In the eye of the storm

On Tuesday I faced grave danger without even knowing it. I was climbing up to the Pastoruri glacier near Huaraz with a group of seven tourists and a guide. We had reached the altitude of 4.900 meters above sea level and were half an hour away from the glacier when all of a sudden a thunder storm came down upon us. The roaring wind blew gusts of hail and snow and tore on our quilted jackets. What really pulled us up short, though, was the first thunderbolt. It sounded so loud and in such unison with the flash of lightning that we knew we were in the eye of the storm. The guide said it was dangerous and that we should go back right away. First we considered speeding it up and trying to reach the glacier as quickly as possible, but the next shot of lightning convinced us we had better turn back. We hurried back to where the car had left us. The picture is of the camp site, taken when we were leaving for the glacier.




Back at the camp, we found everyone shaky and upset. While we were trotting up the mountain, lighting had struck the camp killing three people and hurting a fourth. The victims were locals who rented horses to tourists. Everyone around was in shock and scared to death and begged us to take them down from the mountain in the van. We loaded as many campesinos as we could and speeded down. On the way back I prayed the rosary for the first time in a very long time and it felt comforting. No-one said a word during the two-hour ride back to Huaraz. When the guide said thunder was dangerous, it never came to me that we were actually in mortal danger. We were so lucky to get back safe and sound - unlike the three poor men who lost their lives to the storm. Never underestimate the forces of nature.

Yesterday I googled the misfortune for some news or at least a brief mention. The Huaraz regional papers do not have web pages and no national paper covered the story. I am certain that if the casualties had been foreign tourists, the story would have been front-page news in Peru and might even have been covered by the European media. The whole tourist industry in Huaraz would have recieved a blow. However, since the three victims were poor campesinos and had Indian blood running through their veins, no-one really cares for their fate. After all, the poor die of this and that and the other thing. Often they lack identity cards and/or birth certificates, so in the eyes of the Peruvian state they never existed in the first place.

On electoral campaigns at the grass-roots level

Today my English classes at Cushunga were abruptly interrupted when a trailer truck parked in front of the school. Cars are a rare sight in Cushunga, not to mention trucks, so all of the students ran outside to have a look at the vehicle. It turned out that the municipal government had sent us materials for the construction of outdoor toilets – up till now there have been no toilets whatsoever on the school premises. By outdoor toilet I mean a hole in the ground encircled by sheet metal. The parents (or rather, fathers) of the students are now responsible for putting up a row of toilets for the school.

We were not allowed to unload the truck before the authorities and a small camera crew made it to the school in their four-wheeler. Then the cameras immortalized the scene: excited secondary school students carrying sacks of cement, sheet plates and planks from the truck into the school building. Interviews with the principal and the community leader were taped. Both expressed their over-brimming gratitude to Mayor Marco La Torre, who works tirelessly for the progress of rural communities. Then the authorities addressed the curious onlookers and made sure they all understood that the soon-to-be outdoor toilets were proof of the competence of the Señor Alcalde. With the municipal elections coming up, it is important to get the message across. From my point of view as a Finn, I could not help thinking that it ought to be the mayor’s day-to-day business to see to it that all schools have a place where the pupils (and teachers, for that matter) can go for a piss.

In national elections, most people say they choose the least bad candidate, not the best one. The general population mistrusts politicians and believes they are all corrupt and self-interested. That is why politicians are eager to earn points in the eyes of the electorate. In Finland, school food is considered fruit of the welfare system. In Peru, authorities seek to insinuate that it is a gift from the elected leader and his personal merit.

Candidates campaign by painting their name and “logo” on the facades of private homes. Sometimes such electoral ads also include two or three words that sum up the candidate’s priorities, for example “better road to Chamis” or “more health clinics”. Many a candidate also reminds his electors, that he “sí cumple” or keeps his promises. I choose to use the masculine pronoun, since I have yet to hear of some woman running for mayor in the Cajamarcan region.




As a considerable proportion of the Peruvian rural population is illiterate or barely literate, the electoral candidates are distinguished between not by number but by picture. Each candidate chooses a simple drawing that serves as his logo. Many of the drawings give a hint about the candidate’s electoral themes: a spoon hints at food distribution for the poorest, a tractor means improvements in agriculture, a shovel suggests more public works, a pen promises more money for schools and literacy campaigns.




Not all pictures have a deeper meaning, though; I cannot figure what a baseball cap could mean, for instance. Illiterate Peruvians were first granted suffrage in 1979. Before that, the indigenous communities were largely excluded from voting, so the Constitution of 1979 was a major advance in reducing marginalization.

Lifestyles of the rich and the famous

In Cajamarca, I mainly mingle with poor and middle-class Peruvians. In the field, I work with children who live on less than two dollars a day. My friends and colleagues belong to the growing Peruvian middle class; their monthly salary is between 100 and 350 €. They are fairly well-off but far from being rich. Inequality, although visible in Cajamarca, is not striking.

Lima is a different story. Miraflores, home to the city’s rich and famous, brims with cafés, restaurants, shops, movie theaters, bars, discos and the like – all full of consumers. Everything costs twice what it does in Cajamarca. The Larco Mar shopping center on the shores of the Pacific offers an extensive sortiment of designer merchandise and imported European and North American goods. Last week I strolled on Lima’s main shopping streets and wondered how so many people in this relatively poor country could afford such a lifestyle.








The majority of Limans live in poverty, but the city is also home to many people whose lifestyle is more luxurious than anyone’s in Finland – and Miraflores caters their needs. Miraflores and the neighboring bohemian Barranco and residential San Isidro are like any big-city upper-class areas in Europe. Green parks and trimmed lawns, clean streets and pretty buildings, patroling police officers and good lighting, polished cars and elegant citizens. The rest of Lima is a noisy, hazardous chaos where paint falls off walls, cars rattle along indifferent to traffic rules, the streets are filthy, and consumer goods are bought at crowded outdoor markets. After six months in the “real Peru”, Miraflores was a culture shock.

During my first week in Lima an old friend from a language course in France invited me over for drinks. Four of her friends came over, too, so we had a nice little get-together. My friend's tastefully decorated, spacious home in San Isidro, one of Lima’s most prestigious residential areas, looked like an appartment in an indoor design magazine. We sipped imported vintage wine and feasted on Italian sun-dried tomatos. I was asked what I had seen that day in Lima. I answered that I had visited some preschools in the Ventanilla slum. What followed was an uncomfortable silence and a change of subject. I will bet anything that none of the born and bred Limans present had ever been to a slum. They are familiar with the comfortable, upper-class life in Lima, but ignore the reality of the majority of Limans.

As the guest of honor in Catache

Last weekend I was invited to the community of Catache (a two-hour car ride from Cajamarca) to join in the celebration of the village’s patron saint. I left Cajamarca on Saturday morning meaning to return the same afternoon, but as it turned out that I was the guest of honor, I could not leave before late on Sunday afternoon.

The festivities began on Saturday (the eve of the feast) with a mass and a procession in honor of Saint Nicholas of Tolentino, a virtually unknown Italian saint who is, for some reason, the patron and protector of Catache. In the afternoon there was time for the secondary school teachers to show me the school premises and the fruits of a recent research project: a booklet containing some twenty local legends, passed on as oral tradition and now for the first time collected and written down.

After nightfall it was time for what many considered the highlight of the feast: a dance featuring a band that played popular Andean tunes, huaynos and cumbia. The band brought its own motor-run sound system and a floodlight, which was very exciting for the catachinos, since their small town lacks electricity. I had a great time dancing the night away to the now-familiar tunes of Andean music. The locals were more than pleased to see I liked their music, and the dancing gringuita was the attraction of the night. Fireworks, castillos and vacas locas crowned the night. A castillo is a towering, wooden structure made up of several layers of fireworks which are fired off one at a time. A vaca loca is a framework of fireworks strapped on the back of a volunteer that runs around like crazy, sprouting shooting stars in all directions.




After a plateful of soup for breakfast, we gathered around the main square early on Sunday morning. The VIPs (to which I apparently belonged) got front-row seats on the platform. First the school children paraded around the square wearing their uniforms and carrying the national flag.




Thereafter, we sang the national anthem in Quechua, and as the guest of honor, I got to raise the flag. Then followed a whole lot of speeches, the second of which (to my surprise) I was expected to give ex tempore in front of the entire village. Thankfully I have already learnt what the expected content of Peruvian speeches is: an extremely voluble expression of the immense gratitude one feels for having experienced over-flowing kindness and hospitality, and admiration of the beauty of the town and goodness of its inhabitants. That was more or less what I said, in as many words as possible.

When the speeches ended, the ladies of Catache presented a selection of typical dishes, the most delicious of which I was to select. A difficult decision, but I finally chose cherry tomato marmalade and sweet roasted corn. I also got to give out the prizes.






A small fair exhibited Catachean literature, medicinal herbs and handicrafts. At midday we all crowded into the small village chapel for another festive mass and the baptism of six children.




After mass, the statue of Saint Nicholas of Tolentino was carried around the village. Then the organizers invited all the villagers to a lunch of roasted pork.

Once again, I got to experience immeasurable hospitality and attention. I felt like I did nothing but eat from dawn to dusk, since everyone wanted me to taste their best delicacies. I was given such importance throughout the feast that it bordered on absurd and surreal. The master of ceremonies kept repeating how grateful Catache was for the presence of such a venerable, educated person, and how the honorable guest gave the modest feast significance and solemnity. It was so ridiculous that I had to do my best not to laugh and act the part, since it obviously was no joke. Instead, I tried my best to boost the locals’ self-esteem by paying compliments to everything they had prepared. Maybe they appreciate their own culture more when they see the guest of honor does too…

First encounter with corruption

During my trip to the province of San Ignacio, I came across corruption for the first time. San Ignacio is the northernmost province in the Department of Cajamarca and it borders with Ecuador. It occurred to me that I could cross the border to Ecuador to renew my visa since my six months were drawing to a close. The river that marks the border between Peru and Ecuador is a mere one-and-a-half-hour taxi ride away from the city of San Ignacio, so my colleague and I hopped on a cab and rode to La Balsa. I walked the bridge that separates Peru from Ecuador and got my passport stamped: a three-month visa to Ecuador starting from October 22nd. Everything seemed nice and simple.

Then I walked back over to Peru to get a new visa, and that was when things got complicated. I could not get a visa to Peru before the Ecuadorian authorities had stamped my exit from the country. So I went back to the Ecuadorian side, and it turned out that according to some obscure law you must remain in Ecuador at least three days before you are allowed to leaver. To me, it sounded and still sounds absurd: surely many visitors desire to visit the country for only a day or two? Can Ecuador really keep foreign citizens from leaving at their will?

I still don’t know whether the officers made the rule up. One way or the other, they refused to stamp my passport and I couldn’t return to Peru. I had no time to stay in Ecuador and had left San Ignacio with only a small handbag, since we planned to return the same morning. I reasoned, pleaded, begged, and finally cried, but nothing helped. Then I called my colleague to help. He negotiated with the officers while I waited with a Peruvian police officer who showed up to offer moral support. He assured me that there would be a solution, and explained that a German gentleman residing in Tarapoto comes over every three months to renew his visa, “invites the officers to some soft drinks” and they always reach an “agreement”.

More than an hour later my colleague indeed reached an “agreement” both with the Ecuadorian officers and the Peruvian one. I left La Balsa with a stamp on my passport that said I left Ecuador and entered Peru on October 26th while it was only October 22nd. The stamp cost me US$ 40, which is more than the officers earn per day. Quite content, they wished me a pleasant stay in San Ignacio and welcomed me back anytime.

I am fully conscious of the harm that corruption does; it undermines a country’s possibilities to develop. I used to think I would never pay bribes. However, having no other way out of the mess, I was glad to pay. I told my colleague I hoped the officers would at least use the money to buy something nice for their wife or for their children. My colleague was not quite as optimistic. “They’ll spend it on booze, that’s for sure.”

On poverty and development

Last week saw me visit two native awajún communities in the Amazon rainforest, as I travelled to San Ignacio for work. The awajún are one of the many native tribes in Peru that have preserved their language and culture to this day. The days I spent with the awajún changed my perception of poverty and taught me more than years of academic studies. I used to think that poverty meant going to bed hungry, living in precarious housing and working long hours for a pittance. After numerous in-depth conversations with the awajún, I came to understand the question is a lot more complex. Material poverty may not be as difficult to face as lack of roots and culture.

On all standards, the awajún communities Naranjos and Supayaku (both in the Province of San Ignacio) are extremely poor. They lack electricity, clean drinking water, sewerage, waste disposal, and a telephone line. The nearest dirt road is a tiring six-hour walk away, on rough terrain. The daily diet consists mainly of yucca and plantain, and especially the children look severely undernourished. Consumer goods are nonexistent, and basic necessities like rice and sugar are expensive since they must be carried to the community by mule from far away.






However, the awajún do not wallow in self-pity for the hardships they have to face. No-one complained about the lack of modern conveniences. On the contrary, the villagers genuinely feel they are fortunate to live in a place like Supayaku. They are extremely proud of their cultural heritage and ancestral traditions. The awajún described with pride how they live in harmony with nature and each other. They enthusiastically showed me the best fishing spots, made me try their typical dishes (yucca, plantain, fish), and told me of the flora and fauna of the area. They spoke of breathing fresh air, bathing in the river, listening to the sounds of the rainforest that pulsates with life. Theirs is a happy life in all its simplicity.






Nevertheless, their way of life is endangered. The awajún fear that foreign mining companies and coffee exporters will come destroy their environment in search of the abundant natural resources the rainforest has to offer. In June, Peru gasped at the violent confrontation between awajún demonstrators and the police in Bagua which ended in hundreds of casualties. The natives asked the government to respect their way of life and put the interests of the indigenous peoples before the interests of multinational corporations. In the Peruvian media the awajún were frequently pictured as riotous troublemakers and primitive, ignorant natives. According to President Alan García, they are not exactly “first-class citizens”.

The government spurs prime commodity extraction by multinational companies in the Peruvian rainforest in the name of development. “How can they call it development if it brings death?” one of the community elders in Supayaku asked. The awajún do want development, but they want the right to determine themselves what is desirable development. They do want schools, health centres and roads. What they do not want is to see their mother tongue, their traditions and their way of life disappear.

In Supayaku I learnt that one does not need much in the way of possessions to lead a full, happy life. Despite the material poverty, I did not see desperation or suffering. Instead, I was amazed by how hospitable, kind, considerate and respectful people were. My colleague and I could not have been received more warmly. It seems that the less you have the more you are ready to give.

Pilgrimage to Motupe

During a long weekend in the coastal city of Chiclayo, Pilar, Sara and I took time to visit Motupe, a popular place of pilgrimage 60 kilometres northeast of Chiclayo. Motupe is famous for its miraculous cross, located in a grotto up on a mountainside. The cross was first discovered 141 years ago, and its hide seemed so inaccessible that the locals took for granted that it must have been placed there by the Virgin Mary herself. Since then, pilgrims flood the site.

Nowadays, the way up is tiring but nowhere near as tiring as before. Stairs lead all the way to the top, and the way is flanked by little tents where locals sell soft drinks, candy and souvenirs to pilgrims. It reminded me of Lourdes, a shrine in Southern France, which has over the years turned into a commercial circus. Buy a bottle of holy water, or take three for the price of two! A statue of the Virgin Mary adorned with twinkling neon lights, now for sale!

In the midst of all the commercial hub, the stairs up are lined with stations of the Way of the Cross.






After about an hour of climbing, we reached the grotto. The walls of the platform are lined with plaques where people thank the Virgin of Motupe for her blessings. It is customary to ask the Virgin for a favour, and if it is granted, you must return to show your gratitude. For example, many couples who cannot have children make the trip to Motupe (some even climb up the stairs on their knees) and ask the Virgin to bless them with a baby. It seems like many wishes have been granted, for the walls of the shrine hang with hundreds of photos of little children.




The cross itself stands in a small cave, surrounded by flowers and adorned with bracelets and rosaries. The devout reach out to touch the cross, say their prayers and light candles outside. I lit a candle for the health and happiness of my family. I didn’t ask for anything in particular, so I won’t have to return if my wish is granted! ;)








Annually on August 5th, Motupe celebrates its patronal feast, Fiesta de la Cruz de Motupe. On that day, the cross is carried down in a procession to a chapel in the town of Motupe. August is high season, and pilgrims have to queue to reach the cave. We visited Motupe in October, but even then there were hoards of pilgrims.

The shrine has changed a lot in the past decades. Pilar told us that when she first visited the sanctuary nearly thirty years ago, there were no stairs nor food or drinks to buy. The way up was a lot more arduous and dangerous, and if you forgot to take a lot of water along, you reached the cross dying of thirst.