Chinchao

As I walked to work the other day, I partly prayed and partly wished in passing thought, “I hope I can see more of what lies behind these mountains.” Then, upon entering the office, before dropping my bag and greeting those around me, I was asked “Do you want to go to Chinchao?”

Where this place is located and what we would be doing, I had no idea. But in this field of ministry I have received so much and felt incredibly blessed when I just go and ask questions later. “Si, por supuesto! Yes, of course!” I answered, and we were off.

The purpose of the visit to the district of Chinchao was to begin the first stage of a three year project to train and empower local female leaders to assess, address and prevent violence against women in their communities. This initial stage involves interviewing local leaders of a state-sponsored nutrition program called Vaso de Leche (Cup of Milk) in order to understand their specific challenges and capacity to create change.

We drove out of the city of Huánuco and within minutes were deep in the Huallaga River Valley in the direction of the high altitude jungle of Tingo Maria. I know the route well but have left Huánuco in this direction more often for leisure rather than work. I was excited to be venturing here again but with a more meaningful purpose.

Our taxi sped up the winding mountainside road and eventually bent around to climb the narrow road leading to the center plaza of small town called Acomayo. A six-foot tall plaster angle stood welcoming us with open arms at the entrance to the town.

We situated ourselves in a damp garage-like auditorium, owned by the municipality building. We arranged a cluster of plastic chairs into a semi-circle and invited in the few women waiting patiently outside.

I later learned that the women had walked for two or three hours to arrive promptly at 8:30am while we, who comfortably traveled by car, didn’t arrive until 10:00am. The women barley acknowledged the difficulty of their journey, one of which carried a baby on her back.

I was struck by the obvious dedication of these women and a certain serenity they possessed despite the literal and figurative weight that they carry on their shoulders. But in questioning this state of apparent calm, I believe their stoic expressions were more of statement of, “I have had it up to here with not being treated as a human. And if you are here to offer an alternative, then I am ready.”

As the interviews began, I had each of the women sign in, passed out refreshments of crackers and peach nectar and took photos for the project’s archives. I then accepted the unexpected responsibility of holding one of the women’s crying baby, allowing her to concentrate during her interview.

I have held quite a few babies during this year and initially froze at each opportunity. The babies, wrapped in ragged and oversized clothing, often have dirty and sun burnt cheeks with dried tears caked to their tender skin. Sometimes I know whether the infant was a product of rape, other times I search the face of the mother, trying to decipher whether the child was born out of love or violence.

But after some time, I realized that regardless of how and under what circumstances the child was conceived, he or she is absolutely and unequivocally deserving of love. And if I am asked to hold such a child while his mother talks about the future of women in her community, I will no longer hesitate.

After the interviews concluded, we walked up the steep mountainside streets unto muddy unpaved roads, in search of various town representatives to invite them to a round-table discussion on the project. On our way, we passed an elderly woman whose physical strength put my heavy breathing to shame.

What looked like fifty pounds or more of corn stalks were braced over her neck and shoulders while she nonchalantly spinned a spool of sheep’s wool wound around her wrist. She continued effortlessly uphill, though her back was visibly hunched, while I had to stop and catch my breath.

I have observed other elderly men and women who don’t seem to need to catch their breath, or more likely, they would like to but their current needs prevent them from ever getting a chance. I have seen many individuals well into their seventies working just as hard as a young adult.

Regardless of whether one’s back is hunched, one’s sight is lost or one’s fingers distorted by arthritis or broken bones, there are potatoes to pick, wood to chop, corn to transport…. survival to be maintained.

Despite the lack of health care and physical and mental stress of living in poverty, the elderly live extremely long lives. I continue to be puzzled by this.

If one is able to avoid some of the tragic accidents related to cars, machinery and general violence that takes place and for women who survive complications in childbirth often without medical care, it is possible and surprisingly common to live to at least ninety years old.

How, I’m not quite sure.

Although, I imagine such life expectancy in an otherwise stressful and dangerous context may have something to do with vigorous physical activity, strong family networks, deep religious piety and faith and maybe even the warm climate.

Or, perhaps there is something unknown, at least to me, that enables the human spirit to persevere in such environments.

All I know after this particular visit, is that the women being interviewed have probably much more to share and much more to teach my co-workers and I then we can instruct from our position as empowered and educated women. We may be able to give them strategies for ending domestic abuse but each of these women could offer the most real world, born of experience testimonies of how to overcome hardship.