Chac-ra, Chac-ra, a Campesino’s Life for Me
ANDAHUAYLILLAS, PERU- The chacra, or small family farm, is a grueling but vital component of life in rural Andean communities. I recently had the opportunity to get my hands dirty and experience how many indigenous Peruvians make their livelihood.
Background
Most Andean families either make a living by sowing and harvesting corn or potatoes, supplement a more stable income by selling the bulk of what their crop yields or grow their own food.
Few families are without a charca due to the agrarian reforms of the 1970s, which expropriated the land owned by the rich landowners designated by the Spanish-influenced latifundio system and delved out parcels of land to each community. The community councils then divided the land among the local families. The only families in Andahuaylillas without a chacra are those that moved to the town after the agrarian reform took place or sold their parcel of land (which is frowned upon).
The chacra is rarely located next to the owner’s home. The chacras were sporadically assigned and generally are located on the outskirts of town. The walk between the home and the chacra is often between 30 minutes to an hour.
My Experience
I woke up at 6 a.m. Sunday morning, quickly dressed in layers and ate breakfast. Then I walked to the home of the mother of Theresa, one of the women working with the Q’ewar Project.
Theresa is 9 months pregnant and technically should not work in the chacra, so of course I did not hesitate to agree when she asked me to help her family plant corn.
I entered into her mother’s house and sat down on a wooden bench while Theresa and the family gathered all of the supplies needed in the field.
The house consisted of a single room divided by a bright blue plastic tarp separating the sleeping area from the common room. A separate open-air kitchen stood in the backyard.
The home was dark. The only sources of light were the daylight streaming in from the back door and the colored, flickering light emitted by the tiny television set resting in a square, window-like indentation in the adobe walls.
Damp clothing hung from a laundry line strung up between the two twin beds. Thick blankets rested on the beds to protect their inhabitants from the chill of Andean nights; there are no heating systems here. Two dogs darted in and out of the front door and two hens wandered around the bedroom, pecking at the cement and mud floor. Pictures of Saints and the free posters given out to advertise festivals were tacked up all over the walls.
I looked out the back door toward the kitchen. The women were busily preparing a hot soup for the men to eat for breakfast. I watched as Theresa’s mother, a woman in her early fifties, but who appears years beyond her age, fixed her hair in front of a mirror hanging up outside on the wall of the kitchen. Then Gabrielito came over and kneeled down in front of me with two kittens in his arms. I noted the familiar hole in his pants, the same worn blue sweatpants he’d worn to the daycare center every day that week.
Then Theresa told us it was time for us to walk to the chacra. The men would meet us there with the cows and she and her mother would arrive around noon with lunch.
Gabrielito led the way as we walked away from the town center towards the seemingly endless fields of corn and wheat. About 30 minutes later we arrived at the family’s chacra. The men began the process ceremoniously by drinking chicha. Chicha is a beverage made with ground corn that takes two weeks to prepare. In the morning it is a juice however it ferments during the day and by mid-afternoon becomes an alcoholic drink. The men also took shots of rum mixed with anis tea and chewed coca leaves.
Then we went to work. The men yoked the cows and began turning the soil. Meanwhile, I pulled all the old corn stalks from the ground and formed piles every few feet or so to burn. Pulling the old corn stalks from the ground is a delicate process. Theresa’s husband, Gabriel, explained to me that if I pulled the corn stalks too hard or too quickly, the taut fibers would cut my hands. It was too late though. I looked down at my hands and was shocked to find a fusion of crimson blood and dirt. I poured water on my grimy hands, but there was no soap available. I continued pulling the corn stalks and their roots from the ground.
I lathered on the sunscreen to protect my skin from the strong afternoon sunrays, but sunscreen didn’t prevent me from acquiring a darker complexion. The dust and dirt of the chacra clung to my oily skin. I drank more chicha just to mask the taste of dust and sunscreen in my mouth.
Then Theresa and her mother arrived with all of the food. And what a meal it was! Trout, potatoes, homemade chile, beat salad, and corn. No one washed their hands before eating, everyone just dug in. Then Andean people are not afraid of a little dirt. The potatoes, cooked underground in a mud oven, were covered with dirt. The people here simply brush it off and eat. Everyone passed around cups of chica and beer. The two cups were smudged with muddy fingerprints, but I accepted and drank the chicha anyways.
Then the men set to work with the cows preparing rows in the ground to plant the corn seeds. The children carried bags of guinea pig droppings, which is said to be one of the best fertilizers. Theresa and her mom followed the men across the field with beer and chicha for the men to enjoy during their breaks and helped collect the old roots.
I looked at all of the chacras as I walked home just before dusk and appreciated all of the hard work that goes into growing crops. I thought about all the times I had eaten corn on the cob during barbeques without giving a second thought about the hard labor and time that goes into growing corn, especially of the organic variety without the use of chemicals and pesticides. I now truly understand why organic fruits and vegetables are more expensive. I will be much more grateful at the dinner table from now on.
