The Braunwarths in South America

I saw the folks off at the airport yesterday morning. I can’t speak for them but I think they had a wonderful trip. Before they arrived there was some concern that three weeks in a third world country might be a bit long but they really adapted well and had a wonderful time. My mother grew up on a farm where the dirt from the fields was omnipresent; it drifted in through cracks in the doors no matter how hard one tried to keep it out. As stoic Midwesterners her family refused to capitulate and they battled the forces of nature relentlessly; for her family cleanliness was next to godliness. I grew up in a house that was always spotlessly clean and the washing machine was always in use. So I was a bit concerned that she might have some trouble with dirt streets and mud brick houses but my concerns were unfounded. Mom loved the place. Admittedly, she did stick to the more touristy venues and, luckily, Cusco sport a number of excellent restaurants with beautiful views. However, she was the one that suggested the locals-only restaurant in Bolivia where the set price menu was 7 bolivianos ($1) but we ended up paying almost $2 per person because we drank beer and ordered off of the menu. When I succumbed to the temptation for some more adventuresome eating and drinking she exercised her discretion and, although she seemed to take some vicarious pleasure in my gastronomical gregariousness, abstained from joining in. Mom was, of course, the one most concerned about the sanitary status of any consumables but, as dictated by the god Irony, she was the one who, unfortunately, got the worst case of food poisoning of the group. This, of course, occurred on the occasion of the all-day bus trip to Lake Titicaca. But even then, and much to her credit, she didn’t complain even though the average man would have been whimpering for his mother and both Mom and Dad were game for the 12 hour bus trip (with no bathroom) from La Paz to Cusco when we found that no flights were available. My Dad was also not afraid wrap his lips around warm chicha or sink his teeth into a little roast cuy (see the picture above). He was also, as always, there to provide the proper amount of levity to any situation. Those of you who know my father will not be surprised to find that he was able to find a little refuge from Mom’s shopping excursion at Norton Rat’s Tavern on the main plaza. By the end of the trip he was on a first name basis with the staff, all of whom were sorry to see him return to the States. I don’t mean to imply that my father is a barfly. He’s not; far from it. He rarely has more than one or two, he just occasionally, like any guy, needs his own space and, as with any good German boy who grew up among the surrounding towns of Cologne, Gotha, New Ulm, etc., a friendly bar with a convivial atmosphere provides an excellent cure for the common shopping binge. In my opinion, an important ingredient for any marriage is a clubhouse for the boys.

The folks were also able to spend a lot of time with the kids and both groups benefited from the cross-pollination of different generations. Dad especially was able to plug into Zak’s perceptions on the new surroundings and both parents benefited from the perspective offered by fresh young minds still largely unburdened with the baggage of adulthood. Not to say that my kids are blank slates, even if Zak´s most popular expression is a blank gaze. Even though we don’t have a TV (I wanted a vacation from that even though it would probably aid in language acquisition), one of Zak’s favorite topics of conversation is to recount, ad nauseum, previously-viewed plots of Sponge Bob Square Pants and the Simpsons. You can apparently take the boy out of the media but you can’t take the media out of the boy. But, just when I was beginning to think Zak might not be picking up much of anything from the trip, he was able to direct the taxi home for Grandpa and Grandma on their last night in town because he could speak the language while the grandparents still couldn’t pronounce the name of our street after three weeks in town. For their part, Zak and Maya loved having the grandparents around. One day, when the rest of us were preparing to go to a local soccer game, Maya was struck with a sudden onset of some kind of illness. Dad was ready for a break so he took her home only to find her recovered by the time the two of them were back at the house. Maya seems to have the easiest time flying through any type of gastro-intestinal turbulence. Could it be, perhaps, because she still has a simplified digestive system, like a dog’s? At any rate, the Granddaughter turned Grandpa’s planned respite into an opportunity to transform the living room into an amusement park in which each piece of furniture stood in for a ride. By the time we returned from the soccer match, Grandpa looked as though he had take one to many spins on the Tilt-a-Whirl but he was still pleased as punch to have been able to spend a little one-on-one with Maya.

The folks were, of course, impressed with the Inca ruins of Machu Pichu, Ollantaytambo, and Pisac, after all, it would have to take a pretty jaded soul to not be impressed with these ancient masterpieces which remain as testaments to the ability of man to both manipulate nature to their end while retaining a harmonious relationship to it. I also think they appreciated having me there to play tour guide and organize transportation. However I’m not really sure about that because the morning I picked up Mary Walsh at the airport, I sent them out on their own, with Zak as guide, to four nearby ruins. However, they only made it to one before abandoning the expedition and heading back to town for a crepes and cervezas. I’m not sure if this was a result of lack of leadership or different priorities. However, I can say, with a high degree of confidence, that what my parents really enjoyed was the surrounding countryside through which we passed while getting to our various destinations. Although we are from the plains of the Midwest where a 2000’ foot mountain is the highest in the state, they, like I, are no strangers to mountains. They have traveled in the Rockies and other places but there is something different about the mountains here. It’s not just that there are impressive glacier-mantled crags in the distance, there are; it’s that there is a whole population of people who are living and working and farming on and around these Andean peaks and valleys. Although we have been spending all of our time between 9000’ and 14,500’ feet in elevation, these aren’t simply cold and forbidding heights. Rather, due to our proximity to the tropics, the landscape is evocative of a cross between the Tyrolean Alps in the summer and the English countryside of Watership Down except one is more likely to run across grazing llamas and old wrinkled Quechuan women wearing bowler hats with brightly-colored bundles on their back than anthropomorphized rabbits and old white men in lederhosen.

Thanks Mom and Dad for a great visit!

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