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| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations, Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
Independence Day in Huanchaco, Peru -
Article by Carlie Sorosiak
Article by Carlie Sorosiak
A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented businesses
and services around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor
activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or
if you are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your
number one online resource.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented businesses
and services around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor
activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or
if you are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your
number one online resource.
Smash a mirror into a million insignificant pieces, and then quickly glue the fragments back
together. The mirror looks different than before: less iridescent, cracked, but still polished
glass. Such is my life after two months in Huanchaco, Peru, breaking and rebuilding my
body, sex and mind, like a sculptor crushing and remolding her clay.
together. The mirror looks different than before: less iridescent, cracked, but still polished
glass. Such is my life after two months in Huanchaco, Peru, breaking and rebuilding my
body, sex and mind, like a sculptor crushing and remolding her clay.
In one moment I’m lying in the
grassy quad at my ultra-liberal,
suburban university, letting the
summer sun drench my pale
features, and in the next I’m scaling
the Andes foothills, vomiting into a
rocky trench with such force that I
search for my large intestine in the
rice-and-avocado excrement. Wiping
my dehydrated, pink lips and looking
out from the sharp crag, I see sugar
cane fields smoldering with black
smoke and abandonment, withering
like me, and I wonder: how did I get
here?
grassy quad at my ultra-liberal,
suburban university, letting the
summer sun drench my pale
features, and in the next I’m scaling
the Andes foothills, vomiting into a
rocky trench with such force that I
search for my large intestine in the
rice-and-avocado excrement. Wiping
my dehydrated, pink lips and looking
out from the sharp crag, I see sugar
cane fields smoldering with black
smoke and abandonment, withering
like me, and I wonder: how did I get
here?
Up to my ankles in mire, digging for
ancient Moche ruins but finding more
temperamental scorpions than
significant artifacts, I am far removed
from my natural collegiate element, a
shepherd without her serene pasture.
What the hell was I thinking, signing
up for an excavation? I blame cinema,
and my immature, naïve self, for
painting a glamorous and sexy picture
of the stiffness and grime that is
archaeology. Here I am, in my Indiana
Jones shorts, wielding a mason’s
trowel and flimsy Ace Hardware
paintbrush, thinking this will be the
most influential summer of my life.
Maybe I’d find a fully-intact human
skeleton or a ritual burial site full of
ancient Moche ruins but finding more
temperamental scorpions than
significant artifacts, I am far removed
from my natural collegiate element, a
shepherd without her serene pasture.
What the hell was I thinking, signing
up for an excavation? I blame cinema,
and my immature, naïve self, for
painting a glamorous and sexy picture
of the stiffness and grime that is
archaeology. Here I am, in my Indiana
Jones shorts, wielding a mason’s
trowel and flimsy Ace Hardware
paintbrush, thinking this will be the
most influential summer of my life.
Maybe I’d find a fully-intact human
skeleton or a ritual burial site full of
And I am cracking like the 12,000-year-old floor we found buried in the primeval ashes.
Without warning, the excavation is ending; the July 4th sky looms over the celebratory
campfire that we primitively lit on the sullen beach. Sprawled in the gray sand, hair wild and
unwashed, I try unsuccessfully to grip reality despite my wine-induced intoxication. Stacked
reed boats in the distance appear like monsters as the sea spins in my ears. My personal
Independence Day in Huanchaco culminates in a hostel’s dark bedroom, watching fellow
drunken excavators have sex in the streets.
Normalcy is relative, and I no longer know its definition. University life now seems so
pedestrian, so bland. After smashing my sense of how life is supposed to be, Peru remolded
me from the shattered pieces. I now desire to again sprint through the back alleyways of
Huanchaco at midnight, to once more wander through the mango-selling markets in my bare
feet. I would give all the money in my jean pockets to be back, sitting on the curb with a man
selling tamales, feeding a stray dog from the palm of my hands.
At least in Peru, life is interesting.
Without warning, the excavation is ending; the July 4th sky looms over the celebratory
campfire that we primitively lit on the sullen beach. Sprawled in the gray sand, hair wild and
unwashed, I try unsuccessfully to grip reality despite my wine-induced intoxication. Stacked
reed boats in the distance appear like monsters as the sea spins in my ears. My personal
Independence Day in Huanchaco culminates in a hostel’s dark bedroom, watching fellow
drunken excavators have sex in the streets.
Normalcy is relative, and I no longer know its definition. University life now seems so
pedestrian, so bland. After smashing my sense of how life is supposed to be, Peru remolded
me from the shattered pieces. I now desire to again sprint through the back alleyways of
Huanchaco at midnight, to once more wander through the mango-selling markets in my bare
feet. I would give all the money in my jean pockets to be back, sitting on the curb with a man
selling tamales, feeding a stray dog from the palm of my hands.
At least in Peru, life is interesting.
golden beads.
No.
The real influence comes from crouching in a ditch with piss streaming down the back of my
legs, from roaming the frigid beach at 2 AM to find a dead seal washed ashore and eaten,
from hearing a man’s sorrowful croon as he’s stabbed on a nearby street, from stooping
down on the soiled pavement just to look a wild dog in its eyes.
No.
The real influence comes from crouching in a ditch with piss streaming down the back of my
legs, from roaming the frigid beach at 2 AM to find a dead seal washed ashore and eaten,
from hearing a man’s sorrowful croon as he’s stabbed on a nearby street, from stooping
down on the soiled pavement just to look a wild dog in its eyes.