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.

Birthday

In Peru, parties are big and anything is a good excuse to throw one. Practically every weekend there is a birthday party, a going away party or a welcome back party. On October 1st I turned 23, and that naturally was an occasion to celebrate.

On the eve of my birthday I invited some 20 friends over for dinner. My lovely flatmates and two Peruvian friends helped me with the cooking – or rather, they cooked and I helped out. We made a tuna salad, a vegetable salad, papa a la huancaína (potatoes in a creamy sauce spiced up with yellow chilli peppers) and pies filled with yuca and cheese.




Celi made me a torta de tres leches (a sponge cake soaked in three different kinds of milk; the most delicious type of cake I’ve tasted).




As a welcome drink we served pisco sour, a Peruvian cocktail containing pisco, lemon juice, egg whites and syrup. It tastes a lot better than it sounds! :) At midnight it was time to sing Happy Birthday to you, and I could open the presents. According to Peruvian tradition, the birthday boy or girl has to take a bite of the cake (or smash his/her head into it). Only then can he/she cut the cake.






I woke up at sunrise on my birthday and left for Chamis secondary school, where I teach English every Thursday morning. After my morning cup of coffee I was actually quite awake and eager to meet my students. Once they spotted me getting off the combi (van turned into bus), the pupils shouted “Happy birthday”, in English! They sang Happy Birthday to you and had even brought buns and marcianos (somewhat like water-ice) to share. I had brought soft drinks, cookies and sweets, so we had quite a feast. The youngsters at Chamis are the nicest ever, nothing like the mean and nasty Finnish middle school students. I’ve grown very fond of them.

In the evening my workmates organized a “surprise” party for me at the office. We started with a flowering ceremony. The lights were turned off, everyone sat in a circle in candlelight, I was seated in the middle, and one by one all scattered rose petals on my head and voiced their birthday wishes. Then we had cake (tres leches, once again!), snacks and red wine.

My colleagues gave me a red quilted jacket, which was the perfect present, since I never dress up warmly enough when I go up to Cushunga (3.500 metres above sea level) or Sexemayo (3.800 metres). Last Tuesday I was so cold I shivered all over and my teeth chattered. From now on, I will stop thinking I’m close to the Equator and it should be warm; I know it is not, so I’ll wear my new jacket, a woolen cap and mittens! :)

Intercultural bilingual education

This week I participated in a conference on intercultural bilingual education (EIB) in Peru. The two-day conference consisted of lectures by renowned specialists and panel discussions. Among the speakers was my boss Mariska who gave a talk on the intercultural curricular proposal ARTEPERÚ, elaborated by Warmayllu, that integrates communal knowledge and intercultural education through the arts in the official primary school curriculum. As a student in linguistics, I found the conference very interesting and have even begun to consider writing my thesis on EIB in Peru.

Since the event was organized by the Regional Academy of the Quechua Language, the focus was on quechua (spoken by 4 million Peruvians, according to official statistics, and probably by many more). In theory, all 43 of Peru’s indigenous languages are official and their speakers have the right to use them when dealing with authorities. Children whose mother tongue is not Spanish should have access to bilingual education. In practice, however, linguistic minorities are forced to use Spanish, which millions of Peruvians people either do not know at all or are not fluent in.

In the Cajamarca region, quechua has lost foot in the past decades. Nowadays only the residents of Porcón Alto and Chetilla (communities close to Cajamarca) are quechua-speaking. Nonetheless, in Sexemayo and Cushunga, communities relatively removed from the city, people do use quechua, mixing it routinely with Spanish. When I ask one of the preschool students in Cushunga or Sexemayo what he is drawing, he rarely answers “oveja” (Spanish for “sheep”) but instead “wisha”. When it is cold, people say “alalay”, not “qué frío”. Instead of a “Buenos días, ¿cómo está?”, I am often greeted with an “Allin punchay, ¿Imashinam kangi?”

In many cases, quechua is seen as a more expressive language, so people recur to it for emphasis. It is also common to use quechua words for animals and everyday things. It is important that the teacher sees this code-switching as something that enriches the Spanish language, not as a deficiency. Sadly, the teacher is in many cases insensitive to local culture and traditions, and neither speaks nor appreciates the indigenous language spoken by the pupils.

During my time in Cajamarca, I have grown to understand that rural communities have inexhaustible reserves of knowledge on many things I know absolutely nothing about: medicinal plants, traditional cures, handicrafts, care of domestic animals, etc. I hope to have been able to teach my students something, but surely I have learnt a lot more from them and from their parents.

Week of Stories and Legends

Last week was one of the highlights of the year in Warmayllu: the annual Week of Legends and Stories (Semana de la Leyenda y el Cuento), already a tradition in Cajamarca. This year its theme was cultural diversity and the rights of indigenous communities.

The week started off with a mask workshop. It took up two afternoons (Monday and Wednesday); the first day we moulded the masks, and on Wednesday when they had dried up we painted them.




On Tuesday, we showed a documentary (Buscando el azul) on an Amazonian indigenous community, followed by a debate. On Thursday, it was time for a conference on the laws and norms regarding the rights of the indigenous communities.

Friday morning saw us parading through the streets around the Plaza de Armas in honour of cultural diversity. The pupils from several schools in and around Cajamarca took part and we filled the streets.




The children from rural communities wore their traditional festive clothes, and I also dressed up in a similar outfit: a richly adorned blouse and a heavy woollen skirt with several layers of underskirts. My secondary school students looked very amused every time they saw their señorita profesora!




Straight after the parade, we celebrated the Festival of Live Culture where all the schoolchildren had the chance to sing, dance or act.






My students from Chamis secondary school acted out a play based on the recent conflict between the indigenous population and Peruvian police forces in Bagua, in the Amazon rainforest. Fortunately everyone knew how the story went, since not even those standing in the front row could hear the dialogue. For those who have not followed the reports on the events (which I doubt were front-page news in Europe), the Peruvian government recently passed laws in the spirit of the free trade agreement with the U.S. that make it a lot easier for multinational corporations to exploit Peru's natural resources. The indigenous communities are understandably concerned that mining and oil-extraction will endanger their livelihoods and destroy the rainforest they depend on for their very survival. Therefore, on the first week of June Bagua witnessed a violent conflict in which hundreds of indigenous demonstrators and policemen were killed.

On Saturday, the Week of Legends and Stories ended with a fair in which schools displayed their recent activities and art projects. To gather funds for the schools, the pupils (and their mothers) sold the fruits of baking, weaving and cooking workshops.

Indigenous knowledge of natural dyes

On Monday, Warmayllu organized a dyeing workshop in the kindergarten of Chamis, a rural community eight kilometres outside Cajamarca. Several of the children’s mothers came to help us in the dyeing process and pass on their ancestral knowledge of natural dyes. This time, we dyed the wool a bright green.

At the start, each child gets a bundle of thread. The woollen thread is wrapped around his or her out-stretched hands and should be around 50 turns long.




The bundle is tied up with a coloured piece of thread so that every child will recognize his or her own. The bundles are washed with soap and rubbed with a natural substance that enhances the absorption of the colour.




A huge pot of water is set to boil. As yet, the power-distribution network does not reach Chamis, so everyone uses firewood for cooking. A generous amount of alder leaves are cooked for 40 minutes and then thrown away. Once the boiling water is clear of leaves, colorant is added and the threads are thrown.




In 30 – 45 minutes they soak in enough colorant to shine bright green. Then they are washed again and hung to dry.






It was very interesting to witness how skilfully the rural mothers worked with herbs and plants to bring out brilliant colours. The practical knowledge and rich lore of the people in the rural communities where we work do not cease to amaze me. People live in a close relationship to nature, and they know how to use its gifts in a sustainable way. Natural dyes are not harmful for the environment like chemical ones are. Ancestral practices are still is use.

The handicrafts on sell around here are all dyed by hand, using natural dyes. The colours are bright and vibrant – so bright that a visiting Finnish friend felt she couldn’t wear them in dull and grey Finland! I must have gotten used to the Andean colour scheme, for I have bought quite a few bags and mean to go on using them after I return to Finland.

Village feasts

The Andean region is famous for its long-anticipated and well-prepared communal feasts. No expense is saved, for the feast must be memorable – and preferably more memorable than the one in the neighbouring village. The festival usually lasts eight days, the last two of which are the most important. There are dozens of small towns in the Department of Cajamarca, and every one celebrates its patron saint annually. Las fiestas patronales are the highlight of the year.

So far I have been to two village feasts: one in Magdalena in July and another in Namora in August. The village of Magdalena celebrates my namesake, Saint Mary Magdalen. Namora’s patron saint is Saint Rose of Lima. I visited Magdalena with Sara (Dutch) and Paúl (Peruvian), and Namora with two Saras (Dutch and German) and Paúl, Irma, Fernando and Mego (Peruvians). Paúl has family in Magdalena, and they received us warmly in their home. In Namora we stayed at a hostel but were invited to have both lunch and dinner at Paúl’s aunt and uncle’s house. It seemed like the whole extended family came over – we must have been around thirty. The hospitality we experienced was truly impressive.

Magdalena is situated at 1,200 meters above sea level, considerably lower than Cajamarca (2,750 m). Therefore, the climate is nearly tropical. Paúl’s house’s garden was full of fruit trees bearing ripe mangos, oranges, avocados and other tropical fruit, and fresh juice was a great start for the day. The weekend in Magdalena was pure relaxation. All we did was stroll around, chill out with Paúl’s friends, make jokes and drink beer. Villagers live to a more relaxed rhythm than city-dwellers; no-one is in a hurry anywhere.

During the fiestas patronales, people from all around crowd the town. For a few days the town bustles with life, which is in stark contrast to the calm that reigns the rest of the year. The main square is full of stands, and the air is heavy with different odours. Barbecue sticks, freshly baked cookies, hamburgers, juice, fruit... The smell of fried meat floats up to your nose as guinea pig roasts in every second tent. This exquisite Andean dish is served on special occasions.




Vendors occupy the streets, and you can buy anything from underwear to kitchen utensils. Peruvians are heavy drinkers, so beer and cañazo (homemade booze) flow at all festivals. Many villagers start drinking on the first day of the feast and carry on until the very last. The main streets are lined with small tents, many of which are equipped with a high-tech sound system booming cumbia, the ultra-popular Peruvian party music. Late at night begins the dancing.




Fireworks are abundant both night and day, although most are – in my opinion – fairly pitiful. They whistle when launched and explode with a loud bang, but that is all. A lot of noise pollution and no pleasure for the eye! Another oddity are cohetes, small bombs that even small children blow up on the sidewalks.

The climax of the night is when the castillos are lit up. A castillo (castle) is a towering wooden structure. The largest ones have twelve levels, each of which is adorned with rockets. Level by level, the rockets catch fire and turn into spinning whirlpools, sprouting sparks in all directions. The shapes and colours of the whirlpools vary, and the sight is very impressive. The spectacle is rather hazardous, though, since the sparks fall on the spectators.




Another crazy number is the vaca loca (mad cow). A wooden frame somewhat resembling the body of a cow and loaded with fireworks is mounted on a person’s back and lit on fire. The person “inside” the cow runs around the square while the audience crows with delight.

The religious part of the festivities is the high mass, followed by a procession carrying a statue of the patron saint out on the streets. The statue stands on a platform, surrounded by candles and flowers, wearing a magnificent robe. Other activities include bullfights, sports and games.

Who covers all the expenses? Each day of the feast has its special sponsor, mayordomo, who pays the piper and calls the tune. The mayordomo is one of the villagers, a volunteer. The responsibilities are agreed upon a year in advance. Being a mayordomo is obviously a great honour, but it is also very expensive. For example, one castillo costs around 2,000 nuevos soles (500 €), which is more than the average professional earns in two months. Often, mayordomos have to sell part of their livestock in order to pay the costs of the merry-making. However, everyone seems to think the feast is worth it. After all, it is a week to remember.

Wake

Yesterday I had the chance to attend a wake in Cushunga, a rural community that lies in the mountains a two-hour walk from Cajamarca. A member of the community, the grandfather of one of my students, had passed away the night before, and according to custom we teachers were expected to take the pupils to the wake.

At first, some of the secondary school boys voiced their objection and suggested that going straight home would be a better option. However, when Profesora Cristina threatened that anyone who skipped the wake would fail Religion, the youngsters shut their mouth and tagged along. The preschool and primary school pupils joined our caravan and we walked to the house of the deceased Don Titorio in line, bearing garlands of flowers that the children had laced up.

We were warmly welcomed and showed into an empty room where the simple, wooden coffin stood on a table, encircled with burning candles. The coffin had a small opening so that the face of the deceased was visible. Several neighbours and family members were seated in silence on the dirt floor, bundled up in woollen blankets, keeping the deceased company. The room filled to capacity when the sixty preschool, primary school and secondary school students jammed in. We prayed one mystery of the rosary and Profesora Lucha said a prayer for the soul of the late Don Titorio. Then we sang two hymns which everyone besides me seemed to know by heart.

After a short moment of silence, we were invited to take a seat in the courtyard. We were all served mote, peeled and cooked corn. Huge pots steamed on the courtyard, and the women of the household were busy cutting and frying chunks of sheep. The family had butchered two of their sheep for the occasion; food had to be abundant at the wake.

Don Titorio lived to the venerable age of 85, so his death did not come by surprise. No one really understood my question when I inquired for the cause of his death. Old age, of course! The funeral was this afternoon, and before that the entire community was expected to show up at the wake to say goodbye to Don Titorio and accompany him on his journey from this world to the next.

I am beginning to realize that the work of us teachers in the community is comprehensive; maintaining good relations to the villagers is equally important as teaching irregular verbs. Even I am considered to some extent part of the community, even though I live in Cajamarca and only visit Cushunga once a week. I find it beautiful that the community members face moments of sorrow together.

My five minutes of fame

Lately I have taken up spinning classes and have been going fairly regularly with two friends of mine, Sara and Pilar. One evening a journalist from the TV show Hablando de todo came to film our class and wanted to interview three participants. Not surprisingly, he insisted on having a word with the only two foreigners (Sara and I) and would not take no for an answer.

So it was that last Saturday Sara and I starred the bit on spinning on the local current affairs program. Spinning is a brand new concept here in Cajamarca: the one and only gym that offers spinning classes opened a month ago, so the theme has news value. The report on spinning took a full five minutes, so I indoor biked on TV for four minutes and then, all sweaty after the workout, voiced my astoundingly intelligent opinions on the subject:

Q: “Why do like spinning?”
A: “I like spinning because it is fun and because I always feel really good after the workout."
Q: “Who would you recommend spinning to?”
A: “Anyone who wants to stay in shape.”

I still congratulate myself on coming up with such imaginative answers... not! :D Anyway, I’m not on TV every day, so it was kind of cool. And luckily no-one videoed the program, so I won’t have to see it again!

Fair Trade bananas

In El Guabo, Ecuador, I had the chance to visit a Fair Trade banana farm. My friend Annika is currently volunteering for the El Guabo Association of Small Banana Producers (APPBG), and she gave me a tour around one of the many farms that are part of the Fair Trade cooperative. I had used the APPBG as a case study for one of my development studies essays in spring, so it was very interesting to see its work in real life!

The banana tree is actually not a tree at all, but a plant. It takes eight months for it to grow fruit, and when the banana bunch is picked, the plant dies. The humid, tropical climate ensures that it rots on the ground soon enough and fertilizes new generations of banana plants. Bananas grow all year around; there is no specific harvest period.




Bananas are not really “picked”, either; they are cut off the plant in huge bunches. To do so, the plant has to be cut down. The banana bunch is hauled to the wire leading to the packing zone, hung from a hook, and pulled all the way to the packing plant. There the bananas are washed, classified and packed. The work is physically extremely tough, and I did not see any female workers.










Packing bananas is trickier than it sounds because each box has to contain exactly 18.14 kg of bananas. An experienced worker packs one in no time. Each box bears a code indicating the farm where it was packed, and the date. If the bananas do not stand up to the Fair Trade requirements, buyers know whom to contact. It takes more than a month before the bananas hit European markets.






The quality requirements for Fair Trade bananas are relatively strict, so a part of the produce (too ripe bananas, for example) goes to domestic markets. The bananas are shipped to Europe while they are still green and they are only made ripen just before selling. I believe that inevitably affects the taste – here in South America all fruits tend to taste better than at home.

The whole process looked very well organized; you can see that the APPBG pays a lot of attention to quality. The Fair Trade premium allows the producers to invest in developing farm infrastructure, and the APPBG also provides them with technical support. Check out Annika’s blog if you want to know more about growing Fair Trade bananas: http://fairtradeinecuador.wordpress.com.

Bananas are the daily bread of Ecuador’s coastal population. Ecuadorians distinguish between the plantain, plátano, and the sweeter banana we in Europe are used to, banano. During my four days on the coast, I tasted banana in countless forms. Banana milkshake was my favourite, excellent way to begin the day! Tigrillo is a dish made of mashed plantain, cheese, and onion. Patacones, fried plantain, is a common accompaniment. One night we made patacones at Annika’s place with the help of some true Ecuadorian chefs, Annika’s friends Patricio, Miguel and Manuel.

Fiesta de quince años

During my trip to Ecuador, in Cuenca I had the chance to attend the 15th birthday party of my host María Bernarda’s friend’s daughter, Jennifer. The fiesta de quince años is a big feast in Latin America; it equals a wedding in importance. According to age-old tradition, a young girl is introduced to society at her fiesta de quinceañera. From then on, she is allowed to wear make-up, use high heels and have a boyfriend.

Jennifer’s family was obviously rather well-off and they had could afford to splurge on the party. The guest list included a modest 150 friends and family members. The party was celebrated at rented facilities, el Club. Jennifer and her parents could just lay back and enjoy as catering and all other practical matters were taken care of by a hoard of hired kitchen staff. The decoration was meticulously arranged, the dominant colours being pink and purple. The catering was made up of 15 cream cakes, a fountain of chocolate and lots of small snacks like cookies and grapes. There was rosé wine and watered-down whiskey.

The party began at 10 p.m. when Jennifer, the quinceañera, entered the room accompanied by 15 friends and younger cousins. She was wearing a long, elegant, laced dress that could well have been a wedding dress but for the touches of violet and pink. First in line was the exchange of gifts. Both Jennifer’s parents and godparents gave her several presents that had obvious symbolic value. Each gift was accompanied by some words revealing the meaning behind the choice of object. The gifts included a flower (because you are blossoming, dear Jennifer), a high-heeled shoe (because tonight you can wear your very first high heels), and a Bible (so that you never forget the word of the Lord). Jennifer got highly emotional and could not keep back the tears as she thanked her parents for all their help and support through the years.

Once the formalities were over, the dancing began. The loud-speakers boomed cumbia, salsa, meringue and reggaeton. Sometime after midnight, a band made up of Jennifer’s friends played a set of rock songs that was far longer than necessary, considering that the musical merits of the band were next to non-existent. The lead singer remembered to repeat “Gracias, broderes” between every song and before each chorus, so we started calling the group Los Broderes (The Brothers in bad English).

The fiesta de quince años is a rite-of-passage ceremony whose Finnish equivalent could be the High School Olds’ Dances. An old-style ritual, and a very expensive one at that, but I guess rituals are needed in the transition from child to young woman. The equivalent for boys would be the 16th birthday party, but it is hardly celebrated any more, at least not as extravagantly as the fiesta de quince años for girls.

Robbery

My recent trip to Ecuador provided me with a new experience: assault and robbery. I was climbing up the Panecillo hill in Quito to get a glimpse of the city from up high and to admire the statue of the Virgen de Quito from up close. Contrary to my belief, the stairway was not crowded with tourists. The passers-by were few, and I began to get a bad feeling about the place, especially as I was alone. I was already close to the top and hurried my steps to get there even faster.

That was when three young men attacked me. They pushed me down and grabbed for my bag as I screamed and fought back. I have never had such a scare in my life – I even wet my pants, as ridiculous as it now sounds. The whole scene was over as fast as it started. The robbers ran off with my bag and left me shaking. A friendly woman accompanied me down and even gave me money for a cab back to the hotel. I got there hysterical and crying, still not over the shock. The hotel personnel consoled me, and when I felt a bit better, I went to the nearest police office to file a report of an offense.

I lost a brand new camera, my mobile phone, my diary, make-up, around US$ 15, a sweater, and some small items. Thankfully I had left my passport and cards in the hotel safe. I mostly felt relieved for not having been injured – for a moment I actually feared for my life. Material things really don’t matter that much; what is important is my health. Besides, I have travel insurance, so my insurance company should compensate me for my losses.

Not surprisingly, I have been pondering a lot on the issue of security lately. Why are Latin American metropolis such as Quito and Guayaquil so dangerous while Helsinki (and other European capitals) is safe even at night? It is not just that I look like a tourist and therefore am prone to be attacked. I had the chance to discuss the subject with various Ecuadorians, and they all agreed that the country’s two big cities have grown very hazardous recently. The city centres tend to be well protected: there is one policeman standing at every corner. Only two weeks back I thought that was absurd, but now I am more than glad to see a police officer. No one walks the streets after dark. If you do not own a car, take a cab, and preferably one you know from before.

In Guayaquil my host, Roxana, a real estate agent, took me to visit a residential area of the elite, safe behind walls and guarded gates. The houses looked spacious and luxurious, and each boasted a garage with a brand new car or two. The residents never use public transport; the bus lines connecting the urbanización privada with the city only serve the hoard of domestic help. Robberies are so common that the rich and the famous prefer shutting themselves out of the rest of society.




My quiteña host, Andrea, drove me around quite a bit by car, always with the doors locked and windows up. When we entered a bar, we left the car under the surveillance of a guard hired by the bar. Despite all the precautionary measures, Andrea had been robbed of seven mobile phones in the past two years. She no longer carries her phone around if it is not absolutely necessary, and has bought the cheapest model, just in case.

Thanks to extensive social security and equality, Finland is an exceptionally safe country. I definitely prefer to pay high taxes if that enables me to move around without threat. Personal security is priceless.

On the swine flu

The Minister of Education of Peru has ordered all public schools to close for two and a half weeks starting from today, July 15th. Private schools are strongly recommended to do the same. The order is a preventive measure to impede the spread of the swine flu. Up to now, 75 % of those who are down with the flu in Peru are under 18-year-olds. In Cajamarca there have been 7 confirmed cases so far, and the swine flu has become a cause célèbre and the most popular topic for small talk.

There has been talk that the closing of schools is a political manoeuvre by which the government seeks to calm down the protests and demonstrations against the ongoing conflict in the Amazon. Provoking panic is an excellent way of keeping people in line. One way or the other, the swine flu is a real threat, and I hope Peru is able to prevent it from spreading further. I must admit, though, that I am not really doing my share: instead of staying at home and avoiding public places during the two-week holiday I plan to travel to Ecuador.

Up till yesterday I didn’t think much of the swine flu; there seemed to be hoards of more serious and acute problems in Peru. A couple of weeks back I calculated that the number of under 5-year-old children who had died of cold in the past two months in the departments of Cusco and Puno was higher than the total number of deaths due to the swine flu. Yesterday, however, Zoila, a colleague of mine, said that several children up in Sexemayo had symptoms of the swine flu already. Their families cannot afford to pay 20 soles (5 €) for a doctor’s appointment, so they have no choice but to hope for the best. That was when I realized that the swine flu really is one of the serious problems facing the poor.

I am not the least bit worried for myself; I am strong and healthy and hardly ever even catch a common flu. Besides, I have travel insurance that should cover all my medical expenses, so if I do fall ill, I can afford the best care Peruvian hospitals have to offer. What worries me are the poor children Warmayllu works with. One in every three under-five-year-olds is undernourished in the Department of Cajamarca. Their resistance to any illness is bound to be low, and they may not be able to seek medical attention. Before leaving Cushunga yesterday, I told my students to take good care of themselves, wash their hands frequently with soap, and go see a doctor right away if they run a fever or get other symptoms. They listened through my pieces of advice before pointing out that “the doctor won’t see us”. I am growing more and more aware of how priceless social security actually is. We Finns don’t know just how lucky we are.

Dreadful news

I found out yesterday that one of my secondary school students committed suicide last week. I’m shocked, to say the least, and would like to cry, but my eyes are dry of tears. The poor girl (let us call her María) poisoned herself at the age of 15, with her whole life ahead of her. She was one of the very few female students I had, so I remember her well. I still cannot believe I will never see her again, it all feels so surreal.

María killed herself on Tuesday evening, and she attended English classes the same morning. I still remember her face when I gave back exams. Her grade was not particularly good, but she passed. I smiled at her when handing out the exam paper and said “Well done, congratulations”. Her face lit up and she smiled back. I had no idea María was feeling so bad; she had friends at school and looked happy enough.

Rumour has it that María had been tricked into leaving for Lima during the summer holidays (i.e. in February). She had been promised work there, but the job offer turned out to be a hoax. Instead, María was raped and got pregnant. Now, four to five months later, she decided to take her life, possibly to avoid the shame of having a baby born out of wedlock. Abortion is illegal in Peru, and clandestine abortions are too expensive for the poor. Now that I think of it, María did look chubbier than the other girls, but never suspected she was four or five months pregnant.

During the academic year 2006-07 I worked as a global educator for Taksvärkki ry, going from school to school to inform youngsters about the annual Taksvärkki campaign. That year, the money collected went to a development project in Guatemala the aim of which was to prevent the sexual abuse of children and teenagers. At all the schools I visited, the example I used to illustrate the problem was that young girls are persuaded to move away from their communities to a big city and instead of the promised nice jobs in the service branch they are forced to become prostitutes. That is the typical story, and it makes me so angry to think that that was exactly what happened to María. The Taksvärkki project seeks to inform young people about such dangers, and I wish there had been a similar project in rural Cajamarca.

The place I call home

Although I was initially supposed to move in with a Dutch girl in a three-room flat, my plans changed upon arriving here in Cajamarca. I decided not to stay with Sara and moved to Manthoc, home to several volunteers, including my colleague Silvia. The problem with the first flat was by no means Sara, my ex future flat mate, she is very nice and we’re good friends. I simply didn’t feel at home in the house: it was in urgent need of repair and next to no sunlight entered into the rooms. Besides, Sara has three jobs and works from early morning till late at night, so I would have been alone at home a lot. At Manthoc I'm never alone; there is always someone to talk to.

Manthoc is actually an NGO that works for the rights of child labourers; the residence is just a way to finance the social projects. I don’t feel I contribute very much, though: the monthly rent is around 60 €, including water, gas, electricity, cleaning, Internet, and even towels and sheets. Like all houses in Cajamarca, ours lacks heating, but I don’t suffer from cold at all It’s just a question of dressing appropriately and sleeping under several blankets.



At the moment we are only five: Daniela (Peruvian), Silvia (Italian), Andrea (Italian), Stéphan (French), and I. Towards the end of July we are expecting two new girls from Germany and a boy from the U.S. I get really well along with my flatmates and spend most of my free time with them. I’m getting more and more convinced about that sharing a flat is a lot more fun than living alone! We have a pet, too: her name is Danielita, and she is the hugest rat I have ever seen. Thankfully I have only met her once and that in the kitchen, not in my room.





Most of the volunteers in the Finnish Volunteer Programme headed to Africa, and I'm convinced that I have it a million times easier than they do. I can take a warm shower as many times a day as I like, I have Internet at home (expect for frequent service cuts), our kitchen is well equipped; all in all, my home is very comfortable. No dirt floors, cold water, cockroaches, leaking roofs, or anything of the like. I don’t feel I live in a third world country, in fact!