I left for Peru early Saturday afternoon and arrived in Urubamba before lunch on Sunday – I missed the service but made it in time for the dinner. That gave me a couple hours to be social with the nationals and remember my Peruvian manners: greeting an elderly person before he or she greets me; side-of-the-face kiss; proper greeting and introduction phrases.
The first thing that I noticed, even as soon as I got to the airport, were the smells. No place in the states smells like Peru. In the airport, I smelled incense – until I got to McDonalds. Later, walking through the town I smelled pungent cilantro as I neared the market; a lady selling herbs had dropped a bunch and busy feet had crushed the leaves. On top of that came the smell of over-ripe papaya, fish that had sat out all day, dogs, bread, gorgeous flowers, ceviche, and bodies. From the house where I am staying, outside town, I can smell the plowed dirt, the sweating oxen plowing the field, the irrigation ditch, burros, smoke from a cooking fire, more dogs, and the warmed mountain rising straight up behind the house. I love it.
I was also rejoicing in Peruvian food today. One of my favorite foods ever is fried plantain, so I indulged in three slices this afternoon. Not everything is my favorite, though. I could live without papaya; it is edible in certain forms (like I had this morning, blended up with milk) but the smell is reminiscent of vomit in a too-ripe, sweet way. A national probably eats soup for at least one meal a day. My soup yesterday at the church dinner was typical: skimpy on meat, heavy on the chunos, plenty of savory broth. Chunos are potatoes that have been freeze-dried outside and stomped on. The process takes a few days, but the potatoes keep well after that. The food is a staple in the mountain villages, though not typically a favorite. Its texture is decidedly different, but the taste is very bland.
I was reminded yesterday afternoon that God is in charge of my day. Goals are good until they disallow God’s interruption. I wanted to start getting caught up on the classes from last week that I missed due to meetings. The site where my classes and quizzes are did not want to cooperate, and then the internet became “staggeringly slow,” as my cousin said. I ended up doing much sitting and waiting. So as not to waste time, I put together a blog :-)
Ken and Sharon Loveall’s house does not have internet, so I go about a mile and a half to the seminary where my uncle works. My cousin, Marc, came with me today as tech support. He persuaded me to ride a bike with him back up to the house instead of walking, which is easier until I get used to the altitude. Although 9 thousand feet is relatively low compared to where I lived last time I was here, I will get unusually out of breath after anything slightly strenuous for probably two weeks more. He graciously allowed me to stop and pant when we got to a hill trail that was too steep and rocky for the bikes.
I could tell you so much about the way of life here, the people, their clothes, etc as the memories of my last time here come flooding back – but I can never tell you all. Words are powerful but woefully insufficient to communicate a fraction of something as unfamiliar as another culture. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but even a picture does not cut it. However, if you all came to visit . . .
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