock behind my house and looked at the stars for ages. Different constellations here.

The dogs are all in heat and are CRAZY. Five females and one male. All the females are mounting each other, and, when my housemates try to stop them, I have to stand up for their rights. "It's not wrong, it's her choice!" There you go, Brearley, thank you for making me into a protector of sexual preference!

We watched a film called "Sansara" last night, about a Tibetan monk who discovers women, basically. It was insane, such a good film. I highly recommend it, particularly the Italian version as seeing Tibetan monks speak Italian is pretty great.

I went out for a nice meal with a couple of visiting Italians the other night. 30 soles (under 10 dollars) for wine, carpaccio di alpaca, dessert... Mostly, I spend a sol every now and again, for mototaxis and internet.

More about the Home: The kids are doing a version of Pygmalion (go figure) for a festival in Urubamba and I'm going to play the flute for it. I've been helping out in the theatre workshop, which is run by my housemate's girlfriend, who's from here.

And so I'm trying to develop my own program, training myself in various things... like Spanish. At least I'm keeping up my Italian.

Love to all.

Free day today! The kids are camping with their school, so I walked into town. It doesn´t take that much more time on foot, as the motor taxis crawl along...

Ok wow: English. I´m reading Henderson the Rain King to try to keep it up. Speaking Italian and Spanish all day is becoming easier though, especially since I can lapse in and out of both with the other volunteers.

What a week I´ve had. I wish I could post photos, but that´ll have to wait, as I´ve been postponing every electronic task... sorting out my phone, for instance. But it is just so beautiful here. Strong sun, even stronger winds. I found out the other day that people aroud here call Ccotohuincho, where I live, "the Afghanistan of Urubamba," which obviously is hilarious to me, a city girl in awe of all these mountains.

How to explain all this? It´s overwhelming, the idea of trying to communicate half of what I´ve been thinking. Here: I get up between 6 and 7, depending on the day, make breakfast for the kids and send them off to school. Then I help the women who come to clean and cook (whose kids are also around) until lunch, which is the biggest meal of the day. So far I´ve learned how to make many kinds of rice and have encountered at least 10 of the thousands of types of potatoes that grow in the valley. We chat a lot and one of the girls tried to teach me to dance yesterday.

The kids come back in shifts in the early afternoon, and it´s playtime. I´ve spent most of that time with the smaller children, who think that I draw really well (ha) and are teaching me important Spanish vocabulary-- animals, princes, castles, and the like. They´re all good fun, ranging in age from 3 years old to 16. I´ve won over a 14 year old boy with my copy of In Touch magazine. He now looks at it daily, trying to memorize all the facts about Bruce Willis´ hairdresser and Britney´s rehab, and constantly asks me: "But really, these stars don´t eat??" "That´s right, they have loads of money and don´t eat." There´s nothing like explaining something like that in Ccotohuincho to make you realize, again, how weird our culture is.

Oh, another funny cultural thing that happened: One of the eight year old boys, actually the cutest one, who makes me want to have children immediately, cut his head a week or so ago on a bench. A pretty bad cut. His mom, who does the cooking, hates the sight of blood so asked me to clean it. I did so, then got all anxious about him and ran for my Bacitracin and Band Aids. After I put on the Bacitracin though, his mom insisted that I cover the cut with egg skin, which is known to have healing properties. I mean, who am I to argue, but the sight of the egg skin sliding around on top of the Bacitracin made me laugh a lot. On the inside. At myself.

Anyway, later in the day, we help them with their homework, which really is awful. They learn practically nothing useful at school; everything is memorization. For example, an eight year old had to copy the word "trapezoidal" 30 times for calligraphy class. Great.
None of them know any English, only "how are you," numbers up to eleben, and colors. So I might start a taller de ingles, which may or may not improve the situation. I´m also planning something with their theatre teacher, who also plays the flute, so hopefully in October we´ll do a music class. From now until the end of September, though, they are all busy with preparations for the town festival.

After homework, I make dinner, which is just mate and bread. Then bathtime, which is pretty hilarious, then bed. On Sundays I sleep in the kids´ house, but in general I´m free around 9. I´ve been out in Urubamba now, to a couple of bars with lots of Australian volunteers, and to a club with hardly any gringos, which was cool. The altitude, though, I keep forgetting about the altitude.

I don´t know. It´s really strange to be dealing with this situation where the kids go home on the weekends, because their parents are present-- I´ve met some of them. But the kids need lots of attention, lots of kisses, lots of reaffirmation. I´m also beginning to realize the divisions that Mosoq Runa makes, as it´s doing so much good. There´s the division between the kids that live there and those that only come during the day, then there´s the cultural alienation that all of them encounter. It´s difficult, because all I want to do is help start a proper school there. But that would mean, apart from lots of trouble finding teachers, more alienation.

The 3 year old went missing for about half an hour the other day and everyone was calm, while I was practically in tears. He had wandered off towards his house, which is just not a big deal here.
They´re all so old in so many ways. Listening to the 13 and 14 year old boys talk about girls... so funny. And you´d think they were 20.

So Wednesday was a hard day. But still gratifying. And, at the end of the day, I really like my living situation- the guys are all great and I have a lot in common with them. Which makes sense, I guess, seeing as we´ve all chosen to be here.

Oh, my address, if you want to send mail, is
Rebecca Levi
Francesco Cioffi
Correo Central
Urubamba
Cuzco, Peru

Love to all

La prima vista

Here I am in Urubamba, in an internet cafe on the Plaza de Armas. A lazy Sunday, but only for another hour, as the kids will be arriving back...

I guess I arrived in Peru three days ago, but I´m really not sure. The past few days have been disorienting and at the same time shockingly familiar. On Thursday I arrived in Cusco, after a short layover at the Dunkin Donuts in foggy Lima. The descent into Cusco is meant to be very difficult, as the pilot must twist and turn the plane into the city´s bowl, avoiding bright red rooftops on the surrounding hills. Our pilot did an impressive job, though, as remarked upon by the English couple behind me: "Oh well DONE."

After a taxi ride through the chaotic streets of the city, which brought back memories of our trip here four years ago, I arrived at the hostel, only to collapse in the womb-like room (no natural light!) for 3 hours.

After that, I mostly felt pleasantly high off the altitude (and the matte) for the rest of my time in Cusco. Stef and I spent the next couple of days eating traditional Peruvian food-- like pork sandwiches--exploring the area on horseback--very slowly, accompanied by an eleven year old boy--and confronting our extremely low tolerance for wine as we watched Peruvian musicians cover Mozart. We really didn´t push ourselves too much-- although I´m still impressed by how many ruins we saw in a day. It was a perfect, gentle re-introduction to Peru, hanging out with a good friend who could cover for my woefully Italian Spanish.

Yesterday, the drive to Urubamba... oh my god. I had forgotten how stunning the Sacred Valley is. Roads curving past hillside graffiti--not like city graffiti, more mowed into the cliff--marking a high school class. Colors that remind me at once of Tuscany and (photos of) the Southwest US. Just VAST.

Then, in Urubamba, I had lunch with family friends under a perfectly blue sky--through which, incidentally, my hostess´ husband was paragliding. I met my boss, Ada, and we went on to Mosoq Runa, where I am volunteering.

At this point, I was feeling pretty good about my Spanish. I had understood everything at lunch, but then, there I was, back in Italy! Turns out I´m living with three Italian guys, two in their twenties and one in his thirties. I mean, I knew my boss was Italian and all, but I hadn´t anticipated how completely I would re-enter the country. We had risotto al zafferano last night, for real. So, again: the familiar.

The houses at Mosoq Runa are beautiful, and the volunteers´house is actually quite private, with stunning views of the surrounding mountains. Out front, sheer cliffs, all red, framing a group of dusty homes, tiny taxis and loud dogs rolling in and out of the picture. The kids go home on the weekends, so all was quiet. I met a couple of kids who were hanging around, but there will be lots more names to learn tonight.

Which reminds me, I should finish this. We´ve got to get back in time to welcome back the kids. Tonight´s bath night.
Many more thoughts circulating, including how sustainable this whole life, this situation seems! Then again, we´ll see how I feel next weekend.

Love to all.