tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45825783554683940542024-03-13T12:01:52.116-07:00Cerro de PascoWelcome to the Cerro de Pasco Youth Group Home Page!
Did you live in Cerro de Pasco or any other place related to the Cerro de Pasco Corporation? If you did, you will find this site VERY interesting!Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-39281200249295192952012-03-17T06:03:00.016-07:002012-03-17T06:40:54.285-07:00Peru - Fraser family pictures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHEXZqTGXemJiJWBjdlGhU5jP7DGXY8kxKvdbURBHC2yiJivKuEB0OAO7TmONSAtkt4-h1fL7_VHusW2q6vkf3GVZJtcLToKgpqGeXq8GezkMwLboT9FWtYcMiE1zkFAeysDN0XMgDK8D/s1600/C027316-R1-29-30+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHEXZqTGXemJiJWBjdlGhU5jP7DGXY8kxKvdbURBHC2yiJivKuEB0OAO7TmONSAtkt4-h1fL7_VHusW2q6vkf3GVZJtcLToKgpqGeXq8GezkMwLboT9FWtYcMiE1zkFAeysDN0XMgDK8D/s320/C027316-R1-29-30+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720856018287916034" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-O6dszAhOeRw4CUL73pLNmRRTuW8jqC_sqeR1SNOSsNAkMaCJOWvnlWKOeowH8SGiyUmCE3kKgMd1tay9UmdH3lA84xsXsNhjSQ1MF10OL9bBNjtkFV9RLf8pn6WKn6h9hyBZa1GOvwIa/s1600/C034030-R1-71-72+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbNvgQCgc-IyRTe5PNHRccgkDqGi9u52dSaMZ-w1sU9lvne_9hvfcuV6pabncbHmqby4Uhgjo01WPYV_M4HKnMeTEZSB2bUV1JEMJnINf9DVNuerf4CLVvUGDnBBEk5TPPy1vZMeU8BTV/s320/C034030-R1-35-36+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720851580074937938" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7WhQv_R5bhL-KAv400kYJiqdZlQlnnh_wKzAdRkK8va5Yf35dTqJkpNo5UDEYmZ3pG6V7CJmrApdUHZVu2p9D8msHi39FvlELkIIHubLAJldk1IEowDP5Bx9sYNqTZa570FvexMSqyi8/s1600/C034030-R1-32-33+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7WhQv_R5bhL-KAv400kYJiqdZlQlnnh_wKzAdRkK8va5Yf35dTqJkpNo5UDEYmZ3pG6V7CJmrApdUHZVu2p9D8msHi39FvlELkIIHubLAJldk1IEowDP5Bx9sYNqTZa570FvexMSqyi8/s320/C034030-R1-32-33+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720851379821831170" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHtEhIZMbnQLwzJnC4tKX9J75GQq5JCV09gs0FwvJAR1WSarzrPl5dsaEGInlofX_QEw9WBdQVMP5y5TlnBGxu1FZBZ35wxqmERwZuTxnTBHadfmZYumPU_IeNQPA62EMY1jTRBkt90es/s1600/C034030-R1-39-40+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHtEhIZMbnQLwzJnC4tKX9J75GQq5JCV09gs0FwvJAR1WSarzrPl5dsaEGInlofX_QEw9WBdQVMP5y5TlnBGxu1FZBZ35wxqmERwZuTxnTBHadfmZYumPU_IeNQPA62EMY1jTRBkt90es/s320/C034030-R1-39-40+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720851257534370066" /></a><br />From the top: pic 1: Mountains near Cerro de Pasco. Pic 2: Allan Fraser's 10th birthday with faces I can remember: Karen Shadford, George Shadford, Tanya Visser, 1970. Pic 3: Cobriza mine circa 1970. Pic 4: Cerro camp circa 1971. Pic 5: Cobriza mine 1970. Pic 6: Miki Fraser, Sidney Fraser and Allan Fraser in the mountains near Casapalca, 1969.Pic 7: George Shadford,Allan Fraser, Brenden Shadford, Sidney Fraser, Casapalca at Rimac River. 1969. Pic 8: Our house in Casapalca 1969. All pictures by Robert Fraser. Pictures uploaded by Allan FraserAllan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-5821109062526021962012-02-26T05:29:00.032-08:002012-02-26T06:05:00.751-08:00Pictures of Cerro de Pasco (early 1970s).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMYSuaPo4Wtt1-JEPppzOwzJVTdAkhKIna2m63jMB7JM9aTdIfFX86g6J3sKAhYcE2jNEg_Nq-BZAWQNkdSIcYoeuua-yEaai8eog_5BPftUzpCWZ-HcdO9A7wVADfK1902s7Bs3YTseG/s1600/C027327-R1-23-24+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMYSuaPo4Wtt1-JEPppzOwzJVTdAkhKIna2m63jMB7JM9aTdIfFX86g6J3sKAhYcE2jNEg_Nq-BZAWQNkdSIcYoeuua-yEaai8eog_5BPftUzpCWZ-HcdO9A7wVADfK1902s7Bs3YTseG/s320/C027327-R1-23-24+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713444413019368098" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wFiAtwoKPxJs6n0Ge27X2eh3RaLvQHJ0mksX_JbkcRpebSIszVrnOHm-WcRTxKGFZyUOSpgCawtnJAgJwDr93krSQjNYk6-ptNlR8KA3slkLw-TPfTJZagyf6yLvS46QX48T2CrTFWo0/s1600/C027327-R1-14-15+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidtV0EBd7nQdBQ3c5VkQUgHBhckyFdCf8Lr59bQhPIdjWm241abSyDPkEyrBwG1-8Vk6n1HXdBDN1kxfcCVwPl2fFmKKvnFJyJl7lZq-G_vofD7nBEcryf6kyA8qxS8kOhZD7-MZMaFt1/s320/C027314-R1-17-18+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713439571612753682" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBmUYFuYgrWW4z9FzbegGmJHCkeQqRYsyHUELWivmdoRHNN0UaDVe9FOQmB3KbHUjP3S3UIR82dDV5O3zr2vCv0e0ViMym5mpdcCHgIk2vgtQ1vctn2U1fu9jT1mqDqB2EYYwSSu_GQLz/s1600/C027314-R1-36-37+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBmUYFuYgrWW4z9FzbegGmJHCkeQqRYsyHUELWivmdoRHNN0UaDVe9FOQmB3KbHUjP3S3UIR82dDV5O3zr2vCv0e0ViMym5mpdcCHgIk2vgtQ1vctn2U1fu9jT1mqDqB2EYYwSSu_GQLz/s320/C027314-R1-36-37+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713439455797977378" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiLiGdV0mh3uNxPKUbfD5RZHvByM_cG5-KTFLsya8oYVOECXEcrfUgdRuUDPaqRzCPAVfbYuJ28j396VOJ2VqDPWPM-b_zXKV4FBMmLWd0b85Kyy0xILUrBVpgZhHqNa0nmBHizP_pWKG/s1600/C027314-R1-21-22+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiLiGdV0mh3uNxPKUbfD5RZHvByM_cG5-KTFLsya8oYVOECXEcrfUgdRuUDPaqRzCPAVfbYuJ28j396VOJ2VqDPWPM-b_zXKV4FBMmLWd0b85Kyy0xILUrBVpgZhHqNa0nmBHizP_pWKG/s320/C027314-R1-21-22+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713438641501002930" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWZRCyCqD1xHe_YaAQb87wpkhLLi-Hlw-NPxz8nctYzXBNevtkDZ63y2viBrQ4n1FuzI43xyVhwpUGXI9pu_0Zc7VvEVpe9vTeQAQhBTn_wmr3Yh7m_cBzgZ5JTNeBOm3JPxBhV_1WIuR/s1600/C027281-R1-43-44+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWZRCyCqD1xHe_YaAQb87wpkhLLi-Hlw-NPxz8nctYzXBNevtkDZ63y2viBrQ4n1FuzI43xyVhwpUGXI9pu_0Zc7VvEVpe9vTeQAQhBTn_wmr3Yh7m_cBzgZ5JTNeBOm3JPxBhV_1WIuR/s320/C027281-R1-43-44+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713438401940155410" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8843eMyYDkUFS9yKilK3m3FXQl75Ii93-icpvcIAAS4Fszta_-98DozRzzIOeyY3hpK9_eKqyyD43ClAOHcB6ejjhQilb50bmIzUtPamd2SxWJHA2E2PP1-NV0zzXfzzW8SujgQ_bH62/s1600/C027281-R1-41-42+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8843eMyYDkUFS9yKilK3m3FXQl75Ii93-icpvcIAAS4Fszta_-98DozRzzIOeyY3hpK9_eKqyyD43ClAOHcB6ejjhQilb50bmIzUtPamd2SxWJHA2E2PP1-NV0zzXfzzW8SujgQ_bH62/s320/C027281-R1-41-42+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713438316414654626" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-v1am3Zxv3m-mrwyAL1i34siFBQSV1iZ7GJ7PqMv2eyw6We2IOIt2yV-YbwSAgoVATr_Jut9i2lJJe203WW15W_wu6QQ9e8SZ-XO0KWqgh8KTeqJqddFYD3AyuXG9gBGwhH64hLmTqzU3/s1600/C027281-R1-17-18+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-v1am3Zxv3m-mrwyAL1i34siFBQSV1iZ7GJ7PqMv2eyw6We2IOIt2yV-YbwSAgoVATr_Jut9i2lJJe203WW15W_wu6QQ9e8SZ-XO0KWqgh8KTeqJqddFYD3AyuXG9gBGwhH64hLmTqzU3/s320/C027281-R1-17-18+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713436970746924034" /></a><br />Photographs by Robert Fraser. Uploaded by Allan Fraser (Feb 2012).Allan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-21785154972845423142012-02-26T04:55:00.010-08:002012-02-26T05:29:18.682-08:00Pictures of Cerro de Pasco (circa 1970)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeZGryMMHvNVsYECQgT8sbpuSkqCoL2G7FO7SDvfGHHcknydP5r0V5P1Pjtfz5RIJsoNx0-V319syAUt5fi4LtIg3DiEiROtTP5NfFrrVZwV6fvyM8jyBJTruu18y5n5-iBQgx1MGpo16/s1600/C027281-R1-48-49+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeZGryMMHvNVsYECQgT8sbpuSkqCoL2G7FO7SDvfGHHcknydP5r0V5P1Pjtfz5RIJsoNx0-V319syAUt5fi4LtIg3DiEiROtTP5NfFrrVZwV6fvyM8jyBJTruu18y5n5-iBQgx1MGpo16/s320/C027281-R1-48-49+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713434458873330674" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV73GimLPArjVEl8GFCCtS1GDePWCxgUHgId7qs_r3x7WUwugoOWcbpNJMdZoyje8qCUkVxLEMa-ay1AzV7iRpM_qmwYXQErvZOeQ92tXF68GN4G5X-zgukP6edEKil6M3w0nu0UV3c4NX/s1600/C027281-R1-41-42+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV73GimLPArjVEl8GFCCtS1GDePWCxgUHgId7qs_r3x7WUwugoOWcbpNJMdZoyje8qCUkVxLEMa-ay1AzV7iRpM_qmwYXQErvZOeQ92tXF68GN4G5X-zgukP6edEKil6M3w0nu0UV3c4NX/s320/C027281-R1-41-42+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713432726832370850" /></a>Main road to Cerro de Pasco with view from Bellavista circa 1970. Picture by Robert Fraser <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vc-7OSuMVGr4MTXeLVPYH4DH0SlGdKtLmgRe0QLsUBkOjAmtJlWGoYc3zarI5blavlSveg5I6FQ6gqVD9dFWz7XZUe6BgOCERaeBIZVcEIHqUSTuz6wHx4e3JITD8XAegAfWTvJf-HOC/s1600/C027277-R1-49-50.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vc-7OSuMVGr4MTXeLVPYH4DH0SlGdKtLmgRe0QLsUBkOjAmtJlWGoYc3zarI5blavlSveg5I6FQ6gqVD9dFWz7XZUe6BgOCERaeBIZVcEIHqUSTuz6wHx4e3JITD8XAegAfWTvJf-HOC/s320/C027277-R1-49-50.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713431024681222290" /></a><br />Cerro de Pasco (Bellavista), circa 1970. Picture by Robert FraserAllan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-7672495544375009072010-03-14T08:07:00.000-07:002010-03-14T08:25:05.996-07:00A Tribute to the Peruvian Miner<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCMNpFTMsCm5CgkgU5sqY9F_hL5qvptFeobhNQpa8lDK2Kd6YgF9-CicIocaWcSaVvxZ1rMP_TZcsVd-u2MrKLO2-4ib0c0FXFj1Khd7avUTeoWmQ4kV7_vMgJaa5xVQH_lmwew7qI_1s/s1600-h/DSC03833+(Medium).JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 246px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448510149104586546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCMNpFTMsCm5CgkgU5sqY9F_hL5qvptFeobhNQpa8lDK2Kd6YgF9-CicIocaWcSaVvxZ1rMP_TZcsVd-u2MrKLO2-4ib0c0FXFj1Khd7avUTeoWmQ4kV7_vMgJaa5xVQH_lmwew7qI_1s/s320/DSC03833+(Medium).JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBienqTznUrHG1bsNcqJCVMpTAduGV91Pn0PshlNyacPrdw5DHRMSWDywN2PvNHW0rqArgQMHgGmWHNrXaWyauCL16LKfz2X6jpMWJXbLN_QxwgXnvEqZOm_KJbZCcNLVStZwQLDU-6w6/s1600-h/peru_miner_serrano+(Medium).jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 228px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448507598509757234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBienqTznUrHG1bsNcqJCVMpTAduGV91Pn0PshlNyacPrdw5DHRMSWDywN2PvNHW0rqArgQMHgGmWHNrXaWyauCL16LKfz2X6jpMWJXbLN_QxwgXnvEqZOm_KJbZCcNLVStZwQLDU-6w6/s320/peru_miner_serrano+(Medium).jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Pictures: Peruvian miner on cover of the Serrano dated April 1973 and quartz and pyrite mineral specimen from a Peruvian mine. Posted by Allan Fraser 14 March 2010.<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>The Sleeping Miner</strong><br /><em>by Dennis Siluk</em><br />Oh yes, he has long gone now,<br />dispersed among the deep mines;<br />the one he sees, and remains<br />afloat throughout the night.<br />He sleeps on shimmering minerals-<br />his eyes have rapid movements.<br /><br /><br />No: 2082 12-4-2007<br /><br /><a href="http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/" target="_new" jquery1268579300718="12">http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/</a>Allan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-39395863205994626762010-03-02T03:40:00.001-08:002010-03-02T03:56:51.631-08:00Cerro De Pasco<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloC29c3T0NY34WYaihFOsZD0Ypnq0CStK7P4sqZBa8jE6VDK77yKQBSVhhwJyliuwL_wSQed2xTUy7TrVfhaFbhsPQ4XNuKrPZZ30ojrnpIdlZoJqkd9kiMDhT-YU8t8RA16Zp-ofqJWu/s1600-h/logo+006.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444001345060233282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloC29c3T0NY34WYaihFOsZD0Ypnq0CStK7P4sqZBa8jE6VDK77yKQBSVhhwJyliuwL_wSQed2xTUy7TrVfhaFbhsPQ4XNuKrPZZ30ojrnpIdlZoJqkd9kiMDhT-YU8t8RA16Zp-ofqJWu/s320/logo+006.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMz3gNybqiXdijcDC1Gk9LNuiSRDHoKHZMiYksKksl7pqrB8XWkTs56W5Jyjft-waPjf0qtn_FNL9HRp7h3xEUnaaZQ76uN71KF2XaqJaIa8mkcE_r1EXfEKnb71qcKSZxwfUipSWPSznv/s1600-h/logo.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444001163765828274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMz3gNybqiXdijcDC1Gk9LNuiSRDHoKHZMiYksKksl7pqrB8XWkTs56W5Jyjft-waPjf0qtn_FNL9HRp7h3xEUnaaZQ76uN71KF2XaqJaIa8mkcE_r1EXfEKnb71qcKSZxwfUipSWPSznv/s320/logo.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNwKpBXdM8DlBxt8cHnCvs3NQX8Try8GESoVKypVbPAKqsA6I2MIxdapMg9nci6Zf_moJTgLJ3O7kPgbZKk9Ba-1m_xft15xgJNPUSRVymNe6cKjT0_Hw8o2kBoVoPtFVSFbsjfXKIbtC/s1600-h/logo+004.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 310px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444000995776467474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNwKpBXdM8DlBxt8cHnCvs3NQX8Try8GESoVKypVbPAKqsA6I2MIxdapMg9nci6Zf_moJTgLJ3O7kPgbZKk9Ba-1m_xft15xgJNPUSRVymNe6cKjT0_Hw8o2kBoVoPtFVSFbsjfXKIbtC/s320/logo+004.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfTS7meHGVheQ-Kk9uwpvXzpoDYR4gK5CIRAAXxOO14ICnQelme0xzV3kym2_DwwKZk60QitUC_0pGYNg4erAJ4Z-AGc7wPjhYVXKKWAFXymLDMjj4ZQ-REjsyk6ta7X6_4lsVA3EOjrq/s1600-h/logo+003.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 230px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444000766846315618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfTS7meHGVheQ-Kk9uwpvXzpoDYR4gK5CIRAAXxOO14ICnQelme0xzV3kym2_DwwKZk60QitUC_0pGYNg4erAJ4Z-AGc7wPjhYVXKKWAFXymLDMjj4ZQ-REjsyk6ta7X6_4lsVA3EOjrq/s320/logo+003.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WiokWhEf9nr_SuPNp8YpVvGZnfPROfADjPnwlLQBC5GAW7j61-MYzD5_4pJ6jLkDzwqNIBUFku5frhu8VcUklNkV57_VcZubv6-0IJlb5DYb77xlJYG1xfQapY1vyLlrYErR15pNW0xZ/s1600-h/logo+002.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 231px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444000262698614370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WiokWhEf9nr_SuPNp8YpVvGZnfPROfADjPnwlLQBC5GAW7j61-MYzD5_4pJ6jLkDzwqNIBUFku5frhu8VcUklNkV57_VcZubv6-0IJlb5DYb77xlJYG1xfQapY1vyLlrYErR15pNW0xZ/s320/logo+002.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br />Here are a few pictures of our time in Cerro de Pasco with friends and family. Too many names I can't remember anymore. Allan Fraser, March 2010. </div><div> </div><div>From top picture:</div><div>1. Paragsha Concentrator, Cerro De Pasco, 7 March, 1970</div><div>2. "Graduation Dinner" at Esperanza Club (?) June 1970. From front right: Miki Fraser, Mrs Visser, Mr. Visser, Tanya's sister (?), Tanya Visser, Gaby Cowper, then from front left; Sidney Fraser, Allan Fraser, George Shadford and Brendon (?) Shadford.<br />3. Yaupi Bajo; May 1972, left to right; Detto (?) Otega, Michelle Isaacs, Sidney Fraser, Allan Fraser, Fernando Otega, Jenny Isaacs. </div><div>4. Birthday party for Sidney Fraser; March 1972. Left to right; Jenny Isaacs, (?), Michele Isaacs, Soledad Garrate (?), Mrs Miki Fraser, (?), (David Kemp's sister?), Katherine Holthausen (?), ?, ?<br />5. Allan and Sidney Fraser with "Motta". In the garden of our house number 3, Cerro de Pasco. 1973 </div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div></div></div></div>Allan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-55389432543972961852010-03-02T03:37:00.001-08:002010-03-02T03:39:57.114-08:00Cerro de Pasco<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFbT-iB14KPn1QLQDBPDFoJI2VSs_do16CopMGBanEJBjTOJ_zR7w3Wq9bywtnYnA2UNaOLxrsK0SVtz8lJvkfY45N9m7VNiL4G4N6cm17DpTBjb_aeCWc3i9csbv33E6kP4QlHQZpnJB/s1600-h/logo+005.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 227px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443999537203328306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFbT-iB14KPn1QLQDBPDFoJI2VSs_do16CopMGBanEJBjTOJ_zR7w3Wq9bywtnYnA2UNaOLxrsK0SVtz8lJvkfY45N9m7VNiL4G4N6cm17DpTBjb_aeCWc3i9csbv33E6kP4QlHQZpnJB/s320/logo+005.jpg" /></a> Sidney Fraser (left) and Allan Fraser. Near Cerro de Pasco, July 1971.Allan Fraserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02604497913799221352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-4503496934762979072009-02-15T04:19:00.000-08:002009-02-15T04:35:09.667-08:00<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302999277766590610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 296px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aGnOhQd8Ll_UKDH5m90J77YW_DCC__bMcg5zRB75omO4Vx-xr5Rbu_w8PLg3dfJwfzKsaoc4inBSNQZEDYoSpl73BZypqA7jcN3wShlDMlIDUDubXecwMjM3Ab-Aeu92IBnp1QTsoLE/s400/AnnParty.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This picture was taken at Ann Dixon's birthday party at our FCC house in Amachay. Paul Dixon is furthest right boy and Ann is holding Nesta our dog. Next to her is my other sister Jill who had a leg in plaster, but it doesn't show. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I recognise some of the people, such as Valerie and Julian Higgs as well as the Oueis but that is about it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Al Heckle gave me this list of names:</span><br /><br />Monica Williams, Nancy Ouei, Julian Hickford, Monica's sister??, Bruce Westby ??, Jim McKay, Bev Saunders, John Darcy behind Bev, Bonnie Hietzenroder, John McKay behind Bonnie, girl next to Bonnie (??), Randy Westby, you, next girl (??). Front row: Valerie Higgs, Jill, Ann, Ian Ouei.<br /><br />I'd really love to get a full list if anyone can help.SupplyTeacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320359032733110512noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-26113212399164586262009-02-15T04:06:00.000-08:002009-02-15T04:18:01.835-08:00Response to: Memories of the CdeP Mining Camps and Those I Remember<span style="font-family:arial;">I haven't figured out how to respond to a post on this site so I am creating this new one.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">To Margie (Nee Fawcett)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Read your blog with interest! Especially as you posted and referred to my picture of my family in front of the fireplace in the FCC house in Amachay and also posted the picture of my mother. (Actually the FCC houses were in a little area of Amachay called Tiapukio..... no idea how to spell it.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">You have to be daughter of Brian Fawcett.... is my guess who was engineer on FCC before we arrived. I have read his books and was always facinated by the storey of Colonel Fawcett his father.) He mentions the Chalaca railway coach in his story of the railways which we used when we were there.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">With regard to the zigzags on the railway line. There was only one point at which the engine was removed and turned on a turntable and reconnect at the other end which was at San Bartolome about 75Km outside Lima. On all the other switchbacks they ware always a pair and the engine reversed the middle stretch between the points.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The really neat thing was that at Lima Station tourists always grabbed the seats facing the engine so that they could travel forwards all day. The savvy always picked the seats with backs to the engine as after an hour or so they would travelling forwards for the rest of the day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Paul Dixon</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">paul (nospace) dixon 'at' mail dot com</span>SupplyTeacherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320359032733110512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-31815675383257578022009-01-05T01:26:00.000-08:002009-01-05T02:46:40.367-08:00Coincidences<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbVJ1Nw09i72XXTE0-pgGQYcvZeL9JjXHZo0RQo_5UkyjirxLn93kn7GeMAMU3stlwRxzdLFYCCPpKv2qFd04QsQrlbDHvTlH_dYu02E6KxvI6WRe2Gu2Xu6qEJkTjRjN95I-DafeFdA/s1600-h/HousesonAmachay.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287752473754473858" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 238px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbVJ1Nw09i72XXTE0-pgGQYcvZeL9JjXHZo0RQo_5UkyjirxLn93kn7GeMAMU3stlwRxzdLFYCCPpKv2qFd04QsQrlbDHvTlH_dYu02E6KxvI6WRe2Gu2Xu6qEJkTjRjN95I-DafeFdA/s320/HousesonAmachay.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><br /><div>That's Mum, my baby brother Michael and me behind the pram.<br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><div><div>Nora Dixon’s house below is the house in the background in the picture on the right, the company car looks the same too…:)<br /><br />Below, Me, Dad and Michael.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEloHiNUplSd7rY4NhiEpYkcjvfmkigpWdAE0QKHUKXfLgwdrNByGSmkEoo2bnohrcecI-WwsUazZmUSU7rDIbuzQ6yqWDM-1o273IsYSTiSV_s3SvIaa-s4lJ57Qdv78VbWm4g-tZqT0/s1600-h/HouseCar51.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287751018796781682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 242px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEloHiNUplSd7rY4NhiEpYkcjvfmkigpWdAE0QKHUKXfLgwdrNByGSmkEoo2bnohrcecI-WwsUazZmUSU7rDIbuzQ6yqWDM-1o273IsYSTiSV_s3SvIaa-s4lJ57Qdv78VbWm4g-tZqT0/s320/HouseCar51.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX292wEQqIJ9GEU6EE4rUxULdNqEenHl7ZTuuwXXGFugrrA5Lo37BHANs_ngW11Syk6OhoY8GkSkYYvOiYIed8HKFoXamIL7odMS1uHUjzLEsjj7E-Kac00YhbvLZk1Mx5i5SnBmxades/s1600-h/Amachay4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287742034790457074" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 233px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX292wEQqIJ9GEU6EE4rUxULdNqEenHl7ZTuuwXXGFugrrA5Lo37BHANs_ngW11Syk6OhoY8GkSkYYvOiYIed8HKFoXamIL7odMS1uHUjzLEsjj7E-Kac00YhbvLZk1Mx5i5SnBmxades/s320/Amachay4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>On an idle Sunday afternoon spent browsing through my Mother’s most dated albums, I found pictures of myself as a little boy two years old in La Oroya. This was October 1951, James and Josephina Stocks had occupied a house provided by the FCC with their children, Thomas and Michael. Dad was Assistant Traction Manager on the FCC, and the photos evoked one of the few memories I have of Oroya, that of Dad trying to cut my hair with hand operated clippers and me wishing I could go to the barber in town where there were electric clippers that never pulled hair and the mirrors made hundreds of me repeated for ever… </div><div><br />I image googled ‘Oroya 1955’ just fooling around, and found jamd.com had two photos, one of which my Mother recognized as being Chulec, where a lot of the Cerro de Pasco personnel lived, which was about a kilometre up the road towards Cerro de Pasco from where our house was. I opened Google earth, and lo and behold, Oroya is on and clear as a bell! </div><div><br />I googled ‘chulec’ and found this site (and the mention by Sylvia Walker!!) and several pictures of La Oroya taken around the time we were there, of special interest are the photos of Amachay in 1957 sent by Francoise Caudron, the pictures sent by Paul Dixon of the family posing in front of a fireplace and of Mrs Nora Dixon standing in front of her house (the house that contained the mentioned fireplace).<br /></div></div><div><div><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksRNDopm6th1cOKUesFBFTKF0tCrWvDK7lEIIouDo6ojuWkN6ODsm5YxHYn30_pnnHYRNiATTnUlAYSkaatxCli7ztCg5Y5sIu6wb5m4nBYiWHOfcyMdZznR0FHDSInyMBvFrg8JESjY/s1600-h/Amachay31957.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287747804345774770" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 274px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksRNDopm6th1cOKUesFBFTKF0tCrWvDK7lEIIouDo6ojuWkN6ODsm5YxHYn30_pnnHYRNiATTnUlAYSkaatxCli7ztCg5Y5sIu6wb5m4nBYiWHOfcyMdZznR0FHDSInyMBvFrg8JESjY/s320/Amachay31957.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmyQ-fz6VWT-6vgZ64OD_zpSWfBDESYVv-t0WyjAwdF6O45luE0cLNBBCeeevc_sFwO5UyFajHfUeRccrzoDYJO003mk0u3mIyfwa8eKNBOz2yDHLqX8omfl9LUPO-yYdrgqnKvhjcd8/s1600-h/Amachay1957.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287747800906085570" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmyQ-fz6VWT-6vgZ64OD_zpSWfBDESYVv-t0WyjAwdF6O45luE0cLNBBCeeevc_sFwO5UyFajHfUeRccrzoDYJO003mk0u3mIyfwa8eKNBOz2yDHLqX8omfl9LUPO-yYdrgqnKvhjcd8/s320/Amachay1957.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div>Looking at the Amachay site on Google Earth now and comparing it to Francoise’s photos you can see that all the houses on the other side of the road on Francoise's photo are gone, though you do see patches where they once stood. Mrs Nora Dixon’s house still stands though, a group of three houses lined up east-west, top right of the Google Earth picture, with a larger house (the semi-detached houses, 2 in 1) in the middle, Nora’s house is the west end house… Our house was the east side of the middle house (the semi-detached house), </div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMUKUMkLy31CvwQvueDz1kCuWVf31coMAoUy_3itBKGJ9w3tzuIzd5APOAYf9kWxAHuH37BGukp2kaA5Q8mKU1vj5Rye_c6i59gSoij6-Tnlne5qKGZ7s131MH4rgVDxZ1SRtF_TaUCU/s1600-h/SemiDAmachay51.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287742037621634562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 249px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMUKUMkLy31CvwQvueDz1kCuWVf31coMAoUy_3itBKGJ9w3tzuIzd5APOAYf9kWxAHuH37BGukp2kaA5Q8mKU1vj5Rye_c6i59gSoij6-Tnlne5qKGZ7s131MH4rgVDxZ1SRtF_TaUCU/s320/SemiDAmachay51.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div>Here's a photo of it in the distance taken from the entrance to Amachay at that time, when there was nothing but the two houses on it (the third most easterly house was built in 1952-53). </div><div><br />The other half of the semi-detached was occupied by the Kent’s. Mrs Kent spent a long time teaching by Mother English (Mum is Brazilian) using newspaper articles…<br /><br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IYNaNTICZQ2XlpKVr0CPfaacoty3avvrCuLW3rftqAQWNCCv4MVnp5lbYhre5FC-Utfd-XA-W1c9KKe-OGQ9rU7ks4Fit1oC9yxGPubvGsxk9xqxT4FKJhzEXseoROb8PCFGtfz91aM/s1600-h/FiresideMoores52.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287751017408854914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IYNaNTICZQ2XlpKVr0CPfaacoty3avvrCuLW3rftqAQWNCCv4MVnp5lbYhre5FC-Utfd-XA-W1c9KKe-OGQ9rU7ks4Fit1oC9yxGPubvGsxk9xqxT4FKJhzEXseoROb8PCFGtfz91aM/s320/FiresideMoores52.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMPlw3CtU06MDaNLkEjBQgNsmIsTusHz3mLKRRPx-KzKFmcH0PxzLP4s0YM11U0YB8N5cjFJJlDvgr7EJew0gsWZhZSLmLQn7rjt6v_MOU6wzaCw7GpvmD9GHcftDEhkHN2V-5d3cqrk/s1600-h/PaulDixon2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287751027917044914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 236px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMPlw3CtU06MDaNLkEjBQgNsmIsTusHz3mLKRRPx-KzKFmcH0PxzLP4s0YM11U0YB8N5cjFJJlDvgr7EJew0gsWZhZSLmLQn7rjt6v_MOU6wzaCw7GpvmD9GHcftDEhkHN2V-5d3cqrk/s320/PaulDixon2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And the fireplace? Well, I have a photo of the Stocks’ and the Moore’s (whose fireplace it was back in ‘52/’53) lounging around the self same roaring hearth!! </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We lived in Oroya from 1951 to 1953, when we moved down to Lima, first to Magdalena del Mar then later, to San Antonio, near Markham College where us kids went to school. In 1957 I suddenly had two more brothers, the twins Richard and Anthony... The Stocks' left Peru in 1965.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Busterbearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784777182268485054noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-86469184665279355152008-10-12T10:04:00.000-07:002009-03-17T04:41:59.782-07:00Memories of the CdeP Mining Camps and Those I Remember<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoWoSVE9ZSWwEIid43KnDXS4WxDsQ8YLtrzl69rOOTF8hMiCkhTYuZC6E9Z5FwQmac8JHD9CZo1TFa9lmy5zHC3jgxj7N2YnSqzUfBqAEcqSv-N_be_HzHpqk9kkPiEpj9dfjXBR9zIo/s1600-h/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+-+The+Andes+-+1951.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256321636738387026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 169px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoWoSVE9ZSWwEIid43KnDXS4WxDsQ8YLtrzl69rOOTF8hMiCkhTYuZC6E9Z5FwQmac8JHD9CZo1TFa9lmy5zHC3jgxj7N2YnSqzUfBqAEcqSv-N_be_HzHpqk9kkPiEpj9dfjXBR9zIo/s320/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+-+The+Andes+-+1951.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3PxO6F3oCWjZDEAhj9kSibzVlhq43jcraUfIeeLlNqjwXrBjusMtt9fSNVI5vRagOfDKTlWAR0pPO0khoEoYKqfYvk54f1WwnZBUn009z5Vu9O-NSb4oVTQWSWpTUYbAhReXULWpRxg/s1600-h/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+w+Jennifer+Fox+-+Goyllarisquizca,+Peru+-+1953.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256319602755067794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 245px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 139px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3PxO6F3oCWjZDEAhj9kSibzVlhq43jcraUfIeeLlNqjwXrBjusMtt9fSNVI5vRagOfDKTlWAR0pPO0khoEoYKqfYvk54f1WwnZBUn009z5Vu9O-NSb4oVTQWSWpTUYbAhReXULWpRxg/s320/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+w+Jennifer+Fox+-+Goyllarisquizca,+Peru+-+1953.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:78%;">Margie Fawcett and Jennifer Fox, in Goyllarizquizca - 1952</span></em></strong></p><p><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></strong></p><p><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></strong> <span style="font-size:78%;"> <strong><em>Margie on the Andes pampas</em></strong></span><br /><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style></p><p class="MsoNormal">Memories of my first couple of years in Goyllarizquizca where my first and best -- and now longest-standing -- friend was Jennifer Fox, daughter of Ken and Molly Fox (now in the United Kingdom), are followed by years in the Cerro de Pasco mining camps of Yauricocha, Siria, Mahr Tunel and, later, Cerro de Pasco proper.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Here, in Cerro de Pasco, vivid Sunday scenes of “Wyatt Earp” and “Roy Rogers” – movies of the early 1950s -- appear, while we children, ranging in age from three to 14, were wrapped in awe in the comfortable theatre chairs of the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ku1nSnnSLsVnmwHCi1bfG8p-QbiF4YuBVBeAkkQdExQ5KFdFchJYYbc4hQa5fjphflSffcs7-9hd9vQJmUBNyhK3UyPLZvW4DvvQ7PFHvpxJWqK5CjP8slPeIKhS18E2pWlvrvXuFMI/s1600-h/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+in+Xmas+Pageant+-+Cerro+de+Pasco,+Peru+2+-+1957.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256321629980099826" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ku1nSnnSLsVnmwHCi1bfG8p-QbiF4YuBVBeAkkQdExQ5KFdFchJYYbc4hQa5fjphflSffcs7-9hd9vQJmUBNyhK3UyPLZvW4DvvQ7PFHvpxJWqK5CjP8slPeIKhS18E2pWlvrvXuFMI/s320/FAWCETT+-+Margaret+in+Xmas+Pageant+-+Cerro+de+Pasco,+Peru+2+-+1957.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6naD8P3BYbOOOrgLU5SPB3E9yGN7WFk2WhCklYazcau15_a5Si_FestvvMyO7-WclWX1I32oztx-Jua5vHjYiPIkxOQ195KUSSqd-5lmGNKXi4DP_L4ck37lB5KVySVj0Z_499HKG-o/s1600-h/FAWCETT+-+John+&+Lily+with+Friends+-+Morococha,+Peru+-+1956.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256319741058726418" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6naD8P3BYbOOOrgLU5SPB3E9yGN7WFk2WhCklYazcau15_a5Si_FestvvMyO7-WclWX1I32oztx-Jua5vHjYiPIkxOQ195KUSSqd-5lmGNKXi4DP_L4ck37lB5KVySVj0Z_499HKG-o/s320/FAWCETT+-+John+%26+Lily+with+Friends+-+Morococha,+Peru+-+1956.jpg" border="0" /></a>Cerro de Pasco <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr397r6Au59K2rpdcur_iQ5NOax-a2TvtcA-GUjS7Fo_2OVsctCRLMxsd3M_Wr8j24t7NvZbngu4BgZDdS_GvRz0BtTX5hB1KMBqZ6flMPlh6p6a_vfxqA_eH5kY9fK9T00FqOqNUUj4/s1600-h/FAWCETT+-+Frank+Edward+&+Margaret+in+Xmas+Pageant+-+Cerro+de+Pasco,+Peru+-+1957.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256319955251281218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 261px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 184px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr397r6Au59K2rpdcur_iQ5NOax-a2TvtcA-GUjS7Fo_2OVsctCRLMxsd3M_Wr8j24t7NvZbngu4BgZDdS_GvRz0BtTX5hB1KMBqZ6flMPlh6p6a_vfxqA_eH5kY9fK9T00FqOqNUUj4/s320/FAWCETT+-+Frank+Edward+%26+Margaret+in+Xmas+Pageant+-+Cerro+de+Pasco,+Peru+-+1957.jpg" border="0" /></a>Club.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The modern club, with all its amenities, was up the road from our house on the main road, facing the opposite hill with its two tiers of company houses.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The clubhouse also offered a bowling alley and many a party was held there for our “partying” parents, including Bridge parties.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Birthday parties were lots of fun in the grand dance hall.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I remember the McComb, Humphreys, Patterson, Lochman, and Foote children -- some my age, some older.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My brother, Frank’s, and my house was right next door to the school.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Although I was home-schooled until I was six or seven by my mother, given that the previous mining camps did not have schools, I think I attended the one in Cerro de Pasco only briefly, before we left for Colombia to another mining company, this time involved in gold mining one.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Mother used to receive school material from Calvert Homeschooling in America.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Trips down to Lima, the capital, were broken by a stop at the company hotel in La Oroya (now the most polluted place on earth), where we visited some friends and family (Youngs (daughter Monica lives in Sydney, Australia), Allens, Oxleys, Fitchetts (daughter Ann lives in Christchurch, New Zealand), and Caudrons, respectively, the latter family now in Belgium).<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Relatives were also visited on our way through Casapalca – the Boswells (now in the United States).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Other children I remember from the different camps were (forgive spelling errors!) Doug Allen, the Smith-Gillespies (now in the United States and Switzerland), Gautiers, Nicoletti (or Nicolini?), and others who, in my mind, have now become nameless. Adults were the Oxleys, Whitlings, Walkers.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">On the eight-hour trip to and from the coastal city of Lima, either by car or train, one would pass Ticlio at 18,000 feet altitude.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>“Soroche”, altitude sickness, was a common fact – we all suffered from it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:0;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Train rides were captivating.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>While the Indian passengers would eat the strong-smelling large yellow fruit, relative to the lime, which were sold at the stations on long vines, we expatriates would be enraptured by the frequent change in direction of the train.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The diesel engine, sometimes two at a time, which pulled the various carriages of peasants and city folk, would delink at one level, be turned on a “turn-about” and then push the train downwards to the next level of the high Andes mountains.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>On the next bend, the engine(s) would be turned around again to pull the coaches across and down the next few kilometers.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The zigzagging, a feat of engineering, was the only way for the train to descend the high Andes mountains.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>What once was known as the Central Railway (built by an American, Henry (Enrique) Meiggs), is the highest railway in the world.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The bridges across the deep valleys always held my breath. They were so narrow and high.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The loneliness and barren hills of the Andes, with the deep blue sky, is brought to mind many a time, when I listen to Peruvian Indian music, particularly when played with the <i>kena</i> and <i>charango.</i><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It gives me a certain desire to be back there, but only for a while; to contemplate the harsh beauty enveloping a beige-brown-colored landscape, with snow-capped mountains and a deep blue cover that is the sky.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">These are experiences and memories that have made us what we are today.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Margie (nee Fawcett)</span><a class="cssButton" id="publishButton" onclick="if (this.className.indexOf("ubtn-disabled") == -1) {var e = document['stuffform'].publish;(e.length) ? e[0].click() : e.click(); if (window.event) window.event.cancelBubble = true; return false;}" href="javascript:void(0)"> </p></a><div class="cssButtonOuter"><div class="cssButtonMiddle"><div class="cssButtonInner">Publish Post</div></div></div><p></p>Margaret Fawcetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01843780921135564959noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-13897274373530423572003-01-01T16:26:00.000-08:002008-09-11T20:12:20.520-07:00Experiences by Pat Dowd II<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BsX2xodnndc/SMmphpuDZbI/AAAAAAAABeg/AkDDa8H8wJc/s1600-h/Yaupi1.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244909636649444786" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BsX2xodnndc/SMmphpuDZbI/AAAAAAAABeg/AkDDa8H8wJc/s320/Yaupi1.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>I can still hear the birds chirpping in the early morning, while the smells of sweet sirup, freshly brewed coffee, toasts made from home-made bread mixed together with that unforgetable and unmistakingly Yaupi jungle smell. </p><br /><p>We travelled to Yaupi many times while we lived in Peru, but I guess the first and the last are the ones I remember the clearest. I was three the first time we went with my parents, my baby sister and the maid (of course). </p><br /><p>I remember crossing the river in "la oroya" and walking in the jungle holding tight to daddy's hand. But the adventure I remember the clearest, was going on a ride in the cable-car that transported material from the road, high up in the mountain, to the electric plant which was right by the river.<br /><br />I remember the feeling of climbing and climbing until the car was nearly vertical!! It was a slow climb, which made it even more frightening. </p><p>But the worst part of the story was that once you got on, you couldn't get off, and that meant you had to travel all the way down in the cable-car AGAIN!! Now mommy and I didn't let go our hands one minute (I needed reasuring too!) and I think the best way to make you all understand how we felt are the two pictures I am attaching here. </p><p>Love, Pat </p><p>p.s. But I'd do it again! </p><p>Pat Dowd</p><br /><div></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-56796938911979846402002-12-30T16:37:00.000-08:002008-09-11T20:09:56.038-07:00Experiences by Suzie Wright<p>I was born in Callao and grew up in La Oroya in the 40s and 50s. My Dad, Ted Wright, went to C de P in 1924, straight out of Berkeley, and stayed until 1956. My Mom, Margie Wright, married my Dad in 1937, and I came along in 1939. We lived in Chulec 53, my sister Chris (Tinky) was born and we moved to Chulec 4 (?) several houses down from the hospital, and then to Mayupampa, where my sister Stephanie spent her first two years before we all packed up in 1956 and moved to "the States". Growing up in La Oroya was full of adventure, but safe, all ages played as a group, everyone was your parent, but they were all Mr. and Mrs., we took it for granted that there were servants in the house, but somehow we all knew that we lived a different life than those in "The States", and respected it. </p><p>Pat Vandel Simon and I were the only two in the eight grade in the Chulec school, and were the second class to graduate there in 1953. Mike and Richard Bemis and June Chancellor had preceded us. We both took off for the states, came back summers, and boy did we think we were the most sophisticated and grown-up teen-agers on earth! Of course, Leah's ...Mrs. Higg's, summer dance lessons helped, so we could look cool at the Inca Club parties. Pat and I have remained in close contact ever since, but I have had little contact with anyone else from La Oroya. </p><p>Now 50 some years later, three children and three grandchildren later, retired from a 30 year banking career, I am living in a gold mining town (fancy that!) in Grass Valley, Ca. with my companion of five years, Richard Fernandez. We had planned to go to Peru in 2002, and with all of this reconnection and resulting conversations, we did go back in July with both of my sisters and their husbands. It was wonderful! Unfortunately we were advised not to go up to Oroya due to political reasons. CdeP gringos aren't looked upon with great favor, and I guess the town has become quite sooty, grimy, and run-down. However, we went to Lima (a bit seedy, and has lost its luster), Paracas (still the same!), Cusco (wonderful), Machu Picchu (fantastic) and many small towns, like Pisac, Urabamba, and Pisco that had not changed. It brought us right back to our childhood. It was a very moving and wonderful trip. </p><p>What is really remarkable, after all of this time, are the many reconnections that Valerie's project has brought to my life. Valerie found me through my sister in Colorado, whom she found through Mark Mills, who had found my sister through a fellow who worked with her and was Mark's friend. </p><p>Whew...now, to top if off, it turned out that Valerie and I only live about 15 minutes from each other! Getting together with Valerie and her folks resulted in thinking of other possibilities, and since last February I have had dinner with Don Koropp, Mike Bemis (came out from WI and stayed a few days), Craig Wadke, and Dixon Clarke. I've talked to Johnny Moses, Margaret Moses Gat, and June Chancellor McConnell. Reliving childhood experiences with those you actually experienced them with has been a real gift. Reliving life in La Oroya with those I never knew while there, has been another joy. To really top this off, I received an e-mail one day from a gal I had hired to work for me about four years ago, who had just received "the" CdeP list, and found my name. This was Renee Walker Laffey, who had lived there, and we had never made the connection until this fall! I hope that 2003 will bring more reconnections and sharing of common experiences. Thanks to all of you who have contributed to this project, especially Valerie. Feliz Año Nuevo! </p><p>Suzie Wright Bergesen<br /></p><p><br /></p>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-43385841368273858742002-10-23T16:36:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:10:18.137-07:00Experiences by Susy Visser<div><br /></div>Those were the days weren't they. I moved around the Cerro camps with my parents from 1961 to 1976, so that makes it from the age of 3 to the ripe old age of 18. There isn't a camp I can forget. The wonderful people I met along the way. A youth filled with so many memories, my wish today that I could give my son now what I had then.<br /><br />Remember the golf clubs, the reunions there on Sundays!! Moms playing cards, dads out hitting the ball, and us kids playing our own rounds of golf! The freedom we had, this worry free youth. Movies for us kids once a week, no discos just memorable parties at home. No TV, just memorable times outside with our friends. Horse back riding, hiking, building club houses, scaling mountains, what else did we not do, never a dull moment.<br /><br />I now have a son he is 4. When he plays outside I sit and watch and sometimes my mind takes me back to those days and I get nostalgic. I don't remember mom having to sit outside, I don't remember hearing stay where I can see you, all I remember is be home before dark!!!<br /><br />I wish I could remember all of my teachers names but I can't. Mrs. Muir my first grade teacher I will never forget. Mr. Rosenburg and Mr. Fitzgerald from Cerro de Pasco I will never forget (mainly because all us girls had a crush on them!). I can remember many others but not their names.<br /><br />People that had a great influence on me were Mr. and Mrs. Ali Fraser and Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy Cowper. Spend many weekends with them to learn my english so I could go to kindergarten. Mimi Harris whom I only knew in first and second grade whom I could never forget because she told me such an outrageous secret, I am now 44 and still have not forgotten or figured it out. To all of you who were a part of my life in those wonderful years I will never forget you and thank you. I was going to name each and everyone of you but I am afraid I might overload the website!!!! I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mr Paul van Nijmwegen for helping me out of a terrible constipation problem when I was 10. Mrs. Dixon for brushing my hair in the mornings for school! (mom was in Lima awaiting the birth of my sister Tanja). I also always remeber Brent McFarlane's sister I think her name was Deborah. She would only come for the holidays and was older than I but she had the patience to sit there and let me play with her barbies and when she left she gave me her whole collection! I was so happy!!! John Kitakawa for helping me with my multiplications. Johnny Broadly who always made me laugh. Mrs. Riet Jansen who got me addicted to hot dogs with mustard. Tony Jansen for the two scars on my forehead!! Johnny and Pamela Simpkins for letting us play in their playhouse and telling on me when I snuck into the school room and copied the answers to the next days test!!! My biggest thanks goes to my mom and dad Arie and Tanja Visser for taking a job with Cerro de Pasco coorporation and giving me these unforgetable friends and memories. I love you mom and dad.<br /><br />Susy Visser<br /><br /><div><br /></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-85856416436451541002002-09-23T19:06:00.000-07:002008-09-23T19:24:30.572-07:00Experiences by Kathleen Dowd<table style="WIDTH: auto"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/7YuMZe8e_ONtKlHGLGdBCQ"><img style="WIDTH: 221px; HEIGHT: 227px" height="196" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/eduardo.dowd/SMnPKMIGbhI/AAAAAAAABnE/fQCbhGfYNkI/s144/martinmuir15.jpg" width="190" /></a></td><td> </td><td><br /><br />None of you might have even registered my existance then, but I was there too, and was the one that got so scared with the Mummy, (with Boris Karloff), that I was allowed to go into the parent's card game room, shaking and crying because none of you "big, strong, helping guys" wanted to keep me company, THANKS. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was about 6 or 7 at the time, and have not yet forgiven any of you for the cruelty that was afflicted upon me during those days, (some things are just too painful to forget,)<br />Scars remain, and one is tortured for life, by the image of Boris Karloff all wrapped up in toilet paper, dragging one foot, left or right, depending on the scene; and all the big guys yelling:<br /><br />"Well, if you are so scared, then get out!, you scary cat... We want to watch this movie" (I hope to be able to overcome the strenuous pain these memories drag...)<br /><br /><br />Now I need to know who was in the room with us, when we found a "piece of black paper" in a corner (we were ordered to make our beds and fix the room that day, in order to be able to have breakfast...). The "piece of black paper" ended up being a TARANTULA... yes, really, it must have weighed about 4 or 5 kilos, and was about 25 cm in diameter (not including the legs, of course) The dads didn't beleive us, even though we screamed louder than the Egiptian Princess while her lover was being buried alive.... One of them finally came in and saw the damn thing with all it's 250 legs poking out..... they gathered all their guts, and were brave enough to find a broom to attack the menacing monster from the other end of the room repeatedly, by thrusting the weapon at it with the little aim they had left after the activities they had engaged in the night before... Needless to say, we all cried after the poor weak, mild, and defenseless creature was massacred into a reddish-black pulp. Did anyone count how many broom thrusts it took to end the poor creature's life? I was too busy screaming at the top of my lungs, standing on the bed, and regularly checking all the other corners of the room.<br /><br /><br />And who was the nature-lover who caught bats during the night, only to free them in the morning, when the sun was out, just to see how they flew up like mad, and, I don't know actually why, but they dropped dead almost instantly when they realized the sun was out. (I must admit it was fun to see these disgusting creatures commit suicide just to please our twisted minds...)<br /><br /><br />So, now all you have left is to answer soon, so I can begin the process of healing my painful wounds... (even if by now I have figured out that Boris Karloff was an actor, and not a poor Egyptian architect that was buried alive for having an affair with the princess...)<br /><br /><br />Kathleen Dowd (does anyone actually remember me?) Apart from my immediate family, that is...Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-65199917786871376262002-09-06T16:33:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:03:45.670-07:00Experiences by Moira Dowd<div><br /></div>I was born on a hill and recall precious moments of having been able to grow on a hill… Valerie’s story gives life to our childhood … too many memories… even if I was 7 (year 1967) years old when I left La Oroya, it all comes back at once and it gives me a wonderful feeling… thank you for sharing it with us all.<br /><br />I still hold some school newsletters which stayed with me, they talk about Rockie MacGregor and Margaret MacNeillis and Jennifer Isaacs.<br /><br />We all talk about memories. I hold too many, one of them Mrs. Nuckols ….so peaceful, she gave us a precious place to listen to her story telling and prepared her delicious cookies which we so much enjoyed there up on a hill in our little hiding place “The Castle”. For us it was the top of the world. An adventure.<br /><br />I also hold a farewell note given to Daddy, Eduardo J. Dowd, when we left La Oroya to Lima. So many surnames, all those families: I’ll transcribe some of it, you might find your family name here:<br /><br />La Gerencia de Logística<br />La Oroya 24 de Junio de 1967...<br />Con todo cariño de sus amigos y compañeros de trabajo con motivo de su traslado a Lima como gerente de Logística...<br /><br />Allen, Alzamora, Amezaga, Aragón, Aranda, Black, Bolton, Clark, Cowper, Craig, Delgado, Duffy, Eguiluz, Eigl, Flores, Fraser, Freire, Furlan, Gallardy, Garrison, Glennon, Graham, Guggenheimer’s, Halle, Harris, Heredia, Hickey, Hickford, Isaacs, Johnson’s, Kirkner, Kitagawa, Kristensen, Lang, López, Lord, Maccagno, MacGregor, Macpherson, Martin, Mata, Mckenzie, Molina, Molloy, Muir, Nuckols, O’Neill, Owen, Poikonen, Polo, Richards, Roper, Sampson, Savage, Scarth, Schnell, Schwab, Selters, Swan, Taylor, Thomas, Vandy, Veliz, Vidal, Wandke, Wilkins, Young<br />And the list goes on and on.<br /><br />I hope to read more on the web page about our yesterday’s, it was a marvellous one.<br />I must give a special THANK YOU TO SEAN DOWD Sean, you made this happen!!!!<br /><br />MOIRA DOWD<div><br /></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-31037414000662891982002-07-29T16:31:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:05:23.881-07:00Experiences by Cynthia Bolton & Pat Dowd<p>Sis, do you remember watching "The monster from the lake" in the living room at Yaupi? Gosh, who was it that got scared, and didn't want to go to his/her room alone? Hey who else was there on that trip? I remember Yaupi was full. </p><p>Weren't the Allen's there too? And what's the name of the lady who did the palm reading in the card-room? (I remember us kids couldn't go into that room). And do you remember staying up until late one night (or were we woken up?) and hearing some "gentlemen" splashing into the pool (as prim and proper as the day they were born)? I think we weren't able to distinguish them quite well from the distance, ejem, ejem, right? </p><p>I can still see my dads face when Moira and I appeared by the car, before leaving on that trip, with a suitcase soooo big, you'd think we were going for ever. I think once in Yaupi, we changed every hour and a half just to prove that everything we had taken was absolutely necessary!!! Yup, greatest of times. </p><p>Pat </p><p>Patricia, </p><p>If I remember all our dads were in the " buff" swimming in the pool. Our Moms were so protective of keeping the kids in the rooms. I t was " The Monster from the Black Lagoon" or "The Mummy" everyone got scared. The Allens were there and so were the Lesothos. Pauline was a graceful diver and her brother which I can't remember his name right now was in my class!!!!!! Who did the palm reading????? I have no idea.????? </p><p>talk to me. Sis </p><p>Cynthia<br /></p><p><br /></p>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-49953980678057444022002-07-24T16:30:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:05:58.096-07:00Experiences by Cynthia Bolton<p>Hey Pat, </p><p>I have memories of that funicular as well. What an adventure those trips were...... Nothing so sophisticated and extravagant could be as much fun as this was. The trips alone were great. Each time I went I was a little older and we approached the same things differently. Even though the entire place was small and did not change much year to year to year it was always magical.!!!! </p><p>The big kids ate at one table the little kids at another. Exploring the the town and the trails with the amazing butterflies and bugs was great. Another trips highlights was the funicular and the oroya. Yet another was when I went with the Oroya Youth Club. I beat Beverly Hannah and Patty Allen at swimming in (3) different races, and nobody thought that I could beat the other two. Boy ... did I show them. So what was my big winnings? Tres chocolates "Sublimes". </p><p>How about all those 28 de Julio celebrations and the kids from the town came parading with lanterns. And one more memory, what about when Gabriel was hooked on Cat Stevens "Tea for a Tillerman" and played my tape player over and over again. I'm surprised the tape did not wear out. Well anyway I know our parents had as equal or even more fun. Those days were blissful, especially looking back at them today. </p><p>I am so glad I have the memories.<br /></p><p><br /></p>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-20393134292066632862002-07-12T16:29:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:06:36.109-07:00Experiences by Laura Dowd<p>Hey Pat, </p><p>My earliest recollections: </p><p>The sparkling blue skies, ice cold air, sound of gravel under my feet, the sight of pots with water placed in front of the electrical heaters in each room that kept the air more humid, the unending trickling river running along the Mayupampa neighbourhood, friendly names such as Mrs. Oxley, the Bosshardts, the Allens, the Boltons, the Frazers... cute rhymes such as: </p><p>"Gringa Machichi </p><p>Hazte tu pichi </p><p>En tu pichichi" </p><p>Oatmeal for breakfast but "first" have your orange juice if not it makes your tummy go sour, coming from Lima a day must go by without moving too suddenly or running because of the height and the "soroche", the smell of tar, the crisp fresh air, the Beatles on the record player, the bowling and movies, uptown and downtown, my tricicle with an extra seat to take my sister, the street sales of lemonade, the heaters on the floor in the dining room that were terribly dangerous, the super events like Halloween and Christmas which made the world bloom... </p><p>Oooops! I must grow up for a while - my "now" world is asking for dinner and I have to give myself a minute to call upon my memory for more of these recollects... </p><p>so bye for now...<br /></p><p><br /></p>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-58393383398823614842002-07-07T16:25:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:07:28.050-07:00Experiences by Pat Dowd I<div><br /></div>I was impressed at reading Sylvia's experience in Cerro, because I too lived in "la sierra", in La Oroya from 1958 till 1967. I too knew Mrs. Oxley, who by the time I started school (1963) was already Principal of La Oroya High School. She lived only 5 houses away from mine in Mayupampa (Oroya was divided into neighbourhoods, Mayupampa was one and the closest to school).<br />Sylvia is right when she says that our childhood's were special. I have very vivid memories of going mountain climbing, of stream hiking to find the beginning of the stream (which we never found), or go horseback riding in Casaracra on Saturdays.<br /><br />I grew up with no TV, nor any need of it. I had the Mantaro (the river that crossed La Oroya) and the mountains and tons of friends to enjoy them with.<br /><br />I have a special place for Christmas season memories, when Mr. Muir would come right into our house (we never locked doors) shouting "Merry Christmas to all!!" and just leave his present under our tree. And then on the week before Christmas Eve we'd all go carolling around the camp on the back of a truck at night when it got quite cold. I do regret never having been able to be part of the Bell Choir, organized by Mrs. Nuckolls (not sure of spelling).<br /><br />Bonnie, there is much more I could say about Oroya, if you are interested, please e-mail me. I would like to get in touch with Sylvia, because although I didn't know her, I'm sure we must have more known people in common.<br /><br />Thanks, <div><br /></div><div>Pat Dowd<br /><br /><br /></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-48127051627088431122002-04-29T16:23:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:09:23.672-07:00Experiences In Cerro De Pasco by Sylvia WalterExperiences In Cerro De Pasco (Extracted from <a href="http://gosouthamerica.about.com/library/weekly/aa050502a.htm">GoSouthAmerica.About.com</a>) by Sylvia Walter<br /><br />In September 1956 we arrived at our new house in Bellavista Camp at Cerro de Pasco after having spent the previous night in the guest house in La Oroya, (large map), as recommended by the company doctors. We had made the trip by train (photo La Oroya Station) from Lima and I remember not feeling very well: (soroche, or altitude sickness) headaches, tummy trouble and just feeling faint. There was my father, Ernest Mac Ardle, a mining engineer, my mother Alice, my brother Richard, and myself. The following day we proceeded our trip to Cerro.<br /><br />Our first house was on the main road from La Oroya to the city of Cerro de Pasco. It was unpaved and therefore terribly dusty as trucks, buses, cars went by, although I don't remember it being too busy. Our house had a lounge-dining room, two bedrooms, one bathroom and a kitchen - all in the same level. The back part was open to some wild grass and a wall with stairs going up to a higher level of houses. We had a wooden shed which we didn't use because it was all electrical when we arrived but it had been built some time ago to store logs for the fireplace and cooker. The telephones, though, were those that you had to turn the handle, and you told the operator the number of the house you wished to speak to.<br /><br />Further up the main road, in the direction of the city, was La Esperanza Guest House. It was made of concrete and had a patio in the middle, with a huge Galapagos tortoise at that time. Mostly, the bachelors lived there, but there was also a dining room for anybody who wanted to use it, and further inside a small long and narrow room that was the "cinema". I used to love it because there were rocking chairs and it was a small group that watched the films while we had drinks and a snack. Every time the reel came to an end, there was a break, while they installed the next one and it gave us a chance to socialize.<br /><br />Richard and I went to the American school which was a little red brick house consisting of two rooms and two bathrooms (one for the girls and another one for the boys). The playground was a little further away, with a see-saw, a merry-go-round and a monkey bar. There was also a small concrete area for roller skating. We mostly just walked on soil or tundra-like ground. There was a small valley next to the school where horses and pigs used to roam and there was a time when we used to hunt for some very hairy caterpillars which were great to play with Dinky toys! We all followed the Calvert course and there was one teacher, mostly Mrs. Oxley, who taught the eight grades, all in one room; she was extraordinarily well organized and I loved to go to school.<br /><br />We weren't many children so we all sort of played together. We loved playing cowboys and Indians and the smaller ones used to go to school all dressed up as cowboys with guns and all. We used to play hopscotch quite a lot. I remember in the first grade there was a boy called Craig Randall and he was so full of beans….he was always getting into trouble. Once, during recess, he went into the valley and played with the horses running under their legs, etc., and nothing happened to him!<br /><br />Later on we moved to another house, a bit further from the main road. It was slightly bigger. They also built, at the time, a new building containing a modern cinema, bowling alley, library, dining room, bar (there was no alcohol restriction), large dancing floor, etc. Our parents just loved putting us all in the cinema in the afternoons while they enjoyed themselves upstairs in the bar. It was pandemonium….a huge cinema for a small crowd, and they used to mostly show us, guess what? - cowboy movies. Sometimes there were no adults to supervise us and the small kids used to run up in front of the screen firing their guns while the movie was being shown, while the older ones sat eating raw sugar cane.<br /><br />For Christmases we used to go around singing carols; for Halloween, went to all the houses with pillowcases and in disguise; for the Carnaval, we were ready to soak anybody with water either by squirting water guns at them or throwing buckloads of water as is the custom in Peru. For Easter all the families went to the Golf Club - that was always a big gathering with all the ladies bringing pies, sweets or meals, and then all the kids went Easter egg hunting in the golf course. That was so much fun!<br /><br />Sometimes we got together and went walking into complete wilderness, over mountains, into lakes or caves……you saw not a soul around you. I remember once we all went to this lake with lots of balloons because we thought that once we built our raft, the balloons would help it to float…..of course, we got all drenched when we tried to sail! Another time, we went "mountain climbing", walking all the way to the mountain tied up to a long rope….we must have been a sight!<br /><br />There was a company bus that used to take the ladies to the city twice a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays) and that was fun……all of them used to go with these baskets. My mother used to go to a taylor in the city so he would make her some slacks.<br /><br />The golf course was just tundra-like vegetation and the greens were made of sand!<br /><br />I remember many people: Birgit & Utz Lochmann, Natasha & Galia Archipov, David & Cameron Oxley, Bobby Foot, Dougie Wilshire, Wendy Charpentier, Tommy Evers (my neighbour), Mary Nicoletti, the Naftals, the Stocks, and Toelles, the Humphreys…..<br /><br />The General Manager worked at La Casa de Piedra, an impressive colonial building, and there was a general store nearby where they sold tinned food from the U.S. We also had a very good hospital with Dr. Lochmann at its head.<br /><br />For holidays we used to go to Lima. The company had a big house for its members called "The Cerro House", in San Isidro. We loved it as there were things for children to do: a huge playground and a library.<br /><br />We left in June 1959 to go back to Chile. Our maid, Rosa, who was quite an old lady, wanted us to take her with us but we thought it was better for her to stay with her family. I always remember Rosa, because she used to play hide and seek with us when my parents were out, when she was supposed to be putting us to bed! She was a lovely lady.<br /><br />In 1980 I went back to Cerro with my husband, but things had changed. Cerro de Pasco Corporation was there no more and Centromin had taken over. There was a fence surrounding the Bellavista Camp and we needed a permit to go in. We had no time to try and get one.<br /><br />There were always serious disputes between the Company and the local miners who rightly felt they were being exploited and that their city was in danger of being swamped by the mining operations, plus a complete disregard for their history and culture. In one of these disputes one of the American bosses slapped a miner and things got very bad. The government sent the army to protect us and we were all taken to the basement of the hospital. It was early evening and as we huddled quietly (we had brought our pets along, too), we heard the angry population passing by going towards the Bellavista Camp. Some people who did not make it to the hospital got hurt; some ladies drove in a car with no tyres all the way to La Oroya, as they ran away. The women and children were sent to La Oroya until things got settled while the men stayed behind. At La Oroya we were dispersed amongst families and I remember going to school with the children who were my hosts. A few days after, the men came too, which meant things got worse. Eventually, the situation was controlled, not too much damage was done, and we went back to Cerro.<br /><br />It was a very rough way of life but it was a paradise for us kids.<br /><br />Sylvia Walter (nee Mac Ardle)<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-22131114529386212132001-09-11T16:38:00.000-07:002008-09-11T20:01:28.931-07:00Recollections by Mrs. Katharine D. Moses. 1913 - 1983It was late spring of 1935 and I was a year out of Vassar College. My husband of not quite a year was approaching the end of a long stay at Harvard, which was to end before long with the completion of his Ph.D. thesis. We had had quite a year, two months in Montana while my husband did field work for the U. S. Geological Survey on a tiny expense allowance, no salary, and then what seemed for that period of depression times a prosperous winter with an income of seventy dollars a month for his work as an Assistant Instructor at Harvard while finishing his own studies. However with the approach of the end of the school year job-hunting outside academia began to have top priority. A trip to New York City ended up with two offers and we felt as if we owned the world. One offer was for oil geology in Texas with Texaco, the other for a copper mining company in South America. Youth, a spirit of adventure, and a love for travel swung the scales to the Andes. To be perfectly honest about it, one of the most important factors in that decision was that my husband had been told that it was useless to apply to that particular mining company, they were not taking on any new employees, but "go in and speak to them if you are near their offices, it can't hurt to get acquainted with them". At that time Cerro de Pasco Copper Corporation managed some 800,000 acres of land, three great mines, at Morococha, Casapalca and Cerro de Pasco, the relatively new metallurgical smelter at La Oroya and a hydroelectric plant at Malpaso. The haciendas grazed some 60,000 sheep and some 20,000 cattle to help feed the thousands of workers.<br /><br />So we found ourselves celebrating our first wedding anniversary on board a ship in the Pacific Ocean, waiting anxiously for the land that was to be our home for the next sixteen years. We were looking forward to the experience but we were also feeling a little hesitant, at least I was. We had of course heard wild tales about the effects of living in high altitudes but even more I was worried because I had been told that I would find the few American women there would be resentful of the fact that I had been to college. I was advised to keep quiet about "my past".<br /><br />Our first realization that we were now in a strange land where we could not even speak the language came on our first sight seeing trip. We had brought with us a Scottie dog, "Erpie" who was a member of the family and of course he was with us when we started out in an open car with a hired driver to see the city of Lima. Very soon the dog in his excitement over all the wonderful smells, fell out of the car and dangled just off the road at the end of his leash. Knowing no Spanish word for stop, we kept shouting in English until the driver concluded that the noise was more than should be expected even from noisy loud American tourists and stopped to investigate. From that moment on the dog proved one of our biggest attractions and attracted fascinated attention all over the country, particularly in the mountains where a thoroughbred dog was at that time virtually unknown.<br /><br /><br />P.S. from John Moses Jr.:<br /><br />I imagine it might amuse some people. My parents called the dog that they still had when I was a little boy Erpie. They had it before they went to Peru. I do not think they realized that "urpi" in Quechua meant friend! I rather like that coincidence.<br /><br />Our first trip "up the hill" was made on the fabulous Ferrocarril Central, the highest standard gauge railroad in the world. It was built by Henry L. Meiggs, an American engineer, and snaked it's way from sea level to 15,806 feet in a distance of about one hundred and thirty kilometers, using bridges over bridges, tunnels and switchbacks. It hung on mountainsides, seemed at times on switchbacks about to run off into the canyon below. It came from the dry coast, up through the mountains into a rainy belt and vegetation, on above the vegetation into the land of rock slopes, llamas, alpacas, vicuñas and glaciers, past small farms, past mines, past innumerable natives on foot from nowhere to nowhere, stone houses with tin roofs, mud houses with thatched roofs, desolation and grandeur. From Ticlio the train continued another 40 kilometers to La Oroya where in 1922 Cerro opened a metallurgical complex. We went on to Cerro de Pasco; some 60 miles north of La Oroya where our assigned home overlooked a glacier lake.<br /><br />It was a country such as I had never seen before. I had done some traveling in France and Italy. I had driven through the northern United States from Maine to Washington. I'd seen Glacier National Park, Mt. Rushmore, and the Rocky Mountains of the North American west, but nothing had prepared me for the gaunt majesty of the Peruvian Andes. They looked bleak and forbidding and something about the thin clear air and the light headed feeling which came with my first experience of really high altitudes gave an emotional impact to my first encounter with "La Cima". At that moment I would not have believed that for sixteen years I would be intimate with those mountains and that every rock would become a close friend: that my husband would walk over a great many of those steep slopes and tell us of the rocks he found. Every small bit of road, rail or highway, took on a special significance through the years. Here was the curve where we had picnicked with our firstborn when he was ten months old; here the turns where our daughter always became carsick; and a straight stretch near the summit where we found a car full of people waiting for a native, who while preserving Quechua language and customs of his forefathers, was crossing the hills on foot, we thought to help them change a tire, a physical exertion not easy when you are first at sixteen thousand feet, and the sinking feeling when the native arrived in response to our shouts and we found that he had only one arm. Here was the sharp curve where we had almost collided with a truck whose driver, we suddenly realized as it came weaving at us, had dozed off either from weariness or "soroche" and who sat up with a start at our shouts and pulled off the road to thank us for waking him. On over the Summit was our mountain friend, "Yanasinga", a contrast of black rock and glacier, and always a look to see how much the glacier had receded; and on further would we get a glimpse of "Puy-Puy" or would its peak be lost that day in the clouds?<br /><br />Housekeeping was an adventure and always complicated by the difference in culture and the lack of communication. Our Spanish was non-existent at the start of our years in Peru and very many of the natives with whom we dealt had very little knowledge of Spanish. We never learned more than an occasional word of their ancient Quechua language, our children probably picked up more of it than we did.<br /><br />Buying eggs was a long and complicated procedure near Cerro. A native would arrive at the door with a large basket of eggs and the first step was bargaining on the price, next the dishpan, full of water was brought to the back porch and eggs were carefully placed in the water with the hope of finding enough that stayed on the bottom or perhaps turned up slightly on end. Then it was almost a slight of hand trick to see whether I could fish out enough fresh eggs from the bottom of the pan before the seller whisked out for me too many of those that were accessibly floating on top; then a final count and payment for agreed upon eggs. Apparently no one had more than a few laying hens and so sellers would hoard eggs until enough were in hand to justify a trip from "chacra" to the town. One of my most faithful suppliers for years was a round-cheeked Mongolian-looking young woman who would arrive on horseback with a small number of eggs in each saddlebag! Her eggs were usually quite fresh, but the payment was always difficult, since I never succeeded in changing her system of pricing - ten centavos a piece or two for twenty-five centavos. It was hard to find enough "realitos" to pay for them one by one. In the seasons when the hens became less energetic about laying, and no one came to the house, I would often take a basket and go on foot through the neighboring village, knocking at any doors where I suspected the existence of a hen. Usually by that system I could round up a few eggs and although under such circumstances I could not make the water test, they were generally fresh when picked up in the one-at-a-time fashion. In due course we had a hen house and our children helped feed the chickens.<br /><br />One of the side-effects of living at over fourteen thousand feet elevation, near a mining camp without full hospital facilities, was for me the fairly necessary experience of spending, as then advised, a certain number of months at a Pension at sea level. Aside from the fact that this meant months of separation from my husband at a period when women would rather not be alone, it was complicated in my case by the fact that I now had one small boy who was due to reach his first birthday on what turned out to be the day after his sister's birth. Since I went down the hill two and a half months before the arrival of my daughter, any one who can do a little fast arithmetic can imagine the state of my figure at that period.<br /><br />I must sidetrack briefly right here to give one background touch. We were living in what was then officially a Catholic country, where large families were looked upon with approval. In fact, all the wives on their first appearances at local Cerro dances had been put thought the same opening conversational gambit by their Spanish speaking dancing partners:<br /><br />"How long have you been married, señora?"<br />"X years!"<br />"How many children, señora?"<br />"None".<br />"Why not?"<br /><br />Leaving us in turn with no possible answer in English and certainly not in a foreign language. In fact, my early attempt to answer in Spanish would probably have resulted in the oft-misused but easy transposition from English<br /><br />"Estoy embarrasada" which would of course unintentionally end that gambit then and there.<br /><br />Back to sea level and the problem of finding a place to live for perhaps five months, with one child almost ten months old and a Quechua speaking nursemaid. I drove around for several weeks and rang innumerable doorbells in Lima. An explanation of the accommodations I would need always brought forth the same quick hidden glance and the exclamation 'Qué barbaridad, señora!" However, I did finally find a pension in "Miraflores" which was not afraid of me and allowed us to move in. I had a fairly comfortable room opening off the patio, access to the living room and dining room, which also opened off the garden. It was lovely summer weather and we soaked up a lot of sunshine, and if life was frequently dull and monotonous, it was also frequently enlivened by adventures learning about Lima (as well as by the changing population of the pension.) I don't want this to be a "clinical" report, but there was the week when in addition to sun all the pensionistas also acquired a familiar Latin bug. So followed the delightful morning, when by pre arrangement four taxis were waiting at the door. We all arose bright and early, took our doses of salts, and climbed into the taxis and headed off for our appointment at the British American hospital. Of course we all recovered, but we had plenty of time to sympathize with each other. While I recall such events, it was customary for hospitals in Peru years ago, perhaps still today, to provide an extra bed in each private room for an "acompaniante" of the patient, perhaps to relieve the nursing load. So it was, that when my daughter was born in the clinic at Callao, I found myself next door to a man and wife who were old friends of ours. The man recovering from pneumonia, and his wife who was a trained nurse occupying the extra bed. One morning as I was sleepily taking care of my new daughter's six o'clock in the morning appetite, I became aware of a commotion next door, the two rooms occupied a corner space and it was almost possible to see from one to the other and very easy to hear. Being concerned as to whether the raised voices meant that my friend was not as well as expected, I began to listen, and was soon aware that there was quite an argument in progress between the nurse on duty and the wife of the patient. I heard in Spanish:<br /><br />"No, no -you have made a mistake",<br />"Please, señora, you must wake up."<br />"I am awake, nurse, but please be quiet or you will disturb my husband."<br />"But señora, you must. I am sorry but do not go to sleep."<br />"Look, nurse, just go on away and leave us alone."<br />A little more noise and then a few sleepy male grunts followed, I heard: "What is the matter nurse?"<br />"Señor, I am sorry to disturb you but please tell your wife that she simply must wake up and nurse her baby."<br /><br />It took all of us some time to convince the nurse that no matter how awake the señora was, nor how fond of children, she could do nothing to help someone else's hungry baby though she was trying very hard to do a good job of nursing her husband through an attack of pneumonia.<br /><br />One of my clearest memories is of a pack trip I made with my husband into a section of Peru not easily accessible to the average traveler and actually quite cut off from civilization - even from the degree of civilization known in the smaller mountain towns that were at least on a road passable to sturdy vehicles. We had started from La Oroya, then a town of about ten thousand or more people, the meeting point of two railroads and two highways (if you can dignify with the name of highway the two-lane unpaved roads that then wound through the mountain section (the sierra or the "hill") as we comfortably referred to the twelve thousand feet high La Oroya location and a company metallurgical center, (possibly processing more different ores than anywhere else on earth.)<br /><br />From this relatively civilized spot, we took off by train and rode about fifty miles to the north end of the pampa of Junin. This fourteen thousand foot high plain, full of grazing sheep and a large lake that is a Mecca for duck hunters, was the scene of the final battle in Peru's fight for independence and sprouts a startling modern pillar in commemoration thereof. From its northern edge, the valleys twist down fast and steeply into the Amazon drainage, with magnificent glacier-covered peaks standing guard over little native villages luxuriating in the fertility of the valley bottoms. From the town of Carhuamayo we took a truck in a northeasterly direction for another forty miles or so, to a point where a stream valley parted company with the road and here we set up our first camp. We, my husband and myself, Leon, our cook and Davila, the instrument man who helped my husband on his surveying. Both Leon and Davila were remarkably capable natives. We had one large sleeping tent and a small cooking tent and of course we were carrying our own food and equipment as well as surveying and sampling equipment. Leon served us a good hot meal. Since it was very cold, except in direct sun as it is never very warm at high elevation, we all were ready for bed early. We did have light from a gasoline lamp, but it was much too cold to think of anything except crawling into our sleeping bags. The idea of a woman going on one of these trips was a somewhat unusual one. There had been no experience in running these purely business field trips for mixed company, no safari. All four of us were sleeping in the same tent, which was quite large enough to contain four cots around the sides, and a table in the middle which served as desk and as a dining room table and held our one lamp. We all four managed to get ready for bed and into our blankets with a relative regard for the decencies, not just of mixed company but with two natives who really had never expected to find themselves living so intimately with a "gringa". Then suddenly the first problem arose. All four of us were modestly tucked into bed and stripped down to at least our inner layers of long underwear when we all suddenly realized that our lamp was still burning brightly in the middle of the room. I suppose the logical thing would have been for my husband to get up and put it out, but his two "ayudantes" did not feel that befitted his dignity to do so, and obviously I was not the one to do it. So after a brief mental drawing of lots one embarrassed native made a quick dash to douse the light.<br /><br />Daylight came at the usual in the tropics at its six o'clock hour. Leon's hot coffee smelled wonderful and I happily braved the early morning icy air to make ready for the next stage of our trip. As I stepped out of the tent, I could see the sunlight catching the very tops of the mountains surrounding us but the stream in front of me still lay in shadow with its morning coating of ice as yet untouched by the sun. I think I dripped a bit of water on to the tip of my nose but certainly my ablutions went no further than that. For the first time I realized from my own experience just how easy it would be to live in as unwashed a state as seemed prevalent. It took me only a moment to conclude that were was obviously no necessity for me to be any cleaner than I already was. As I huddled over our cooking stove gulping hot coffee, I was ready to convert to the old Inca worship of the sun. I eagerly watched the bright light work its way down the mountainsides, counting the minutes until the sun would be high enough for its rays to hit the valley bottom where the tent was.<br /><br />In the meantime, we had acquired a pack train of about twenty animals and a couple of "arrieros" who were responsible for their care. It took some time to break camp and divide our equipment so that it would be distributed amongst these animals, but finally all was done and we were ready to mount our own, not prancing steeds, but the little "chuzco" mountain horses, with their narrow high saddles and box stirrups, and we were off. The two "arrieros" did not ride but wanted to accompany us for the next four days on foot, at a slow but steady trot that showed their descent from the old Inca runners, the "chasqui", who used to get the fresh fish from Lima up to Cuzco, the mountain capitol of the Inca Empire. Our progress was not fast, the trails wound up and down mountainsides and the horses had to pick their way with care. I will never understand why a horse on a narrow trail on the side of a mountain always negotiates it in such a fashion that his off rear foot always swings out over empty space. It did always come down on the trail but many a time I was in doubt. Since I have never, even in years of living in mountain country, been able to overcome completely a strong tendency towards vertigo, I had many uncomfortable moments on these trails. Many a time, though it was easier to ride the horse as he tugged his way uphill, I got off the horse and walked because I found the extra height from the horse's back put me in a more vulnerable position for vertigo than when I was on my own two feet on the ground.<br /><br />That night when we stopped I got off my horse in the most ungraceful fashion imaginable. In spite of having led my horse over some of those hanging trails, I was stiffer than I could ever remember being. And so with difficulty I got one leg up over the saddle and then just fell to the ground. I was certainly ready for dinner and bed that night. The next day we continued to ride over a few more ridges and in and out of a few more valleys, and finally arrived at the town of Chaucala. Chaucala was not at a low enough elevation to have any vegetation. In fact, it was hard to figure out how the small population kept alive. There were not more than fifty houses in the town, all the typical small round stone "chosas" with thatched roofs. These chosas were about twelve feet in diameter. The floor, of dirt, was a little below ground level, requiring a step down to enter through the low open doorway which was the only source of light and air.<br /><br />The next day my husband and his helpers had to climb up the mountain in order to examine the prospect, which was the reason for this trip and it was decided that it was more sensible for me to stay in the town. We had made our camp in what was apparently the town square or common, a small open flat place surrounded by houses. During the day, I walked to the edge of town, all of a couple of hundred yards away, and settled down in the corner of a field against a stone wall to be lazy and bask in the sunshine and read a book I'd brought for awhile. I soon found that I was quite an object of curiosity, all the women came out and looked at me and smiled in a very friendly fashion. However it soon became obvious that communication was going to be difficult since none of them spoke any Spanish. Of course they did not speak English, but it was unusual to find a town in Peru so out of the main stream that the people still spoke only the old Inca Quechua language, which I had only a few words of and have not ever learned. (Probably not unusual that there was such a town, but unusual that one like myself would get to visit Chaucala.) Finally a ten-year-old boy wandered out and joined us. It turned out the boy was the only one in the town who could speak some Spanish, so he became my shadow for the rest of that day and acted as interpreter. The women were full of questions, they had never been out of their own little valley and automobiles and planes and electricity and all the things we take for granted in the world today were as foreign to their understanding as some of Jules Verne's ideas must have first seemed. The women were kind and friendly and made a conscious effort to see that I was never left alone. They took turns keeping me company, some going off to attend to their chores, but never until there was a new arrival to take over the duties of hostess. At three or so, a real honor was given me. Still through the ten-year-old interpreter I was invited to the home of one of the ladies for coffee. I accepted with pleasure and shortly made my way to the designated "chosa".<br /><br />As I stopped and stepped down to enter the low opening in the round stone house that served as the only source of air and light, I had to stoop and wait until my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the interior. When I was able to safely move a little farther inside, I saw that an orange crate stood on end at the right of the door and it was covered with a white cloth. By it were a couple of crates on their sides and I was graciously ushered to one of these. As I seated myself by the tea table, I could look across the circular room to the small fire burning in a sort of fireplace and see that there were several more women sitting on their heels. With many smiles, I was given a cup of thick black coffee with sugar in it and canned milk to be added and some good hard buns were on the "table". I drank the coffee with pleasure, as usual it was cold as soon as I got out of the sun, but there was one small problem, it really was small - guinea pigs were busily trotting back and forth across my feet as I was sipping coffee and I was not at all sure - whether social etiquette in Chaucala required me to admire them as beloved pets or to ignore them as the basis of the next dinner.<br /><br />Apparently I did not offend any local customs, because when we broke camp the following morning, one after another, the women appeared with a gift for me, each poured out on the ground for me a generous heap of potatoes, a noble gift, for that was surely a big portion of their yearly harvest. I am sure that there must be some connection between this Chaucala hospitality and the custom of "potlatch" among the northwestern tribes of North American Indians. With Leon's assistance, we were able to raid our own supplies sufficiently to give in return a couple of cans of fruit or soup or some such item to each of many hostesses and we parted company with many mutual smiles of goodwill. It is really not surprising that, though I have forgotten names of many other cities or towns where I have spent a night or two, I always have the name of Chaucala clearly in my mind.<br /><br />Since all geological observations had been taken on our slow trip in to Chaucala, we were able to come out in much faster time. After a long and hard ride, we finally arrived back at the road where we had first parted company with our truck.<br /><br />We still had with us, and still running on foot, the two "arrieros" who had met us here several days before. They had not been very interested in our food supplies, seeming to prefer the parched corn, which they carried in small sacks and of which they ate handfuls whenever they appeared to need sustenance. They seemed not at all weary from their days of accompanying us.<br /><br />It was already dark, but suddenly finding myself closer to civilization, I became anxious to hurry on home to the two small children whom I had left behind. A large truck came slowly up the road. We flagged it down and found that the driver, though he already had several passengers, was very willing to take my husband and myself on with them to the town where we had left the railroad, and where we knew there was a hotel in which we could spend the night and catch the early morning train back home. For a small fee, I think it was the equivalent of about two cents, we were allowed to climb into the back of the truck and find ourselves sitting room on the sacks of potatoes which were already fairly well occupied by the other passengers. We made a bumpy but satisfactory trip to town.<br /><br />The hotel was at least warm. We sat in the kitchen while the cook heated up some soup for us and fired us a steak, while we warmed our feet on the coal stove on which our meal was cooking. Unfortunately there were no rooms but since there was nothing else in the town and the manager really did not want us to spend the night in the kitchen, he finally decided that it would be safe to let us use the room of a guest who seemed to be spending the night elsewhere. We were ushered to a small musty single room and assured that we would be called in time for the morning train. The single bed had sheets that had not been changed for at least a month. The towels looked as if no one had ever thought of washing with soap. The room was just as cold as our tent had been. That night I did not even pretend to undress. All I did was to remove my boots, though considering how long it had been since I had washed, I am not sure whether I was protecting myself or the hotel linens.<br /><br />When I finally arrived home the following morning, anxious to get off my clothes which I felt sure had grown to me by then, I was happy to find my then two small children playing very happily in the living room. I rather expected a rousing welcome from them after my adventurous absence, but in the usual fashion of small children, they certainly put me in my place by stopping their play just long enough to look up at me casually and in English shaped by Spanish say, "Why you come home, mommy?"<br /><br />Leon was lean and very dark. I never saw his bright black eyes without a gay and lively twinkle in them. True enough, when he was acting as cook for my husband on field trips in the Andes, he often took advantage of the hours when my husband was climbing far from the base camp and got himself quite drunk. And often, in the intervals between trips, when his main job was to check supplies and get equipment in order for the next trip, he would be absent from work for several days at a time. In fact, sometimes he had to be rescued from a local jail. But he was always cheerful and never complained about spending weeks at a time living in a tent miles from the nearest town and always managed to produce good food from the combination of the canned goods carried with then and what little could be acquired from the land. It was quite a blow to the whole staff when he failed to return from a short vacation to his native village and inquiries finally revealed that his body had been found in the bottom of an old well, where it had obviously arrived with the aid and assistance of some agency other than his own. (Possibly APRA?)<br /><br />I have a photograph of Leon with half a dozen of my little Cub Scouts, when during one of his sober and idle periods in town, he had been loaned to me to instruct the scouts in the construction of a "chosa". With his aid and direction, we built in our yard a small round stone house and put a thatched roof on it and the boys had a wonderful place for sleeping out and a good lesson in how a dwelling could be constructed with no mechanical aids. Our stonework did not rival the famous stonework of Cuzco done by the Incas but I am sure each of those boys had a greater respect for the skill of the Incas. Even in this old black and white photo, his happy face and bright eyes are very clear. Leon always seemed to have such a zest for living that I have never been able to sense that his bright eyes no longer enjoy the mountains of Peru.<br /><br />Mrs. Katharine D. MosesEduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4582578355468394054.post-84033367798008175142000-01-01T16:11:00.000-08:002008-09-11T20:08:25.001-07:00GROWING ON A HILL<div><br /></div>By Val Higgs<br />Copyright January 2000<br /><br />At the age of four I was uprooted from my cold Montana home where I was born. The harsh winters were to be replaced by high altitude. At that point in my journey through life it really didn’t make too much difference to me where I was from or where I was going. My needs were still in their pristine, primordial state. However, after a barely remembered trip by boat from New York, through the Panama Canal and into the Harbor of Callao, Peru, my life began to take on an awareness. That is another way of saying I began to emerge into a conscious human being with memory and all those good things - which have subsequently begun to vanish with the relentless passing of time.<br /><br />I have never really understood how my mother, in particular, could sail away from her family and friends with her husband and two small children to the third world country that Peru was then and still is today. All I know is that for the next seventeen years of my life it was my idea of Heaven - Camelot - Paradise - and then some. I loved my life on , “The Hill” and had the grace to never take it for granted.<br /><br />I should probably explain how we happened to migrate to this hill. My father was a metallurgical engineer and was offered a three year contract with an American Mining Company called Cerro de Pasco Corporation. For the next seventeen years I referred to a small mining industrial center called La Oroya as home, which gives new meaning to the expression, “time flies when you are having fun.” Somehow or another, we simply never got around to leaving until we were forced to do so.<br /><br />This hill we lived on was no ordinary hill by U.S. standards. It began its origin just out of Lima at sea level and climbed to an altitude of just under 16,000 feet above sea level in an incredibly short vertical distance until it dropped into the small Peruvian village of La Oroya which was actually located in the bottom of a canyon at 12,200 feet above sea level. Needless to say, we were well above timberline and the landscape would probably strike most as being pretty bleak and barren. The highest standard gauge railroad in the world went through this pass in the Andes mountains and I did have the privilege and pleasure of being able to ride in its rustic coaches on occasion. Steam engines were still in vogue at that time and the coach cars were not particularly comfortable, especially if you decided to ride in second class, which I did only once. You were likely to share the car with all manner of small animals such as chickens, baby pigs and lambs. It was kind of like a traveling petting zoo.<br /><br />On other occasions I had the privilege of riding in a private car that was reserved for VIPs going up or down the hill. Most often we went up and down the hill by car and traveling on a typical Peruvian road is a thrill that would put the wildest Disney ride to shame.<br /><br />There was one section of road between Lima and La Oroya that will always remain vivid in my memory. The contractors who built the road made a cut right through the middle of a cemetery. They somehow neglected to remove the coffins first and simply sliced them right in half. For all the years I lived in Peru those coffins stuck out of the hill side.<br /><br />16,000 feet is not terribly high by Andean standards and 12,200 was probably considered the lowlands by the natives but it took our breaths away - literally - at least until we acclimated, which usually took about a week. Soroche, which is the Spanish word for altitude sickness, was a frightening reality and we took the early symptoms very seriously. It can be a swift and painless killer. We learned early on, to keep a very close eye on any friends or guests who had recently arrived and many of us made a point of having oxygen tanks in our homes.<br /><br />Many of my earliest memories of life on "The Hill" and that is how we referred to our home, involved elementary school. While taking a science class we happened to encounter the following little blurb in one of our text books .<br /><br />"If you were to take a walk in the Peruvian city of Oroya, you would have to walk much more slowly than you normally do in your hometown or city. Even at this slow pace you would be panting with exertion and sweat would roll down your forehead before you had walked two blocks."<br /><br />You can well imaging how some of us were behaving by now. The room was filled with sweating, panting children - a teachers nightmare.<br /><br />"You might not be able to live in Oroya at all. Most people who visit this city cannot stay there for even for a day. They are taken with mountain sickness; they become dizzy, short of breath, and cannot retain food. Oroya is approximately three and a half miles (17,000 feet) above sea level, in the Andes Mountains.".<br /><br />Shortly after I recovered from all the above ailments, which was about the same time a few of us were being escorted to the principals office, I developed a healthy skepticism for the written word. By no stretch of the imagination was Oroya a "city" and there is a very big difference between 12,200 feet and 17,000 feet. The mountain sickness part, or soroche, was for real.<br /><br />I had many international friends in Oroya. Dave was from Australia, Monica’s parents were from Argentina and England, Tony was half French and half Chilean, Milan was from Yugoslavia, Alistar was Scottish, Annie and Jennie were from Belgium, Nancy and Ian were Chinese, and on and on it went. I never thought too much about it until one day I overheard one of our teachers make the comment that in the elementary school of approximately 200 young people there were 58 countries represented. I remember that number specifically because I wondered how she arrived at that figure since many of these young people claimed parents from two countries. Did they get counted twice? However, I was impressed with this statistic and it was the first time I really realized the unique situation with which I was blessed.<br /><br />I reflect back on my years in Peru and by some standards it would have been many people’s idea of hell. We didn’t have t.v.. We didn’t have shopping malls. We didn’t have opera, or symphonies or little theater. Frequently the sulfur fumes from the smelter, coupled with the barren surroundings really did make Oroya resemble hell more than the heaven I thought is was. So what did we have that was so magical? Well, it wasn’t totally primitive and back woods. We did have a house, a huge house, with indoor plumbing, a couple of maids, a cook and a house boy who all lived in. I never made a bed in my life until I went away to boarding school and if we even thought of venturing into Anna’s kitchen we took our lives into our own hands.<br /><br />The young people in the camp congregated at our house in droves. There was always a gang of kids around ranging in age from 10 to 25 or older - or younger. We always had the latest collection of popular music and mother gave dancing lessons to all the young people in the camp. By the time we entered our teens we were all very proficient at ballroom dancing, knew the steps to all the Latin American dances and many of us enjoyed square dancing, also taught by mother. We even had Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops and a small building was set aside specifically as a Scout House. We had a golf course and La Oroya was a great place to play golf if that was your sport. Since there was no atmosphere, if you connected with the ball on your drives, it went forever. We had a club we called the Inca Club. On the bottom level there was a bar, which was what many of the bachelors, and some of the married men called home - unfortunately, a mining camp reality. There was also a two lane bowling alley where I spent ma ny hours of unadulterated pleasure not only throwing balls and playing in tournaments but in dodging balls while setting pins. There was a barber shop where my mother had great success in teaching the barber the fine art of achieving the perfect “duck tail”. On the upper level was a small restaurant, (we never could teach them how to make Dairy Queen type hamburgers) an even smaller library, a beauty salon and a large multipurpose room. On Monday and Wednesday evenings the multipurpose room was a badminton court. On Tuesday and Thursday and twice on Sundays it was a movie theater and frequently on Saturdays, it was home to fantastic dances. Live bands were brought in from Lima or even from some of the surrounding towns and we danced all night. This multipurpose room also served as an amateur theater. Because of a very temperate year round climate, the days were equally delicious. We did acclimate to the altitude and the Inca ruins that topped every peak around us became a challenging goal for a picnic.<br /><br />We could always find bits of broken pottery dating back to the ancient Incas and, on various occasions, even remains of the people who once inhabited the area and who were buried in very shallow graves . I suspect that I am one of the few people around who has a real skeleton in my closet - well, at least a real skull.<br /><br />There was also ample opportunity for hunting and fishing which brings back some interesting memories. My younger brother was very accurate with a shotgun and the one and only time I ever fired one of these things, while living in Peru, I missed the perdis, a high altitude partridge. My brother was totally disgusted with me, refused to let me hold the shotgun ever again and demoted me to the position of driver. That proved to be lots more fun than hunting. My gun toting, hunting passengers rode on the front hood of the Toyota “jeep” as we slowly cruised through tall grass in search of the illusive bird that generally burst out inches in front of us when we were least expecting it. I would then slam on the brakes which resulted in my passengers being propelled off the front of the car and, if all was executed properly, hurled in the general direction of the fleeing bird. Amazingly, no one was ever even injured let alone killed. There were a few tense moments when we did have car trouble and civilization was light years away. What we would have given for triple A and a cell phone. As it was, our feet and our thumbs were our best resources.<br /><br />We, Jeff and I and all our friends, went everywhere in a no frills, no comforts Toyota land cruiser which was about the best vehicle we could have had considering the places we took it. Frequently there was no road!<br /><br />We were members of a rod and gun club on a lake called Pomacocha. We owned a small boat which we kept docked up there and frequently went fishing for trout on this small, glacial lake which was located at over 14,000 feet. One of my favorite stories has its setting here. My brother and Dave, a friend of his from the States who was spending the summer with us, decided to head off to Pomacocha to put their hunting and fishing skills to the test. They were well into the middle of the lake when Dave shot a hole in the bottom of the boat. The boys frantically bailed and were able to make it back to the dock before the boat sank to the bottom. Fortunately, they did not have to test their swimming skills because, considering the altitude and the temperature of the water, it could have proved to be a rather deadly test. Dave felt terrible, and when he got home, retreated to his room and played his guitar for the next few hours until dad arrived home for dinner. It was awfully quiet as we all assembled at the dinner table. No one spoke a word. Dad, ceremoniously, uncorked a bottle of wine, flipped the cork over to Dave and said, “Here, you might need this sometime.” That defused the situation and was all that was ever said.<br /><br />In our later years in Peru we got involved in horse back riding, first as a family and then as a community. This turned into my major passion for a number of years and my horse, Black Prince, was my number one love. I can’t even begin to describe the thrill, pleasure, excitement and pure joy this animal brought to me. In retrospect, it was probably a very wise decision on the part of my parents to buy me a horse at the same time that I was entering the full throws of puberty and becoming very aware of the charms of the opposite sex. Where I might have unleashed my energies on trying to attract one of the them, my attention was diverted to the magnificent animal which was mine to love and totally enjoy. I am not saying that I shunned male attention in any sense of the word. The guys I dated just had to know how to ride and to be sensitive to the care and needs of a horse. There was a total trust between me and Black Prince. I could ride him standing up or even backwards in the saddle. Most week-ends he took me to the ruins of an old Spanish mill where I picnicked with friends. But his greatest talent was his ability to jump. When we first purchased Black Prince it was with the idea that he would be father’s horse. At the same time we bought a cute little bay we called Brownie. Brownie adapted very well but Black Prince kept trying to run away. There wasn’t a fence high enough to keep him enclosed - he jumped them all. The only thing that kept him with us for the first few weeks was Brownie. Brownie couldn’t jump the fences but the bond of friendship between the two horses was strong enough that Black Prince always returned. I had just lost my first horse and was grieving myself. I suppose this created a certain empathy towards Black Prince and his difficulties in adapting to his new environment so I started to visit him on a regular basis with carrots, sugar, a curry comb and lots of good conversation. It wasn’t too long before the horse and I were inseparable and in a short time we both were jumping. What a thrill that was. We even did a bit of traveling and entered local exhibitions and competitions. Looking back, I think that maybe jumping with Black Prince was the prerequisite for jumping from planes that came later in my life. Somehow, I always trusted that horse much more than a parachute or a plane although the latter was something of a thrill too.<br /><br />There was always a special holiday or event to look forward to during the course of a typical year. A favorite event of mine that took place once a year was Ganadera Day. This was a rodeo hosted by the company and many of us participated in the events. There was the grand parade into the arena on horse back which was followed by bull riding, calf roping, barrel racing and square dancing on horses. For the younger set there were greased pig races, sheep riding contests and burro races. The afternoon was spent either participating in or watching a soccer game on burros which was inevitably hilarious since most of the men were way too large to actually sit on a burro so simply straddled the poor little animal and physically picked it up to aim it in the desired direction. It was against the rules to leave the burro under any circumstances. The day always ended with a pachamanca, a Peruvian picnic. There was nothing that I loved more that a good pachamanca, and I considered all pachamancas to be good. A pachamanca is actually a way of preparing food but was generally associated with a festival of some kind. Very early in the morning a group of people would venture forth and dig a hole in the ground. Above and surrounding the hole they would construct a rounded structure of rocks. In the hole, they would light a fire and keep it burning at a furious rate, which was no mean feat in the altitude, until the rocks were red hot. Then they would collapse the rocks and place all sorts of tasty delectables on top of them. Guinea pigs, lamb, beef, field corn and potatoes were the most common fare for a pachamanca. These were then covered with burlap bags, clean straw and dirt and left to cook for the remainder of the day. In the meantime you became involved in whatever the festivity of the day happened to be. You could always count on small native bands with their Andean flutes, guitars and harps. There was also inevitably an abundance of pisco to be had. Pisco is a Peruvian brandy made from fermented grapes that is guaranteed to knock your socks off. Chicha also flowed freely. This was a fermented corn drink. By the time that the main meal was ready to be served, many guests were no longer in a position, literally, to partake of the solid food, which left more for the rest of us.<br /><br />One of my favorite festivals was Carnivales. During this time a tree was imported, decorated with toys and other goodies and stuck into the ground. Couples danced around the tree to the typical, plaintive Andean music and one couple would be handed an ax. They would take a couple of swings at the tree and then pass the ax onto another couple . When the tree came down there was a mad scramble to obtain any goodies you could purloin. Woe be it however, for the person who finally felled the tree for it was his responsibility to provide the tree and cover all expenses for the following years celebration. There was always a myriad of street vendors during Carnivales. They sold everything from serpentine, like we have for our New Years celebrations, to chisgeti, which was an ether like concoction that was bottled under pressure and very cold when sprayed at each other. It also had the ability to blind if some of it got into your eyes. The ever enterprising street vendors had that avenue covered too. They also sold plastic goggles.<br /><br />The 28th of July was another holiday of substance. It was Peru’s Independence day, and was celebrated with parades, bands, dancing , drinking and the inevitable pachamanca. The only difference between some of the holidays in South America and ours is that theirs generally last for at least three days where we usually get ours over with in one. We celebrated the 4th of July as well in much the same way as we do here so I won’t go into great detail . I would like to recount one particular fireworks display that I will remember vividly to my dying day. At that time we were living in a house that overlooked the Montaro River. It was decided that the fireworks would be launched from our front yard across the river. Subsequently, everyone in camp settled into our front yard as soon as the sun went down. The spectators were only a few feet behind the firing line. All went well and we were thrilling at the beautiful display until one man, accidentally, dropped his cigarette into a bundle of rockets at his feet. The fuses ignited and all of a sudden rockets came shooting off the ground in all directions at about knee cap level. Those of us who lived to tell to tell the story have never had any trouble relating to the stories that our war vets tell. Needless to say, the following year the fireworks were set off from the golf course which was across the river from the camp.<br /><br />We shared some of our holidays, mostly the Christian ones such as Easter and Christmas since Peru is predominantly a Catholic country. However, the way in which we celebrated these holidays differed greatly. I particularly delighted in the Easter tradition of the small town of Tarma, about an hour drive down the Hill from us. Tarma had two churches, both Catholic. During the weeks preceding Easter the natives would start to collect seeds, flower petals, coffee beans, wheat, etc. The night before Easter Sunday they would spend the entire night drawing designs and decorating the street between the two churches with the above mentioned commodities. The end result was very much like the floats we see in the Rose Bowl Parade only this was done on a street. Early on Easter morning two processions started out, one from each church. One procession carried a huge statue of Jesus and the other an equally huge statue of The Virgin Mary. They walked down the highway of truly beautiful floral artwork, passed each other in the middle and carried on. The statues changed churches every year.<br /><br />Christmas was also very different for the native people than it was for us. We brought our own traditions into the camp; Christmas trees, gift giving, caroling , parties for the children complete with Santa and even a wonderful yearly choral presentation of Handle’s Messiah by the very talented people who were the heart and soul of our camp. The indigenous people celebrated quite differently. For them there was little of the commercial aspect that, unfortunately, has become all to prevalent in our lives. It was a deeply religious experience for them, but even here there is a profound irony. The natives are descendants of the Incas and even more primitive civilizations that believed in a multitude of Gods, much like our own native Americans. The intrusion of the Spaniards just brought confusion to their lives. The end result was a bazaar intermingling of both cultures which combined tradition and superstition. To add to the mystery, the Catholic church made a practice of doing most of the preaching in Latin which no one understood.<br /><br />I have especially fond memories of a more personal event that resulted in a day of celebration and festivity. On that occasion someone, I don’t recall whom, decided that my mother should be honored and subsequently named a bridge after her. All of the local government and religious dignitaries were on hand for that auspicious occasion as was the inevitable band. I trust that the, “Puente Leah Higgs” is still in use today and that the brass plaque that was mounted on its side is still in its rightful and proper place..<br /><br />Not one to be overshadowed by my mother, I talked a friend into naming a truck after me. However, we were not able to muster up a band or even a local officials to record that momentous event. Unlike mother’s bridge, I am quite certain that the truck no longer exists.<br /><br />The Peruvians also enjoyed their sports. Soccer is probably the most popular and you find soccer goal posts in virtually every village regardless of the altitude. Lima was home to a professional soccer team and the fans took their team very seriously. If you cheered for the wrong team you were likely to be thrown out, over the top of the stadium, and riots were a fairly frequent event. Another big sport in Peru was bull fighting and many of the top bullfighters from Spain came to Lima every year. This was an immensely popular season in Peru, comparable to our football season. To my way of thinking it was and is bloody, inhumane and cruel. However the pageantry was spectacular and the music, the traditional Spanish pasadoble, is comparable to none. On occasion, the bull actually got the upper hand for a short while.<br /><br />Then there were the many, many trips that we took all over Peru. Some of them were close to home and we could get there and back in a day, or at least a week-end. One of our favorite places to go for short outings was Huancayo which was about two hours away. Every Sunday the natives from the surrounding countryside would bring their wares and produce into town to sell. The streets were closed off to motorized traffic and hundreds of stalls were set up for several blocks. It was an incredibly colorful scene and there was not much that you could not buy at the Huancayo market. There were witch doctors that had herbs and remedies for any malady from a genuine illness to a broken heart. You could purchase an amazing array of musical instruments, unlike anything you would find in this country. There were all kinds of native crafts that were up for grabs from carved bull horns to carved gourds and pottery. You could find skirts and blouses, if you were interested in wearing the native clothing, and even shoes if you wore a size four extra wide. The Huancayo market was truly a wonderful place to be and I never tired of the sights, the smells and the colors.<br /><br />Further afield was the jungle on the eastern slope of the Andes or the coast on the western slope. We usually waited until we had a vacation before we traveled that far. I will digress briefly to explain how our vacation system worked. It was deemed prudent to encourage everyone to leave the hill twice a year for two weeks at a time, simply to get them out of the altitude. We generally headed to the coast for our two week summer vacation in January . Lima and the outlying areas had many attractions. There were fabulous restaurants and resorts. One in particular that we loved, was Santa Maria with a free form swimming pool that was about four acres in size. There was even an island in the middle of the pool. The water was pumped in from the ocean which was just beyond the resort and which boasted some of the most pristine beaches in the world. However, the entire coast line was also noted for its severe undertow which claimed many lives every year.<br /><br />Lima had a wealth of museums and cathedrals and churches. I will never forget the catacombs under one of the churches. Someone had taken the time and effort to make archways out of skulls and intricate designs out of vertebrae and other bones. The entire effect was rather ghoulish. Lima also had a wonderful array of stores so even I enjoyed shopping on occasion and I must confess that is not my favorite pastime.<br /><br />I have to admit that the jungle was more my speed and I did revel in the occasional adventure while there. I remember when we were quite young we went to the town of Tingo Maria along with some other friends for a two week vacation. Tingo Maria had a very nice Hotel Tourista complete with a swimming pool which is just about all that a young person could ask for. One day four of us decided to take a tour of the hotel kitchen in order to determine what we were going to have for dinner that evening. We were told that the specialty would be fresh duck, and, believe me they were fresh. They were still waddling around the kitchen alive and well. All of our humanitarian instincts came to the surface in unison and each of us grabbed a duck and ran in different directions with the kitchen staff close on our heels. The staffs’ desire to retrieve their ducks was no match to our determination to save them. In one case, the child involved simply put his duck under a box, sat on the box and screamed at the top of his lungs. I simply vanished into the jungle for a few hours, (or minutes, as the case may be) with mine. Finally the manager was called upon to appeal to the parents of these thieving children. Mother was the parent of choice and, with the wisdom of Saul, solved the entire problem. The ducks would be returned so long as there was a solemn promise to not serve them for breakfast, lunch or dinner for as long as we were guests at the hotel. An agreement was reached whereby we could even visit our ducks for the remaining days. Even so, that night at dinner, where we were served spaghetti, my brother took one look at the curling noodles, and burst into tears wailing, "My duck!" I guess it sort of looked like intestines or something. Jeff presented the entire staff with an insurmountable problem. Everything that was placed in front of him, including a bowl of cereal, looked like a duck and he just about gave up eating entirely.<br /><br />On other occasions we visited rubber plantations and learned how to tap the trees. We also visited coffee plantations and learned the entire coffee making process from picking the ripe berries to drying, roasting and grinding the beans to finally imbibing the exquisite brew. I have yet to find anything in this country that deserves the name, "coffee" or even remotely resembles the beverage we consumed by the gallon. It was good stuff!!!<br /><br />As we got older, my mother, on a yearly basis would gather up a gaggle of young people ranging in age from ten to twenty five or more, and take them on an adventure and, believe me, some of these adventures put James Bond to shame. We would all pile into an assortment of vehicles ranging from land rovers to the back of pick-up trucks and head out for a week or so of fun and frolic. On one such adventure we stopped at a hotel for lunch. Fourteen or more of us unloaded from our respective vehicles, where we had been bounced around for hours on end, and took off in all directions. Some climbed the nearest statue while others headed straight for a pineapple field that looked ripe for harvesting. The manager of the hotel came charging out with a horrified expression on his face which turned into a look of sheer terror when he recognized mother from the Tingo Maria duck saving days. He had requested an immediate transfer to another hotel after the duck incident and had been feeling much saner and safer for a number of years, but we were back!! Mother assured him that we would soon be on our way again if he would just serve us lunch. You have never seen anyone come up with a meal as fast as this man did. MacDonald’s could take some lessons from him when it comes to, "fast food."<br /><br />On that same trip a group of enterprising youngsters took off into the jungle on a nature trip. They gathered together many tropical gems and returned to proudly display their finds to my mother. She was slightly less than enchanted when, among the treasures, was a cluster of baby coral snakes. Granted, their colors were spectacular but their venom was as lethal as a full grown snakes’. Fortunately, their fangs were not quite as well developed or maybe they were just too young to have learned the art of being ornery. In any event, they did not bite anyone, and mother insisted that they be returned to the wilderness. One of our group started feeling ill towards the end of the week. I think that mother was probably quite anxious to get her back out to something remotely resembling civilization. Within 24 hours of our return, the young lady was rushed into surgery with a ruptured appendix. Someone was looking out for us.<br /><br />Another adventure took us to Goyaresiska, a coal mine camp that belonged to Cerro de Pasco Corp. We all donned hard hats, miners lamps and heavy gloves and descended into the depths of the mine on a platform car that was lowered on tracks from the head frame. Now this might not seem too unusual or adventuresome, but it was unheard of for a female to enter a mine. This would bring incredible bad luck and disaster would surely follow. It is amazing, isn’t it, the untapped powers we have as women! Well, the mine continued to produce with no more or fewer causalities in the years to come than had occurred before our arrival, but, whenever something did happen, it was probably credited to female contamination. Goyar, as we called the camp for short, had another charm - not that a coal mine is exactly a charm. What it did have was fantastic gladiola gardens. The flowers could be ordered throughout the Cerro mining camps communities and were a special treat in an otherwise rather drab surrounding.<br /><br />I had the opportunity to hold down some very interesting summer jobs while living in Peru. Most of them were connected with the medical world. Our chief surgeon took a liking to me and I was allowed to roam the hospital at will. One job involved working in the surgical unit preparing and sterilizing instruments for surgery. I was allowed to observe any operation that was going on and watched everything from open heart surgery to a hemorrhoidectomy. I was even present during many deliveries which just about discouraged me from ever having a baby. Yuck, who would ever want to go through that!<br /><br />Another job I had was acting as interpreter for doctors and nurses from the Hope Ship. They would volunteer a year or so to travel to foreign countries to teach medical personnel the latest techniques in their respective fields. I recall going into a very large government built hospital in La Oroya. There were only a handful of patients and fewer medical personnel to be seen. The place was freezing cold because nothing like heat or even the autoclave had been hooked up. We did manage to get the latter going and taught a nurses aid how to sterilize instruments and surgical drapes. When we returned a couple of days later we discovered that she had learned to use the machine alright, but all sterilized drapes were stacked neatly on the floor. I somehow think she missed the point of the exercise.<br /><br />My story would not be complete without a brief, or not so brief, account of some of the pets that graced our South American home. We had all the normal array of cats and dogs and the joys and heart aches that come with loving and loosing those creatures. We also enjoyed the anticipation of watching little tadpoles grow little legs and loose little tails and turn into little frogs. There were lizards to be caught, raced against other lizards and then released. But some of our so called pets were a bit more exotic. I will start with a story about a parrot although he wasn’t really ours . A parrot on the loose at 12,200 feet above sea level was not a very common sight. However, one was spotted and subsequently captured and brought to our house. We had a reputation for taking in anything from man to beast or, in this case, fowl. Mother called around the neighborhood and was able to find a cage large enough to accommodate said creature. A major war ensued, but the parrot was finally coaxed into the cage. During this time of the battle of the wills between mother and parrot, we discovered that the bird had a very extensive vocabulary - and none of it was printable material. Mother was horrified and I learned at least a dozen new words in Spanish. About a week later a young gentleman appeared at our door, having heard that we had found a lost parrot. Mother was more than happy to return the bird to its rightful owner but made very certain to convey the fact that she did not approve of the language it used. The young man was very dismayed. He apologetically explained to mother that he had purchased the parrot the day before it had escaped and that she, mother, had been the keeper of the bird for much longer than he had.<br /><br />Among the first exotic pets that added prestige to our home was Elmer, a very pretty young boa constrictor. I was not too sure that I wanted Elmer for a pet because I thought that some of my friends would think I was weird if I became fond of a snake. However, Elmer finally won my heart and I subsequently decided that, “weird” was a title I could live with and even learn to enjoy. Elmer was happiest when wrapped around a waist inside of a shirt. So even back then, when I was a skinny little girl, I had a spare tire around my waist that wiggled and squirmed.<br /><br />Then came Horton and Hortense, our two not so charming alligators. They lived long, happy lives with us but did not contribute nearly the pleasure in return, that Elmer did. Mostly they tried to bite off the hand that fed them -not a very endearing trait in a pet. Later came the two jaguars whose names I don’t even remember. The mother had been killed and the two cubs rescued. What would become of these babies?? Why of course, take them to Leah Higgs. She gives shelter to anything and everything. These became a bit of an undertaking. We tried to bottle feed them but they ate the rubber nipples. They also ate through the leather gloves that were trying to hold them. For the most part, they were so intent on tearing through any restraints to get to the human flesh trying to help them, that they did not get much nourishment. It wasn’t too long before they were shipped back to the jungle to a family who were considerably more adept at handling really wild animals.<br /><br />The goose was relatively tame by comparison. One day our doorbell rang and there stood a Franciscan Monk with a gift for my father. The gift happened to be a very large and a very alive goose. I believe that that goose was meant for a pot but it was delivered into my hands. We all remember the duck story don’t we? Well, the goose was to receive similar reprieve. It immediately settled itself into our enclosed backyard where it proceeded to plow great furrows in the lawn and systematically decapitated every flower in the yard. It also flapped its wings and hissed at anyone who even thought about venturing into its yard. Mother, once again, made a wise decision. One of our maids, Celistina, had a fantastically wonderful ability to relate to even the most difficult of our pets. I think she was probably a sister of St. Francis of Assisi. Anyway, my mother convinced me that the goose would be far better off in the loving care of Celistina’s family. Celistina was thus granted an unexpected leave of absence to visit her family in a remote village far, far away bearing the gift of goose.<br /><br />Last, not necessarily in chronological order, and certainly not least, came Pepi, the squirrel monkey. You have all seen them in zoos. They are little monkeys with heads about the size of walnuts and exquisite small faces. I couldn’t live another day without him and thus, he became a part of our menagerie. Poor Pepi! As we brought him over the pass and into the altitude his small eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he fell off his perch. But we had our trusty oxygen tank with us and Pepi was revived so that we would have tales to tell about him, and he does live on in infamy. Of all the truly disagreeable pets we had, Pepi probably topped the list. We could attribute a lack of intelligence to the reptiles and thus forgive them their feisty attitudes, but Pepi was brilliant in his scheming and manipulating of events. The only human he ever tolerated was, who else, but Celistina. But he did form a strong bond with a very soft hearted French Poodle we had at the time. Suzi and Celistina were all that Pepi tolerated. Any of the rest of us who wandered too close to his cage were baptized compliments of Pepi. He may have been a very small monkey but he was always provided with an abundance of water which he filtered through his kidneys and could accurately release whenever a target presented itself.<br /><br />I look back on those years in Peru with wonderful memories and I am compelled to pay a special tribute to two people who were instrumental in making those years so fantastic. My father was the backbone of the community and my mother was certainly its heart. As I mentioned earlier, my parents went to Peru on a three year contract. Seventeen years later dad, by then the manager of Operations, was promoted to Vice President which spelled the end of our years in Peru. Dad was a fabulous role model, a generous and loving father and a well respected paragon in the community. He made possible the incredible life we lead and mother brought it to life.<br /><br />From the day that we arrived my mother gave freely and generously of her time and many talents. She immediately started a kindergarten. She gave bridge lessons to anyone in camp who wanted to learn the game. She taught dozens and dozens of kids how to dance. It was mother who introduced horseback riding to the community, and that took off big time. It was also mother who rounded up the young people in the community and took them on wild and wonderful adventures to the jungle and else where. We didn’t have a mortuary in the camp. When someone died, more often than not a group of ladies would assemble in our kitchen to make a blanket of flowers for the casket. Mother was also responsible for entertaining up to 150 people in our home at any given time and those people were frequently ambassadors or generals or bishops. It wasn’t always fun and games. I remember one (of a few) occasions when we had all been evacuated because of a strike and riots. It was the holiday season and we were slowly being allowed to return to the camp. My parents decided to have a party just to try to get the few people who had returned into the holiday spirit. This was a group that would not normally have socialized but my parents made sure that the ice was broken by serving fried ants and cactus worms on crackers. Not everyone ate them, but it did bring the group together - in a most merry manner.<br /><br />I can truly say that my years in Peru were the best of my life and, in conclusion, I want to thank God for the extra special parents He blessed me with and for the opportunities they provided for me and my brother, Jeffrey.<div><br /></div>Eduardo Dowdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13156859678079693291noreply@blogger.com6