2. Lucy

“Oh this is going to be great,” I say to Danny, my naturalist and interpreter.  “I love to visit villages in foreign countries and see how different people live.”  “Well, I think you will like this one.  It is very small and has only thirteen families living here,” We walk into the village, and we’re greeted by a woman I assume is the village matriarch.  “Hola,” I say.  She smiles a warm smile and starts talking very rapidly in Spanish — too rapidly for me to keep up.  “Danny, will you please translate?”  He chuckles.  “She welcomes you and invites you to look around.”  “Gracias.  And her name is?”  “Eucebia.”  “Mucho gusto, Eucebia.”  She starts speaking again and Danny translates.  “She says it’s a pleasure to meet you too, and she asks where you are from.”  “Please tell her I’m from the United States.  I live very far from here in a very large city.”  Danny translates, and I think he adds some questions because in response he tells me that she is a mother of fourteen and that it is her duty to keep the local language alive.”  “And what language is that?”  “Kukama,” he says.  “Less than 2,000 people still speak it here in Peru.  She is fluent and works to teach it to the younger generations.”  “I understand.  Otherwise, do they all speak Spanish?”  “Sí.”  “I can see a few homes and a school in this village, but where do they go for supplies?”  I listen as he translates again.  “They have one boat for the community, which takes them to the weekly market.  It’s in Nauta, the place you will be tomorrow.”  “And for income?  What do they do?”  Danny points to an area where women are sitting on the ground with crafts next to them.  “The women sell their baskets, either here when visitors come, or at the market.  The men fish.”  “Can we go over there and meet the women?”  “Sí.”  I shake Eucebia’s hand and walk away.  We meet some children and families in their homes as we make our way over to the women.  Everyone is very welcoming.  “Hola,” I say to a young woman in green.  “Hola,” she answers.  “I’m Lisa,” I say as I squat down to look at the baskets she has spread out on a tarp near her.  “Lucy,” she says as she squats down next to me and shows me her intricate work.  “How did you learn how to make these?” I ask.  Danny translates, “She learned from the others in the village when she was young.”  “When she was young?  She looks really young now.  Will you please ask if she minds telling me how old she is?”  Danny asks and says, “She is thirty.”  “Wow, she looks very young for 30 years old.”  “And is this young girl her daughter?”  “She says that she is, and that she has five children.”  “Five.  Wow.  That’s incredible.  You must work very hard between caring for your family and making all of this.”  Danny translates and she nods her head.  “I’d like to buy this one, please,” I say as I point to Lucy’s most intricate basket.  Immediately after I buy it, another woman walks over.  She wants me to buy some of her merchandise as well.  I tell her “no, thank you” and she leaves us alone.  “May I take your photograph, please?  Fotografía?”  Lucy looks at my camera, looks at me, and then nods her head.  I step back to get a photo of her, but she surprises me and squats down next to her work.  She pulls her skirt between her thighs and leans forward into an imposing position.  Surprised by her initiative, I squat down again.  Then I see the bruises on her face as she’s framed within my lens.  They’re barely visible behind the shadows of her hair, but they are unmistakable.  The reason behind her pose is now obvious to me.  She’s a survivor, and this is the way she wants me to photograph her.  Not allowing my emotions to get in the way, I take her image and show her.  I tell her that she is “bonita” (pretty).  She studies her image and shakes her head, “no,” so I tell her again.  “Bonita.”  She looks at me with a strength that I’ve also seen in other women’s eyes.  It breaks my heart, but there is nothing I can do to help her, aside from supporting her business.  It’s serendipitous that, of all the women here, Lucy is the one I’m drawn to.  Women across the world have suffered like Lucy.  I’ve seen it so many times.  It’s a painful reminder of my own experience of enduring abuse.  But that chapter in my life ended long ago.  I overcame it, but I’m sensitive to other women who have not yet escaped the cycle.  It’s difficult to see.  It’s difficult to think about.  It’s even more difficult to photograph and walk away from.  But that’s what I do.