The time I got typhoid...or something like it

First, let me say thank you to everyone for a) putting up with my shameless complaining and whining on Facebook and b) for praying/sending positive thoughts and words and wishes my way.

Ordinarily, I prefer to keep things lighthearted; that's why negative boo-hoo-mee statuses, etc., generally get on my nerves. That's also why I'm not 100% proud of my boo-hoo-mee statuses and comments the last couple of days about this mystery illness from the diablo. Or the chupucabra, whomever. However, being alone in a foreign country with what may be typhoid is . . .lonely. And Facebook, as any good internet website should, simulates human interaction so that I'm tricked into thinking I'm surrounded by friends and friends' parents and former teachers, and not alone in a hostel in Puno, Peru, heading to the can every 15 minutes to empty out the two liters of water I've drunk in the last two hours.

To be fair, my one friend outside of work has been checking up on me via text and phone call, making sure I'm okay and asking if there's anything he can do. I figure our friendship is too young to say, "Yeah, could you bring me some TP? I just tore through my last roll." So I just say, "That's really sweet, but no, thank you." Also, the nurses and doctor at the clinic I've been visiting have been stellar. The one nurse, Nelia, picked up on that I was freaked out and homesick, and stopped what she was doing at one point last night to give me a big hug. [Sure, she said, "It's okay, Andrew", but I knew who she meant.] When she hugged me, I started bawling. I'd been joking around with the doctor, because humor is my first line of defense, and in an instant I was weeping in the arms of a woman I'd just met the day before. One of the symptoms of Typhoid is delirium, but drastic mood-swings are not abnormal for me [thanks, maternal grandmother!], especially when I'm tired and sick and homesick. Therefore, I wasn't too worried. Embarrassed? Nah, not really embarrassed either. I'm above that now.

Speaking of embarrassment. . . for someone who has trouble pee-ing in bathrooms outside of her own home, it was initially sufficiently awkward that my entire hostel could hear the alientbots of Transformers 3 fighting their way out of my body and into the toilet for the last three days. The walls are paper-thin, and the doors paper-thinner, so there wasn't any hiding my illness. At first whenever I did venture out to buy more fluids or toilet paper, I would hide my face from my fellow hostel-mates in the hallway. Why? I don't know, because at this point, who cares? You know how they say you lose all shame when you have a child? Let's just say I got a jump-start.

Days ago, before this turned into a saga, I intended to make my food-poisoning experience into its own entertaining little blog post. I even was collecting in my mind clever anecdotes and jokes to include, like the non-joke that, when I finally ventured out Thursday evening to buy tylenol, people on the street were looking at me as if I were the Grim Reaper. "Oh, heavens! What happened to that poor, pale, white lady?!" passers-by would gasp.

Or this little story: On Friday, I finally got the name of a doctor I could visit nearby. After literally crawling across the floor to put on my boots, I grabbed my computer to Google Map the address of the clinic, which I noted was only three blocks from my hostel. [Roughly 50 yards.] When I walked outside and hailed a cab, I gave the taxista the address and asked how much he'd charge. He told me 3 soles [about $1.11], which is roughly 2.9 soles too much. Though in a nauseous stupor, recently too weak to walk across the room to my boots, I cocked my head to the side, looked him in the eye, and replied, "Seriously?" He saw that I meant business, so he dropped the price to 2 soles*. Whatever. Just take me to the clinic. When he dropped me off he said, "Hasta luego!" and I replied, "No way."

Lastly, I spent my very last soles Saturday morning on my, like, 10th and 11th bottles of Electoral [electrolyte fluid]. The price for two bottles was 13 soles, but I only had 11.20. The pharmacist told me, "Sorry, I guess you'll just have to take one." I rummaged through every pocket in my pants, vest, and jacket, and then through all 73 pockets of my Swiss Army-brand backpack. All I found were five dimes and a quarter. I asked her, "Would you accept this American money?" She took the quarter in her hand and asked me how much it was worth. I responded that it was worth 25 American cents, which is about 70 Peruvian cents. She said, "Okay, I'll take this and blah blah blah Spanish that Audrey doesn't understand blah." I offered her the dimes, but she declined, I think because they are small. I left her the quarter and my immense gratitude, took the Electoral, and was on my way. On my walk home, now without a dime--not literally because I actually had five dimes--an old Peruvian man with a cane implored me, "Give me a sol." I responded, in English, "Mister, I don't have a sol!"** [For the irony, please read my reply aloud.]

Now, to conclude, I'm headed to Arequipa tomorrow to get a second opinion on the Typhoid diagnosis and to get some R&R. (Remember the in-laws of the best friend of my mom's boss live there, and I stayed with them last time I was in Arequipa.) Thankfully, though a little feverish this afternoon, I have gone #1 almost as many times as I've gone #3, so that's a great sign. It had been about a 1:80 ratio. I have requested that we go to the doc in Arequipa asap tomorrow to get that second opinion, and to continue this antibiotic regimen, as I'm leery of throwing a wrench in what seems to be working so far. That said, it will be nice to speak English about it and have a "mom" take care of me while I recuperate.

This weekend my dear friend Emily***, who has been working in northern Peru and suffering similar gastric ailments over the past few months, is going to visit me in Arequipa before she heads back to the USA. (Sorry I told everyone about that time you got diarrhea in Peru. And I'm sorry for repeating it now.) We were planning to celebrate the Peruvian independence days in Lima, but she has been gracious enough to re-route. It will be indescribably splendid to be with a familiar face/awesome friend for a few days. I can't wait. I also can't wait to continue to return to normalcy.

On that note, I'll actually conclude with this final thought: In Africa, it's a complement to be called 'fat' because so few people have the luxury of absorbing enough calories to get fat, whether it be due to hunger or parasites or typhoid or take-your-pick-of-African-nutritional-ailments. A few friends have commented about my maybe-typhoid, Omg, you're gonna lose so much weight! but, really, I have been so miserably sick and hungry [I'm not allowed to eat solids, btw] that I would so much rather be myself than to constantly have this gnawing feeling in my belly and Freddy vs. Jason fight goin' on in my intestines. In America we worry about food, rather than let it nourish us, and fight with our bodies for not looking right, rather than being grateful for the incredible things they do for us: like digest food and poop it out in solids. . . and sometimes other things, too, like run 10K's, have babies, or carry us to those we love.

Thanks for reading and for praying and for sending encouraging words. If you wanted to continue all those things, yeah, I'd be really grateful.

Audrey

*An economics lesson for you: In this situation, the taxista (the supplier or transport) had an unfair advantage because, though there were five taxis behind him, I (the demander) was physically unable to walk the 10 yards to ask their prices. That, my friends, is what happens when there are is too much friction in a free market. It appears that the taxista, a jerk, is also a good economist.

**No, I am not proud that I denied a man with a cane a sol. That's what's ironic. I told him I do not have a sol (which I did not), and in so doing, also acknowledged that I figuratively did not have a soul for not giving to this poor old man with a cane. Also, begging in Peru is rampant, and that warrants its own blog post. I'll say this now, though, that it makes me sick when parents whore out their children to beg for them rather than doing whatever they can, as parents, to provide for their children. (If that means begging themselves, then so be it, but do not a. degrade your children and b. teach them that this is a proper way to make a living.) I've seen it happen many times and, in my book, it falls into the same category as the Norway tragedy. Children should be left their innocence, and no one, not a terrorist nor especially a parent, should take that away from them.

***Name has been changed b/c I didn't ask her permission to tell everyone she has had diarrhea and if I'm going to embarrass someone, I usually want to ask their permission first.

Sheep head soup and feet potatoes

To be sure, those are the two cutest things you'll ever see.

Now for my blog post:

So I've officially finished a whole week and a few days of work in Puno. As those of you with Facebook know, I've been working a lot--generally 13/14 hour days--because I've been visiting around four communal bank meetings daily, many of which are in the campo (outlying rural areas). We've had tremendous success with the surveys so far; we were expecting to collect maybe 15 surveys a day, but have been getting 20-25. [The survey, by the way, serves to verify client interest in student loans and learn about what kind of terms they would need.]

Even more importantly, the response from many of the clients [socias] of Manuela Ramos has been indescribably exciting (!!!!!!!) :) :) :) Their enthusiasm for these student loans makes it all worth while.

...Well, their enthusiasm and the completely nuts things that I get to experience on a daily basis.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy the chronicles of my first full week in Puno--

To begin, reactions from the clients at the communal bank meetings generally go one of four ways:

1. Applause.
I like to pretend they are applauding how well I'm speaking in Spanish.

2. Confusion
Lots of ladies in the campo primarily speak Aymara and Spanish is their second language. (The people who ruled South America before the Inca spoke Aymara--pretty cool.) Spanish is language #1.75 for me. (I wouldn't quite call it my second language just yet.) Student loans, a brand new concept for the people of Puno, are are really difficult for many people to understand. (Imagine you'd only recently gained access to credit, and now all of a sudden someone is asking you if your kid wants credit, too. You'd be all, Huh??!) Lastly, my appearance [enormous and blond] initiates skepticism in many. (Who is this viking lady trying to sell me something??)

Here's a math problem to help illustrate the trickiness involved in a meeting in the campo:
(español de audrey?) x (español de socias??) x (student loans??!!) x (giant pale lady with yellow hair is speaking the spanish??!!?!) = WHAT?!??!?! No, I don't want to participate. Go away.

A conversation I had with one sweet lady in the campo who has been borrowing from Manuela Ramos for years:
lady: Is Manuela Ramos Peruvian?
me: Of course!
lady: And are you Peruvian?
me: No, I'm from the United States.
lady: Then how do you work for Manuela Ramos???!?!?!

Another conversation between three sweet ladies and myself from the campo yesterday:
lady 1, to me: You must be from Lima; your hair does not look like you're from here.
lady 2: She's not from Lima; I think she's from the United States.
lady 3: Or Spain, maybe.

Reaction #3. Jaws dropping (My personal favorite.)
One woman was so excited that she may be able to take out a loan for her husband to finish college that her draw dropped. It was all sorts of Oprah's Favorite Things and made my heart soar!

Also in the jaws dropping category is the reaction I like to call Move! That! Bus! [Like eXtreme Makeover: Home Edition.] The Move! That! Bus! is really the Take! That! Survey! The other night, for example, we got a Move! That! Bus! after introducing the survey when the ladies at the meeting were like, ''I'm over this meeting, let's get to the survey. Hurry up and pay your money, I want me some student loans!'' Needless to say, every one that took the survey responded that, Yes, they want student loans.

4. Marriage proposals and/or creepy/flattering comments about how gorgeous I am (Both obviously unrelated to student loans, but appreciated none-the-less.)
The other night the ladies at one meeting were arguing over who called dibs on me first--to become their daughter-in-law. Two days ago some sweet ladies in the campo said I was as pretty as a doll and they wished they could keep me on their table for display. Creepy and a boost to the 'ole self-esteem!

And that concludes the four reactions to the introduction of student loans to the ladies of Manuela Ramos. Here are a few more stories from the week:

On Monday Manuela Ramos, Puno had its annual all-staff regional gathering. We did team building and discussed gender and watched presentations. It was very RA-training. We also payed volleyball, and though I'm a good 8 inches taller than everyone else, I was kicked off the team because I'm afraid of the ball. Hey, I warned them I'm not good at sports. Oh! And we played 'Sapo', which like bean bag/washers but on a table and with a frog. For someone with deplorable hand-eye coordination, I didn't do so awful.

Me owning at Sapo

The key is follow-through.

And in case that first angle wasn't clear enough, here's a full-frontal of the follow-through.

Everyone celebrating my awesomeness and athleticism

In case you're wondering, 1150 is an awesome score. (As for the name, I'm just glad they didn't spell it Odri.)

On Friday Sandra had told me to dress a certain way for Monday, but I didn't understand the word she used at the time, and had forgotten that valuable lesson learnt in Lima, that people won't be mean when I don't understand. Instead, I tried to remember the word to look it up when I got home...but I forgot the word before I made it home. I had a hunch Sandra had said to dress casual, so I did what I do best and went against my instincts. I showed up business casual in some slacks and boots and everyone else in my office showed up wearing matching track suits. With the director in a track suit and cap, and all of the other ladies under 5' tall, we looked like an Olympic gymnastics team. With me as the giant German bodyguard. (The aviators helped.)

On Wednesday Manuela Ramos held Field Day #1 for socias in Chicuito. Think 5th grade field day, but with 300 of Aymaran ladies in enormous, beautiful skirts and bowler hats. Like this:

The only acceptable time an adult may ever wear rick rack

The morning of field day, I had to be at the office at 6 a.m. to hop on a combi [15 passenger van] to Chicuito with all the ladies from my office. Again we looked like the Peruvian olympic gymnastics team. On the way, I saw the sunrise over Lake Titicaca [which, sadly, by the way isn't as funny as it used to be :( ]. The sunrise was breathtaking and we were listening to what had to be The Best of the 80s. It was awesome and girls just wanna have fun.

When we arrived at the park/concrete fields where we were holding the event, I wasn't feeling so hot. I almost barfed in the combi. Ironically, I just told my mom a few days ago how remarkable it is that I can get carsick going down a driveway in the States but I never get carsick in foreign countries! Heeerrreeee, Jinxie!

Shortly after our arrival, we walked/took some motorcycle carts to the market to get some breakfast. Two of my coworkers and I sat down to order, and they ordered 'tongue soup'. They asked if I wanted tongue soup, too.

"Um, what other options are available?"

"Well, there's head soup."

"Oh, okay, um. . . Are those the only two options?"

They tell me something else I don't recognize. I ask for clarification, and I hear 'sheep'. That's good enough for me, so I order sheep soup.

I've been seeing a lot of grazing sheep lately in the pastures we walk through to get to our meetings, so when I got my bowl of sheep soup, so all I could see was a baby lamb floating in my bowl, hooves up, X's for eyes, tongue hanging out. I ate it anyways. I was really hungry.

A guy two chairs down from me ordered the head soup. A few minutes into his meal, I looked over and this time literally saw a jaw bone sticking out of the bowl, teeth 'n' all. I laughed aloud at the absurdity.

And then, maybe just as gross for some of you, the lady who had served our soup by hand blew her nose and continued chopping chives.

When we left the market, all the people outside were pointing and laughing at me. This happens from time to time in the campo, and honestly it was old the moment it started. I love making people laugh, but generally only when it's intentional or because I've tripped. When just my presence alone is cause for riotous laughter, I'm over it.

I saw through the doors of the market that there are fruit stands. All I eat in Puno, pretty much, are potatoes. Every day. So when I saw the fruit, I said to my coworkers how badly I wanted some. They were so sweet and insisted that I go buy some right that instant! I got some delicious, delicious grapes. With seeds. (That means they're like really real, right?)

When we got back to the park, I was enlisted to do every job that requires height, as I'm the resident Yao Ming. That meant: Tie up the soccer nets, hang the Manuela Ramos sign, etc. When I ran over to help some of my coworkers, my other coworkers started laughing. I learned later that they thought I look like the Hulk with I run, but only because both of us have big feet. Okay. As long as it's not due to our facial structure.

Then, about 9 a.m., I had to use the bathroom. I knew there was no way I could hold it for 10 hours. As you've probably gathered from my previous post, I have a hard time with yucky facilities. It's just not one of my strong suits. I try. I really do. It's just really hard for me. I won't turn this experience into its own post [though it definitely could be] mostly for the sake of grossness. Let's just say this: Have you seen Slumdog Millionaire? You know that part in the beginning when he falls through the bottom of the ramshackle port-o-can? Yeah. That's what this was like. The bathrooms at this park made the bathroom on the bus look like the Taj Mahal. Even my Peruvian friends were like, "Dude, that bathroom is feo."

The problem was that someone had forgotten to install the toilets, but lots of people had had to use the facilities, so all sorts of human waste all over the floor. Oh, and broken glass, too. I had to psych myself up into peeing on the bathroom floor by walking in and out of the door five or six times. Finally I just jumped in. (Thank God, not literally.) The rest of the day, any time I thought of that bathroom, I actually shivered. Also, I stopped drinking water as soon as I finished with the facilities. This time, I meant it. I was prepared to die of dehydration before I used that bathroom again. Literally. That's not a joke. I didn't drink water until I got home around 8 p.m. Ughhhhhh. Blech. a;slf9834r342 Ewww.w.

Okay, done. Moving on. Lunchtime!

I was wandering around the field day all day, soliciting surveys from ladies waiting to play their next match. Most of the responses fell into category Two (2) above, which you'll remember was, Confusion and subsequent rejection. I'm not good with rejection, so after each few rounds of No, go away, yellow-hair lady, I would wander around and take pictures of my shadow or watch the games for a bit. Around lunchtime I was loitering near the fútbol concrete when a little girl ran over and asked if I would come join her group of socias. There were like 30 socias, and I was hoping they wanted to be surveyed, so I was like, "Heck yeah, little girl!" Except that I was really actually just my awkward self and said to the little girl, "Did y'all invite me over because you could tell I looked lost?" She said yes.

As soon as I sat down, surveys in hand, one lady grabbed my left hand and put a handful of potatoes and chuño [feet potatoes; see below] in my hand. I saw that there was a blanket in the middle of the ladies, colorful like all of the blankets they use carry things like their babies or potatoes on their backs. On this blanket was a HEAP of potatoes, chuño, fried sardines, and bread. The sweet ladies had invited me over to share their lunch with me :) Sooooo nice. So, so nice. I'm still floored. It was so incredibly sweet of them to invite the crazy yellow hair lady with no friends to eat with them and share their food.

I sat there in the blazing sun [you'd be surprised how much 12,000 ft feels like it may as well be the surface of the sun itself], in my jeans this time [I'd learned after Monday's track suit experience], munching on potatoes and feet potatoes out of my hand with 30 or so generous, Aymaran-speaking, bowler-hat-wearing, nursing, toothless, beautiful, humbling Peruvian women. (In case you didn't catch those: Most people here are a) missing at least a few teeth b) have their teeth detailed in silver and/or c) are nursing. I've seen a lot of nursing this week. Oh! And ladies in the campo keep their wallets in their bras, well, not their bras because they don't wear bras, but you get the gist; so to fetch their money at the meetings they have to dig around a bit. But hey, I'm not judgin'. Remember, I kept my keys in there on my bus ride. The ladies of the campo and I have quite a bit in common, really.)

After I was about finished with my first handful of potatoes, I was offered another handful of potatoes and what are pretty much fried sardines. To not be rude, I eat one, and I think to myself, "I am eating a fish." And by that I meant that that little fish made my mouth feel like I'd taken a gulp of lake water out of a bait bucket. I tried to hide the other two fish in the grass so they wouldn't know I didn't eat them, but the grass was pretty sparse, so I ended up trying to secretly dig a hole in the ground with my free hand while I held potatoes in the other. It kind of worked, and I felt really guilty, but I just couldn't eat the other two. And of course honesty was out of the question.

The rest of the afternoon was less eventful, except for the SEAGULLS!!!! Yeah, dude, there are Andean seagulls that are just slightly bigger versions of Texas coast gulls. Makes me feel right at home. Kind of like the Chili's in Lima.

Also, one group of socias gave me reaction #4: Proposal. Unfortunately, their sons weren't there for me to make an informed choice, so I declined.

After field day was over, we walked a mile or so over some sewage, past a few farm animals, and up some hills to the market to catch a bus back to Puno. As we walk, I'm thinking to myself how much fun it is to not know what to expect day to day, even though sometimes that means you have use a Slumdog Millionaire bathroom. Then, like a chariot of gold, I see a luxury tour bus at the top of the hill. My coworkers who had walked ahead shouted back to us, "Run!!!" Was this our bus??! Yup, it was!!!

So, to conclude, sometimes you use Slumdog Millionaire bathrooms, and other times you get to take a charter bus home for just 60 cents after a long day of work.

And very lastly, some pictures, because I'm not good at weaving together everything I want to tell y'all:

Chuño aka Feet Potatoes in the making. Chuño is a staple here in Puno, and here's how it's made:

1. Spread out your potatoes on the ground.

2. Cover your potatoes with water.

3. Let your potatoes freeze two nights in a row.

4. Stomp on your potatoes.

5. Let your potatoes dry in the sun for a day.

6. Eat your potatoes.

There's another variety of chuño, which is white chuño. For white chuño, after stomping on them, you put them in a sack in the river for a couple of weeks. Then you eat them.

I'm going to try to make chuño this winter, but instead of stomping on them, I'm going to use wax paper and a rolling pin or something. Get excited, family!

Hazardous materials (?) truck on which we hitched a ride back to civilization after our meeting in the most remote location I've probably ever been. [Slash most awesome place I've ever been. I could see the snow-capped mountains of Bolivia, right next to cumulus clouds floating low in the sky.]

Lunchtime: Is all this for me??! Yes.

Chicharron de pig and chuño and giant white corn.

Local lady toting plants by our makeshift boli [volleyball] field

Doin' some farmin' and animal husbandry by the Lake Titicaca.

Unattended, alarmingly young children playing in the sinks in front of the human waste vestibule at the field day.

On our way to a meeting in El Collao, Sandra and I found the most precious donkey tied up in a field. I wanna go back and find him, but I have no idea where we were. I generally just follow along for the ride.

First sight of Precious Donkey. We are really early to the meeting so Sandra tells me, "Wait here. I'm gonna see if we can pet him."

Turns out, we can. And, Precious Donkey loooooves attention. We have a mini photo shoot, and when we leave to go to our meeting, Precious Donkey tries to follow. I shed a tear I'm so sad he can't come with us to the meeting/home with me to the United States. After the meeting, though we have to be at another meeting an hour away in about twenty minutes, I stop to say bye to Precious Donkey. He tries to follow us to the autopista when we leave, and again I shed a single tear. Goodbye, Precious Donkey. May you live long and get a haircut so that you can see!

Parting photo, to always remember him by.

Meeting to which we were on our way when we met Precious Donkey. The loan officer was late (because she had fallen asleep on the bus by accident and missed her stop by about twenty minutes) so the ladies started the meeting themselves, which was pretty cool. It's nice to see them take ownership of their affairs. This particular group responded to the surveys with reaction #2: Confusion. [It was here where I was asked how I could be working for Manuela Ramos, though I'm from the US.]

Also, after this meeting, I saw a sheep peeing. It was really weird.

Riding in the back of hazardous materials truck, having a grand time!

Fields on the side of Lake Titicaca. (It's really fun to watch people farm on our bus rides home.)

Front of a house of one of the ladies who hosts MR meetings

Another house. (Notice how tiny the door is. At this house, I had to use an outhouse about three feet tall. Did I pretty much have to crawl in? Yes. Did it have a door? No. Later that day did I narrowly miss seeing a man poop in his yard? Yes.)

Oooh, pretty! I think this is wheat or something. I don't really know because all my food comes already packaged for me.

That's all, and thanks for reading!

On a serious note

My mom has been begging me to "show the other side of Peru" on my blog "so people know you aren't just having fun!" (Like riding buses.) I've told her that I like to keep things lighthearted and slip in something intelligent from time to time, like a trick. Lamentably, however, mom as a point, and today's post is going to be heavy on the serious and light on the fun. I hope that you will stick around and read about the state of Peru, and why I'm here in spite of (and because of) it.

To start: I've seen slums before--I've been to Zambia, ranked 150th out of 169 countries, according to the 2010 UN Human Development Index; and I've spent two summers working in the bateyes of the Dominican Republic, which are essentially 'slums' if one abides by the generally accepted definition.

However, the slums (which is a yucky word, isn't it?) of Lima astounded me. I first saw them on my fifth day in Peru when Gloria and her family took me outside the city for some sight-seeing and lunching. We had made it to the south side of Lima where it suddenly became obvious that Lima in the desert-- There were enormous sand dunes, probably 300 feet tall, towering on the left side of the autopista. On these sand dunes were what I would guess to be more than around 2 million shacks, stacked one on top of the other for as far and as high as the eye could see. (Think Juarez, Mexico, for those of you who have been unfortunate enough to pass through El Paso.) However, unlike Juarez or the DR or even [what I saw of] Zambia, these shacks seemed to go on limitlessly. For a city that has to certify buildings as "Safe Zones in Case of Earthquakes" (many of which seem questionably 'seguro'), it doesn't seem like it should be legal for these giant sand dunes to be zoned for any sort of structure, especially human beings' dwellings. It seems unethical.

Jesús Maria, my neighborhood in Lima, is considered middle class by Lima standards; by US standards, it's lower middle class, upper lower class. However, because I had a bit of a reference point for what poor is, I thought it was pretty great! That's why in all of my blog posts, I go on and on about how beautiful and clean the city is... And also partly why I was so flabbergasted to see that this whole other city exists within the city. [It's one thing to know something and another to see it.]

Urbanization is just the direction in which the world is moving. Kind of like how humans increasingly rely on robots for love and friendship. (Seriously. I saw a documentary about it on Nat Geo, and it was disturbing.) Urbanization is also a primary cause for the astounding growth of Lima's slums. In Peru, and most places, urbanization occurs because the jobs are in the cities--or at least that's what people think. In Lima's case, people have flocked to it from the campo, only to find that jobs are less plentiful than they were told. Those people, having sold their land and possessions to make the move, are forced into underdeveloped areas [shanty towns] and take extremely low-paying jobs (if they can find them) to make ends meet. Those 2+ million people are currently living on less than $2/day. And that's just Lima.

Peru's economy has been growing pretty steadily over the last 18 years (with two exceptions--1998 and 2009, because of El Niño and the global financial crisis, respectively). In fact, Peru had one of the fastest growing economies in the world in 2007 and 2008 (when it had the greatest GDP growth in the world). This growth has manifested in real changes for Peru, like electricity, color tv, and internet (YouTube!) in the campo, and a 19% decline in the official poverty rate.

However, a 35% poverty rate still persists [poverty is defined as living on less than $2/day]; the informal sector (like ladies selling gum to tourists on the sidewalk) is enormous; and Peru's dependence on the export of commodities (like silver and steel) leave it subject to highly unstable world prices.

Informal food carts on the side of the autopista between Arequipa and Puno


Informal craft booths in the middle of nowhere. (You may recognize it as an informal bus stop from the ride from hades.)

Peru, and Lima especially, are notoriously unequal in terms of development. (As I've tried to illustrate above.) Some people have seen the bulk of the fruits of the economy's growth, and 35% have yet to see much of it at all.

Side of the autopista/front of a community:

This inequality is what lead Peru to elect Ollanta Humala as its next president last month; Humala is set to take office on July 28, one of Peru's independence days. (What will you guys being doing for July 28th?) Humala was formerly openly linked with Hugo Chavez (who has cancer, btw, for those of you know don't get much international news), and lost in the 2006 election in part because of those ties. So, for his 2011 campaign, Humala adopted a more moderate appearance, while sticking to his anti-poverty campaign; with this strategy (and possibly a generous sum of money from Chavez--see below), Humala defeated Keiko Fujimori, daughter of former somewhat controversial but effective Peruvian president Alberto Fujimori.

[This is getting dense, so what it boils down to is this: Peru voiced in this last election that it is tired of the inequality, and is willing to risk putting into office a president who will turn out to be nuts like Chavez in order to try and find a solution.]

All around are remnants of the election; in Peru, instead of utilizing social networking sites to campaign [Obama], candidates have their names painted onto the sides of brick walls and mountains. Keiko ran a strong campaign, and I see her name virtually everywhere. [In fact, you can look at previous posts and see her name in several photos, just by coincidence.] Everyone I've asked about Humala has expressed quite a bit of apprehension at his taking office; there are rumors abound that Chavez funded his campaign, and that he's now going to have to succumb to Chavez' far-left pressures once he takes office/turn into a crazy dictator. We'll see...

One of Keiko's ads on a storefront

Others, though, like the rural poor of Puno, are in favor of president-elect Humala. These individuals feel like he will help bring back to them some of the profits that are being mined from land that they and their ancestors have inhabited since before Pizarro came on the scene, sword and rosary a' swingin'. However, opponents point out that often indigenous peoples don't support large-scale mining projects because their own informal mining (which is often linked to cocaine production) benefits them directly and circumnavigates international investors/profit sharers.

And speaking of mining, until last week there were some pretty heavy protests going on in the Puno region regarding a Canadian silver mine that was set to be built in the area. Since early May, roads were blocked, windows were broken, the airport was taken over at one point, and five rioters were killed by riot police. (All the while, I was in Lima unsure if I would make it to Puno--I certainly wasn't going to go while the protests were happening, though my sources tell me that on the whole, they were more annoying than dangerous to the average individual.)

Miners striking in Arequipa, last week


Riot police, just in case. (Thankfully, they were pretty unnecessary.
Many of the "protesters" were unarmed children.)

On the one hand, I understand that people willing to die for a cause obviously feel incredibly justified in their views. On the other hand, I understand the perspective of the rest of the country (and the international markets), which is that Peru's economic growth is going to be severely hindered if each time a foreign mining company tries to get a contract, the region revolts. (After two months, to appease the protesters, current President Garcia revoked the Canadian mining company's permits; now the company is suing the government of Peru.)

And the protesting doesn't just hurt mining. Several of the women at the communal bank meetings on Friday said that business had been horrible since the protests began; it is currently peak tourist season and no tourists want to vacation in a riot. (The protests have officially ended, and the US embassy declared Puno a perfectly safe place to travel last week, right before I left Lima.)

Windows broken out at a couple of banks in town by protesters in the last two months:

(I'd like to think they were protesting Transformers 3,
but I'm pretty sure this one was because of the mines, too.)

As you can see, the politics and poverty of Peru are deeply interrelated and bastante complicated. It's hard to sift through the opinions and find what is really the truth--if it's possible at all. I'd like to think, as with Obama in the US, that the leaders are doing their best for the most people that they can; unfortunately, the way of our flawed world is that there will be poverty and there will be inequality.

Dreadlocks dog

That said, I'm here in Puno fighting for a little more equality. On Friday my surveying partner, Sandra, and I visited our first two communal bank meetings to interview clients of Manuela Ramos to help us effectively design the student loan program for the region. It was really cool to see microfinance in action, and incredibly inspiring that the women were so excited and willing to participate in the surveys. We had projected that maybe 10 of the 25 women at the meetings would participate; we collected 17 surveys! When I thanked the women at the end of the second meeting for their participation, they kept insisting that I was the one who deserved the thanks for trying to bring this service to them, their children, and their grandchildren. They are so hopeful that we will see it through to completion.

Several young women in the communal banks are concurrently enrolled in school and use earnings from their microenterprises to fund their education. It's incredibly exciting to think that we could help them cut out that middle step, and make things a little bit easier for them while they pursue higher education. Though Puno is cold and a little lonely so far, those two meetings on Friday made it all worth it; these lovely, sweet, hard-working women and their children deserve the opportunity to pull themselves out of poverty, and I wholeheartedly feel that making post-secondary education more accessible is one of the best ways to help them in that.

First communal bank meeting was held at a pre-school; this is the view from the back yard of the preschool. Dripping Springsians: Remember the rumors that that one pre-school on RR12 had the devil under the playground? Can you imagine the rumors if this preschool had been in our town?


Bathroom at the preschool. When they told me it was in the back,
I went to the building in the back. I thought that this was a tool shed.


Then my second lap around the yard in search of the bathroom,
I opened the tool shed and found this. That's the toilet.


View out my window from hostel #2 in Puno.


Street in Puno

Kids outside of Lima walking home from school:

A concluding thought: There's a term in economics, pareto optimal, which describes a state at which nothing can be done to help someone without hurting another. Take the redistribution of land, for example--some people benefit, but only because others give up something. Sometimes, I'm afraid that the world is generally in a bit of a state of pareto optimality and the only way to really help another is to willingly give up a part of oneself.

Thanks for sticking with me.

love,
audrey



*Photo at the very top is the street in front of my third (and final) hostel. Third time's the charm!

The Journey to Puno

The trip I took from Lima to Arequipa via charter bus was bar-none the most luxurious travel experience I’ve ever had. Sixteen hours felt like a perfectly precious 15-minute cat nap in the middle of a warm Sunday afternoon. I had wifi, an outlet, a plush over-sized throne that reclined, and a foot rest that raised to complete an adult cradle of sorts. If we don’t float to Heaven, I imagine God charters an Oltursa bus for us.

Arequipa was absolutely beautiful. I stayed with the parents of the husband of the best friend of my mom’s boss in San Antonio. He is a dentist, she a former nurse, current teacher and home-maker (a jack of all trades), and they were both incredibly hospitable and lovely. (So was their home—wow, it was pretty! So many windows.) Their niece, Marsha, took me around the city and showed me the sights on Wednesday. (Pictures of all this at the bottom of this post.) It felt like Europe! (Well, what I imagine Europe feels like. I’ve only been to London, and only for a few hours on a jaunt outside of Heatherow.) I’m looking forward to visiting them again because it felt kind of like a home away from home.

Then it came to my bus ride to Puno on Thursday. Coming from such an incredibly pleasant few days, I fell hard when my trip was less than…luxurious. What follows are actual entries from my journal on the trip, originally begun because, well you’ll see soon enough. No part of this story has been modified for truthfulness. However, Warning: The following story is perhaps uncomfortably candid at points and certainly not flattering. If you and I have a professional relationship or don’t know each other well, maybe you should skip to the pics at the bottom.

1:05 p.m.
Report to bus station. Approach security guard to show her my ticket and board, as I was told to be there 30 minutes before departure at 1:30 p.m. She tells me we aren’t boarding yet and to wait five more minutes. I sit down nearby.

1:12 p.m.
I approach security guard to board. She tells me we aren’t boarding yet. I sit back down. The Peruvian women next to me ask if I’m going to Puno. I say yes, and they say they are, too.

1:15 p.m.
The Peruvian women show their tickets to the security guard and she lets them through to board. I follow and show her my ticket. She tells me we aren’t boarding yet.

1:25 p.m.
I approach the gatekeeper a third time and ask her if we are boarding yet; she says 'yes' very sweetly and lets me through. Hm. I board bus.

1:25:01 p.m.
This bus smells like fish and B.O.

1:25:05 p.m.
Make that hot fish and B.O.

1:26 p.m.
I thank my lucky stars I took off my long underwear before leaving the house, so all I am wearing is a tshirt, sweatpants, heavy socks, and snow boots. For the second time in two days, I wish I had bought the thermometer keychain I saw at REI so I could verify it is, indeed, a good 85 degrees on this bus. (I’ve been wanting a watch that doubles as a thermometer for years.)

1:26:30 p.m.
I survey my surroundings. The seats are pleather, the color of split pea soup, and have a few holes in them here and there, and there and here. The curtains are pretty musky. The name of the bus-line, Civa, is embroidered on the seats in the font of the early 1990’s game Mall Madness, with geometric shapes and lots of purples. I don’t know why, but my gut tells me to start wondering if I’m going to survive this trip. Will we run off a cliff? I start looking for my emergency exits. We’re supposed to depart in less than four minutes and people are still wandering onto the bus oddly casually. Also, I’m sweating pretty profusely. I take off my shoes and socks.

1:27 p.m.
I begin to feel rumblings in my lower abdomen.

1:28 p.m.
I close the curtains in an attempt to shield my porcelain skin from the sun, and perhaps my heart and brain from heatstroke.

1:30 p.m.
I ask the Peruvian gentleman in the row in front of me if the bus gets cooler once we start to move. He says he hopes so. I ask him if he has taken this bus line before. He says no. Ergo, I feel no more assured.

1:35 p.m.
I feel more rumblings in my lower abdomen. I start to take inventory of everything I’ve eaten in the last 24 hours. I remember that last night I had cow heart for dinner.

1:38 p.m.
Bus attendant takes my picture. I smile because that’s what you do for pictures.

1:40 p.m.
Bus attendant says something about the ‘luz’ to the Peruvian gentleman in front of me. In the DR, “Se fue la luz” means there is no power. I hope this is not the case with our bus.

1:43 p.m.
More rumblings.

1:44 p.m.
Start to wonder if I have enough time to go to the bathroom inside the terminal before the bus departs. I would rather be ill in the bus terminal than this hot, crowded, fishy bus because I don’t know that it could physically withstand another foul odor. At this altitude (7,200 ft) the internal pressure may be too great and cause it to explode. However, I don’t know if the four sheets of one-ply you pay .5 soles for at the bathroom entrance will be sufficient for my particular needs. I consider that I have toilet paper packed in my backpack, but then I remember that I may miss my bus. I forego the trip to the bathroom.

1:45 p.m.
I feel more rumblings. I am glad I selected the seat at the rear of the bus so I may visit said bathroom as needed with less awkwardness between myself and the other passengers.

1:49 p.m.
Bus starts. Well, I think it starts. I feel some vibrations that resemble the starting of an engine.

1:54 p.m.
We depart. I am thankful I did not try to go to the bathroom in the terminal. I remember that I would have lost my checked bag had I not made it back in time. I would rather crap my pants on a bus that smells like fish and armpits than lose all of my belongings. Turns out I am more covetous than prideful. Who knew?

2:16 p.m.
A man opens the emergency exit in an attempt to get some more airflow.

2:18 p.m., 2:29 p.m., 2:46 pm., 2:50 p.m., 5:30 p.m.
We stop on the side of the road to pick up some passengers. I ask the woman next to me at our 5:00 informal stop how the bus driver knows to stop for them. She tells me that when someone is running at the bus, that means ‘stop’.

3:01 p.m.
It no longer smells like fish. It smells like rancid urine. Like a Port-o-Can in August or the Fiesta on 41st.

3:07 p.m.
Good news, it seems like the rumblings have subsided.

3:08 p.m.
The tv’s start showing a movie that is CGI Beowulf meets 28 Days meets Raiders of the Lost Ark (just the part at the end when that guy's face melts off) meets...Twilight? There's a lot of fake blood and priestly looking people in red coats. I think I may jump ship if I have to listen to the simulated sound of sword-through-skull for another 60 seconds. I fish through my bra for the keys to my backpack and fetch my iPod. The Dirty Dancing soundtrack has never sounded so good.

3:12 p.m.
I'm getting thirsty but my bladder is also getting full. Do I become dehydrated or risk contracting Hep A from the bus bathroom?? Decisions…decisions… …Wait! I'm vaccinated! Hep A it is. But not just yet. I don’t want to have to go twice.

4:05 p.m.
The high-altitude desert has made an ordinarily avid water drinker a ravenous water-chugging machine. I’d had probably 25 oz before the ride…and another 20 on the bus. I can't wait anymore. I'm not about to pee in my pants; my bladder is about to rupture. The sweet, talkative lady next to me is asleep. To avoiding waking her, I figure the best way out is over, so I climb onto the armrest between us and position my other foot on the arm rest on her other side. (Yes, I'm straddling her, standing, facing her.) I carefully hop down to the aisle on the other side. My landing wakes her. No London 2012 for me.

4:06 p.m.
Oh. My. Heavens. Now I know where the urine smell is coming from. I’m pretty sure every surface has urine on it. There is no tp (thank goodness I brought my own!); there is no toilet seat; and there is no apparent way to lock the door. (From the inside; it does lock from the outside.) I consider for a moment how badly it would hurt if my bladder ruptured, then I snap back. The bus is violently rocking back and forth on the mountain road, and with two hands, two elbows, and two feet I have to squat over the seatless toilet, hold the door closed, and try not to be thrown into said toilet or out of said door by a lurch of the bus. I also have to use the tp I brought in there, ya know? Oh, and because the toilet is shaped like a bowl without a hole in the bottom, I’m afraid I’m going to pee enough to up the whole thing. Therefore I also have to press the pedal on the floor with one of my feet to keep a continuous draining of the urine going through the small slits in the sides of the bowl. Somehow it works. I pee for what seems like 7 minutes, but was probably only two. Thankfully I'm wearing sweatpants so one hand is sufficient to pull them up. Zippers and buttons would've been a real challenge.

Oh, and I almost forgot. There is no trash can for the tp. The only place to put it is my pocket or… What I'm about to tell you is not something I'm proud of. So, let me preface it with this: I do not litter. Since fall of 2007 I haven't so much as thrown gum out my car window. I promise. (I’ve swallowed a lot of gum in the last four years.) I sometimes even pick up others' trash! Okay, okay, I'm going to stop justifying. What do I do with my tp? I throw it out the window ☹ Yes, I threw pee-pee toilet paper out a bus window onto the Andes mountains. I am truly ashamed and if I could go back in time, I would put it in my pocket. No, I would bring a trash bag. Yes, if I could time travel I would a) watch The Sixth Sense again, without knowing the ending—wait, that’s not how time travel works, so I would just b) bring a trash bag into the bus bathroom.

4:11 p.m.
Back in my seat, my music quiets, and I hear gnashing teeth and death. (The movie.) Any time I accidentally look up from my lap my eyes are assaulted and I see someone being stabbed through the head with a sword. This happens about 23 times over the course of the trip. [For those of you who don’t know, I viscerally and morally can’t handle gore.]

4:12 p.m.
I'm already thirsty again, but I'll die here in my seat before I use that craphole again. Actually, craphole isn’t quite fair because there’s no hole.

4:13 p.m.
Rumbling resumes. Otra vez, I'll die here in my seat before I use that bathroom again.

4:15 p.m.
I remember I paid $5 for this ticket. I am getting what I paid for. Fair enough.

4: 25 p.m.
I want to jump off the bus and take my chances in the sierra, but my window doesn't open. The only way out is through.

4:30 p.m.
The movie ends. I learn it was called Mutant Chronicles.

4:34 p.m.
Mutant Chronicles begins again.

4:35 p.m.
Seatmate invites me over to her house next time I'm in Arequipa. She is so nice!

4:36 p.m.
Seatmate tells me we are halfway there. I respond, "ONLY HALF WAY??!??!?!"

5:05 p.m.
Other passengers start to get up and use the facilities. I am exceedingly happy I soiled them first.

5:06 p.m.
We approach what could be the most beautiful lake I've ever seen. I know it's too soon for Lake Titicaca, but I ask anyways. I'm told that this is one is just “a tiny little lake.” It's at least the size of Lake Travis, if not Lake Mead.

5:12 p.m.
The sunset illuminates the hills so that they look like fields of actual gold—kind of like what Rapunzel spun. Though I’m pretty sure what I’m seeing isn’t barley, I imagine that Sting's Fields of Gold was written about the hills of southern Peru. In honor of this sentiment, I switch from my exceedingly loud running mix to Sting. [Please look at the photos of the lake below. It. Was. Incredible.]

5:13 p.m.
I don't know if Sting or the cascading hills of gold are to blame, but I'm moved to tears the entire scene is so beautiful. I feel it in my chest the weight of the blessings upon me. (I'm pretty sure I was feeling the weight of blessings and not the lack of O2 at 11,000 ft.)

5:14 p.m.
A family of three, with the little girl dressed in a stunning, vibrant red coat, trudges across the field of gold, the “tiny little lake” in the background. Tis complete.

5:20 p.m.
I start to feel a headache coming on. For fear it is sarroche (altitude sickness, which I end up getting really badly…and am afraid I still have on Saturday), I down the remaining 15 litres of my water bottle in one fell swoop.

5:21 p.m.
WHAT HAVE I DONE???!!?

5:23 p.m.
We stop on the side of the road. I ask what's up.
Seatmate: "Las llantas."
me: "I don't know llantas."
Seatmate: "Las llantas."
me: "Um, like rocks?"
(I'm thinking, Rock slide?)
Seatmate: "No, las llantas."

Last night I happened to review the Spanish word for tires.

me: "Oh! The tires!"
Seatmate: "Yeah, they're hot. You can smell them."

That, you can. Though I am pretty sure what we smell are not the tires, but the breaks. I remember from parent-taught driver’s ed that one of the dangers of driving in the mountains is wearing down your breaks, and to avoid this you downshift. I speculate we've been riding our breaks pretty consistently through the Andes, and that this is how they’ve treated their brakes on every other trip this bus has been on in the last 18 years.

me: "Is that normal?"
Seatmate: "Yeah."

Then why is everyone up and gawking?

me: "Are we going to die??"

Every Peruvian in my row starts laughing.

me: "Just kidding!"

I’m not.

Seatmate: "No, it's normal!"

Then why are there plumes of smoke outside my window?? And why can't I remember the word for smoke??! Humo?? No, I think that's fog... AHHHH!!!!! I need to alert everyone around me that there are now plumes of smoke!!!!

A song called "I'll be Okay" from the My Best Friend's Wedding soundtrack comes up. A message from God?? I hope so.

We start rolling.

We go about 200 feet and stop again.

5:46 p.m.
I feel something unpleasant under our feet, but we resume forward motion anyways. It’s now pitch dark and around 32 degrees.

6:00 p.m.
The bus stops again. There's no electricity. I try to turn on the light so I can find my cell phone to call for help. No light. I finally am able to find my phone and call Ophelia back in Lima to let her know where I am. (I’m not sure why—I guess my instinct is to make sure someone knows my whereabouts?) She asks me to please call her when I finally get to Puno.

The bus reeks of burning rubber. (Plus side: I no longer smell urine!) This is really bad. Several Peruvians, including the guy I asked at the beginning of the trip if he'd taken this line before, jump ship and take their chances on hitching a ride in sub-freezing weather from one of maybe 2 buses or cars that will pass in the next six hours. I pray they fare well.

Of those left on our bus, children are yelling, “Vamos!!!” and the adults are banging on the windows in disapproval.

Someone tells me the driver and assistant are trying to fix the breaks and it should take just thirty minutes. Did they bring a break kit with us??

6:32 pm.
We are moving again. I am parched, have a pretty severe headache, and have to pee again. I’m thinking of pulling a Man vs. Wild with the assistance of my nalgene. I am now exceedingly thankful that I brought extra layers of clothing in my purse. I layer up, and with my pillow ask a barrier between the window and myself, I am pretty warm.

6:33 p.m.
I’m trying to feel out the Juliaca-Puno situation. I really want to get off this bus at the soonest safe opportunity. Would it be possible for me to take a taxi from Juliaca to Puno? Borrow a car? Ride an alpaca?

6:35 p.m.
Mutants from Hell is finished for a second time.

6:37 p.m.
If I could have one wish—that we get there without anymore stops and have to watch Hell Mutants again OR we have to stop five more times without re-watching, it’s truly a toss up. I decide to try and sleep the rest of the way. Things always go by faster when you’re unconscious.

7:30 p.m.
We arrive in Juliaca. A few people cheer (and by a few people, I mean myself) and my new Peruvian friends around me laugh. You hear that traumatic situations bond people, and though this has probably been much scarier for myself than for them, I feel bonded with my rowmates. I think it’s mutual. In fact, seatmate Clara tells me she loves me as she gets off the bus.

I hop off the bus and run inside the terminal to buy some water and camote chips. (Sweet potato chips—so indescribably delicious; maybe my favorite Peruvian food so far. Is that bad?) Before getting off the bus I beg my new best friends to please not leave without me.

7:35 p.m.
Because I’m a bit of a racist, I sometimes assume that all white-looking people speak English. This time is not an exception, and I ask the white-looking hippies at the front of our bus (one of whom looks a lot like Kevin Federline) if they speak English, because I want to express fear in my native language and have someone understand. They respond, “So-so.” That’s first-year English course for “No.”

8:20 p.m.
We arrive in Puno. Puno, like the toilet on the bus, is also shaped like a bowl. The mountains slope down not-so-subtly into Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake! (That’s Puno’s claim to fame. That, and “The World’s Most Folkloric City!”) It’s bowl-shapedness is awesome for working your glutes on your morning commute, but not awesome when the brakes on your charter bus have been giving out for eighteen years and three hours. At one point we sit at the top of a hill for maybe five minutes, I think waiting for the bus driver to analyze what sorts of edifices at the bottom will break our fall when our breaks finally give way.

As we wander the streets in our bus, the cabin begins to fill with smoke. This time we don’t just smell it, but the air is thick with visible particles of breaks. We look out the windows and plumes of smoke are billowing from underneath the bus. [This is not a hyperbole.] The smoke I saw earlier, though bastante, pales in comparison with this volume. Perhaps they had been billowing this badly during our second stop when they tried to fix the breaks, but there were no streetlights to help us see them. Now, though, it’s clear as streetlight that our breaks are going up in flames.

8:35 p.m
After meandering down the streets of Puno to the bus station, which is at the lowest-most point, we arrive at our destination. I’ve been using my jacket as a gas mask since about 8:25. I pretend that it’s a smart fabric that knows which particles are oxygen and which are fire. Plumes of smoke, which I’ve confirmed is indeed humo, are still billowing from the back. I throw some elbows to get off the bus first. Women and children! Women and children! [Just kidding; I fought that instinct and waited my turn. It was tough, though.]

8:40 p.m.
The last to retrieve my luggage from the flames, I enter the terminal and fetch a taxi to my hostel. (Which turns out to be a bust…No time to go into it, but we’ll just say that the price was severely misrepresented, I got locked out of my room in the middle of the sub-0 [Celsius] night and tried to sleep on a couch while I listened to a Spanish guy puke in the bathroom. Then I scared the begeesuz out of said Spanish guy when I startled him in the dark after he was done barfing to a) ask him if he needed any water and b) if he could help me get back in my room. I’m at a different hostel now that has worse internet but better everything else.)

And that, my friends, is how I narrowly survived the Civa bus ride to Puno, Peru.

[A disclaimer: I know that the above is totally not the worst thing in the world. The whole point is to be a little bit humorous about one of life’s many unexpected adventures. Also, I think that my panic was largely due to the fact that the only way to remedy my dehydration and altitude migraine, and escape being forced to watch Mutant Chronicles on a loop, was to make it to Puno, which at several points I seriously doubted would happen that night. All in all, I’m glad that I made it here safely, and that I didn’t have to try to make a blog post out of my 14-hour nap on the way to Arequipa…And then, I wake to wipe the drool off of my cheek, turn to my other side, and slip back into blissful repose…]

Below are some pictures of my two journeys, as well as Arequipa. I felt the flow of the story would be interrupted by pictures, so enjoy here now, post-script ☺ Stay tuned tomorrow for a post my mom has been begging for—an update on the social, political, economical, and spiritual state of Peru, from my modest point of view.

xoxo and thanks for reading ☺
Audrey


Bus ride to Arequipa:

The outlets here are so cute! They're like the little mushrooms from Fantasia.


My first look at the mountains surrounding Arequipa


Gorgeous, green valley appeared out of nowhere from desert that had looked like this:
for 16 hours.



Arequipa:

At the window in my room


View out of my window <3 Not too shabby.


Night view. Also not shabby.


And the afternoon view. And again, pretty awesome.

Main plaza of Arequipa by day:




Main plaza of Arequipa by night:






And some photos I took while touring around with Marsha:







Regretably, I forgot my guide and don't know what we're looking at here.


Ornate church.


Downtown Arequipa at sunset


This one's for you, Molly.


I don't fit on the combis [Peruvian public buses]. My legs are too long. Also, most Peruvians can stand on the buses, and to not hit my head, I have to squat.


Marsha, Carlos, and me eating the cow heart I mentioned. I ate about 1/3 of mine. Marsha finished it off for me. Thanks, Marsha!



Bus ride to Puno:

Waiting in the bus terminal


Seatmate, Clara <3


Leaving the snow-capped mountains surrounding Arequipa


Informal bus stop #3, I think (Many people in the Andes hover around 4' tall, like this fella here.)


Jesus of the Andes and of the moto. (There are a lot of Catholic relics everywhere I go. There was a replica of Jesus' head in a box on this Catholic shrine at one of the sites I visited for the meetings with socias. I know that for them it's a sign of reverence, but it only reminded me of Se7en.)


One of many lone houses in the middle of nowhere, apparently uninhabited


Desert and mountain


Free-range alpaca, from a far distance


Wow.


How does this water not evaporate completely?


Riding the breaks down this puppy


I wish you all could see this in person. It is absolutely breathtaking.


Informal bus stop #6. People sell things on the side of the road to the handful of buses that pass by daily. We are an hour and a half from the nearest town.


A tiny part of the tiny, little lake.