Goodbye.

Saying goodbye is always hard.

Saying good bye in front of a bustling morning market, with rumbling car engines and women hollering about gelatina & tamales, to a woman who has taken amazing care of me for the past 2 months was almost impossible. There was no way to affectively communicate to her how much I appreciated her care and attention. With tear filled eyes I hugged her tightly and quickly hopped in the combi to avoid an explosion of decidedly non-macho behavior in Latin America.

I fell in love this summer. With my Peruvian host mom. Her laugh, honest and loud. Her love of her land, from chickens to cuy to peas to potatoes and culture.

Each time a Peruvian asked me, what was your favorite part of Peru, the answer is exceedingly easy: the people. Ruins are not really my thing. Weaving is interesting and impressive. The food here is good, but the the people, the genuine love and care shine through so clearly that I cannot possibly name any other reason why I'd want to return.

When you leave love behind, the love of a mother, a sister, a brother, of aunts and uncles, of a family, of dogs and cats and chickens and cuy. Of moonlight and dustclouds, love from cooking smoke and cold showers, you want it back so bad, I want it back so bad that you cannot really imagine it otherwise. A part of me feels like this was the first time a family has really loved me, unconditionally, directly, in ways American families, my American family doesn't. Why would anyone leave this?

The taxista who drove me to the Cusco Airport asked me how Peru compares with the USA. I told him that each country has things the other does not. I said that we do not value family back home, like you do here. I asked him, if his grandma was unable to live by herself anymore, where would she go? With him right? He said absolutely. Not like that at home. We ship 'em off to homes for the elderly, where we cannot see the descent into old age. I told that we don't live with our families from around age 18. That I live 3000 miles away from parents and brothers, that I am accustomed to not being around them. That we value independence more than we value families and that something is lost there, something precious. Something I saw this morning when the aging, dementia and arthritic tia bid me farewell.

She cant talk. Well, she kind of talks. She grunts and mumbles sounds that are Quechua in origin. She never learned Spanish. So, we hardly understood each other. We even fought a bit. For the past week she has had a really bad cough and I kept trying to get her to drink warm water to calm her throat down but she, as the old often do, has lost most of her taste buds and only likes extremely sweet or extremely salty food. Drinking plain water is a punishment for her. When I would try to get her to do so, she would respond by grunting loudly and trying to hit me with a stick. A kind of communicating.

Her dementia is pretty far along, so when leaving this morning, she was watching TV and I thought it'd be best to not bother her, but Katy told her I was leaving and she got out of bed, shuffled down the stairs, fast, to see me off. The fastest I've ever seen a 65 year old Andean woman with arthritis move. Ana Maria was stunned that she was moving this fast. She wanted to say goodbye and to ask for pills for her headaches. I was shocked. I was saddened. Im sitting in food court at the Lima Airport, eyes brimming with tears, because of an old woman who might not ever remember me again but whose face filled with genuine emotion when i was leaving today. What happened there?

I've never really lived with anyone older before. And that was touching.

I know how Dhyana feels now. When she talks about Alejandro's family. It makes sense in a way it never did before. We both come from broken families. Her's broken, physically and emotionally. Mine, together physically but broken emotionally. When you find a family that is together, something clicks, some stupid fucking evolutionary button or desire that you never knew you had pops into place and you see things clearly, maybe for the first time. That capitalism, the quest for individuality and freedom is destroying something greater and stronger than money.

Im alone in this airport. I don't ever want to do this alone again. I felt lonely last Thanksgiving, made a promise to myself that the next Thanksgiving I'd be with friends I really cared about and that I would put the effort into building those relationships for the next year. I'm moving back to Shotwell in a week, that is where my SF adventure started. In that backyard. I've built some amazing friendships last year. Laid some ground work for a family. I missed those people powerfully on this trip. I missed my home. I found another home. Found another family. Realized how much I love my real family. How much I love my friends and my home. I do not know how to reconcile the two.

My glasses clink on the polished metal table. My head rests in my hands with curls spilling over my fingers. Im so tired of being alone. And I am so happy to coming back home.

Cooking in Peru

Cooking is many things to me. Creative expression, tangible manifestion of emotion, a professional endeavor and an activity that brings me comfort and joy. Food builds bonds and relationships but presents as a challenge with students and host families. Who is the kitchen boss? What can I touch? Where can I help? Can I cook a meal for everyone? Luckily, Alejandrina and Ana Maria are thrilled to have me in the kitchen.

Peruvian food centers around potatoes and locally raised meat like chicken, beef, guinea pig, trout and occasionally pork. There are lakes in the Sacred Valley where trout is raised, so fish makes regular appearance at meal times. Carrots, onions and celery from local farms start most dishes, just French food. I've eaten papas boiled, fried, mashed, in soup and fermented. The fermented ones remind me of stinky tofu. Rich, stagnant, meaty and almost putrid. Intense. Picante food is uncommon here, but I love the heat and was missing it dearly. So the first thing I made was hot sauce with local chiles, garlic, pepper and white vinegar. My host mom, Ana, loves it and even Alejandrina, biggest cooking critic ever, likes it in her soups. Success!

I'm a dedicated sauerkraut maker. At home a pot is always fermenting away and I saw no reason to stop the tradition because Peru would be my summer home. I bought a head of cabbage on my way back from the hospital during the first week and Alejandrina immediately asked how much it was. 2 soles, about 66 cents, I said and she laughed cause cabbage shouldn't cost more than 50 Peruvian centimos. Sigh, la cara del gringo. Kraut draws its flavor from the cabbage and spices(cumin, garlic and pepper are my favorites) used and the reactions between local bacteria and said ingredients. In SF I eyeball the amount of salt to prevent rampant bacteria growth while achieving desired flavor and texture. Peruvian bacteria is a whole new ball game, so I aggressively salted to avoid getting stupidly sick. Two weeks into the fermentation process I tasted it and discovered that while not rotten, it was inedible due to the salt. Alejandrina tried some too and promptly spit it out. We all laughed heartily at this gringo's cooking attempt. After a few rinses with warm water, I returned the kraut-to-be and crossed my fingers that in a few more weeks it'd be edible, at least. Yesterday I tasted it again and its delicious! Crunchy, salty and pleasantly fermented.

Margarita, host sister, is a phenomenal baker and we've made a few cakes together. For my birthday she made two orange cakes. Yum. Who doesn't love cake for breakfast and then cake for dinner on your birthday? I loved it. For another volunteer's birthday I made a mint lime cake with candied limes and a mint caramel on top. Margarita and I made a strawberry chocolate cake for six volunteers's goodbye party. I made the jam filling and we both made the cake. She decorates in this marvelous Martha Stewart style and finished the cake with a strawberry carved like a rose.

Dark, leafy greens are one of my favorites foods and severely lacking in the diet here, so Ana told me that a neighbor of ours has chard growing on her farm, I flipped out. She brought home a huge armload of chard and I cooked it up with red wine, raisins and peanuts. Ana couldn't stop talking about how yummy it was and that made my smile go wide. Veggies are cooked thoroughly here so when they ate this chard, still crunchy, they were shocked, pleasantly. This chard was the sweetest I've ever eaten. I happily munched on it raw while cooking.

For another potluck I made a tomato salad with tons of basil, oregano, queso andino and fennel. Finding the fennel was fun cause its not eaten here but used in teas instead. There was a grandma at Urubamba's midweek market who had fennel fronds and when I asked about the bulb she looked at me like I was off in the head. I explained what it was for, she remained unconvinced and I bought the biggest stalks that she had.

Marga and I made pizza the other evening. Using my dad's tomato sauce(my ultimate comfort food) as a base, Marga rocked the dough and Tia and I did the the toppings. One pie had corn, basil, ricotta, peas and caramelized onions(another new favorite for the host family) and the other was topped with cherry tomatoes, sausage, oregano and a local hard cheese. The first pie came out a bit soft, but we configured the oven right and the second pie was smashing. Volunteers who live with a host family that owns the best pizzeria in town, were freaking out about how good it was. Both Marga and I were blushing.

Funnily, I expected this post to be short. Oh well, I'll undoubtedly cook a few more times before the end of the month. Missing the summers bounty in the bay is painful and I am going to go produce crazy back home. Fig jam, stone fruit jam, pickles, corn preserves and possibly ketchup are on the list of things to make this fall. I bet I can make some awesome ketchup. Heinz, I'm gunning for you.

Walking the tracks

As an angsty suburban teen I walked a lot of train tracks. So, when I found out you could get to Machu Picchu, for free, by walking the tracks, I lept at the chance and yeah, I've been to Machu Picchu.

I didn't hike the Incan Trail, take a train, a bus or fly in on a helicopter. I walked for 9 hours along the train tracks from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes.

Irregularly sized steps across varying degrees of gravel is tough terrain but I found a stride and enjoyed it. Walking through slowly changing scenery and listening to the soundscape change along with it.

Dodging tourist trains and waving at the people who are staring, slack jawed, at us as we scamper around the rocks alongside the tracks.

We left mid-morning and arrived well after dark with jello legs and went hotel hunting. I felt powerful after having completed that walk, in the way you feel after exercising the limits of your body and not your mind.

Aguas Calients is a shit hole. It feels like Costa Rica. Empty. Fake. Dirty. Used. A gaping hole where a culture once was. I wanted to ascend Machu Picchu and leave STAT.

Machu Picchu was amazing but boring? A place that doesn't feel special anymore. Just a line item to initial and move on from. What is up next? Ankor Wat? The pyramids?

Ariela ate a pot brownie and got stupid sick. We had to hospitalize her, give her an IV and spend 6 hours in a clinic while she rehydrated. She pushed the limits of my frustration in ways that I had not known were possible. Lesson learned: Never hike 8 hours with someone you don't trust on a gut level. Just don't do it.

Organzing with food

I am a bit of rebel. Troublemaker. Organizer.

Sometimes that means blockading a highway, riding in Critical Mass, offering a skill share, attending a vigil, supporting a political prisoner, hosting a community meeting or throwing a party. People often forget what essential, effective organizing tools food and good times are.

There is mixed and wonderful group of volunteers here. Not to mention the amazing, passionate and beautiful community of Ollantinos that graciously opened their arms for us gringos this summer. Those things can be the start of wonderful relationships, just given a spark and moment to connect. Ana Maria, mi mamita peruana, has the perfect house for gatherings with a large comedor, years of experience hosting groups of foreigners and an ideal patio for a bonfire. We hosted a beautiful despidida for 6 volunteers recently and my family threw a fantastic birthday dinner for me that was easily the best birthday I've ever celebrated outside of the states.

Tomorrow another evening bonfire will happen, functioning as a despidida and get together for everyone. These potluck parties, drinking extravaganzas, are magical moments of friendship building, community strengthening and laughter making machines. In those moments and experiences you find and build trust with people and relationships. With that trust people will support you when a change needs to happen or when someone has to stand up to the system. Sometimes I wish the left would do their organizing at dinner parties and potlucks. Imagine the progress we could make while drinking and eating deliciousness.

Visitors

A favorite thing of mine while traveling is having friends and family come visit. Hint, hint everyone. The co-founder of the Centro de Idiomas, in Nicaragua, Dhyana, became a cherished friend of mine during that year. We bonded over our love of food, coffee, conversation, people and a commitment to bettering the world that we were born into. She is one of those people that I think about and am like, damn, she is so awesome. You know how we all have those idols or role models who do the things that really impress us? Or the things we would like to be doing ourselves? Dhyana is one of those people for me.

I emailed her in late May to say hi and see where she was, what she was up to and to fill her in on my adventures. I freaked out with joy when she wrote back to say that she was working in Peru this summer! I must of looked like a deer in the headlights of awesomeness at that moment. She is working for the Peruvian Ministry of Education and had time off towards the end of July. We planned to hang out then.

Dhyana came to Ollanta, which was wonderful because I was able to host and play tour guide, two of my favorite things to do. And sharing Ollanta, my everyday, mi familia aca and everything awesome about this place with her was great. She arrived a bit sick but my host family and I were able to dote on her. Insisting that she eat sopa de trigo and drink te de panti. Not tea made from panties, but from a little purple flower that is great for clearing up coughs and throat concerns.

We wandered around town, drank yummy coffee at El Albergue, made delicious brownies for my host family and the volunteers, and talked for hours and hours about everything. This might be, aside from her insight, intelligence and passion, the thing that I love most about Dhyana is that we can talk for hours upon hours and still have stuff to talk about the next day. Its phenomenal.

Getting updates about the Nicaraguan families I knew, our mutual friends, and Ocotal was great. It fed the fire that has been growing in my belly to visit Nicaragua again soon. My fingers are crossed for within the next year.

I'd like to raise a glass to toast those people in our lives who move us to be better, to work towards our goals and who make us feel genuine in every way.

Swedish tourists need help too.

"Coming home to Ollanta the next day was a relief. Exhausted, dirty, with sore muscles and burnt by both the sun and wind I was ready to lunch and then nap for a few hours. While drifting off to sleep, Abrahm, mi hermanito Peruano, hollered, "Demetrio! Te buscan!" What? Gah. I wrap a towel around my waist and step outside to find two volunteers, Chet and Oren,sitting on the stone wall outside my house. "Hey! Demetrius, someone is dying and theywanted us to come get you." Shit. Um….Ok. I splash water in my face, put on pants, grab myhoodie and head out. Whats going on?, I ask. "I don't know, Annie found some women in her hotel who is really sick." Awesome. Time? 3pm.

Walking to the market I have this realization: Choosing to work in healthcare means giving up a level of privacy in exchange for a skill set and commitment to society, broadly, and your community, specifically.

Amidst dust clouds from tour buses Oren and Chet give me the run down about what is going on. This woman is having heart palpitations, trouble breathing and tingling in her hands and feet. She is waiting outside the market with Annie and Chantelle. In my head, I was expecting a Peruvian woman. Why? No idea, but I was totally surprised to find that the person was Lika, a tall, blond, Swedish rock journalist on holiday.

We are now making a scene outside the market as Lika can barely stand, Chantelle runs and grabs a blood pressure cuff and we commandeer a market stall for some quiet space. I check her vitals. My guess is altitude sickness but I'm not a fucking doctor. A call with Rocio, the doctora I work with here, confirms my guess and we make a plan.

Lika needs oxygen, steroids and to get to a lower altitude. Ollantaytambo doesn't have the facilities that she needs, nor does Urubamba, so we need to get her to Cuzco. Ok, go to Cuzco, find a doctor and you'll be fine Ms. Tourist. Glitch: Lika doesn't speak any Spanish. French, English, Swedish? Yup! But Spanish? Nah. Awesome. A moment of silence passes around the volunteer circle as we all weigh the option of going to Cuzco tonight. I look at Annie, who started this mess, and she looks at me demurely as if to say, no way boy, all you. No one looks excited to take her to Cuzco. So I say, hey, what the hell a trip to Cuzco should be fun. We haggle with a taxista and then get aboard.

Ollanta is the last main train station before Machu Picchu. This blog is mostly written at that train station because the best coffee in town is at El Albergue. Daily about 10 trains passthrough town. When the trains arrive and the tourists disembark a massive traffic jam occurs .Ollanta is small and can hardly cope with the tourism boom and the strains it puts on the infrastructure. Local and national corruption guarantees a slow pace for improvement projects. For example, the main plaza is currently under construction, has been for months and while being worked on one of the roads in and out of town is shut down. The small, Incan sized roads complicate things and with every train arrival the town is plugged up for hours. A train had arrived half an hour before Lika and I tried to leave for Cusco. We waited in the taxi for an hour. Just as we got moving another volunteer, Anne Marie, knocked on our window looking for a ride to Cuzco. Anne did a quantitative analysis of the economic impact that Awamaki has on the weavers of Patacancha. It was great to have another person aboard and to discuss Anne's research.

We make it to Cuzco around 8pm, drop off Anne and book it to the hospital. We queued up forthe doctor. Lika had gone over her symptoms and story with me in the car but we recounted the tale to the doctor here. Checked her vitals again, listened to her heart and were able to check her oxygen absorption rate. Which was unsurprisingly low. The hospital doctor was in agreement with the diagnosis of altitude sickness. So, a shot of steroids was ordered up along with a few minutes on oxygen.

Intra-muscular shots in Peru are most often administered in the butt, specifically the upper right quadrant. Back home it is usually in the arm. Lika braced herself and the nurse administered the shot. Lika gave me a look that I know all too well. The "I am going to faint right now look," wide eyed, pallid and facial features laced with fear. Trying to keep her with me by talking didn't work, she blacked out, I shouted her name to wake her up and she came to. The next look she gave me was one of abject horror and then she clung to me like a limpet. We put her oxygen and I sat with her for about an hour as she recovered.

Scary right? It was scary for me too. I figured that she would be alright, but I didn't know and had to fake it the entire time. That was draining. I wonder if that fear would ever go away? Even with years of training will that nagging doubt of my own abilities linger with me?

Once Lika was recovered, we went to a swank hotel she knew of and crashed out by 11pm. Waking up in a fancy hotel with a hot shower and soft bed was nice treat. The breakfast buffethad real butter! Oh man. That was phenomenal. Lika needed some assistance changing her flight to Lima and then we got her situated for the rest of the day. I geeked a book from the hotel for the volunteer library at Awamaki and after a good hug goodbye, hopped a combi backhome to Ollanta.

Lares

Ollantaytambo is in a valley, the Sacred Valley, populated with ruins and scrubby trees. The climate here is moderate, similar to the bay with cold, foggy mornings, bright, sunny afternoons and crisp, clear nights. Pleasant in its familiarity. Lares is the next valley over and it is hot, damp, burgeoning with life and home to thermal baths. It can take 6 hours on combi and bus through Ollanta to Urubamba to Calca and finally Lares. Or you can hike 8 hours from Patancancha, over the pass and through the valley to the baths. We opted to hike.

Waking up at 5am to the sound of rain was nice yet ominous because at 2800 meters, in Ollantaytambo, rain is simply rain, but at 4600 meters, the pass to Lares, rain is snow. Ana Maria, mi mamita Peruana, forewarned me about snow and I even retreating to my bed for some quality book time but the thermal baths and challenge of the hike won out. Our group of nine left Patacancha under a soft rain and headed up the mountain towards the snow line. We crossed the snow line about an hour after starting and it became painfully apparent that none of us had properly prepared for snow. Everyone was in sneakers and a few were without rain gear. Luckily we had oja de coca, plastic bags to wrap our socks in and plenty of encouragement from to make it through.

Amidst the falling snow and our freezing toes we walked through beautiful scenery. Sighting brown, white, black and red alpacas and llamas on the hillside against the freshly snow covered hillside with their pivoting ears and cute faces was fantastic. It was spectacular. We worked our way up skinny llama trails until the herds of alpaca and llama flanked as we hiked and they ruminated happily amongst the rain and snow. A cluster of houses surrounded by sheep and barking dogs greeted us at 2 hours in. The land around the houses was dotted with mysterious dark circles that looked like a giant polka dot blanket on the mountainside. Perfect for stepping into to avoid a bit of snow, it turned out that these were urine stains from the llama herds. Awesome.

The snow descending heavily as we kept climbing. Happily sucking on coca leaves and rocking out to Lady Gaga to stave off the cold and wet, I took the lead on the hill. Looking back at the human chain behind me, dark little figures trekking in the snow, and then gazing upward at the pass and thinking, this is amazing. Cresting the pass first I celebrated with a little "I made it to the pass first" happy dance. Everyone made it up ok, we took a group photo, drank some water, chewed more oja de coca and started down the mountain.

Going down was treacherous compared with ascending. The transitioning from snow and rocks to mud to wet grass was rough. One of us fell about 20 times, everyone fell at least once and luckily all without any serious injuries. The landscape shifted from snow covered mountains to eucalyptus trees and bushes as we descended into the valley. Passing by houses, giggling children and vicious, territorial dogs we strolled towards Lares in rain soaked and mud stained clothes. Once the hot springs were sighted it seemed that each volunteer spontaneously beamed with joy. Thoroughly soaking our bodies in slightly scalding sulfurous water worked wonders for easing tight muscles after that hike. After a night in Lares with a good meal, hard beds and much laughter in the hotel we boarded a bus the next morning to return home.