On
Thursday night my host mom labored away to make my lunch for the next day and I
slept a bit anxiously as I had no clue what to expect for the next morning. I
woke up bright and early to the technicians voice outside my door talking with
my host mom. I decided this was probably my wake up call so I jumped out of bed
and made myself decent. I opened the door just as the technician was leaving
and my host mom turned to me and said I couldn’t go. My heart dropped and
filled with pure disappointment. Why I whined to my host mom, and she went off
on a rant that the community president proclaimed that this was not a good trip
for me and there was no room in the car for me to go. I would have to wait and
go with the technician another day to see the area. My host mom was clearly as
frustrated as I was, especially since she had spent so much time preparing my
lunch to go. Feeling the urge to cry I went into my room and paced around for a
while trying to decide what I would do with myself for the day. I could go on
my own long hike and take my lunch with me, but somehow that seemed sad and lonely. I put my gum boots back into their home shelf and went to have
breakfast where the conversation centered around bitterness toward the
community for not letting the gringa go on the community excursion to collect
sticks. Just as we were finishing up breakfast my host mom got a phone
call, which I could over hear perfectly due to the tendency for Peruvians to shout into cell phones. Turned out the
president of the community had decided not to go and I could have her spot in
the car. I was told to meet them in the plaza at 9:00am. Overcome with a new rush of
emotion I busied myself sewing the hole in my backpack, collecting my things, and
putting on my gum boots. Just as I was about to head out my host dad came home
from the early morning farm work to have breakfast. He pulled out some twine and
gave it to me describing that I would need it to tie together the sticks once
they are cut, as they spring apart as soon as they are cut down. As the
clock struck 9:00 I headed to the plaza with my host dad saying ‘you have to
arrive at 9:00 but I don’t have to arrive until later’ Which I translated as I would be waiting in the plaza for a long time.
There
was one other woman and son in the plaza that seemed to be waiting that I
thankfully joined grateful to have company to wait with. We talked about how
long the trip would be, and as the time slipped by predicted what time we would
make it back by. Slowly more people joined us, mostly women, and a few men. My host dad came down a
half hour later to size up the crowd that would be going. The men tried to
convince him to come, as it seemed the promised hoards of people were not showing
up. He half committed and went back up to our house to finish getting ready. A
garage door opened and out drove a van, that apparently the town owns. The
women including me piled into the van while the men tried to laugh off the fact
that they were under represented and started desperately calling others to join.
The town governor showed up, but the tree nursery technician apparently backed
out of the adventure. Anxious to leave we started revving up the engine and
they hollered at my host dad to hurry up. Soon enough off we drive with the
whole town out waving us goodbye.
We
drive thirty minutes on a back road to the nearest town over, squeezing past a
small house sized rock that had fallen into the road, and screaming past the
farmers on horses that were heading out to their crops. We make our way up a road
until we can drive no farther signifying the official trailhead. It turns out this is
the first time for all of us and the next 4 hours of hiking consist of hiking
straight up on a muddy/swampy trail, stopping every 30 minutes to debate which
way we should go, and trying to refuse the peer pressure to take shots of
‘aguadiente’ the local hard alcohol that is made from sugar cane and used to
cure dehydration, frozen fingers, and lack of energy. My host dad and the other
two men run up the trail ahead of us, seemingly in a hurry for unclear reasons.
I fall back with the women as we hike up through farm land that transition into bare grassy
ecosystems that mark the high elevations in this area. After about 2 hours of
climbing we thankfully reach a circular hut welcoming a much needed rest. My
host dad jokes that I have arrived very late to which I blame my inability
to walk in the mud, and definitely not due to tiredness. Popcorn, fermented
cane juice and water get passed around the group as we re-energize and ponder
how much farther there is to walk. All to soon we are off again galloping through the high grasslands that
have been ‘reforested’ with non-native pine trees giving it a sense of a christmas
wonderland. I desperately look around for what could be the special sticks that
we are looking for, but the area seems fairly barren, and I am still left
completely at a loss as to what we are looking for.
Over
the next hill side five lakes come into view and I am excitedly told the legend
of Levanto. Apparently a girl was brushing her hair at these lakes while
watching over her sheep, when she disappeared and they never found her. I'm pretty sure there is more to the legend but thats all I got form it. The lakes
were tucked down within the pine tree groves, but yet still there was no sign
of native forest filled with special sticks, so on we march. Summating even
higher we reach another hut that looks out over a large valley. This valley is
the private conservation area that the community owns. The view was quite
impressive and it was only when they pointed way down to some native forests
and exclaimed that was our destination that my stomach sank. I realized we would
be running deep down into the valley and then have to hike back up carrying
these mysterious sticks. But I slapped on my enthusiastic Peace Corps smile and
chased after my host dad was we half ran half slid down the muddy paths.
Once
we were near to the native forest they seemed to grow in patches of thick
rainforest-esque forest, carved out by grassland where people had deforested
the area. There was much debate as to which forest patch would hold the sticks
but finally they agreed on one and we delved in. The change in scenery was
incredible, with thick vines coming down out of the canopy of trees. Sadly
there is only 30% of these forest left in the area that I live it, but it was
pretty amazing scrambling through them. I hear my host dad holler my name
somewhere deep in the forest, so I Tarzan swing my way over to where he is
handing me seemingly brown sticks and instructs me to hold them tightly so it
doesn’t open. I quickly see what he means as the stick splits into fine sheets
reveling a bright green color in the center. Admittedly they were pretty amazing. The
women run the sticks up out of the forest as the men search for more to cut. It
was a pretty productive and exciting system, as we all seemed very relieved to
find the sticks. Once everyone had a pile to carry my host dad helped me tie
mine up with some twine and prepared my pile to be carried. He insured that I only
carry three sticks and I don’t argue him on the point considering the steep
climb and hike we still have in front of us.
At
three o’clock we lay out our plastic to sit on the wet ground and enjoy our
lunches. My host mom has packed me French fries with fried chicken, and much to
my delight someone offers some avocado to add some green to my dish.
Unfortunately I finish my only supply of water, and wonder what I will do for
the trip back just as the sun is coming out from behind the clouds. Now that I
have an idea of what the sticks
look like I start asking what they are used for. I piece together that they are
for the church and people come to use them as a remedy of some sort. Then a
light bulb clicks in my head as I realize that the coming Sunday is Palm
Sunday, and this must be their form of Palms. The wonderful and adventurous
tradition that they have kept alive suddenly dawns on me.
It
was a beast walking back up the mountain side in true Peruvian fashion that
ignores any switchbacks and goes with the fastest route. I took off first
knowing I would be on the slower end, and was quickly over taken by the men but
held my own with the women as we complained about the mud but celebrated our
success at finding such nice sticks. I was fortunately in the back of the pack
when I took an oversized step and came crashing to the ground sticks and all,
essentially taking a mud bath. But pretending nothing happened I was able to
pick myself up and continue on our trek. By the time we reached the second hut
I was almost getting the hang of the mud and joined in on the full paced run
down the other side of the mountain, leaping from rock to rock as if I could
fly, stopping quickly to drink the water that was streaming out of a tube from the side of the mountain, my thirst overcoming any thought of water borne
diseases. I was keeping up with the pack and feeling pretty proud of myself
when my cell phone rang deep in my bag. I ignored the first call, but the
persistent Peruvians always call more than once, so I had to stop and sift
through my backpack to finally catch the phone on the last ring and inform my
host mom that we were still on our way back. This sadly made me last in
the pack, but I still came in dancing to join the rest relaxing on a sunny
patch of green grass. To which I got a nod of approval from my host dad. I am pretty
sure this excursion was the Peruvian equivalent of father/son or
father/daughter fishing trips, and I had proven myself somehow. We loaded the
sticks on the roof of the van and joyfully took off back toward home
That
Sunday my host mom and I went to the church service, arriving a bit late and filing
into the last pew. Everyone was holding up the sticks proudly and as the women
came to give us our sticks one of them saw me and excitedly proclaimed that she had been saving one of the sticks that I carried for me. I felt pretty special as I
received my tall powerful stick and the woman next to me and had to make due with
one that was cut in half. Periodically throughout the service we were told to
lift our sticks up and shake them causing them to split apart and open up in
beautiful green arrangements. At the close of the service we lifted our sticks up
one last time for the Priest to take a picture on his smart phone that took him
several takes to figure out how to use. We then paraded out following a statue
of Jesus and walked proudly around the plaza serval times, completing my most
eventful palm Sunday!
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