Testimonials

July 14, 2008

For the past 30 years I have traveled around the world and participated in many humanitarian projects. I have seen the need of children and adults who can hardly make it on a daily basis. I have seen the anguish in the eyes of a child who does not have sufficient food to eat. But of all the places visited, the one that touched my heart is the small Indian community of Huilloc, set in a narrow valley of the Andes Mountains of Peru.

When I visited the school, 162 smiling school children dressed in their colorful ponchos surrounded me. I felt a communion of the soul as I mingled and talked to them. Donations for the school from KSL TV and radio station were left with the director and teachers.

In talking to the director and some of the teachers I found out hat the needs are great and without our help it is impossible to educate those children for the future. And the school is just a minor project compared to the needs of the community in the area of health and food production.

I appeal to the people of the world and my fellow countrymen to open their hearts and render a service that will change lives for generations to come. Huilloc is a project that will even change the way we think and act.

Submitted by CF from Salt Lake City, Utah

July 14, 2008

I would be mistaken if I said visiting the ancient city of Machu Picchu was the highlight of my trip to Cusco and the Sacred Valley. It was something different; something simple and humble that tugged at my heartstrings. It was dark curious eyes, sun and wind-chapped cheeks, and the carefree attitude and love that I felt emitted from young school children in a village tucked away in the Sacred Valley. In Machu Picchu I was looking at the past and imagining what once was. In the small native village of Huilloc I was witnessing living culture.

I was privileged to accompany a group that went to Huilloc with donations for the children from the KSL TV and radio station. When we arrived, all the children were called out of their classrooms into the open courtyard. The children sat in circles with the others in their class and patiently awaited further instructions. As we visited each group of children some sang for us, others counting or reciting poems, all in their native language of Quechua. Sadly I wasn’t able to communicate very well with the younger children because I don’t know Quechua. However, in school they are learning Spanish and I could converse with the older children.

We took pictures with them and the best part was to see how happy they were to see the picture taken. They were intrigued with the digital cameras. After taking a picture they would all rush over to the camera, huddle around, and point themselves out. I felt as if I were poorly dressed as I sat and talked with the children, dressed in my jeans and t-shirt. Although they were sitting on the ground that was more dirt than grass, they were dressed in vibrant colors of red, orange, yellow, and more. Their hats were beautifully embroidered with colorful threads and beads. Culturally, they are far richer than I could ever be. However, although they are rich in that area, they are far less fortunate in the necessities of life. Not only do they lack basic school supplies such as paper and books, they lack a healthy alimentation. The children are malnourished because of the lack of a balanced diet and vitamins.

The visit we made that day made a small impact on the lives of those children with what was donated, but the impact they made on me is indescribable. I came to Peru to work with Lima Tours and their social responsibility projects and that’s what it was to me until I actually visited the community- simply a project. Of course I felt an altruistic desire to help them because I knew what they lacked, but once I was able to actually absorb the essence of the project with all my senses I was renewed with a greater determination to help these children and do my best to convey this feeling to those people who also long to make a difference in someone else’s life.

June 22, 2008

An Indian woman runs toward us, head down, long braids flying like shiny black ribbons as she holds a red embroidered hat in place with one hand. Her other hand clutches several long, fancy, red and black skirts that hover just above dusty sandals made from tires. A look of indescribable earnestness and worry clouds her face as she speaks rapidly in Quechua, the ancient language of the Inca.

Joe, our Lima Tours guide, translates. “Justina is inviting us to visit her home.”

Of course we accept. Her small black eyes sparkle as she smiles then she turns, grabs hold of her skirts and hat once more and, head down again, runs through the dirt and grass to a tiny adobe brick home. We follow her as about twenty of her neighbors, who have similar cinnamon-colored skin, wind-chapped cheeks, black eyes, lustrous black hair, and beautiful white teeth, watch us. The collective look is one of innocent curiosity, not “nosiness”, and it is not the least bit intrusive. In fact, it is fun. We are definitely the unusual ones here – very few tourists come to this tiny Quechua village tucked into a remote valley in Peru.

We are in Huilloc, (pronounced wee-ock) in the Urubamba Valley, or “Sacred Valley of the Inca.” There is definitely something spiritual here, something that is ancient and primal and comforting, something that has not changed in a thousand years and hopefully will not change for another thousand. This is nature in its truest, purest form: splendid mountain peaks, cascading waterfalls, the exuberant, tumbling Urubamba River that snakes its way through the country, and emerald mountainsides that form perfect backdrops for beautifully-preserved Inca stone terraces.

As we drove here this morning from our hotel in the village of Urubamba about an hour away, we passed vast areas of uncultivated green fields, small groups of homes with tiled roofs, open courtyards, and small plots of corn. Colorful villages appeared and disappeared in this warm and fertile land, sacred to the Inca for its perfect, protected climate. Sometimes cows grazed on the grass that grew between the crumbling stone walls of unnamed archaeological sites. Stone structures still stand – I wondered if the animals or their owners take shelter there during storms. I wondered how old the ruins are, what their original purpose was. It is amazing to me that ancient ruins and walls are just there, within touching distance of anyone who wants to – touch them.

Justina’s wooden door is open, and a giant sunbeam showers a brilliant diagonal spray of light across the packed earth floor. She introduces us to her daughter Veronica, her niece Karina, and her mother, Christina. They all wear clothing almost identical to Justina’s. Her father wears the traditional clothing for men: a red woven poncho, dark pants, truck tire sandals, and a sort of droopy beige felt hat with a wobbly brim that is encircled with lots of long, colorful ribbons.

Justina places a terracotta vase of pink wildflowers in the middle of a small table after wooden chairs have been brought from a neighbor’s house and motions for us to sit down. She pulls something from the fire that crackles in the corner, then brings over a ceramic bowl of small potatoes and places it on the table. They are tiny spuds in various shades of red, yellow, white and purple. They are steaming, fresh from the fire, and we each take a blistering hot potato from the bowl with our fingers, sort of juggle it for a while to cool it down, blow on it for a minute, and taste: it is dry and plain - but the potatoes are offered with great pride, and so they are absolutely delicious. The best, in fact, we’ve ever had, we tell Justina, who positively beams with happiness. Each of the young girls takes a potato from the fire, not from the table. They munch on these unsalted, unbuttered potatoes the way children in the U.S. eat their favorite candy bars.

I look around as we eat: adorable, wide-eyed guinea pigs cluck and murmur softly as they run throughout the house and dive under the bed. Yellow dogs sniff around and chickens peck at the ground outside the door. One light blue child-size backpack hangs from the wall, displayed like a painting. The inside mud bricks are cracked; a primitive oven sits in the corner surrounded by smoke-blackened walls, and a few more bowls, a pot, and a black tea kettle occupy a wooden shelf. A double bed - with a mattress whose stuffing tumbles from the edges - is the only other piece of furniture. Two more skirts and two more ponchos – a change of clothes for Justina and Veronica, are tossed over the wooden beam near the ceiling. A blanket lies across the bed, another is wadded up for a pillow. I think of all of the deep sofas, soft blankets and comforters we have at home. How do these two get cozy or comfortable, I wonder. How cold does it get at night? Where are the extra blankets? Do they have socks? I want to know these things but I don’t ask because the answer is probably, “this is all they have”.

More ceramic bowls are put in front of us now, and carefully placed in each bowl is a small piece of meat on a delicate bone. These are pieces of cuy, the precious guinea pigs who share Justina’s home and are a delicacy in this part of the world. She has offered us - in her small yet colossal way - a feast. Veronica and Karina grow round-eyed as they see what’s on the table, but Justina quickly calls them over to come and help her. We ask Justina to join us, but she bustles about, says she’s already eaten, and fiddles some more with the fire. I wonder how often her diet includes meat, I wonder how often she makes such a huge sacrifice for visitors. We are each handed 2 squares of toilet paper to use as napkins.

After lunch, we learn that Justina, who is 27 and her daughter Veronica, who is 4, have lived alone for almost 4 years. Shortly after Veronica was born, Justina’s husband left to find work in the jungle near Puerto Maldonado. This is typical of life in the area. The men go to the plaza in Ollantaytambo a few miles away, sit on the steps, and wait for work as porters along the Inca Trail or in the jungles - work that will take them away for a few weeks at a time. The women stay home, care for the children and the animals, and weave their intricate tapestries which are some of the finest in Peru.

But Justina’s husband simply disappeared. Reports have come from other jungle workers that he died. Other reports are that he just vanished. Nobody knows for sure, so they wait. It must be impossible, it must be lonely, but as she waits, she weaves beautiful cloth from alpaca wool and colors it in dyes made from local plants and insects, and recreates patterns handed down for centuries. I purchase a bag that she wove herself and decide to fill it with good luck charms that I collect on this trip. I pick some of the pink wildflowers from the nearby schoolyard and tuck them inside.

We all walk a short distance to the schoolyard where we pass out loaves of flat bread we’d bought in Ollantaytambo (the people here have no bread ovens – a huge bag the size of two robust teenage boys only costs a few dollars and is accepted with great pleasure). Then we visit the schoolyard where children, mostly in traditional dress, play on swing sets and teeter-totters. The bulletin boards in the orderly classrooms are filled with writing in both Spanish and Quechua, and seeing that somehow makes me feel happy. Obviously, the people here value their culture and heritage.

Actually, we wonder how much life has really changed here. At least to us, it appears that the people of Huilloc have made a conscious decision to continue the pure, traditional – and difficult – life of their ancestors. There is a huge element of pride here, and I wonder if it’s because their Inca ancestors were the only ones who were ever able to defend themselves successfully against an attack by the Spaniards. From the enormous, powerful stone fortress that looks down over Ollantaytambo, the Inca warriors rained fire, boulders, and stones onto Pizarro’s troops and soundly defeated them. For a short time: the Spaniards came back with reinforcements and annihilated them later. But it was a victory, one that is recorded in the history books, and it was theirs. As we talk to the children, we learn that they love their authentic ways, but they are also curious. And so at the little school in the tiny village of Huilloc, students sit in elaborately woven ponchos and sandals made from tires, and take turns peeking at the astonishing “rest of the world” through the powerful eyes of the internet.

It’s time to go visit the shaman, but I take one last look around at the villagers who have gathered to see us off. Their faces are joyful, unencumbered, and free as they smile huge smiles, wave, and call out their goodbyes. As we drive away, I wonder if they feel sorry for us. They have the internet now. They have a pretty good idea that we’ll be returning home to what must look like (and actually is) chaos, navigating our way through crowded airports, noisy streets, bumper-to-bumper traffic, and grocery stores where we offered 500 kinds of olive oil when one is all we need. When we return to our lives, we’ll be bombarded with an endless stream of things that absolutely have to be remembered. Maybe they’re the lucky ones. After all, every night, they can just stretch out on their blankets, side by side, all together in one happy group or alone, and watch those spectacular stars glitter in the night sky.

This exceptional experience was arranged by Lima Tours, named of “One of Peru’s Top 25 Places to Work” organizations. The owner and employees of Lima Tours support charitable projects like Huilloc throughout Peru, donating their time, service, clothing, and monetary contributions to assist the residents. For more information, or to organize an unforgettable and rewarding day like this, contact Lima Tours at: