Between Dreams and Visions
Her message arrived with various instructions—
a whisper in my ear:
“Plant coca seeds in the land of your ancestors.”
Though I had no precise map of what to do,
living in Mexico for eight years already,
I knew I had to go for as long a season as possible,
during my children’s school vacation.
It was destined to be two months of pilgrimage.
I had a map of paths already traveled
and ties woven with history:
the coca fields with Julián, Leonor, and Sabino,
where I arrived thanks to Cristóbal and Eliana,
who run their center for transforming leaves into coca flour;
near Ausangate snow peak, Jacinto and his family;
in Urubamba, Javier with his art,
who introduced me to Nancy and her flowery speech;
Nicasia on Berriozábal Street,
from whom I’ve been buying coca leaves for so many years;
in Pisac, Manuel with the Coca Runa Wasi;
and in Lima, Agustín, a sure stop to create strategies with the little coca.
As the journey began to trace itself,
I realized I wasn’t only meant to visit people and walk those lands—
the need arose to document
the defenders, the caretakers, the prayer-keepers,
to give voice to the invisible weave.
Though my path wasn’t tied to the audiovisual world,
my partner’s was.
Tamayo had dedicated himself to film and now to advertising.
From Mexico, through calls, he guided me
in the artistic part of the photography—
the importance of hands, feet, light.
Meanwhile, I built a daily work plan
and a structure of questions:
Who is Mama Coca?
What would you wish for her future?
And each person’s free narration according to their bond with the plant.
Then came the challenge: finding a camera or cameraman.
It happened that my mother’s brother, Carlos,
was living in Urubamba at the time.
He’s a landscape photographer.
We decided to experiment with video.
Then the important question arose as a mother:
Would my children accompany me on this journey?
Gaetano, 13, and Uriel, 6—
they’re like a condor and an eagle,
one born in Peru, the other in Mexico.
It was Uriel’s turn to join me this time.
He needed to connect with his roots,
and I wanted to introduce him to Apu Ausangate.
The night before, we consulted the coca leaves with Jacinto:
how the land wanted its offering.
It asked that it be at the foot of the snow peak, near the lagoon.
The next day, we walked for hours to get there.
Uriel rode a horse,
accompanied by Ignacio—
what an honor, as muleteer and guardian.
When we sat to open the offering,
a vizcacha darted past;
Uriel ran after it—
then came overwhelming screams.
I feared the worst.
When I ran to find him,
he had fallen and split his head open.
Before the offering, he had offered his blood.
I had to stay calm amid the apparent chaos.
With what I had, I decided to heal him there.
I had a coca chew in my mouth;
instinctively, I cleaned the wound with it
and placed the chew on the cut,
adding more leaves on top,
pressing them with his hat.
The bleeding stopped.
A few hours later, the swelling had nearly vanished.
We received several profound lessons that day—
the Apus as reminders,
the grandfathers teaching through experience.
In the jungle, he could be with more children—daughters of coca:
Chuya and Inkani,
sometimes Celeste bringing baby Kaylan.
Remembering how we plant seeds in our childhoods—
of wonder, of questioning,
of contact with life in its fullest splendor.
Beyond the images we captured,
the importance of the weave behind them became clear.
After many coca circles in different times and places,
what unites us was revealed:
“The love and respect for coca.”
That’s what made it possible for them to open their homes and hearts,
to speak before the camera with such honesty.
That reality can be seen and heard in parts of the documentary—
children crying or shouting,
hens clucking wildly, strong winds in the background.
We completed all the planned interviews.
Once I had all the footage in my hands,
I returned to Mexico—and a new question emerged:
What do we do with all this?
Tamayo found a possible editor interested:
Ambriz, originally an art director.
We worked with him for several months;
he broadened our vision
and inspired the creation of the script with Tamayo.
As a couple, all our poetry and inspiration poured out.
At the same time, we realized
we needed more images and sounds to nourish
everything we wanted to tell.
Lorena, a dear friend of many years,
a singer-songwriter, offered to compose music for the piece.
In a single day, we already had the lyrics—
a kind of anthem for a future that’s already present,
telling of how coca crosses borders,
how its prayer and medicine spread across the world.
Lore’s great voice would strengthen the message.
The recording and production process
took longer than expected,
but it allowed other unexpected connections to bloom.
Then came Alejo, a young Peruvian sound engineer
living in Mexico,
who filled us all with his enthusiasm
and produced the piece we had long awaited—
in collaboration with Nelson,
who recorded the song in Arin, Cusco,
while in Tepoztlán, Charly recorded the quenas and zampoñas
in Lion’s studio.
And so we completed the song—
uniting elements and talents,
a single voice, a single rhythm.
Gratitude once more to the connections
one cultivates along the way.
That’s how Alexis arrived—a documentarian
I had worked with years ago,
back when I had the Kaia restaurant in Urubamba around 2016.
He had helped me document many cultural events back then,
and I had always admired his work.
We were lucky—
he was willing to film the missing shots remotely,
in places or with people that were hard to reach.
For him, there were no limits.
He already knew the terrain.
It seemed that the spirit of Mama Coca
had everything arranged in other realms—
the path was already drawn;
I was only connecting the threads.
Alexis went to the coca harvest with Alcides, Pedro, and Lida,
to the coca drying with Eliana,
to the carnival dances,
the markets,
Pepe’s offering,
and the song recording.
He himself interviewed Doris,
so that the coca oracle could give a message to the collective.
From afar, he sent us the material—
each precious video received with deep emotion.
The team and the needs kept growing,
but the budget kept shrinking.
To be fair, there never was a real budget—
since it was a self-managed project, born from my deep wish to give back
for all I’ve received from the spirit of coca.
I decided to offer some of the income I earned
from selling coca-based products.
The generosity of the spirit
brought the right people at the right time—
many offered their work in collaboration.
Octo, offering special effects
that gave the documentary an unexpected lift,
and Celeste, our editor—
a great light along this path,
the person I spent the most time with.
Review after review, multiple edits—
her infinite patience with my perfectionism,
thankfully filled with laughter too.
Our humor and commitment together
allowed us to finish the final cut on schedule.
We set a release date: October 11,
coinciding with the Coca Tinkuy
to be held in Cusco,
alongside the Peruvian Coca Association.
I knew many participants and interviewees would be there—
once again, united by the same love for coca.
Following the script,
everything pointed to a symbolic journey of the condor—
seeing from the highest Andes
how it descended toward the meeting
between plants and humans,
the meeting of the spiritual and earthly worlds.
But how would we get such high aerial shots?
Ludo already had footage of the Rainbow Mountain,
which he shared with us.
Then another whisper in my ear said:
“Ask Conan about the material he already has ready.”
I wouldn’t have dared if I didn’t know his deep kindness
and love for his country.
With his company, Conandes,
they had filmed many mountains—
and indeed, they had the condor shot we dreamed of,
as well as lagoons, rivers,
pilgrimages to Qoylluriti,
camelids running across the plains,
Q’ero brothers praying.
Synchrony once more—one of them, Javier Chura,
whom we’d met earlier in Urubamba’s plaza
while chewing coca,
would now be part of the documentary—
a reminder that everything was interconnected, destined to be.
Meanwhile, we continued working from Mexico,
in my Kaia production kitchen,
with the great team by my side—
Tere, Ana, Fabiola, and Eli—
inventing and preparing more coca-based foods.
We organized the gastronomic shots with Tamayo.
Having a producer and photographer as a partner
was a huge support—
it felt like we could capture any image we imagined.
And thanks to his fine ear,
he knew that the voice of Mama Coca for narration
had to be Rosa—our grandmother and friend.
She had the perfect tone.
In my dreams, I kept receiving messages
that Viviana should also record the narration—
a dear friend I deeply admire,
and daughter of Marina Escobar,
whose vision we follow and continue today.
More than 30 years ago,
after much observation and research,
when coca was only consumed for chewing,
Marina—visionary—decided to grind coca into flour
with a manual mill,
to include it in food for children with malnutrition and anemia,
and so that more people could benefit from its gifts.
She changed the story of Peru—and mine.
I had the honor of meeting her at 25,
visiting her with Cristóbal and Manuel,
listening to her vast experience.
I believe she planted an important seed in me—
a seed that has already sprouted and bears fruit.
We decided it was right to have two voices for Mama Coca,
since each grandmother means so much to us—
once again, one Mexican and one Peruvian,
each recorded in her own country.
When Rosita arrived to record,
she made small, symbolic changes while reading the script—
turning the narration into first person,
as if coca herself were speaking.
Once the corrections were ready,
we recorded with Ricardo—
neighbor, friend, and sound engineer—
who also did the sound design and post-production.
His collaboration was essential—
the final gear that allowed all the images
to find their ideal sound,
beautified by his freshness and joy for the work.
This is the story of a living weave—
of the fine threads that link us as humanity,
and of a plant interwoven with all of us.
Thanks to everyone’s collaboration,
this dream has become possible.
