I met with the family at their house to find that my house mom had returned from Arequipa! I had dreaded that her presence would change everything but her kind eyes and welcoming nature only proved me way wrong to have worried at all. She was pulling dried kernels from corn husks for us to plant as my house father cleaned the plow. The house was high energy and everyone was excited to go plant.
How it works:
Last week we watered the field. This week it had dried enough that the soil is lose and the bulls won't tire out from pulling the plow.Before we start anything, we all drink a glass of chicha (fermented corn blah, as I like to call it) one at a time. And before drinking we make an offering to pachamama- mother earth, and the bulls. Then, the men, and the women who will be planting take a shot of alcohol. I asked if it was a popular Peruvian drink called Pisco, and they laughed and said it was far stronger and less smooth. I must say, it tasted like rubbing alcohol. Then the men shove some coca leaves in their cheeks and we begin. One person leads the bulls to keep them in line, and one person follows with their hand on the plow also keeping it in line. Then, usually a woman follows and drops the seeds, one at a time, one foot apart, in the divot the plow has created. All three jobs require slightly more concentration than one would imagine. The person guiding the heavy plow definitely has the most laborious job.The plow is heavy, and bulls don't naturally walk in straight lines. There are intermittent breaks involving more fermented corn blah-chicha, alcohol, and offerings to mother earth. Hours later, after all the seeds are dropped, everyone grabs a rake and we even out the entire field. Breaking up clots of earth, pulling weeds, and replanting any loose seeds. Yes, the entire field, by hand, after you have already been working all day.It is fun to think about how similar these people's lives are to the Native American's of the United States. How THEY taught US how to grow corn. How similar what I see here is to the corn field in The States, and yet how different today. I had to explain many times how we use machines in The States, and how much I appreciate them teaching me how they plant. They were just tickled pink.I was in charge of the actual planting of the seeds. 
They called me the "Semillera"-literally meaning 'seed planter' and made jokes about the corn growing to be tall because I planted them. Never in my life have I felt so tall as I have since moving to Peru. Beside the actual job of planting, I had to be careful not to get too close to the plow crew to avoid the backswing of a whip to the face. I can just imagine calling the Peace Corps doctor, "You see, I got whipped in the face..." Yeah, that would go over well.The bulls move down the line pretty quickly, and counting out one kernel at a time to drop evenly apart proved to be far more challenging than I would like to admit. The tip of the kernel is sharp and your hand really doesn't want it in your fist, so quite a few will fall at a time if you aren't careful. My host father's voice, "One at a time good, two ok, three no." wouldn't leave me alone. Then I discovered that if I just loosened my hand and kept a brisk walk (without tripping) I could let the kernels fall from my curled fingers and the wind would place them, one at a time, evenly apart. Funny how releasing your grip can give you more control.
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