Not every kid can say that they grew up searching for fake landmines on Easter. But alas, alongside the candy-filled, colored plastic eggs of my childhood were Chinese PNM 72 anti-personnel (toe-popper) mines, stake trip wire mines, anti-tankers, Soviet butterfly mines, you name it. $5 for the soft ones and $10 for the hard, but not before a landmine awareness speech from our dear father. All followed by one of mom’s famous breakfasts and maybe even a church service. While no landmines were to be found in my Easter this year, it was a week full of mass, fish, and my 25th birthday.

La Vía Cruces (The Stations of the Cross)

Here in Peru, a majority Catholic country, Easter is not just one day. It’s a whole week, called Semana Santa, or Sacred Week. The activities kicked off on Friday, April 11th, the week before Easter weekend. At 7am I found myself hiking up Yanaico, a mountain that has been daring me to climb since the day I stepped into Pueblo Libre. It’s a beautiful mountain, a guardian of the community. Its name comes from Quechua, where ‘yana’ means ‘black’ and ‘allqu’ (pronounced ah-yee-ku) means ‘dog’. If you look close enough, you can see two crosses at the tip of the mountain, and after a two hour uphill climb on an unmarked trail, I found myself at those crosses. As the fog lifted that morning, I could see my little town hundreds of meters below. Everything I had come to know over the past 17 months.

At this point, the real event was only just beginning. After a 20 minute walk along the mountain ridge, we were met by two priests I recognized from the usual Sunday mass. They had driven up the other side of the mountain with a group of community members, and walked about a half hour to meet us. There was also a group of students, some of which had made the climb with me that morning. As they began to change into robes and wigs that the priests had brought, and as one man began to dress as a bloodied Jesus, I realized we were about to reenact the 14 Stations of the Cross.

Back in summer of 2022, I walked the true Stations of the Cross with my dad in Jerusalem. From the point at which Jesus is condemned and begins to carry the cross, to the meeting of his mother, the women of Jerusalem, and finally, his crucifixion and death. It felt a bit surreal to think of my journey since walking the cobblestone streets of the Old City of Jerusalem, to now walking this mountain ridge in the rural Andes. All in remembrance of the same story.

For the next two hours, I walked alongside a group of 30 men and women, some reenacting, some watching. We recited hymns, Our Fathers, and Ave Marias, almost all of which I have come to memorize in Spanish. To my right were beautiful green fields swaying in the wind. To my left was the Huaylas Valley, which I have driven through endless times, though was now seeing from hundreds of meters above.

Finally, we reached the point of crucifixion. While I wanted to stay, it was 12pm and I needed to be back at school at 1:30. At this point, I was at the tip of a mountain, and another 30 minute drive from town. And that was IF I found a car to hitchhike home. It was crucial I got back on time, as the class I always work with on Fridays was throwing me a “surprise” birthday party, 1 week early since my birthday fell on Viernes Santo and there would be no classes. A few slips from the students made me aware of what they were planning, and not even a mountain full of spines and miles of dirt road was going to stop me from getting there on time.

So, with vague directions given to me by a woman in the group (a classic Peruvian habit, I might add), I blindly started my way down the mountain. I could see where I needed to go, I just didn’t quite know how (and if) I would make it. As I descended, I quickly realized that I was trailblazing, though it was so steep that there was no going back. For 30 minutes, I fought my way through eucalyptus trees and chest high thorn bushes. As I slipped and slid and snagged my pants, I thought to myself, ‘This may be one of the most stupid things I’ve done. Kim would be SO mad’. There was a vision in my head of being stuck waist high in bushes on a 45 degree decline, waiting for a rescue team. As I contemplated the embarrassment of that very possible reality, I miraculously found a break in the bushes, which opened up onto the tiniest foot path. I guess all those church services put in a good word with the big G. After half walking-half stumbling down the spotty foot path, and dodging a few dogs that did NOT like me on their property, I made it onto the main road (dirt). Albeit scratched and bloody, I was on schedule. It was 1pm, just as the teachers from the schools up the mountain would be finishing their day and making their way down. Sure enough, I caught a car, and was back home in about 30 minutes.

After a 3-second shower to rinse the blood off my arms, I managed to make it to school before the students had even readied the classroom, immediately obvious once a couple of girls made me take two laps around the school grounds before letting me enter the classroom. Finally, I walked in, and was met with a confetti cannon, cake, Jell-O, popcorn, and a sweet speech from each student (although some were forced to do so by their teacher). After a ‘Happy Birthday’ serenade, I was met by a cake to the face as I went to take a bite (I knew what was coming, this was not my first time). As the teacher scolded the students for pushing my face too aggressively, I was just trying to breath through the cake in my nostrils. I was then blindly led me to a chair, where the teacher cleaned my face with tissues and made a student fetch water to wash my face. As I slowly recuperated my breath and eyesight, I thought, this is where I want to be.

The following Wednesday, I found myself sweeping, mopping, and dusting the church for 2 hours. Orders from my host aunt, who was in charge of the Thursday service. If that doesn’t punch my ticket to Heaven, I don’t know what will. The Thursday mass was a whammy. It went from 7pm to midnight, almost entirely in candlelight. It was split up by dinner (at my house) around 9pm. The entire 50 or so person congregation filed into our home for chicken, rice, potatoes, and coffee. The tradition of inviting everyone to your home to eat like that is something I have seen dozens of times here. It is met with so much generosity, thankfulness, love, and community. The dinner fueled us for 2 more hours of Our Fathers and Ave Marias, where I sat next to my favorite student, Elena. She slept on my lap as I sang along, and she eventually started counting down the minutes until it turned April 18th. She gave me the biggest hug, and was so excited to be the first person to wish me a happy birthday. Just like in the classroom a week prior, I thought to myself, ‘There’s no place I’d rather turn 25.’

They say your brain stops growing at 25, though let’s hope there’s still room in there because I have WAY more information and experiences to add. Given Viernes Santo is a day of no dancing, no music, and no celebrating, it’s quite ironic that it fell on my birthday this year. My host family got a kick out of it. Given the situation, I woke up early on the 18th to meet friends in the nearby town, and make our way up to the beautiful Laguna Keusho. We picnicked with some good old American deli sandwhiches, fruit, wine, and of course, cake. We swam in the lake, climbed the huge rock, and listened to music. It was a beautiful, peaceful day.

On Saturday night, I found myself back in church, where we lit candles and walked into the church in candlelight. A 5am mass was scheduled for Sunday morning, and while I had every intention of going, a couple bottles of wine with my host sister the night before got the best of me (she didn’t go either).

My 25th was the longest birthday on the books. The Friday after my birthday, my favorite student, Elena, and her family, invited me over for her grandmother’s famous orange cake. She knew I loved it, and she promised to make me one months back.

The following Monday, April 28, I was met with ANOTHER surprise birthday celebration from my other class. This time, with an American-themed piñata. They blindfolded me and had me whack the thing until all the candy came spilling out. Together, we ate cake, Jell-O, popcorn, and more. And to think I had come that day ready to teach about healthy nutrition.