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| Town outside Cusco. photo by JG |
This morning we awoke early and loaded all the suitcases with donations (about 30-40) on the roofs of two buses that would be taking our group out for a day of community outreach. As we left Cusco and entered the rural landscape and agricultural farmlands outside the city, we became increasingly acquainted with how some of the patients we had seen in the clinic actually live.
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| Najma with children at the orphanage in Anta |
Our first stop was an orphanage in the town of Anta, run by nuns affiliated with those we worked with at the Policlinico Belen. When our buses rolled into the compound a group of about 30 children came running out to greet us. We were immediately immersed . . . hugs, kisses, hellos and big smiles all around. The children here range from toddlerhood to early teens. As I stood with the others in our group surrounded by sweet and eager faces, I felt a hand slip into mine and looked down into the eyes of a young girl who introduced herself as Maricielo. Within moments she had adopted me as her special friend and was leading me hand in hand to the gardens that provide most of the fresh food for the children that live here. There I met two young men (brothers) who work as gardeners for the orphanage, growing all the food and maintaining the two large greenhouses. I was instantly in my element, bending to touch the plants and asking them a number of questions about what grows well here, etc. I explained to them that my family has always had a garden in which we grow our own food too and that currently the bell peppers and tomatoes in my garden at home are just about at the same stage of growth as theirs here. It was fun to be able to share and relate in this way and interesting for them to meet a gringa who knows their language . . . of corn, potatoes and cilantro, of soil and seeds, water and bugs.
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| My friends the gardeners. photo by JG |
Eventually Maricielo took my hand again and we went to the central community room where the rest of the group had already been for some time. Maricielo and I walked in as our group was being serenaded by bunches of children singing songs in a special presentation to welcome us. The room was crowded with at least 100 children of all ages--though only about 30 girls actually live here, the orphanage also supports the surrounding community and nearby school--and a number of adults as well. The chatter of children's voices filled the space and it was time to open the suitcases we'd brought. At one point as we were getting ourselves organized one of the suitcases slipped from the table and there ensued a mad dive of small bodies to retrieve the toys that had spilled beneath the table.
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| photo by Marie Hasnain |
The children were arranged by age and stood in line to receive a toy one by one. It seemed that every animal in existence on this planet (and some that are not) were represented in that room as excited children ran around with beanie babies, stuffed animals and other miscellaneous toys. It was a delightful mayhem and just about every person in our group had at least several happy munchkins snuggled up beside them or proudly dancing their new toy through the air. The older children received sunglasses and school supplies and most everyone received toothbrushes and paste. I saw Rosa pull some of the Whole Foods vitamins I had brought out of a suitcase and give them to a young woman who my aunt later explained to me has an unusual and fairly rare genetic condition called "Turner's Syndrome." I was surprised to learn that she is 18 years old because she was exceptionally small, about the size of a 12 year old.
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
Again Maricielo took me by the hand and showed me the room she shares with several other girls. She showed me the view from her window, the list posted on the wall of all the girls' birthdays, a little flower she had folded out of paper . . . I asked her questions and told her how beautiful everything was. She told me she has 8 brothers and sisters and that they are scattered throughout different orphanages and shelters in the area. She told me she is 12 years old and really wants to travel to another place, to come live in the States someday. I told her I believe in her, that she will make it where she wants to go and that I will see her there when she comes to the States.
In the last few minutes of our visit at the orphanage I served as interpreter for my aunt during a quick medical examination in the corner of the orphanage's large kitchen. Our patient was one of the friends I had just made in the garden! He was the older of the two brothers and he was concerned (unsurprisingly by now for us) about his gastritis, and also about a deep bite he had received on his finger a few months prior when castrating an animal (his other job). Soon it was time to go and as we returned to our buses Maricielo held my hand, hugged me around the waist, asked me to write all my contact information in the front cover of her school notebook, and requested a special picture of the two of us together. I told her to take good care of herself, that she is my special friend and that she will always have a home with me when she comes to the States.
We continued on our way through rural farmlands and villages. In the green fields of thriving crops---shin-high corn, potatoes, fava beans, carrots, artichokes---I saw the bright red sweater of a woman bent hard at work; I saw the arching, swinging movement of a man pounding at the thick earth with a wooden hoe; I watched the slow ambulation of a cow being swatted by a twig held in the hand of a mamita who following behind it and whose height (including her hat) did not even clear the hindhaunch of the animal she tended. We passed groups of people at work in the field together and men loading trunks of eucalyptus wood into trucks. We left the highway and followed a dirt road into deeper farmlands.
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| Colquebamba. photo by Marie Hasnain |
When our buses stopped in Colquebamba at a broad open field and we stepped out, we were greeted by a number of women and schoolchildren and a handful of men who sat awaiting our arrival. More streamed in from down the road, arriving in a procession of colorful sweaters and brown tophats. As the suitcases were unloaded from our buses, the children and adults--mostly all women because the men were working in the fields--were asked to sit in separate circles. The children again serenaded our group with a sung performance of welcome and gratitude.
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| Women of Colquebamba. photo by Alison Nichol |
I sat down among the circle of mamitas and their infants because I had begun to feel a little uncomfortable in the way we had spilled out of the buses, taking pictures in people's faces, etc. It felt a little like a human zoo so I quietly separated myself from the group. The women turned and looked at me with curiosity, speaking in Quechua and giggling. They must have been making fun of the awkward gringa sitting amongst them and I realized that these people were as curious about us as we were of them. Only one woman sitting near me spoke Spanish and so she became my translator. One of the mamitas said it looked like I was going to stay here with them when the bus goes and I told her I would love to but my husband would be sad . . . which made them all cover their mouths and laugh heartily. Another told me I have beautiful eyes and I stroked her long black braid saying she has beautiful hair . . . which elicited more delighted giggles. The women chatted amongst themselves in Quechua and laughed often. I felt so much more comfortable sitting here on the ground with them.
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
Soon the suitcases we had brought were being unzipped and the dear kind-hearted people of our group began to pass out toys, clothing and hygiene products. By this time the number of people from the village that had gathered on the turf of the field had grown to perhaps a few hundred. Children ran by playing with their new toys and stuffed animals. Clothing was passed out to the mamitas: sweaters and sweatshirts, jeans, tanks and T's, skirts, as well as various articles for their children of all ages. Next came the hygiene products: toothbrushes and pastes, travel-size shampoos and conditioners, soaps, etc. I stood back and observed it all from a distance, not because I did not want to participate in our group and not because I was lacking in charitable feeling . . . sometimes I am just more comfortable as an observer. So I watched:
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| Girls with their new dolls. photo by Alison Nichol |
I watched as the mamitas looked uncertainly at the various hygiene products they received, sniffing at the bottles and wondering visibly what it was; I watched as a small child of about 2 used his new toothbrush (toy!) to scrub the wheel of our bus; I watched as little pieces of plastic and trash that had moments before been the neat packaging of one of our gifts blew tumbling across the ground to add to the miscellaneous litter already scattered around; I watched as a herd of dirty sheep with rasta dreads meandered by utterly unperturbed by the human activity, and as baby piglets raced to find their mothers; I watched as the sunlight moved across the spectacular minaret formations of the mountain ridges above us; I watched as members of our group bustled purposefully through the suitcases, passed out gifts until the bags were empty, stooped to take photos or play with a snot-nosed child; I watched as at one point a circle of people (mostly children) surrounded Marie and grabbed eagerly at the bag of soaps she held in her hand, reaching and pushing and almost overwhelming her with their insistence; I watched as the crowd slowly dwindled and dispersed, one mamita at a time walking away toward the village, the river or the fields with a new pair of jeans tucked under one elbow, a baby wrapped in a dazzlingly striped blanket across her shoulders, long black braids running down from beneath her brown bowler hat, a wooden spindle for spinning wool dangling from one busy hand and a mangy stray dog or two tagging along beside her. Slowly the people melded back into the landscape . . . and I wondered as I watched:
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
I wondered about camera flashes and human curiosity. I wondered about the appropriateness of jeans and spaghetti straps in the context of woolen skirts and bowler hats. I wondered about soapsuds in the river and travel sized plastic littering the fields; I wondered about what it means to "help" people; I wondered about what they might have said if we had asked them what they thought they needed or what kind of help they wanted; I wondered about good intentions and the generous kind hearts of charitable people; I wondered if it is better to
try to help, with kind hearts and good intentions and thereby create a mutually enriching interaction, or to not help at all and let the people continue living as they do; I wondered about the intricacies of human interaction, the meeting of two entirely different worlds; I wondered about the intense contrasts between such distinct cultures and realities; and I wondered about the certain qualities of humanness that connect us all regardless of how impossibly different we may seem.
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| photo by Marie Hasnain |
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| photo by Marie Hasnain |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
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| photo by Marie Hasnain |
We continued deeper and higher into the mountains to reach the next village, Accoracay. The bus charged up dusty switchbacks, along steep slopesides and dropoffs. A man in the middle of a potato patch shin-deep in turf straightened his back to wave. A large pig lay flattened in utter relaxation beside the road. A mamita from far across the valley stopped her work to shade her eyes and look in our direction. Several people sat in idle companionship on a small hillock, gently passing time together. Several blankets and pieces of clothing lay flat in the sun beside the river, freshly washed. Again the people (mostly women and children) were awaiting our arrival in the open space at the center of their village. Again we pulled up in our buses and unloaded the suitcases. This village was much smaller than the first. I felt slightly more comfortable here particularly since the very first item passed around was one I consider perhaps the most impactful and sustainable assistance we can give: each and every individual (except those women expecting a baby as was explained in both Spanish and Quechua) sat in the circle chewing on a pill of antiparasite medication. Then it was on to the clothing, toys, school supplies and hygiene products.
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
Perhaps because this second village was so much smaller than the first it did not seem quite so overwhelming. The mamitas here sat spinning wool, knitting, weaving, holding hands, chatting amongst each other or quietly watching to see what kind of surprise would land in their lap. Several men arrived from their work in the fields and were so very grateful for the new pants, shirts and shoes that were pressed into their hands. Clydine explained to the women how to use a toothbrush. I joined Michelle in the circle of toddlers, each one delightedly clutching a new stuffed animal and staring intensely with dark soulful eyes. I nearly melted at the sight of their tiny feet tucked into mini-chanklas (sandals made from recycled tires that most all of the people here wear), toes black with dirt and rough as elephant skin. Their hair was wild and bleached to a milk-chocolate color by the sun and high-altitude UV exposure. Their little cheeks were so dry and chapped that they were tarnished a deep red and flaking. Their noses were crusted with snot and grit. But the brightness of those little ones was so sweetly endearing, incredibly cute and delightful. So precious!
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| photo by Julia Gundling |
Back in Cusco later that evening we made the trip across town to the Policlinico Belen one last time. The nuns had invited us to a meal and celebration they had prepared in our honor. I had no idea that they would treat us with such kind appreciation and thoughtfulness . . .
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| photo by Marie Hasnain |
We entered the room where they had served us lunch every day during clinic and sat in a circle of chairs that lined the perimeter. The nuns had decorated the space with ribbons and large letters pinned to the wall that red "Agradecemiento por su apoyo y generosidad." As they served us one by one the food that had been so carefully prepared--first a little appetizer, then a plateful of meat and potatoes, then canned peach and cake--we were treated to a memorable musical performance by a man and woman and her son. Their music was a combination of voices and guitars that was truly beautiful. Many of the songs were familiar to me from my time here before: some famous to Peru, some typical of the Cusco area, others not from around here at all (from Mexico or Cuba). As the man and woman sang together I found myself completely choked up with tears. I have always been astounded by how much of life's beauty and joy is conveyed in so much of the music here . . . I am moved by the sweetness in the notes and rhythms, touched that often the people who have nothing--who live with dirt floors, with not enough to eat and hardly enough clothes to keep them warm--can still sing and make music with such joy and appreciation for the richness of life itself . . .
that is wealth.
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| photo by Alison Nichol |
After the meal speeches of appreciation and thanks were made by a priest who is affiliated with the nuns of Belen and by the Mother Superior. They honored us with their gratitude and kind words. They expressed profound appreciation for the amazingly generous and visionary spirit of Rosa, who has deeply impacted the Policlinico with her annual visits and continual support. They highlighted specific individuals and gave them plaques. They acknowledged each and every one of the doctors with a gift, then included every one of the 25 or so individual in our group by calling each of us up by name to kiss us on both cheeks and give us a wrapped present. It was unexpected, and I was humbled by their generosity. Then the music struck a more lively beat and the Peruvians grabbed us by the hands and pulled us into the circle to dance. Marie was swept up by the priest who twirled her around the circle. "Para bailar la Bamba . . ." had us all fighting our full tummies to participate in the celebration.
*Special thanks to Alison and Marie for all their amazing photographs I heisted for this blog . . . though in this particular posting I went on a tangent about "human zoos," I feel so grateful to you for having taken these photographs so that we can all more vividly remember these experiences.
