Erica Wrona's blog

Ladies and gentlemen…We have a fence.

June 25, 2010

It is 3am on a Friday morning, and my alarm is going off.  I get up, get dressed and ready to go, and am waiting in the darkness of the patio by 3:45am.  The stars are incredible and the moon is nearly full, casting a crisp blue glow on the sleeping world.  Only that my part of the world isn’t sleeping.  There was a school anniversary celebration in the next town, and drunken men are stumbling back to their houses.  These are not the characters I’m waiting for.  I’m actually waiting for the president of the newly formed Tree Planting Committee and his donkeys.

The day before, I had hauled 180 pounds of barbed wire from the National Park office in Huaraz to my house in Cashapampa.  It of course couldn’t have been one straight shot, but rather it entailed a truck, a combi, a mototaxi, and a colectico over the course of three hours.  Once everything was safely packed into the back of the colectivo for the last leg of the trip, I bought four huge bottles of soda in anticipation of celebrating the building of the fence.  Halfway up the mountain, there was a shifting of barbed wire which proceeded to puncture one of the soda bottles.  I knew everyone in the car so I offered them all soda, which is a very Peruvian thing to do.  It was a nice moment we all shared as soda was dripping everywhere and on everyone and the driver stopped so we could have a few minutes without bumps.  We made it the rest of the way without incident although I’m sure several passengers were waiting to get to a bathroom.

Getting back to that incredibly early morning…  There I was waiting in the dark with 11 rolls of barbed wire.  One by one the forestation crew showed up with one pole each, as did my sitemate who changed her mind about thinking 4am was too early to meet.  The president of the reforestation committee was concerned that only 10 of the 115 members of the tourist association had shown up by the 4am meeting time.  Nonetheless, he told us to start hiking and he’d wait until 5am for any latecomers.  The moon had just set as we made our way in the dark up into the ravine.  Climbing, climbing, climbing for a few hours until we reached the reforestation area as the sun came up and warmed my body and frozen hands.  I pulled out the map given to me by the National Park, and couldn’t figure out where these parcels of land were located.  Instead of one big plot of land, there were seven small pieces So there I was not having any idea where to build these fences, plus without the manpower and fence posts that were needed.  I thought we’d have to guess and build a fence on land that looked suitable for tree planting.  My sitemate and I decided on an area that looked like it might have been one of the parcels on the map.  Not feeling totally convinced of this fence-building business, I walked back towards the group of men and saw that not only did more men and fence posts arrive, but so did one of the park guards.  The same park guard that was present the day the parcels of land were picked out by engineers from the National Park.  He knew exactly where every parcel was located, and confirmed that the one my sitemate and I had picked out was indeed one of the seven.  Woohoo!  Good guess!  The men ate breakfast and then got right down to work.  There ended up being 35 men with their fence posts.  Enough to build two fences around pretty decent-sized plots of land.

A few hours later, I looked out across the plots of land that were newly fenced-in.  They also dug all the holes at the correct distance apart, so that we wouldn’t have to worry about tourists bringing tools and leaving them, or the possibility of being stolen.  The tourist will just have to bring up their tree and put it in the hole.  We even cleaned up all the cow patties and made a designated area for compost.  Within a few hours, all the planning of a year and a half came together.  Next week, we’ll bring some trees to the area to start selling them to tourists so that we can see how the process works.  If it goes well, we’ll let the project loose and see what happens when tourists have the carry their own trees and plant them unsupervised.  Hopefully in the future, there will be a park guard hired specifically to oversee the project and be stationed close to the reforestation parcels.  In the meantime, we’ll see what happens this tourist season in order to make improvements for next year.

Phase One: April 19, 2010

The project is underway.  This morning I went into the mountains of the Huascaran National Park to visit one of their tree nurseries.  It was amazing to see so many Polylepis, an endangered species, growing in the tree beds.  Instead of being in small individual bags as I had imagined, they were growing directly into the soft soil of the beds.  We pulled them out of the ground gently and cut off the secondary roots to promote hardier growth.  When I had 200 saplings, they filled just two bags.  Since they took up much less space than anticipated, I arrived in Cashapampa with ease and had stopped worrying if a member of ASAAM would be there to meet me.  I had left a note for the president a few days earlier, but since there was no way of receiving confirmation, I had no idea if anyone would show.

 

That morning when making arrangements to obtain the trees, the National Park asked my coordinator if she could also drive a park-guard to Cashapampa, since she was taking me there anyway with the trees.  That was quite fortuitous, since it was the first time Cashapampa was receiving training from a National Park park-guard, in order to train two locals (ASAAM members) to be in control of the Cashapampa park entrance.  He would be in town for three days training the new guys, and helping them with the park fees, documents, registration book, etc. 

 

When didn’t arrive in Cashapampa until 4pm, and I figured no one would be around the ASAAM locale nor the park booth entrance.  But since the new park guard had arrived and he had to talk with the president and so did I, we went together.  Lo and behold, who was waiting there at the park booth entrance? None other than the president, the two new park-guard trainees, and my favorite ASAAM member who is always eager to support my project ideas.  I told them I had 200 Polylepis saplings in my house, and the discussion began… Where do we put them?  What if someone steals them?  How many beds to dig?  What dimensions should the beds be?  How many beds are needed for 200 saplings?  How will tourists know they’re for sale?  How will the trees be transported up into the mountains?  Should we build a full-scale tree nursery to produce our own saplings, or simply obtain them from other nurseries as needed?  Good questions, gentlemen, very good questions.  Finally we are heading towards the same page.  All these concerns that have been whirring around my brain for a year, are surfacing in the minds of those who need it.  The president said they’d dig a hole the next day, and I could bring them the trees the following day.  Awesome.  The project may not be as organized or supported as I would have liked, but we’re starting, and for that I am relieved.

Passing the Voice

 

A large part of what I do is communication.  In Spanish we say, “pasar la voz,” which literally means “to pass the voice.”  This morning I woke up to another beautiful sunny day.  There hasn’t been much of a rainy season this year, which gives me a slight uneasy feeling.  For one, the seeds I’m planting in the tree nursery will need almost daily care without the help of rain.  And two, the tourists will begin to arrive in masses to enjoy the 4-day Santa Cruz trek which starts in Cashapampa.  With not a cloud in the sky, I set out to the next town on foot, a mere 40 minutes’ stroll.  The benefits of walking there are mostly determined by whom I encounter along the way.  Walking past the plaza, I see the staff of the health post.  I stop to coordinate plans for a project they are starting called, “Healthy Schools.”  The staff of the health post had approached me for support on this initiative, since I can go into the schools and give talks on health issues related to the environment.  I wrote down the date for the next meeting and continue on my way.  Leaving the plaza, I run into one of the administrators of the rural internet project.  I’ve been asked to teach computation classes, but with only 3 of the 5 computers working, we need to get those fixed first.

Once in the next town, I go to the house of the president of ASAAM, the tourist association I work with.  The 112 members of ASAAM have agreed to my project idea, but I’ve been floundering with how exactly to go ahead in a sustainable fashion.  Sure, I can write up a business plan, take care of the marketing, obtain the trees, solicit a parcel of land from the National Park, and dig the tree beds myself, but…that wouldn’t be very sustainable, would it?  So instead of doing all that work myself, I’ve been trying to form a tree committee made up of interested ASAAM members so that I can support them in the project.  After all, this is for them, the community, the park, and the tourists, but certainly not me.  I presented the project idea several times at several ASAAM meetings with and without the Park present, and still have seen no progress towards forming a tree committee.  I consulted my boss and our regional coordinator, and both agreed I should bring the trees in regardless, and show ASAAM we need to get started. 

So there I am, knocking on the door of the ASAAM president, to find he is out of town for the day.  I write a quick note, trying to succinctly say everything I need to say, in one short paragraph (in Spanish) while his wife is standing in the open doorway waiting for me to hand over the message.  It says, “Good morning.  This Monday I will be bringing 200 quenal trees to the ASAAM Cashapampa meeting hall.  Please ask an ASAAM member to be present to help us with the trees.  We will arrive Monday, April 19, 2010 in the afternoon.  Thanks, Erica Wrona, Peace Corps.”  I had a whole list of things I would’ve liked to discuss, but I’ve got to work with what I have.

Then I head up the hill to the house where a friend used to live.  One day a year ago, I was running through this town, and heard a gringo’s voice yell, “Gringa!”  I looked over and there was a white person sitting there playing cards with the kids.  Turned out he was a returned Peace Corps volunteer from Bolivia, had returned to the states after his service, was going on a major bike ride from California to Chile, but got hit by a truck in Big Sur, California and woke up in a hospital, lucky to be alive.  And there he was that day, sitting in the plaza with an infected arm.  He had arrived in my neck of the woods due to its proximity to thermal baths.  After spending the day soaking in the natural healing powers of the baths, he tried to get a taxi off the mountain, but the taxis don’t leave after a certain time in the afternoon.  He stayed the night in one of the local’s homes, and ended up staying six months.  He was building a house and working the fields, planning to make his life here, until his arm got re-infected and the medical facilities here weren’t sufficient to treat him.  So, what I became was the messenger.  I would pass messages back and forth between the family and what I’d receive via email from Zach.  In return, I am friends with another wonderful Peruvian family, and gives me an excuse to stop on by anytime to see how they’re doing.

The third stop of the day was down the hill, past the plaza, past the school, and up the opposite hill.  I knocked on the door of the pastor’s house, and encountered his wife.  I told her that I had received an email from the missionaries at Ingleside Baptist Church.  They would be arriving in the middle of May for a week.  They are staying here, at your house, I said.  She looked neither informed nor surprised.  Just happy and smiling.  And talkative.  Her Spanish vocabulary was at times wordy and formal, as I’d heard previously that she had learned Spanish from the Bible.  With my mission complete, I headed back to Cashapampa for lunch.  I didn’t accomplish anything tangible, but I had spread a lot of word.

March 9, 2010

"Neighborly Love"

My host father came down with something.  Dizzy spells, headaches, and rapid loss of vision lasting for I don’t know how long.  Besides working his field, he also used to be a taxi driver up and down the mountain.  When these symptoms began a year or so ago, they thought it was something in his diet.  I suggested cutting out the MSG that is thrown into every meal in copious amounts.  When that didn’t solve the problem, and the symptoms worsened, he went to the health post.  They told him to go down to Caraz.  The doctors in Caraz didn’t know what was up, so they suggested he go to Lima.  And that is where my host family has been for the last two weeks.  All concern of my host father’s health aside, I was pretty stoked to have the house to myself for the first time since…ever.  I bought some pasta and groceries in the capital and dreamed of cooking for myself again.  Normal portion sizes, when and where I wanted to eat, what I wanted to eat, vegetables!  The possibilities spilled out before me.  Day one consisted of my host mom running around the house like crazy trying to coordinate leaving the kids with the relatives, leaving enough food for me to cook, making sure her mother brought alfalfa for the animals everyday, and packing.  She didn’t have time to cook lunch for us, so we ate at her brother’s house next door.  (This is the same family we are tapping electricity from.)  Several hours later, before I had put water on for dinner tea, there was a knock on my door to come over for dinner.  The same happened the next day for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner again.  You can all guess how many times I cooked for myself in the last two weeks.  No, not zero.  But close.  Twice.  Only twice was I able to convince my neighbors that I was okay boiling water.  That’s what I’m used to eating for breakfast and dinner.  Tea and bread.  Simple.  I even tried explaining that I’d bought all these groceries, and my host mom left food also, but it wasn’t even in their realm of thinking why I’d want to cook and eat alone.  Let me explain that it’s great to have company, but the quantity of food is ridiculous.  Have you ever eaten and eaten and eaten and wondered if it would stay down there?  That happens here three times a day.  I even made a pledge to start counting my daily intake of potatoes from here on out.  Just to get a general estimate of how many I’ll have consumed in 27 months in Peru.  Part of the problem is that the food tastes good.  And since it’s not a balanced diet, my body craves more and more, without actually getting what it wants.  I do take a daily multi-vitamin and calcium-magnesium supplements, but my palate knows it’s missing something.  Besides the food tasting great, and enjoying the company, I try to live in the moment.  Every meal, I take in my surroundings in an attempt to burn them in my memory cache.  I know that the time will come, in the not-too-distant-future, that my life will return to “normal” and my time here will be a blip of my memory. 

The neighbor family consists of mom, pop, toddler boy, older son, two daughters, geezer dog, and ash-colored cat called “gringo” because when he’s not sleeping near the warmth of the stove, he’s actually white.  The make-up of mealtime is different every time, depending on who needs to be where at a certain time.  Sometimes the elder daughter cooks if mom is out at a meeting or something.  Sometimes it’s just me and mom as everyone else had already eaten and gone off to play.  The best meals are when everyone is there, including the dog that lives across the street and finds himself in every else’s houses except his own.  Including the chickens that wander in and we all hiss and throw rocks to make them leave.  Including the flies and moths that make themselves uninvited guests.  Tonight I sat there, taking it all in.  The chatter in quechua/spanish, the radio playing anything from traditional music to dance club music, the toddler crying/yelling/fighting/laughing/playing/anything but actually eating.  School started this week, and each student received three notebooks from the municipality.  The colors of the notebooks were a hot topic tonight.  Then we moved onto what I did today, what I’m doing tomorrow, and what I did yesterday.  Since I take three meals a day with these people, one could imagine the repetition of conversation topics.  I talk about the antics of my rabbits a lot, and whether I think it’s going to rain.  There’s not too much going on, not much to stress me out.  I remember once a few months ago I was having a discussion about my sitemate.  I said she had stress due to a project she’s working on.  I received some quizzical looks.  “Estrés,” I repeated.  More blank stares.  I pointed it out in the dictionary, just to make sure.  My family said they’d never heard of it.  I went into the capital and asked some friends about what I’d encountered, and they said the people in the country don’t have “stress” in their vocabulary.  Now nor do I.

March 8, 2010

Like the first explorers navigating their ships through the open sea, I orient myself by the stars.  We must take the constellations for granted, seeing them all our lives on those carefree summer nights, or on those crisp-clear-take-your-breath-away winter ones.  I look up and am awed by the fathomless universe shining down upon me.  I recognize not one single star nor constellation.  Things are different here, south of the equator.  Likewise, the water drains in the opposite direction.

February 25, 2010

"How I Learned to Use Only One Electrical Appliance at a Time"

After two hot showers with my newly-installed “electric shower,” the power went out.  Let me revise that number to one and a half hot showers, since the power went out right in the middle of shower #2.  Which leads me to believe that the electric shower pulled too much energy through the line, and thus melted the cable.  My family says that the neighbor “cut” the cable, and since three houses share the same power line, we are all without power.  In order to fix the situation (correctly) we must wait for a professional electrician.  In the meantime, my house is tapped into the neighbor’s house on the other side of us (incorrectly.)  Before being told the rules of tapping into someone else’s power, I went about my electrical needs as before.  I was sitting in my room with the lone lightbulb glowing, and my laptop plugged in to get some music flowing.  Then suddenly I was in the dark, my incomprehension growing.  Turns out it was all my fault, without my even knowing.  Go figure.

 

Cashapampa House Tour

Take a tour of where I am living during my Peace Corps service in Cashapampa, Ancash, Peru.

February 19, 2010

A good day stems into a string of good days, stemming into a good week, a good month and I dare to say, a good year.  Yeah, it’s February, but…I think the uphill battle is behind me.

After 451 days of having one shower option (freezing glacial cold), I took a hot shower in site.  Gone are the days of traveling 3 hours to the capital just to take a hot shower.  Yesterday, I received the best gift I could have imagined: an electric shower.  The silliest part is that the shower head has been installed since my arrival, but it has never been hooked up to electricity.  One day last month, I asked what it would take to hook it up.  My host dad said it was a matter of one part.  The wiring was already complete, leading right into the latrine.  (Latrines are usually several paces away from the house, but they brought mine directly into the patio so I wouldn’t have to walk far in inclement weather.) Yesterday after returning from the school, my host dad said there was a surprise.  I almost asked if was a good surprise or a bad surprise, since one of my baby bunnies has been ill, I thought maybe it had finally died.  But no.  It was a good surprise.  He opened the latrine door, and there was not only electricity hooked up to the shower, but a lightbulb!  I would no longer have to bumble around with my flashlight in the dark, wondering what kinds of bugs were lurking in the corner.  More than that…HOT WATER!!!  As I took my first hot shower in Cashapampa, I smiled as the steam escaped through the cracks in the door.  I tried not to think of the shoddy wiring, and the fact that electric showers work by electrocuting the water as it passes through the shower head.  Glorious.

 

Clean and ready to go, I headed out to undertake a task I’d been postponing for two months: finding someone.  It sounds simple, but it can be quite a process. 

First, you must walk in the general direction of the village. 

Second, you must answer all the passers-by questions as to where you are going.  Using this as an opportunity to spread the word about whichever topic you wish to expound upon, this second step can take a while.  For example, every time I run into a member of the tourist association and they ask me where I’m going, I answer that I’m going to speak with the president of the tourist association.  Then I tell them why: to form a committee in charge of building and maintaining a tree nursery.  For what? To sell native tree species to the tourists.  Ahh, I can see the cogs grinding in their heads.  Spending time on this second step is crucial to getting the word out on this project.  Hmmm, selling trees to tourists?  Interesting.  Then, when it comes time to actually form the committee, some of the members will have already heard of it, and their interest will be piqued.

Step 3: Once in the correct village, look for anyone outside their house, perhaps hanging out in the plaza.  Aha!  Children!  I approached with a smile and hoped they wouldn’t be shy and not talk to me.  Quite the opposite.  They came closer and said, “Buenos dias, Erica!”  Well, that’s a good sign, since I was 45 minutes from my village, and somehow these kids knew me.  They invited me to a mango, but I respectfully declined, saying I was looking for the house of so-and-so.  They pointed me to the house next door, and even directed me to the correct door, since every house has 4 entrances and you can’t tell what’s front, back, neighbor side, etc.

Step 4: Knock and see who answers.  Prepare for setting up a date and time when the person you’re looking for will be there.  So I knocked, and an old man’s voice yelled in quechua.  I could only assume he was asking who it was.  I yelled my name and asked if the prez was there (using his name of course).  More quechua.  I repeated myself, and was determined to stay there until I talked to someone other than the door.  By now the kids had come around the corner to see what I was yelling.  Finally, the old man opened the door.  He was hunched over and leaning on his walking stick.  I introduced myself and told him I work with the tourist association, of which so-and-so was president.  Was he there?  No, he’s working in his field.

Step 5: Either plan on returning at another set time, or find the person in his current location.  Today, the old man opted to take me directly to where his son-in-law as it turns out, was working.  The old man warmed up to me quite quickly when I said I’d come back tomorrow and he asked me what he should tell his son-in-law about my visit.  I told him to say that Erica had stopped by, and that I’m the only gringa living around here, so he’d know who I was in case he forgot my name.  The old man laughed, and said it wouldn’t be necessary to come back tomorrow, that he would personally show me the field where his son-in-law was working.  We walked across the plaza and looked down into a field where I saw a small group of people.  I was shown the path to get down there, and found my person with his fingers deep in the nostrils of a bull, while his wife poured some liquid into its mouth.  When they had finished, I approached and shook his hand that had bull snot on it.  He apologized for the dirty hand, but I didn’t mind in the least.  We spoke briefly and he invited me to Monday’s 6:00am meeting so I could talk about the tree nursery.  Awesome.  That went too well.

Step 6: Breathe and smile.

Summer School

Life in Cashapampa has become increasingly familiar.  I've found that riding a horse around town is a great way to get around.  Chances are good that I will run into someone I'd like to talk to, and I've been able to spread the word about summer school classes.   Week one I found myself sitting in an empty classroom.  Week two brought 1 student, and week three brought 4.  Poco a poco, "little by little," they will arrive. 
With only one month left of summer school before regular classes commence, I have big plans for the handful of students that show up.  Besides coloring and learning about the environment, we will be moving on to bigger and better feats: throwing trash in a hole.  This has been an on-going goal of mine in which I have encountered a plethora of obstacles for what would seem a simple project.  Now all the pieces are in place and I have a good feeling this is going to happen.
Hole: check.  Permission to throw trash in hole: check.  Manual labor to assist in trash clean-up: check.

Another huge undertaking on my list of summer school activities is a World Map project.  We have measured out the grid area, painted it with two coats of ocean blue, and are in the process of drawing the grid itself onto the wall.  Horizontal and vertical lines will create over 1,000 individual blocks at 8 cm² apiece.  Then, the countries are drawn block by block in pencil.  The final step is painting each of the blocks, thus creating the whole world. 

4 of 4: What $3 can buy. Feed a child? Or ride a horse?

Everything takes time.  When I arrived here a year ago, I thought it would be so easy to ask around for a horse to ride.  Well, the asking itself did turn out to be easy.  It was the receiving that turned out to be difficult.  A few weeks ago I thought I had finally found my guy.  I had known him to be a member of the tourist association I work with; and he also happened to be a horse owner.  He offered to show me his horses and take me riding, and after meeting his two beautiful Peruvian Pasos, I was hooked.  The problem was, when I arrived to go riding at our scheduled time a few days later, he was nowhere to be found.  His mother told me he had gone off to Lima.  When I arrived back at my house, my host parents saw the downtrodden look on my face and tried to console me by saying they weren’t even his horses, and they would find me another horse to ride.  Back to square one.

I wasn’t standing on square one for very long.  My host dad brought me to talk to another guy, who also happened to be a member of the afore-mentioned tourist association.  The deal would be S/.10 per ride.  Being equivalent to about $3, that seemed like a bargain to me.  Seeing that deal turn from idea to reality…priceless.