Delicious Expeditions

The shaman, dressed in traditional knee-length pants, embroidered with local birds, handed me a carved box with a ceramic dog inside. He motioned for me to hold it up to the gods, or rather, life-sized statues of Mary, Baby Jesus, Gaspar and San Antonio. They had familiar faces (well, except for Gaspar), but their attire was more festive than usual. Instead of biblical robes, they wore frilly skirts, a variety of scarves and neckties, and an array of colorful beads. The scene was reminiscent of Mardi Gras and Saint Anthony was looking quite hip, but we weren’t taking part in a sacrilegious parade–we were in the middle of an initiation ceremony in Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala, the capital of the Tzutujil Maya Nation and the largest Indigenous town in Central America.

Lake Atitlan

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Over a breakfast of sliced papaya and a health conscious Egg McMuffin wannabe, Doris told us about the time Lonely Planet asked her to explain Washuma ceremonies to their readers. She was the expert and they wanted to know what the most important part was. “Vomiting,” she replied. And like the people before me, I looked at her in horror and exclaimed, “What are you talking about? That can’t be part of the ceremony!”

Oh, but it is…if you’re lucky.

Traditional Peruvian costume

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As you may have gathered by now, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into when I jumped on that plane to Peru…and it just got worse.

Our first day was billed as a field trip—a journey to sacred hot springs high in the Andes. Our bodies needed to be cleansed before we could begin. We stopped at a small market and Francoise and I each bought two bags of coca leaves: one for altitude sickness, the other for readings when Doris would check our progress as well as give us tidbits about our future.

Back in the van we soon turned onto a narrow, dirt road that hugged the edge of a jagged mountain. There was no guardrail on the pot-holed path, only a view of hairpin turns and a desolate valley below—WAY below. In the distance, herds of llama munched on yellow grass and stone huts dotted the barren landscape.

Life in the Andes

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continued from “The Shaman”

Standing outside the Cuzco airport, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to find a young man with long, black hair. He was dressed in white, his pants a soft wool, held up by a colorful woven sash. He introduced himself as José and said that Doris was waiting for us at home—in the Sacred Valley.

He motioned for a taxi and we got inside. José explained that we would go into town and look for a ride to take us north. We were dropped off on a bustling street, in a typical working class neighborhood, with run-down buildings and vendors hawking everything from windshield wipers to plastic bowls. It could have easily been Mexico, except for the distinct accent on everyone’s lips.

José left me on the corner while he looked for transportation. Even though it was winter in the Andes, the afternoon sun was strong. I quickly shed my coat, wrapping it around my waist. José returned in a black sedan with another couple already inside. It was an unusual arrangement, but I didn’t question the ways of Peru, I just climbed in.

The Sacred Valley

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I wasn’t home for more than a few weeks when my friend, Francoise, told me that she was going to Peru to study with a shaman. How interesting, I thought, and then went about my day.

I continued my routine of watching continuous episodes of Downton Abbey while fantasizing about Ivan and Victorian cookery and holding office hours at my cafe. This isn’t time allotted for bookkeeping or employee relations, rather it’s a series of sacred moments set aside for friends to stop by and gossip, drink bottomless cups of coffee and pop hot-from-the-oven cookies into their mouths. But, even with all these distractions, I couldn’t get the shaman out of my head.

Heritage Corn: Peru

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