When I first heard about the Pachamancha, I thought it was a pretty good idea. Dig a hole, throw some food in, and BAM dinner is ready with relatively small clean-up efforts. I mean, do you really have to clean that much when you're cooking with dirt?
Circumstances worked out in such a way that I pulled a DC in the whole matter, which, being interpretted, is not only to go early to help set up, but also to stay until the last dish is dried and oh, wait, there's a spot on it, let me wash it again.
The Pachamancha itself seemed to be quite the success. About 200 hundred showed up. Two hundred hungry people. Not to fear, though. We were prepared.
Half a pound of meat
two potatoes
a handful of beans
+ two delicious corn wraps
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A good meal.
As I said, we were prepared. We were just prepared a little later than suggested. That's Peru for you. You plan on showing up two hours late to a wedding so you only have to wait thirty minutes until the bride shows up. I'm gradually adjusting, having come from a college that insists that if you're only nine minutes early you're late.
During the meal, I was responsible for divvying up meat portions. I'm not going to lie: that's power in one of its purest forms, and we all know that power, especially in its purest form, corrupts. As I stood there, I could taste the corruption flowing over my poor little soul.
Could you blame me?
I wasn't constricted by bulky, unnatural utensils. Strength and honor were in my own dexterous hands. The only reason I was told to wear gloves was because "it's going to be hot coming out."
Amber was my left hand woman, whipping potatoes on plates with such determination that the children's line was lacking for a while. Her job was vital. Since the potatoes were the first in the hole, they were the last ones out, so we had to wait for the 5'6" men to reach to the bottom of the 3'6" hole and retrieve the tubers. Once she finished her job, she passed the plates to me, where I slapped on meat.
And by slap I mean pile, and the piles seemed to grow as I got hungrier. The line began to dwindle, but as it is with all buffet style serving, there was about twenty minutes worth of one person coming at a time and requesting our services. I began to eye the pachamancha holes, hoping that they would become Jacob's well in respect to their output. They did.
Most of the day's events were ordinary, and since is life has nothing to do with the ordinary, we'll skip over them.
As we were cleaning up, though, there was a moment when language barriers and nationality and comfort zones were bulldozed.
The Pachamancha preparation began weeks before, right after the property sale was finalized. There was a team of us that dedicated a portion of our Saturdays to demolishing the pre-existing buildings on the property. Among the team was Lydia, the woman whose family is now living on the property for security reasons.
For weeks we worked with each other without having a deep conversation. Once it was evident that our ability to communicate was minimal, we settled for wheeling cement and dragging trees across the terrain together, but separately.
While we were cleaning up from the Pachamancha, we finally found a way to communicate. Perhaps it arose from the weary happiness that accompanies service, but it seems to me that it was not unaffiliated with the bond that the acknowledgement of God produces.
We (Amber and I) were recently introduced to song whose angelic melody is enriched only by the power of the words. Since the song is an "echo" song, it welcomes more than two voices, especially when one of those voices is mine.
//Fuerte Dios//
//Consolador//
//Principe de paz//
We got to Consolador, and quietly, almost questioningly at first, Lydia began to sing. The joining voice was a most delightful surprise, and we continued to sing, until we couldn't remember the words.
We spent a few minutes racking our brains trying to figure out the rest of the words, and when we finally gave up, all we did was smile. For once, the language barrier was helpful. We enjoyed the simple moments of contentment that are often muddled by the presence of words.
