Early on a Monday morning, high in the Andes of Peru, I stood sleepy-eyed at the edge of a small plot, watching half a dozen men swing pickaxes to loosen knobby, golden potatoes from clumps of earth. Women followed behind the men, gathering the potatoes and rubbing them clean with their quick fingers. They made piles in the centers of handwoven blankets spread on the ground. I squatted beside one of the women and sifted soil through my fingers, keeping my head low to avoid the arc of a falling ax.