On the morning of Mother’s Day, I set out on the streets of Cusco in search of an adequate bouquet of flowers to give to my host mother. I wasn’t expecting to find anything spectacular because I have learned over the months to never expect to find what you are looking for while shopping in Peru. Peru is filled with beautiful markets, but what you find is  generally a surprise. I have come to both love and hate this aspect of Peru.

On Mother’s Day the streets were crowded with people buying last minute gifts. Cake and card venders lined the streets with a full stock of products. As I walked past the shops, eyeing the cakes, I could hear various vendors shouting out their low prices on Mother’s Day cards. However, I was search of flowers and all I had seen so far were plastic roses. I was beginning to realize my assumption about not finding any flowers was correct. That is, until I turned the corner to see the entire next street lined with an array of fresh (well, depending on the vendor) flowers. I picked out a pink rose and white daisies and headed on my way back to Ollantaytambo. The bouquet made it home rather well considering that on the way home, I was wedged between a man on one side and a woman and her 7 or 8 year old son on the other. I held my bags on my lap and clutched the flowers firmly as we made our way through the windy mountain roads.

I take that back, the bouquet looked a little sad by the time I got home. My mom accepted them with a smile anyway. I noticed that the rest of my host family was in the kitchen as well. As usual, they insisted I enter the kitchen at once and drink tea with them. They all asked me how my trip to Cusco had been. While I did what I could to explain my trip, my host sister dished up the banana cake she had made that morning.

After breakfast, my oldest host sister asked me if I wanted to help cook lunch. Of course, I said yes and she handed me a bowl of abba and a knife. I should have predicted that my role would involve cutting vegetables into tiny pieces. My family seems to get endless enjoyment out of watching me try to cut vegetables without a cutting board. Which explains why this is always my role. They particularly like demonstrating the correct technique while I focus on not cutting my fingers off. This particular day my little sister even went as far as to tell me that what I was doing looked, “scary”. After this, I figured I should retreat to my room in an attempt to protect my hands.

Later, my sisters called up to my room to inform me lunch would be ready soon. As I made my way to the kitchen, I glanced into the cuy (guinea pig) cage, as I often do as I pass, and noticed a new baby had recently been born. It turns out, this was particularly beneficial because we were about to eat its two older brothers for lunch. I was so excited that we were finally going to be eating cuy. My family has literally been talking about this meal since the day I arrived, but I didn’t know when it was going to occur. I saw the two little cooked cuy bodies in the pan and I ran upstairs to get my camera. My family was actually really excited about this and ushered my camera and me into the kitchen. My host mom had the idea to pose the cuyes with a potato in their mouths and subsequently moved them around the pan, placing them in various positions as I took pictures.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

We finally sat down for lunch and I took a moment to contemplate how I was going to eat my quarter of the cuy body. My family noticed my hesitation and thought I was weary about trying cuy for the first time. In fact, this was not the case. Despite the fact that these animals have greeted me every time I entered the house for the last month, I felt no reservation about eating the poor little animals. I just couldn’t figure out how to go about doing so. I felt as if I had been in training for the last few months and that it had all culminated in this moment. What I mean by this is that the meat eating technique in Peru is rather different than in the United States. For the most part meat is served on the bone and all particles of meat are then cleared from the bone during the eating process. It has taken me a while, but I have become quite accustomed to this technique. It’s true, at first I stuck to my tradition of using a full set of utensils and cutting the meat into bite size pieces. However, after a few months of getting the question “aren’t you going to eat the rest of that”, I have learned to recognize that, yes, there is still a minuscule amount of meat left on that bone. keen eyesight and the use of both hands is essential when eating meat in Peru, and especially when eating cuy. Though I found my experience with cuy incredibly fun and entertaining, I can’t say it is now my favorite food. I have to admit that the taste isn’t anything spectacular, and even though the tiny ribs are rather cute and make you feel like a giant when eating them, there really isn’t much meat in a cuy at all. Regardless, I was delighted to have tried this new food and my family was delighted that I was able to consume my entire plate of food. I know this because at least three of them asked the sister sitting next to me if I was able to finish, to which she replied, yes!

Lately, I have found myself reflecting on my opinion of the various aspects of Peru more and more often. Today I realized that Mother’s Day was a nice mix of some of my favorite characteristics of Peru. Starting with the various markets, interesting food, and the willingness of the residents to share their culture and home with someone who at one time was a perfect stranger. Furthermore, I always delight in spending time with my host family. Though at times it has been a struggle to communicate, we have always had laughter in common.

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If you have ever looked at a picture of Peru, you have probably noticed the vibrant and varied color palette. The vibrancy of colors was, in fact, the first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane in Cusco. Before I could even comprehend where I had just landed, my eye was drawn directly to the hillside dotted with a huge array of colorfully painted homes. I can’t speak for the entirety of Peru, but I can say that the Cusco region of Peru contains the most fantastic assortment of colors. Several people are adorned with brightly colored traditional clothing, mothers carry their babies on their back in blankets made with every hue of the rainbow, and houses and doors are painted with an assortment of colors I have never seen gracing homes in the United States.

Of course, Peru isn’t alone in it’s prevalence of color, nor is it solitary in having a rich textile culture. However, the colors seem to be much more abundant and brighter than many places I have lived and traveled in the past. The vivid color of the landscape, at first, both overwhelmed and delighted me. I began to search out patterns in the mass of color and sought to encounter the muted color pallets that were overshadowed by the vibrancy of others. Furthermore, I attempted to qualify the difference between the natural colors and those of synthetic sources, and to gain more knowledge of the culture of color in Peru. I began to pay more attention to the designs and colors of textiles and clothing, investigate the types of colors used in the architecture of homes and buildings, and to take in the natural colors of the landscape.

At first, I thought there was somewhat of a lack of a creative process in the choice of colors. I thought this because I had observed just about every hue imaginable and there seemed to be no pattern or reason to their use. I was, however, wrong. A few days ago, I had the fortune of watching as a nearby home was transformed with a new coat of bright magenta paint. It seems though, that this had not been the paint color the owner had wanted and the next day I watched as the home was again transformed. The magenta color was painted over with a slightly more muted burnt orange color. Since then, I have delighted in discovering the layers of colors used on various houses and buildings. Often, the layers of colors can be easily determined by looking at the sidewalk near the foot of the building at the layers of paint spatters. There is generally quite an array of colors that have been painted on any one given home. Far more interesting than a fresh coat of paint, however, are the colored pattens and textures created from the weathering and pealing of paint. As I walk through the streets, I find myself being captivated by these unique patterns.

A few days ago I had the opportunity to visit Patachancha. Patachancha is a nearby community where a collective of weavers, who work with Awamaki, reside. Prior to visiting Patachancha, I had been observing the textiles sold in markets and stores which are geared towards the tourist market. As the day passed, I watched the weavers as they added borders to their previously woven textiles. I began to survey the colors and designs of the textiles being woven and I compared them to the textiles and clothing actually being worn by the weavers. The variations began to become apparent and my curiosity about their production and history began to peak. I learned that the style of clothing the weavers were wearing is a derivative of the traditional outfits. As usual, there have been changes and additions to the traditional garb. For one, it seems, currently, many Peruvians prefer synthetic dyes to natural dyes for their own clothing. According to the book, Weaving in the Peruvian Highlands, the buttons adorning clothing are a more recent tradition due to the increased availability of trade and the arrival of various fabrics and decorative materials. Many of the pieces of the traditional outfits are, however, still knit, woven, and beaded by hand. From what I have seen, the blankets, though traditionally hand made, now seem to be synthetically dyed and machine made. I have been told that these are now, in fact, often imported from Bolivia or China. Mixed in with these bright colored blankets and sweaters, were the slightly more muted threads dyed with natural dyes and made from sheep or alpaca wool. I hesitate to make judgments on which type of fabric is better because each has its purpose. I do, however, feel it is important to denote the difference and be able to detect the differences between the hand-woven and machine-made materials. Without doing this, we can not appreciate the skill and work that goes into producing each of these items, nor can we understand the creativity in choosing patterns and colors. Furthermore, we cannot understand the history of textile production in this part of the world. I also must mention that the weaving and clothing traditions and customs are different in each community. The clothing and hairstyles worn are intended to denote the specific community a person is from. Because of this, none of the above information can be generalized to this region as a whole. I was delighted to be able to visit Patachancha and to have the opportunity to gain insight into the textile culture while I watched the beautifully colored balls of yard transformed into intricate textiles.

Lastly, I cannot fail to mention the beauty and colors of the natural landscape. Even though Ollanta is at such a high altitude, it is not lacking greenery or topographic character. The mountainside is incredibly lush with an amazing array of plants. I cannot give justice to the landscape with a description; one must experience it for themselves.

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I arrived in Ollantaytambo only several minutes before lunch so I was taken directly to the residence of my host family. I sat down at the table and eagerly awaited my first taste of authentic Peruvian cuisine. I was greeted with a delicious-looking, yet giant, plate of food. On my plate was a heaping mound of white rice and some sort of potato dish. I will not even try to describe the ingredients because I will most likely be wrong. I can say, that it was delicious and even the rice had a flavoring which I can’t describe, but was very good. The only thing keeping me from fully enjoying the meal was the fact that the entire time I was thinking, “how will I ever finish this. I am going to offend my host family just minutes after meeting them”. I however, was able to finish the plate and all was well in the household.

Since this meal I have learned that rice is a staple in the Peruvian diet. I don’t mean we eat rice quite often, I mean I have had rice for nearly every meal since I arrived. That is except for breakfast, which ranges from papaya smoothies to omelets accompanied by bread and cheese or avocado. My favorite breakfast so far has been the Peruvian take on the breakfast sandwich. It included fried potatoes, tomatoes, a fried egg, and a little bit of salt between bread.

For lunch and dinner half of our plate is taken up by white rice and the other half of the plate is filled with quite diverse main dishes. Each being equally delicious and generally including some sort of potato and often a variation of corn. Lunch is the main meal and if possible, each of the family members comes home from where ever they may be to eat together. Most often we don’t drink anything during meals but afterwards we always have some kind of semi-sweet drink. For dinner we generally have the leftovers from lunch and sometimes there is an added bonus such as fried banana slices. I think this model is actually quite ingenious. Why make three separate meals a day?

Since my first meal, I have given up trying to eat all of the food I am given. I am full enough as it is just eating a portion of the food on my plate. As a result, my host family thinks I am sick even though I have told them several times that I am not. I am just glad they don’t think I hate their cooking.

By accompanying my host sister to the market and observing the preparation of dishes, I have gained a little more knowledge about the ingredients in our meals. This Sunday, I helped my host sister, Soledad, prepare lunch. We first went to the local market where she bought two types of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, chicken, and some type of seasoning. When we got home, she promptly began cooking. I helped by washing the potatoes while she sautéed the onions and tomatoes and began cooking spaghetti. She covered the chicken and potatoes in two types of sauces and put them in a pot. At this point, she pulled out a giant baking pan and while she filled it with layers of pasta, onions, tomatoes, egg, and milk, I contemplated how we would ever fit the pan into the oven. Finally, Soledad finished with the layered pasta and told me to grab the pot of chicken and potatoes and follow her. We walked down the street and into a home where a woman was cooking in a giant wood burning oven. The smell of slowly cooked food permeated the house and I was instantly hungry.

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My host family has asked me a few times if there are any ancient ruins located near my home in the United States. I sadly reply, “no”. The reason they ask is because, to them, it is completely normal to live within eyesight of such old and fascinating structures. To me, it is not so ordinary and I love the fact that I can look out my bedroom window and see ruins of old Inca buildings across the mountainside. Ollanta is located in a valley bordered by two large mountains. It is on these mountains that two of the most accessible and largest ruins in the area are located. Just down the street from my house is an entrance to a trail that goes right up to one of the sites. The hike is very steep in parts and the trail is barely existent in others. However, the hike to the ruins does not take very long. Luckily, a friend of mine had previously found the entrance to the trail because it is a bit difficult to find the first time. The ruins are beautiful from the ground. However, actually stepping inside them is quite surprisingly spectacular. It is a bit mind boggling to be able to walk inside such old buildings so easily.

My first trip to the ruins left me with a desire to find and explore more of the ruins in the area. Thus bringing about my love hate relationship with the structures. After climbing to these ruins a few days after I arrived in Ollanta, I have begun to notice more and more structures in various locations on the mountains. Many of them are barely viewable from the ground and look rather impossible to get to without acquiring more appropriate mountain climbing gear. They are out of reach yet I have a strong desire to get to them.

I think my host family has become slightly aware of my desire to explore the ruins. This has proven to be a good thing. Yesterday, my host sister told me she wanted to take me somewhere. Not having any idea where we were going, I grabbed my camera and rain coat and followed her out the door. We walked down the street, through a field of horses, past several grazing cows, past a corn field, and finally arrived at a ruins site located basically in between farm land and the river. I hadn’t even know these ruins existed and I definitely wouldn’t have been able to find them myself. She told me these specific ruins had something to do with a bath house or cleaning facility. We walked around them for a while and then walked home. For her it was a simple trip to a place she had been many times, but I was excited about the trip the rest of the day.

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I have experienced my first Peruvian holiday. It is called Carnival. To paraphrase, it is basically a giant water balloon fight with the added bonus of Silly String, dancing, and colorful decorations for extra enjoyment. My host family had told me about this holiday right when I arrived, but I did not quite grasp what it entailed until the day of the celebration. In fact, I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I left the house in the morning to visit a neighboring town, Pisac, to attend a large artisan market. The beginning of the day was rather tame and I was quite distracted by the colorful balloons and various artisan stalls. When I finally sat down in the central square to observe some of the action, I saw that nearly every kid was equipped with either a can of Silly String or a water balloon. They were running around spraying each other and having a wonderful time. Some of the kids went a little overboard and sprayed their friends purposefully in the face. Others, threw water balloons directly into an unsuspecting crowd of people. All-in-all, they were just having a good time. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, my friend and I decided to buy a can of Silly String ourselves. This was probably the best idea we have ever had. It was hilarious to spray the children and have them come after us with their Silly String in retaliation. Several times we hid behind cars as they chased after us. They laughed, we laughed, and even bystanders thought it was hilarious.

The celebration did not stop on the way home. We learned quickly to shut the windows of the bus when we saw anyone standing on the side of the road because they were likely children waiting there to splash the buses with buckets of water. On the way home, we stopped in Urubamba for something to eat and found the children there were a bit more extreme with their celebration techniques. In Pisac, the children left you alone if you didn’t look like you were in the mood to be sprayed with Silly String. In Urabamba, this was not the case. In fact, most of the kids didn’t have Silly String. They had water balloons and buckets of water. Walking through the streets of Urubamba was basically like navigating an obstacle course. They didn’t care that we had just bought a snack from a street vendor and were simply trying to enjoy it. They ran after us anyway and pelted us with water balloons. A few times, they waited until we had passed and thought we were safe and then they chased us through the streets as we tried to get away. Even though their tactics were a bit cruel, it was a lot of fun and very amusing.

The best thing about Carnival is that it spans two weekends. Since I was gone during last weeks celebration, I missed out on throwing water balloons with my host family. Luckily, my eight year old host sister had no problem celebrating for a second weekend in a row. In fact, on Saturday, she began filling up water balloons promptly after breakfast. I was so excited when she asked me if I wanted to throw them from the roof with her. She explained the rules to me as we waited for the first person to pass by. She pointed out a few small children and told me they were too young and we wouldn’t be throwing any balloons at them. She also said we couldn’t throw balloons at any adults. I agreed that the rules sounded more than fair and we spent the next two and a half hours perched on the top of our home waiting for the perfect people to pass by the house. For the most part we didn’t actually hit anyone but we did cause a few confused looks and even more laughs.

On the final Sunday of Carnival, my host family walked me down the street to show me where the last Carnival celebration would be taking place.  There was music, beer, and a tree decorated with everything from balloons to children’s clothes. My host family explained that eventually there would be dancing around the tree. What they didn’t tell me is that there would be several hours of beer drinking followed by a dance around the tree as town residents cut the tree down with an axe. For maybe an hour or so, I watched from afar and cringed as various people took rather uncoordinated swings at the tree while a crowd of people danced around them. Once the tree fell down, the entire crowed rushed at it trying to grab one of the items attached. My host sister had her eye on a pair of yellow pants but she came back empty handed. Though it seemed like the celebration was going to continue for a while, we decided to head home for dinner. I am going to miss this holiday when I am back in the United States.

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I am quite drawn to architecture. When I travel, part of what I am interested is the differences in architecture from place to place. Though I love Victorian homes and European medieval churches, there is something about these homes and buildings that is extremely comfortable and welcoming. It could be the fact that they are so open (even to the sky) or that they are situated so close together making it easier to welcome visitors. It could also be the fact that the homes are not overcrowded with accessories. My home for instance is a two story home. The front door opens to the something like what we would consider a living room. Off of this main section there is a kitchen and a bathroom. The second floor is completely open to the first floor and the bedrooms lie around the perimeter of the home. My personal favorite part of the house is the roof. Though my host family simply uses it for line drying clothes, it has the most wonderful view anyone could ask for. In each direction all I can see is mountains and in one direction I even have a close view of some of Ollanta’s ancient ruins. Though there is a roof, there are several spots where the home is open to the out doors. I can hear just about everything going on outside and often confuse it for happenings within the house. Rather than it being an annoyance to be able to hear all of the noises of the town, I find it a great comfort. I listen to buses, cheerful conversations, and various animals during the day. At night, I fall asleep to music from local bars. I don’t need an alarm clock here because the town is already wide awake at 6 or 7 in the morning. But I don’t mind. It’s as if when I wake up I am greeted by the cities residents.

My room is so simply beautiful. Literally, it is so simple that it is beautiful. In the design world, we talk a lot about minimalist and grid design. I think my room fits this model rather well. My room is simple, yet it features a few touches that make it special. There are two furnishings in my room. A bed and a chair. My favorite part though is the bright yellow walls. I love yellow and it suits my room quite well.

The other reason my home is particularly special is because my family raises guinea pigs. In the morning or when I return home for the day, they greet me with what I can only describe as a mix between a squeak and a chirp. They also serve the purpose of announcing the arrival of guests which is another added bonus. I suppose to some people and not so much for others, the significant part about raising guinea pigs is that when they are all grown up, you can sell them to be eaten or you can eat them yourself. I hear they are rather good but they are a bit difficult to eat. This must be due to their tiny size. I have not had the fortune of eating one yet but my host mother tells me I will be able to try one soon enough. I thought about asking my host family if they ever consider these guinea pigs to be pets. I am guessing probably not considering there is a single name written on the cage housing about 10 guinea pigs.

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Before I came to Peru a friend of mine told me that I would want to learn the language as soon as possible because the culture is so intriguing that I would want to be a part of it and be able to immerse myself in the daily life rather than simply be an observer. He couldn’t be more correct. The people are lively, the buildings are vibrant and the homes are open and colorful. I am beyond curious to learn more about the life of the family I am staying with and I want to tell them about my life and experiences. At least we can laugh about the fact that it often takes me a while to understand what they are saying. Thus far, we have been able to discuss the names and ages of our family members, our favorite topics in school and I have gotten pretty good at telling them where I am going. They have told me where they work and asked me what I do at Awamaki. They often explain to me what one or two ingredients are in the food we are eating and tell me the name for it in Spanish. One day they even asked me to teach them a few words in Spanish. I told them how to say cup, plate, book, and several numbers and months. They then asked me to tell them the English word for sombrero. I replied it was called a “hat”. They then brought a different type of hat to the table and asked what it was called in English. I again told them it was called a “hat”. The expressions on their faces turned from inquisitive to extremely confused. “But sombrero is hat”, they said. I told them we call them both hats. At this point my host father exited the room to bring back yet another type of hat and I told them this too was called a hat. We all started laughing and just like that, the bonding began.

Though I have a long way to go before I can fully participate in the culture, I feel very at home and natural here. It is a bit of an odd dichotomy of both being a visitor yet feeling like you belong. Usually, I am snapping photographs right and left. However, here I find myself not wanting to take photographs. Yes, it is beautiful and there are countless opportunities to snap incredible pictures. I find myself conflicted though because I believe by taking a photograph I would, in a way, take away from the naturalness of the scene. It would denote the moment or object as something unique or noteworthy. But it is not, it is simply the way of life of the people living here. I suppose I will have to get over this though because I cant pass up the opportunity to document life here as I see and experience it.

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