The sun was hot on my back as we sat and discussed the world’s problems and possible solutions. The plaza was nearly empty except for us. Every few minutes a child would run through late to school, or a motortaxi would buzz by in a loud but lazy fashion. I’d walked through that plaza countless times by day and night, it was always tranquil and beautiful with a dignity that only centuries of history and life can bring.
When I walked through with my friends we greeted everyone we saw - police officers, shop owners, children. My “cara de gringa” shone out from the crown and people watched us everywhere we went wondering “Who is she? Why is she here? And who brought her here - is he Peruvian? A tour guide?” But they never ask me. They smile shyly and respond quietly to my greetings.
When I walk through alone they stare even harder, and sometimes they whistle.
But today is different.
Today as the Andean sun beat down on my shoulders I realized that I was not alone. That across the plaza, centered around the church and a few vendors selling their artisanal products, there were a couple vans full of white people. They walked slowly from their vans, boldly labeled “Servicio Turistico,” to the church, back to their vans to fish sunscreen or cameras out of their backpacks, and then on to the vendors to haggle their way to the cheapest price possible.
Did they even know that half way across the Plaza, we were sitting, observing? Did it cross their minds that their was more to the scene than the church and the vendors? Did they even consider the fact that they were the only people in cars, the only people in that corner of the square, and that they only saw 100 square feet of our marvelous little pueblo?
Did they wonder what else is here?
As my sun burned cara de gringa watched them wander their 100 square feet like little rats in a cage, I felt overwhelmed with two emotions. Sadness and gratitude.
Sad for the tourists who would never really see Andahuaylillas. Sad for the residents who would never get any of the money that the tourists had paid to come to their town and see their church. Sad for the tourists who think they are getting to know the Peru that I am still barely discovering after months of slow and steady exploration. Sad for the residents who think that all gringos do is come, take pictures, pay the tour agency, underpay the artisans, and leave.
But grateful.
Grateful that out of the all gringos, I was the one sitting away and observing. I was the one who knew what the plaza looks like under a full moon. The one who knows where the police station is and where to find gelatinas and fried chicken. The one who they all stare at because I’m not at the church taking pictures.
Grateful that with time, they have slowly begun to accept that I am here. Grateful for those who shake my hand and welcome me to their town, their lives. Grateful for the respect and dignity I am learning from them. Grateful for the beautiful sunrises and breathtaking stars that I experience every day in their little slice of paradise.
Grateful for the comfortable room I have that has a window facing east so every morning I am treated to the sun shining warmly on my face. Grateful, even, for the shower that only has cold water, and the bathroom that is a hole in the ground. Grateful for the crooked ladder and the noisy, smelly chickens who live below me.
Grateful for the chance to learn Quechua in exchange for teaching English. Grateful for the opportunity to exchange a few kilos of organic potatoes for fresh fried chicken. Grateful for the kitchen I can use to make tea in the morning and cook dinner for my friends in the evening. Grateful for the fresh air, the picturesque mountains, the cold breeze, and the hot sunshine.
Grateful for the chance to live the adventure of a lifetime.
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