I’m sitting here trying to figure out what I could possibly say that could express what you’ve meant to me over the past three months and I’m drawing a blank. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be here in this situation, I would’ve called you crazy. No one expects to fall in love, whether it’s with a person or a place or a thing, and I’ve done all three in the past three months here in Urubamba. I’ve fallen for you, Perú, head over heels! I love the chaos of the mototaxis in the morning, I love the mountains that surround us in our little urban bubble, I love my Peruvian mama bear Soledad who never fails to make me smile, and I love all the people who I’ve been able to share this experience with. There is nothing short of a miracle that could stop me from loving you, Perú, and all the incredible experiences I’ve had with you. Every day is different with you, and I can never predict the way I’ll feel at the end of a day after work and Spanish class and homework, but I know I’ll go to bed endlessly grateful to be sleeping here in Urubamba with my host family in the next room and my best friends a short walk away.
I don’t know how to bring you home with me quite yet, and I’m tearing up right now just thinking about leaving you. What am I going to do without you next week? I’m going to be lost without pancitos for breakfast and besitos before work, and I don’t know how I’ll handle not hugging Soledad before bed. It’s crazy how fast the time goes by when you’re absolutely enamored with something. I feel like I’ve taken our time together for granted, but I know I’ll forever remember every day I’ve spent here. The smiles of my family are imprinted in my memory along with my afternoon walks to class and our incredible excursions exploring your astounding culture and history. It feels weird to say goodbye like this.
I know they say long distance relationships don’t work, but I believe in us. I know I’ll be able to keep you in my mind all the time, and it’ll be hard to shut me up when I start talking about you! I want everyone to experience the kind of love I have for you, Perú, and I know we’ll meet again someday. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! They’re going to love you, I just know it. I don’t want to say goodbye because that feels too real, so I’ll just say nos vemos, Perú.
The rain was falling hard outside in messy drops while
Marilu took her cutting board off the shelf and a knife from the drawer,
setting up onions to be chopped. While she laid out her materials, I
did the same, but with a notebook and an audio recorder on my phone
instead of vegetables, both of us ready in our own ways to have a chat.
After a morning spent weeding in the chakra and discussing potential
rain-capture irrigation solutions with an American specialist, Marilu
and I had been driven inside by the rain, and it seemed like a perfect
time to learn her story, in a more holistic and inclusive manner than
our snippets of conversation in the previous weeks. When I asked if she
could tell me some stories about Canastas Verdes and her own life,
Marilu was excited to share, and, as the incredibly strong and busy
woman that I know, she had a lot to say.
Marilu began her story with the birth of organic farming
as she knows it in her own life, where years ago, it all started with a
sweet potato on the back patio. Since her childhood, Marilu and her
family had cultivated vegetables and herbs on a small scale, and as
organically as possible but not with those methods as their focus.
After she had grown into adulthood and began caring for her own family,
and her aging father in return, Marilu began to experiment with
different methods of gardening, adding new plants and researching the
importance of organic produce, but only to consume in the house. At the
time she was a teacher, and as the chakra grew, she began to look for a
way to sell the produce. At this time, more than eight years ago,
there was no market in Urubamba for organic vegetables, as most everyone
was comfortable with the status quo—produce maintained through the use
of pesticides and new-wave farming practices that began in the sixties.
Marilu, on the other hand, was looking to return to the farming
practices of her ancestors with respect to the apus to whom she speaks
in Quechua, her family’s native tongue. Organic farming, for her
originally, was a way to carry on the now-lost tradition of respect for
la tierra and for one’s own body, a departure from the chemical-driven
world. With this in mind, she set out with an iron will to bring
organic produce back to Urubamba and to the Sacred Valley, but she knew
she couldn’t do it alone. The municipality, and frankly the city, was
not open to the changes that she wanted to see, so Marilu began to speak
with other women who were farming organically and who wanted to sell
their produce, or at least who wanted to try.
In the beginning, this new association was made up of
eight women, all with their own chakras who were learning and growing
together with their organic produce. But, as Marilu says ardently,
organic farming is hard work—you get your nails dirty and you hardly
ever sleep. For many of the women in this new group, though they were
stronger together, this was too much, and little by little they began to
return to the popular methods, or at least to working solo. Marilu,
and the five women who make up the association now, pushed on, and once
their group was solidified, they began to develop into what they are
today—Canastas Verdes. Throughout this story of growth, Marilu
maintained her pride in the fact that Canastas Verdes was her creation,
her baby, so-to-speak, all the way from the first organic produce to the
name and to her title as President now. Although the work of the
association is incredible—highly involved in the community and done with
very little internal or external support—Marilu’s pride comes from her
own struggles and how she overcomes them, and, in fact, the ways in
which organic vegetables have helped her to do so.
Although I have known her for over two months now, Marilu
had never told me all that she was up against while building a program
of community health and involvement. That’s just how strong she is.
But she’s a single mother to a son with autism, who also cares for her
ninety-three-year-old father. She can’t afford a home of her own, and
often the cost of caring for her family and running Canastas Verdes is
too much, but after years of perseverance, she’s making it all work. In
fact, her son, who is now a young adult, has been her inspiration for
continuing with organic produce, because his health has benefitted from
the removal of pesticides in his system. In his younger years, when she
couldn’t produce enough for complete meals, her son struggled both
neurologically and physically, but since she was able to make an organic
diet possible, he has been able to function at a higher level and have
fewer complications. What’s more, Marilu says she has learned patience
and compassion through raising her son—as most mothers do, but with
greater intensity—and she asserts that he has been her greatest teacher,
and these lessons of humanity are ones that she takes directly into her
work. The produce that she grows comes from a love of the earth, of
the Pachamama, and a love of family, both for her own and that of
Urubamba.
Tears are beginning to stream down Marilu’s cheeks as she
discusses all this with me, and they begin to flow harder as she details
the lack of action in the world, the ways in which most people sit by
and watch it all being destroyed. Here in the Sacred Valley, fed by
glaciers and maintained by very specific climates, Marilu and the people
of Urubamba are at great risk as the environment changes rapidly, and
she knows this. The water, the land—everything is being polluted and
mistreated, she says. No one wants to change their ways because they
think it’s too hard, but this will take a toll on their lives. Marilu
sees the pollution of her ancestral land, the planet, and of the bodies
of her neighbors, consuming pesticides and processed food, diets that
can cause cancers, Parkinson’s disease, and many other detriments to
health. She sees that soon there will not be enough water, and
therefore not enough food. She says of the people in poorer countries
and regions: “We’re like rats in a lab and we will be the first ones to
die,” her eyes read with sadness and anger. This is the reality that
she’s actively working against, but she knows it’s not enough and that
Canastas Verdes is running out of time.
We’ve been talking for over a half-hour at this point, and
Marilu points out that she should probably start making lunch. The
onion she’d prepared to cut will chatting sits untouched on the cutting
board in front of her—forgotten as she answered my questions, delivered
with passion and force like the most moving of speeches. But before I
go, she thanks me for taking the time to talk to her, and reiterates all
that she struggles against and the hope that she has despite it all.
By the end, we’re both crying and embracing, because the planet is dying
and we’re forced to watch it happen. Marilu is doing all that she can,
and I tell her I wish I could do more, both for Canastas Verdes and for
the Earth, but she just shakes her head and gives me another hug. “I
really should make lunch,” she says as she wipes tears from her eyes,
and I thank her for her time and say nos vemos—see you later—as she
finally begins to cut the onion.
After leaving Marilu to cut onions in the kitchen, I
walked slowly home in a bit of a stupor. The rain that had been falling
in a torrent just minutes before but the sky was now open and bright.
My feet moved slowly and my mind felt heavy as I wiped tears out of my
eyes, trying to hold back the ones threatening to spring forth with each
though of Marilu’s words. In particular “somos como ratas en un
laboratorio” stuck out in my mind and the pain that she expressed while
saying them. As I walked along the river that rushes passed the
cemetery, such a sentiment felt that much stronger—the power and life of
the Earth running parallel with death, a concept that will become much
more prevalent if we don’t care for the planet. When I got home to and
empty house, I sat down and tried to process the conversation I’d just
had, but I couldn’t do it in my head, so I called my dad and told him
all about it. Thankfully, he let me interrupt his day to recount
Marilu’s story because I really had to say it out loud to become more
grounded. Regardless, I was still overcome with a feeling of
helplessness—what had I really done to help her and all of Canastas
Verdes? What could I even do in the next few weeks that could be
meaningful? In fact, I felt quite guilty, because I had never spoken to
someone in such depth, in this place, about the direct impact on their
lives and that of their community from climate change and loss of
resources, and I felt like I was leaving too soon. If I stayed on with
Canastas Verdes for a year, could I make more of a difference? Up until
this conversation, I didn’t know the depth of the personal stories
behind this project, or the needs of Marilu and all the women, because
they hadn’t told me, and what’s worse, I hadn’t really asked. All of
this swirled around in my head even hours and days later, that is until I
was able to speak with Marilu again.
Exactly one week later, we got that next chat. In the
time between, I had been fully immersed in nature in the Amazon with my
mindset heavily influenced by Marilu’s words. I spent my time there
walking through the jungle with the group and our guide, Robin, taking
it all in with heightened appreciation. Although I have always had a
deep love of nature and a passion for its protection, there was just
something so powerful about her story, and then Robin’s stories, that
validated what I’d always felt and challenged me to think further on my
own impact and ideas. So after all this, I got to go back and hear
Marilu’s story again, this time as she told it to Raquel and Mindy,
leaving some details out but with all her important points. It was a
great experience for me to be able to experience her telling of her life
once more, because it gave me more clarity and a deeper sense of
knowing her. Within this same time, I was also privy to Marilu’s
answers to questions relating to how helpful I’d actually been in my
role as an intern/volunteer. After coming away feeling so guilty and
useless, though inspired, from our last talk, it was affirming and
hope-building to have Marilu say directly that I had done some good,
both for her and Canastas Verdes. Although this need to be validated is
somewhat egocentric, this second conversation gave me a push forward,
because in the time in between I had felt somewhat lost. What’s more, I
was able to talk to Marilu in-depth for a third time, in the same week,
while we answered the questions together for the Dragons’ Community
Grant Fund, something I am applying to for Canastas Verdes. And yet
again, Marilu’s eyes lit up with passion, and then watered with tears,
while we talked about her work and her struggles, and I was left in awe
for a third time in that week over how strong she is and all that she
has accomplished.
Looking back on Marilu’s story and message, I realized that there is a lot that I need to change in my own lifestyle, and even more in the lifestyles of my two family’s (here in Peru and back in Maine). Actually, there needs to be a drastic societal shift, but I think while working towards that, I can also work small, by changing my own ways and looking to educate those around me. Eating organic, eating healthy, recycling, not wasting—because as Marilu says “La basura no es la basura, la persona con basura es la basura”. Change must happen, and fast because if not, we’ll have nothing left. La Amazonia, the glaciers that stand tall over the Sacred Valley, watering the people beneath and feeding into the global rainforest, and all the other life-sustaining and beautiful resources, will be gone sooner than we know. Here in Peru, the country is slated to be the third most impacted by climate change in the coming years, bringing home Marilu’s fears that much more. Living in this amazing place, making it my second home, I fear with her, and I can only hope that people begin to wake up, both here and all over the world, because the Earth is dying, crumbling right between our capable yet inactive human hands.
When thinking about what to get as a gift for my host family, my mind immediately went to peanut butter. There may not be any food condiment more quintessentially American than the creamy golden colored substance made from crushed peanuts and sugar. Peanut butter just doesn’t have the same tang anywhere else. It is the United States’ crown jewel: whether you are a Skippy or JIF fan, peanut butter forms a common bond between Americans. While American cuisine may be lacking, we can proudly call ourselves the founders of peanut butter. I knew I wanted my Indian host family to experience its deliciousness and get a taste for my childhood, as I had grown up eating peanut butter.
So 8,401 miles later, I finally gave my host family the prized peanut butter that had fortunately not been confiscated during customs. We arranged to have a formal taste test on that Thursday, and that morning, I eagerly woke up early and took my usual seat at the dining room table facing the window’s swaying palm trees.
I’m not a great cook, but I can proudly boast about making mean peanut butter toasts. As I began to lay out my ingredients, my host mom started to make her everyday chai. While I added cinnamon and honey to the peanut butter, my host mom added masala chai spices and ginger to her teapot. While I chopped bananas, my host mom poured steamed milk into the chai mixture. Finally, when I finished preparing plates with peanut butter and jelly, and peanut butter, banana, cinnamon, and honey, she added two spoonfuls of sugar each to five cups. Together, we crafted a breakfast I’ll always remember.
One by one, each member of my family came downstairs and enthusiastically grabbed pieces of toast before I could describe what I had created. As they took their first bites, I could see surprise turned to pleasure on their faces while I explained to them that this was a typical American snack. My host father jokingly told me that Indians typically didn’t eat sweet things for breakfast while I replied that sadly Americans did. My host sister Pritti declared her new love for peanut butter and stuck her finger into the jar, reminding me of one of my grandfather’s old habits. Pranoti added some ghee (a quintessential Indian condiment) to the toast, making it her own. While we continued eating our meal, I realized my role and my host family’s role reversed. I had been the one trying different foods daily and discussing the differences or similarities between Indian and American meals. Now, for the first time, they were getting a taste of how I had been feeling.
Food bridges cultures. My host mother’s careful preparation of chai, the staple Indian drink, paired with a classic American meal exemplified this notion. Through the taste of her masala chai, I am in India. Through peanut butter, I am in the United States. With both, I am on my bridge year.
Surrounded by churches and cathedrals, blue domed, white trim, ornate gold detailing, pastel colored statues of the saints, in Cuenca you can’t help but think of God. Whoever or whatever that may be. A man? A woman? I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think I ever have been. I know what I’ve been taught and what I’ve been told. But I don’t know what I believe.
I was baptized as a Christian before I could speak or even think and a confirmed Catholic since 2014. However, in recent years I’ve been distancing myself from the Church and its potentially dangerous rhetoric regarding the rights of women and those who identify as LGBTQ+. Arriving in Cuenca reminded me why I felt called to Catholicism in the first place.
It was our first day here. A Monday. A few of us decided to leave the hostel to get some fresh air when we stumbled across the many churches, essentially one on every corner, that Cuenca has to offer. But we only actually stepped foot inside the last church we saw, Santuario Mariano del Carmen de la Asunción. It’s situated in La Plaza de las Flores, across the street and overshadowed by La Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepción.
On that slow and hazy Monday morning, as I was kneeling below the pew, I could hear the faint sound of the parishioners singing, praising. Maybe it was a choir? I was very far back in the church, not wanting to disturb what was happening before my eyes, almost like a museum exhibit or ballet performance, taking it all in as quietly as possible. I could feel the the powerful, looming notes and phrases bouncing, vibrating, echoing off the walls. I made the sign of the cross, the father, the son, the holy spirit and prayed.
I prayed mostly for myself, as selfish as that seems. The exact opposite of what God calls us, encourages us to do. And as much as I hate to admit it, I needed help and I didn’t know who else to ask. Since landing in Quito, my first time out of the United States, I felt like my world had been turned upside down and I couldn’t get a grip. I prayed for the ability to make it through the next second, minute, hour, day, week, month. To have patience with myself and with others. To have courage and be kind.
Right as I said, “Amen,” under my breath, an elderly woman approached me. She gingerly reached out her hand to me, sliding it softly against the wooden church bench. Still kneeling, in her short stature, she was eye level with me. I was hesitant to embrace her. Possibly a larger metaphor for my apprehension about living in a foreign city, miles away from all I’ve ever known.
Her hands were wrinkled and peppered with age spots. Signs of her life lived. She wore a gold ring, a plain wedding band of sorts. And she had something covering her hair. A short black veil? She said something to me in Spanish that I couldn’t fully grasp the meaning of, but be assured that I was hanging onto every word. She was beaming with a maternal pride. I knew she was glad I was here. It was the first time I felt welcomed in Cuenca.
It was our religion, albeit varying in degrees of commitment and devotion, that united us. The motion of my kneeling, praying, signing the cross, it said more to her than I could ever convey in a sentence, let alone in Spanish. Maybe it’s by the grace of God, my strength and determination, or sheer luck. Who knows? All I know is that so far my prayers have been answered. And that is the most comforting fact of all. That someone or something is listening and for the first time in a long time, I am being heard.
Brazilian food, in all its decadence, is often accompanied by dessert(s) made with Leite Condensado, or its boiled derivative Doce de Leite. The gum-numbingly sweet, slow-flowing white syrup is present in cakes, chocolate puddings, tarts, and just about everything else one could dream up. The postprandial sugar-induced torpor leaves me dazed and feeling as though I’m swimming in the stuff itself, which, accompanied by the often laxer Brazilian sense of time, makes the hours move slowly and gives life a dreamlike sort of feeling. Indeed, the sense of time here can leave and has often left me in a sort of lax daze as I wander through sunny streets that flow together like some great jungle-gym and take more food as it is offered, which it will be until the pan is clean. This feeling only wears off once I realize that time really is still moving normally for everyone else, and I’ve been astonished more than a few times as I’ve checked my watch and seen how the hours have dripped by.
So what to do? Does one try to “stay vigilant” against the sweet tide, attempt to keep a clear head, and not succumb to decadence? Or is this an example of ignorance, of cultural rejection? It is very true that utterly shunning condensed milk, both as a desert and a lifestyle, will not a happy year in Brazil make. But overindulging is an equally fatal tourist trap, and with dozens of grams of sugar per spoonful, it’s hard not to slip closer to utter depravity with each bite, with each day. Should I, or should I not, join the Lotus-Eaters in their dreamy Brazil days? On the one hand, I might lose parts of myself in the sea of creamy sweetness forever-but isn’t that what I’m here for? Still, my greatest fear is leaving this year with little more than a goofy smile to present as a result. This, in combination with the ever-present temptation to sip condensed milk and let the hours pass has resulted in adversity that I haven’t expected. The Brazilians themselves are not a lazy people, by any means. They alone seem to be immune to the sweet allure of seeming-endless hours and plates of sweets, and manage to work all the harder for it. Those who cometo Brazil, however, may find iteasy to suck the spoon and not take it back out.
My best solution is to lash myself, like Odysseus to the mast, to something that will keep me grounded among the drippy, easy hours that are so easy to eat and lose without being satisfied. Yes, laze in a hammock for all the hours of the day-just read a book while you do it, and finish it by the end of the week. Yes, spend that little bit of extra money on another Uber ride to save time-just make sure you save a little, for the end-of-the-month account. Yes, take a third portion of condensed-milk cake-just make sure you take an extra-long walk on the sand the next day. A little bit, a smaller bite, and by the end of my aventura doce, I might have something to show for it.
Coming from a country where 90% of its food is imported and the
agriculture industry is almost non-existent (although there’s a growing
movement now!), working in a farm always seemed like the most far-off
thing I could do growing up. The hard conditions, the heat of the sun,
getting your hands dirty “just to see plants grow” sounded a little
mundane and the idea of it felt disconnected from my technologically
advanced city back in Singapore.
(Of course, my attitudes towards these things changed during my time
in the army; the physicality of hard work is one of my favorite feelings
now)
In Peru, however, my first choice for my internship placement was
with Eco-Huella (EH), a farm based in Calca. On the first day, Jason and
I met up with siblings Julio and Jessica, who would be our bosses for
the next 3 months. Though the daily activities of farming were very much
a part of Eco-Huella, we also did other things: learning about local
specialized plants that cleaned chromium and lead from the river,
building greenhouses for higher altitude communities to expand their
possible agriculture & food options, learning about different
methods of farming & creating composts (e.g. EH uses
Bokatchi/Bokashi, a Japanese method, to create their compost), hosting
other local initiatives (e.g. Las Verdes from Lima) that came over to
cross-share information about sustainability in Peru, welcoming
short-term volunteers/students who learnt about the farm’s
sustainability model or helped with building it’s walls. Recently even,
we were very glad to collaborate with Jessica to evaluate EH’s model of
sustainability by drawing up maps and taking stock of the farming
equipment we have, to ensure that their resources are used with
sustainability in mind, and to keep track of the plants’ growth.
Initially, all these activities seem minute. They are, if you fail to
consider the people behind them, and their stories. The Nina siblings
believe that sustainability is important, and they are part of Andean
Alliance (a US organization that promotes collaboration between farmers
and the government to promote their livelihoods), as well as the growing
movement against climate change. They also believe that the sharing of
ideas is important, and in that endeavour, they are very open about
receiving other and providing their own inputs. I was surprised during
the first few days of work when Jessi mentioned learning about ‘vertical
agriculture’, a common method of growing food in land-scarce Singapore,
and how that innovative enterprise is the sort of spirit that EH is
trying to build up; with that conversation, I knew that Eco-Huella was
the place for me.
But let’s pull back for a moment. How did I end up in farming? Wasn’t
I (excuse my pigeonholing) not a farming person? Well, it all started
with how Eco-Huella was described to me (as well as Jason’s infectious
passion for physical work): EH was a place where they were fighting for
social change, against climate change and were a group of very
passionate farmers. It was clear from how the instructors mentioned them
that the people of EH had a thirst for adventure (and experimenting,
which is why I sometimes reference the farm as a laboratory), and a
pursuit for change based on collaboration and hard work. While I guess
you could find people with these attributes anywhere if you look hard
enough, there’s something about unfamiliarity that brings people
together in unique ways because unfamiliarity demands initiative and
trial & error. As Julio once said: “There are no problems, only
opportunities”, and that spirit of courage and innovation is the driving
factor for the farm (and our daily ventures under the heat of Calca’s
weather).
In my journey, I hope to learn that we are both connected to our food sources and detached in our awareness of them in ways profound and intimate enough that the seriousness of the issues posed by climate change and pollution are both urgent and invisible to us. And while the rest of the world has much area for improvement, I’m hopeful that it’s better off with the minds and hearts behind the people in Eco-Huella.
