Transitions

Last week left me in a mess of disjointed feelings, somewhat similar to the emotional shock I felt during my first few days in Lima. My mind has been emptying itself with each day and gradually I feel more and more at peace with leaving Huánuco. But it has surely been a process of unlayering and finally surrendering to all that is in me.

On Wednesday, I met my host parents for dinner at a new café in town. On any other evening, I would’ve been thrilled to step into this neat little place, with Peruvian artifacts on the walls and new age Andean music in the background. But on this particular night, I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

As we sat down, I couldn’t contain myself any longer and I buried my face in my hands, elbows resting on the woven tablecloth, and cried. I couldn’t explain myself and I realized I didn’t have to when my host mom laid her hand on my shoulder and just let me be.

With all the thoughts and plans, faces and memories washing over me, I become aware that I was at the threshold of transition - a time of change that will take me away from Huánuco… and into the rest of my life.

While I felt a certain heaviness on my heart, others grounded me with reassurance and hospitality.

It was my last week in the office and each afternoon during lunchtime I found myself invited into the home of a different co-worker. On Friday I was invited to almorzar with Elía, a quiet woman who works part-time and has shown me much warmth during the year.

We left the office and took a small mototaxi to the edge of town where the paved roads end and sandy pebble-strewn paths lead to a crowded maze of improvised houses. From the outside, Elía’s home looked more like a square box garage, with layers of plastic sheets and styrofoam serving as a roof.

We walked up her front steps, entered the main room of her house and out popped Benjamin, her nine year-old son and also my most precocious English student. Elía sat me down with Benjamin while she slipped into the back kitchen to finish preparing almuerzo.

The main room was divided into three quadrants by a couple of bookshelves and a giant television set. In the limited space, there seemed to be surprisingly enough room for a seating area, dining room and office. But as I mentally cleared away the few pieces of furniture, I realized that the space was no bigger than my bedroom.

Elía soon returned carrying a deep bowl with a mound of rice, chicken, potatoes and camote (sweet potato), drenched in a green herb sauce. I knew instantly what it was – Pachamanca - a traditional meal in Huánuco, served at weddings, baptisms or any other special family occasion.

Pachamanca means “earthen oven” in Quechua, referring to the unique method of cooking all the ingredients underground on hot rocks, the vapor infusing the flavors. I assume Elía prepared the dish in a more conventional oven or maybe a stove-top pressure cooker like my host mom uses.

We were joined by Elía’s older son and husband, who led us in a soft-spoken prayer of which I could hear faintly “Si, Señor” (Yes, Lord) after each pause.

The way this man calmly entered the room and sat down with his family was very telling of the kind of husband and father he is.

Before sitting down, Elía had accidently tipped over one of the glasses of juice, which spread all over the table as it seemed to be on a bit of an incline. In so many homes in Huánuco, this would have incited some ungrateful hideous reaction from the man of the house.

But the man of this house is something entirely different - peaceful, loving, and respectful - an example for his two sons, who seem equally peaceful, loving and respectful.

We ate together over a lively conversation about local food, music and indigenous land rights. I was left completely stuffed, as it appeared that I had been served a double portion.

After clearing the plates, Elía returned with a giant apple and placed it before me. It was probably the most perfect apple I’ve seen so far in Peru, where apples never quite compare to those in New York.

Elía and her husband repeatedly said “Servite, servite” (help yourself). I was hoping this was to share between all of us, as I couldn’t possible eat it all myself.

However, as I cut open the fruit and offered to share it, the whole family seemed to refuse in unison. It was clear that the apple was intended for me and me alone.

In reserving that shiny oversized apple for their lunch guest, I felt the presence of a startlingly true generosity. It was only after I managed to eat two slices and force down a third that Elía and her husband allowed themselves the much smaller apples from the kitchen.

As we prepared to leave, Elía rushed back into the kitchen to retrieve something. She returned with what appeared to be one of the left-over sweet potatoes wrapped up in a sheet of white paper. She presented it to me as a small offering to eat later.

It wasn’t until I returned home after work that I realized it was chunk of fresh cheese. Knowing how much of a luxury cheese is for a family of little means, this was yet another sign of the genuine kindness of Elía and her family.

A kindness that weaved all of my anxious unnamed feelings of the week into a single deeply-rooted feeling of gratitude.