Coming home

My last day in Cusco I woke up late after a night of fiestas. I drank the fresh, fresh juice Maria had made for me and tried to drink in every moment the way I savoured that juice. Our final meal as a group of student volunteers was shared at the same restaurant where we tasted our first. My Spanish professor came with her big-eyed little boy with an Italian name: Fabriccio. When we left she hugged me and thanked me for my support. I learned so much more from her than I ever have in any other Spanish class thus far. I said goodbye to the group and began my last meanderings through my beautiful city of stone and history and shaggy stray dogs. I met Denis at our spot at the bench at Limac Pampa. We ran some of my last errands and ate ahuaymanto (a fruit which only grows in the department of Cusco) and sauco ice cream at the place across from the Qoricancha or the Incan temple of gold that was replaced by the church when the Spanish came and stripped away all its beauty. I listened to the last vendors as they implored me to buy their finger puppets or their watercolors for 1 sol. Then I went to Denis' house for the first time in my entire three months and some odd days in Cusco. She lives high above San Blas up where you can see the entire city of Cusco. If you jumped off the cliffed you could soar over the orange tile roofs and land lightly on top of one of the cathedrals in the Plaza de Armas. Travelling to her house, we took a combi and I experienced for the last time the life of a sardine hispanohablante. I was greeted by her mother, who kissed me on the cheek, hugged me, and wished me a safe journey while she held my hands and smiled. We had come to retrieve the monstrosity of a suitcase Denis was giving me to tote home my many gifts for my loved ones back home. In the car I laughed and sang along to "I'm never gonna dance again... guilty feet have got no rhythm..." but at the same time I was crying because I would be saying goodbye to the dear friend with whom I shared it all. What emotions one feels when torn between two worlds and two families she holds dear.

We said goodbye, or "see you later" as she insisted over an over again through tear-clouded eyes. I will never forget her laughter, or her hugs which hold nothing back, or the way we could switch between languages without blinking. I know I will see her again. So now I am smiling.

That night Edson, Evelyn, and Maria took me out for my favorite Hawaiiana pizza with extra durazno and sin jamon. We laughed over the slow service at a place called "pronta pizza" while we sipped our chicha morada and they asked me again and again when I would be coming back to visit them. I said that I didn't know, but I thought, "as soon as possible." They are a part of my family now, a part of my story. They have taught me more than every teacher combined thus far. Maria wondered why I had to leave, and a few times I wondered myself. If only I could find a way to keep them close at hand along with all of you. Along with all of my friends from Swaziland and all of the dear, dear friends who (despite all my idealism) will inevitably slip away.

Afterwards we exchanged gifts. I was amazed by how much they gave me, and once I touched the alpaca teddy bear I didn't want to let it go. I gave them a picture frame filled with a picture of the four of us. I had glued huayruro seeds for good luck all around the frame. It surrounded our picture like a halo of happiness. I know they won't forget the time we've shared.

Then I had to say goodbye to Evelyn and Edson. I cannot imagine more special people to have as friends, as family. They are so much to me. And the tears came like they always do. I held onto those hugs because I didn't want them to end. I will forever have an older brother now! How lucky can one girl be?

The next day was really the last. I said goodbye to the girls in my group who I had spent so many hours with dreaming about foods we missed instead of studying, sharing stories, jokes, and three months of our lives together. More ice cream. More laughter. I cried as Pepe and Andrea ushered me into my cab home and felt cheated when the taxista wanted me to pay an extra 50 centimos for a ride I had paid the same rate for every time. But I paid it. Maybe it will help him. Maybe the next crying girl that hops in his cab will not be charged the gringa rate. Or maybe like me, she will no longer care. He doesn't make much money as it is.

Maria made me ceviche but I could barely eat it for all the butterflies in my stomach about leaving. She smiled and said she understood. Esmeralda arrived and we went to the airport with one overweight bag and one backpack that needed to be wrapped in plastic, or so said the attendant. The plastic came with a password so I would know it was my bag. Maria, in the way she has of doing things just when I need to be somewhere, wrote my family a note and a small one for me that said in one corner "saludos a Yessi" just when I should have been going to my gate. Or maybe she was only trying to put off my leaving. As I stared at the expensive leather jackets in the boutique in front of us, my eyes began to tear and Esmeralda hugged me and took a picture with her camera phone. We will miss you, oh how we will miss you, she kept saying. And then it was time. I hugged my Maria hard. My dear Maria. My Peruvian mother, who smiled more than anyone I've ever met, who would fall asleep on the couch every night, who actually enjoyed watching BBC news with me even though it was in English, who knew so much about food, who made sure I had everything and took care of me as though we really were blood related. She embodies the word amazing.

I cried what seemed like as much as the Amazon river, and when the airport workers tried to comfort me, I cried more. Are you leaving your boyfriend here? they asked. They spoke to me in English but I replied in Spanish. It comforted me somehow. I told them I was going to my boyfriend, and they said I should be happy. I was happy. Happy-sad.

In Lima, my Peruvian brother Orlando picked me up and took me on combi after combi through the big city of 9 million. I drank my last cusqueña with him and his friend, a math teacher of thirteen year olds. He told me to hold my bag close by and he held my teddy bear, who I named Mohammed. He enjoyed playing with it more than he would let on. Later we said goodbye when the airport attendant wouldn't let him go further. He's a city slicker, but he's got a heart as big as Edson's.

And in this way I left Peru. I left behind my gifts for the family, some shampoo and lotion for the next ProPeru volunteers, my luggage (but that is another story), and as Vuyo in Swaziland would say, a big chunk of my heart. Pretty soon you'll find pieces of my heart floating all over this earth. But it was worth every heart-wrenching moment to have the experience I've had and to have met such extroardinary people. If you ever go to Cusco, you will find poverty and men urinating in the streets and hundreds of people hungry to feed on unsuspecting tourists, but you will find a people full of life and love and culture begging you not to cry and filling your time there with joy and dancing and color. If you ever go to Cusco, you will need to go back.