Guinea pig sustainability

25/11/2008

This week we wrap up our three months of technical, language, and cultural instruction at the training center. We’re being bombarded with last-minute logistical details and STD warnings and other good stuff. At home at the dinner table with our host families, moms and sisters are starting to cry. Today my mom taught me how to wash my own clothes so I can fend for myself out in the campo. It’s incredible how much we’ve connected emotionally with these families in just three months. Makes you wonder how it’s going to feel to leave after two years with our new families. On Thursday we’re going to have a Peruvian-style Thanksgiving at the center, followed by a farewell party we’re hosting for our families. Then Friday we’ll be officially sworn-in and head to Lima for the night before going our separate ways on Saturday and Sunday. The mood is, in a word, restless.

Training’s been alright, but most of us are more than ready to get out and do the real thing. On one hand it’s been an absolutely essential three months; I’ve progressed substantially in Spanish, I feel reasonably comfortable in the culture here, and I know infinitely more about water and sanitation in rural settings that I did coming in (which was basically nothing). On the other hand, it’s often felt really, really frustrating and claustrophobic – more like studying abroad with a bunch of people you don’t really know (or as I sometimes think about it, like high school without your friends and minus most of the fun stuff) than doing what you think you came here to do (that is, getting your hands dirty and helping people). But now that’s all coming to an end, and within a week we’re going to be out on our own. It’s an odd feeling to be ending the first chapter, saying goodbye to our families and friends here, and at the same time preparing ourselves (mentally, physically, spiritually...if that’s your thing) for a new life with a new family in a totally new place. I’m psyched.

One of the more interesting and practical things about training has been our weekly visits on Saturday mornings to Lima’s big agrarian university, called La Molina. This last Saturday we had our last outing to the university, and received certificates for our participation in their “biohuertos” (sustainable vegetable gardens) program. Over the course of a couple months we’ve learned about organic compost, natural pesticide technologies, Peru´s unmatched biodiversity and what’s threatening it, the separation, drying, and planting of seeds, and the ins and outs of raising chickens, turkeys, and cuyes­ or guinea pigs.

That last one necessitates some elaboration. Guinea pigs in Peru are not pets. They are livestock. Peruvians – especially in the culture of the sierra ­regions – eat them, sell them, barter with them, skin them and sell their hides, use them as garbage disposals, and scoop up their crap to make things grow. In my mind they’re the Peruvian equivalent of the buffalo to the American plains Indians (except that, as my dad noted, they take up a little less room and the fences can be a little shorter). This was all made crystal clear to us the Saturday several weeks ago when we took a trip with the university folks out to a small organic farm run by an older couple in wide-brim straw hats. The husband, Ulises, was a total character. Incredibly intelligent guy, the kind of person who can crack lewd jokes and in the same breath get right down to business and – unintentionally I think – make you feel totally inadequate just by the sheer ease and simplicity with which he creates massive success around him. He was the kind of older Hispanic intellectual whose less-than-perfect English, thick accent, and tendency to end sentences with “no?” somehow make them seem even wiser. “Things only get done by doing, no?” was only one of the memorable one-liners from the morning. Turns out he studied at Cornell and Wisconsin-Madison, taught in Peru for a number of years, and then retired and casually redefined what it means to live off the land.

He was part-professor, part-scientist, part-farmer, and part-philosopher. When it comes to agricultural experimentation (and, I got the impression, most things in life), he believed, “only God and lazy people don’t make mistakes.” The dozen acres or so where he, his wife, and a few workers occupy themselves was filled with every kind of crop that grows in Peru, all irrigated by a simple system of gravity-powered ditches and pieces of garden hose used as siphons. But the best part was by far the cuyes. Ulises and his wife take these things to a new level. They raise them fed completely off the natural scraps of the agricultural products they produce on their farm. They use them as a food source themselves, and sell them as well, taking advantage of their incredibly high protein-to-fat ratio. I gather they also sell some of their hides to make wallets and other small items. The coolest part, though, is what they do with their manure, the guano.

The first part of the equation is the solid compost. As Ulises explained, with a bunch of “sheet” (cuy dookie) and a bunch of “garbage” (organic waste), he can make a “delicious” plant food. This partially explains the exceptionally healthy look of his crops. But that’s only half the story: he also has a bio-digester. What the hell is a bio-digester, you ask? Picture a giant, steaming, underground vat full of liquid guinea pig shit...that powers an entire farm. Once a week or so, they feed the bio-digester by opening a chute and dumping in several shovels-full of cuy droppings. Then they close it off and let the anaerobic bacteria do their magic. The methane produced through this fermentation process is captured by a chimney-like structure, and is then circulated to the various farmhouses on the property, where it serves as not only cooking gas, but also provides the energy for their heating system and their electricity. It’s a whole farm run on the stuff that pet stores throw away by the ton every week in the developed world. And as an added bonus, the actual liquid in the digester gets harvested once a year, and is used as a super-concentrated organic growth hormone. The solid compost pumps the crops full of nutrients, and the juice (Ulises calls it “Caca-Cola” because they keep it in old two-liter bottles) injects them with a natural growth spurt. Then the veggies are harvested and the unwanted parts go back to the little furballs in their pens (oh, and the cuyes don’t require any water either – they get all the hydration they need straight from the plants). Meanwhile, Mrs. Ulises is in the kitchen frying up some eggs from her hens, over a totally organic – and free – flame.

So simple it’s stupid. Ulises agreed: “Why isn’t everyone doing this?” he wondered. He preached a vaguely revolutionary creed: “We must elevate ourselves from poverty with simple methods.” It was hard to disagree with. The homemade lucuma ice cream they sold out of their side-door was the proverbial icing on the cake. I think it’s safe to say they’ve got it pretty well figured out.

Meeting Ulises was awesome; it highlighted not only the resources available here, but also the unbelievable wastefulness of our globalized society. On top of everything, it was really cool to know that things like this are going on in Peru.