pt. 8: Saying Goodbye

August24 - Sunday

Luis arose at 4AM to begin preparing to leave. We have to arrive in Kolpas as early as possible, because after noon or so there are no more cars going to Ambo, meaning we would be stuck in Kolpas until the next morning. I loafed around in bed until 5AM and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

That has been the routine. We wake early and walk across the field from Luis' mother's home to Mama Sabina's kitchen hut. She is inevitably there, on her stool in front of the fire with a cat on her feet, feeding endless amounts of hay into the mud stove to boil the pot of water perched precariously on top. The cat always makes me nervous: it often sits directly in front of the hole from which fire pours. It comes away with singed fur; I'm surprised the whole thing hasn't gone up in flames. It must not have any nerves to speak of. She gives us a cup of watery oatmeal (as a drink), a bowl of caldo verde (potato soup), and places a bowl of cancha or potatoes on the floor in front of us. We sit on the thin mud bench carved into the mud wall and balance our bowl and cup on our knees; we have to be careful about setting them on the floor because the chicken and rooster are constantly peering in the doorway and will occasionally take a courageous flying leap towards our food.

When we finish our breakfast -or sometimes before- Mama Sabina mixes boiled water with the icy stream water and we are able to wash our face and hands and brush our teeth... one degree of cleanliness that would be hard to give up. The water is brown; all the water we drink and use is brown, and the suspended mud is clearly visible. It tastes good though, and I'm not sick. Its hard to believe, actually. Luis is sick -- he has had an upset stomach since almost the first day. And this is his place, his food! Everyone in town has marveled at the fact that I eat everything I am served, can climb to the top of the mountain, and don't seem to be affected by the change in food or weather. I think its half the reason they like me.

Well, this morning, departure morning, we go to eat in Mama Sabina's kitchen. A little later I am intercepted by Mama Juana, another grandmother in the town, and brought to her kitchen to eat another breakfast. There is little I can do but oblige; even if Luis were with me he would tell me "eat, Lore, eat"-- he's always afraid I'm not eating enough. While I ate my second breakfast, Luis brought a horse and a mule from the fields. He puts a saddle on one-- for me later in the day-- and the other two get loaded down with things to carry into town. Tio Auroldi and Papa Celso are going with us as well; Auroldi will be returning to Lima, and Celso goes with us to bring the horses back to Potrero with the purchases we are to make for them in Kolpas.

Mama Sabina pulls me aside as we are about to leave. In Quechua (translated by Lucho) she tells me that she will miss me; even though I have only been here for less than a week she has gotten used to having me around, I am like another daughter. Even though we can't communicate very well (my Spanish with a thick American accent and her Quechua) she will cry when I leave. Mama Juana tells me the same, tells me not to forget them, tells me to come back and live for a few months. She gets excited telling me all the things we will do: she will teach me to cook, how to take the animals out to pasture, how to make tugush. I will dress in traditional clothing (which I love to begin with) and when people from the neighboring towns see me walking along the ridge in my colorful skirts they will all want to know who I am.

The picture she paints is a beautiful one; I am already planning my return to Andean life.