"Asi es mi Vida" - reflections on a typical day in a Peruvian woman's life

Asi es mi Vida: reflections on a typical day in a Peruvian woman's life 

 

Walking to market early this morning

Barefoot along the dirt path from our home to the market in town

The path is lined on both sides with agave and eucalyptus

The air is sweet-scented and fresh

Birds sing, calling out to one other, already busy with their day.

We walk a little faster, the trot-walk of my people

Hoping to get there in time to claim a good spot

Hoping for many buyers

Hoping for a good day.

 

I carry a basket of ajo and chile over one arm

My youngest, swathed loosely in an old cotton sarape slung around my shoulders and onto my back; he is quietly heavy, still half-asleep

The others, my girls, trail behind me in a ragged line

Carrying baskets and sarapes filled with carrots, tomatoes, potatoes – the things we have to sell today 

And maize and yucca, cooked over our little fire last night, to eat as we go

They are hungry, as usual, and can’t wait until we get there.

 

I spin wool as we walk, my hands know the motions 

I can do this in my sleep; my girls already learning

I am thinking about the market, and hoping 

Hoping to sell enough that we can buy what we need

Some flour, some sugar, some coffee

Some things we would like

Some soap, some fabric I can make into skirts for my girls

Maybe a bit of meat for some soup – we’ve been so long without.

 

This afternoon we’ll go down to the river

Carrying our heavy bundles of clothes

Beating them against the rocks

As the sun beats down on my children and me

Standing in the river, washing

First our clothes, and then ourselves

The sun is hot; the river is cool

We lay the clothes out on rocks and bushes to dry

Now the children can play, and we women can talk

About our lives, our children, our husbands

We laugh despite how hard it is

Just to survive.

 

We come home to find my father there

As usual he sitting in the doorway cross-legged

Weaving grasses into hats

His gnarled hands are still nimble, but his eyes are feeble

He can see only what he’s weaving

He greets us with a smile, then goes on with his work

He tells stories as he weaves, stories of his life, so very different

So very much the same…

 

As afternoon passes to evening I hear my husband and boys

Sss-ing as they bring the cows home

Pssss, pssss, pssss

They’ve been up in the mountains, grazing all day

Still they’re nothing more than racks of bone

Their hides hanging loosely, sagging over their loins

But they give enough milk, enough for the youngest to put in their coffee 

And maybe enough, soon, to sell

 

It’s growing darker now; we need to gather wood

I leave my youngest, the baby, in the care of the oldest – she’s six 

And I roam the hillsides searching for sticks and twigs

Picking them up, one by one – a fallen branch, still green but not too damp

An old piece of cane, a corn stalk or two

I put them into my sarape

It takes a long time – there isn’t much wood anymore

But enough, enough to cook some yucca and corn

Enough to warm our hands and feet before we sleep

Enough to light up the blind eyes of my father, who sits and stares at the fire

Sits and stares at the fire

Seeing nothing – and everything.