Habla, Barrio

Cuzco, Peru, 4200m above sea level

When I think back to my community service trip in Cuzco, a few things come to mind: the thin air, the laughter of kids who destroyed us in soccer, and a swarm of 42 bees that ended up sending me back to the hospital in the city. We went as a group of friends through our small NGO, hoping to help in a town that sits more than 4,000 meters above sea level. The idea was to build simple homes, plant trees, and bring food and clothes. But as usually happens, we didn’t just “help”, we also learned a lot.

The first lesson came on the soccer field. We thought we were going to show off some skills, but after one sprint, we were gasping for air, hands on our knees, while the kids kept running like it was nothing. They laughed at us, and honestly, we laughed at ourselves too. That moment made me understand what Mary Louise Pratt means when she talks about “contact zones,” the spaces where people from very different worlds meet and exchange. Yes, we brought bricks and rice, but they gave us humility, energy, and a reminder that football really belongs to the Andes.

Being there also made me think of Alexander von Humboldt, who passed through the Andes centuries ago. He wrote about “the altitude that suffocates”, and I couldn’t agree more. Just walking up a hill with supplies felt like climbing Everest. And yet, these families have lived there for generations, turning survival into tradition: farming potatoes, chewing coca, and raising animals in a landscape that would defeat most outsiders.

Of course, not everything went smoothly. One afternoon, I decided to go rappelling, and out of nowhere, a swarm of bees attacked me. Forty-two stings later, I was back in Cuzco, spending two nights in the hospital instead of finishing the project with my friends. At the time, it was terrifying, but now it’s the funny story I always tell. Humboldt would probably say that nature in the Andes is both beautiful and dangerous. For me, it was definitely both.

Even though my time there was cut short, what I saw left a mark. The families didn’t have much, but they had pride and joy. Their kids played barefoot, their elders wrapped in colorful textiles kept watch, and everyone carried themselves with dignity. It reminded me of Calle 13’s Latinoamerica, when they sing: “You cannot buy my happiness, you cannot buy my pain”. That line describes perfectly what I felt there. You could see poverty, yes, but you could also see smiles, love, and resilience that no money could buy.

That trip was supposed to be about giving, but in reality, it gave me more. Between being out of breath, losing to kids at soccer, and surviving a bee attack, I came back with a new way of looking at my own continent. The Andes aren’t just mountains, they’re a reminder of Latin America’s strength and the pride of its people.