Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Happy Birthday!?!

On Christmas Day I repeatedly sounded like an idiot because I kept greeting people with "Happy Birthday!" instead of "Merry Christmas!" It might have been funny had any of the people I greeted been named Jesus, as many males are here, but they were not.

In the morning, Susan and I walked back to my site, a process which took a little over an hour. Even early on, the day was already warm and sunny. Nearing my town I had a very Peace Corps moment when a women from my town stopped me to ask me if I knew who a stray sheep belonged to. She finally figured it out herself and sent me on my way with instructions to notify the owner. She also attempted to send me off with bottles of fresh chicha.

All around my community and probably in most other Peruvian communities, Christmas Day was dedicated to drinking. Passing by one house Susan and I were invited in for a copita (a little cup.) While the liquor we were served was poured from a wine bottle, I recognized immediately that it was not wine. With the first signs of a burning sensation in my throat I realized it was cañazo, or sugar cane alcohol. Before Susan poured her cup I warned her that, indeed, it was not wine but apparently that did not prepare her for cañazo, which she had not previously tasted. It evidently shocked her to the point of inducing a vomiting sensation.

Once Susan left, I paid a visit to my friend Sole and her family. At her house the drinking had begun at 8:00 PM the previous evening and was still going strong. Regardless, it was really pleasant to spend some time with them because they always treat me with respect and generosity. Also, it never fails to be entertaining. As always, the ancient grandfather began to cry when he started talking to me about his deceased wife. One by one or sometimes two at a time, the drunk uncles staggered from their seats to talk to me at an abnormally close range. One uncle decided to initiate an exhuberant round of cheers for Obama. Talk of Obama provoked a discussion of President Bush's plane (Air Force One.) They were absolutely convinced that the interior is covered in solid gold. They were also completely amazed by the salaries of the Air Force One Staff, purportedly $1,000 a month. I didn't tell them that a yearly salary of $12,000 would place someone below the poverty line.

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My family in the States called me in the afteroon to wish me a Merry Chrismas, which I expected. What I did not expect was to have my first realization that returning to the States may be a difficult adjustment for me. Except for a couple of packages and a heart-shaped jewelry box, for the second year in a row, I have not received any presents. And honestly, until both my Mom and my sister mentioned that they felt badly about not being able to give me any presents, I had never given the topic a second thought. I asked my sister, a very non-materialistic person for a United Statsian, what she got and quickly remembered just how integral presents are to Christmas in the U.S.

At this point I thought, "Yeah, not good. I'm going to get back to the States right before Christmas, probably a matter of days, and then I'm going to be bombarded with stuff. Definitely not good."

I'm quite positive I'll adjust to life back in the U.S. with relative ease, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to deal with all of the stuff. Unneccessary stuff. Stuff to sit around and stuff to take up excess space. Stuff which on some level proves a futile point, that we have enough money to buy it.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

La Noche Buena

Many Peruvians begin their Christmas celebrations with a traditional midnight dinner of roast turkey, the ever-popular panettone, empanadas de globo, and hot chocolate. At midnight the food is served and the festivities commence.

A year ago on Christmas Eve everything in my site was completely new and unfamiliar, including my host-family. I was unconcerned about spending Christmas so far away from my family in the States until a neighbor asked me if I missed my Mom and my eyes unexpectedly welled up with tears. My host-family seemed oblivious to my very existence and Christmas passed like any other day.

Since I'm still living in the same house, I opted to avoid the depressing monotony that is my host-family altogether and, instead, I spent Christmas Eve with Susan and her host-family, the epitome of a welcoming and generous Peruvian family.

Shortly after I arrived in the afternoon they began to assemble the nativity scene, an undertaking decidedly more complicated than necessary. At each step in the process, each person had to give his opinion, which invariably differed from everyone else's opinion. For lapses of time they just left it alone, as if it were a chore so taxing that a brief was repose was vital. The construction of the base--a multilayered amalgamation of boxes and adobe--was the subject of much debate. Even the placement of the nativity paper was surprisingly difficult. (All over Perú the same paper--green coated rice sacks splattered with pink, yellow, and purple paint--is used as a backdrop for nativity scenes. The paint speckles still make no sense to me.) Since staying up past 10 pm now proves difficult, I had to take a nap and missed the completion of the nativity scene. I awoke shortly before midnight to a massive green, paint speckled display, covered with musical christmas lights and biblical figures. As a special guest, I was chosen to place the Jesus figurine in its place.

At exactly midnight, using cell phones to determine the time, dinner was served. Waking up at midnight to consume a plate full of sugar is interesting. Following that with homemade fig wine brought from Ica in a 3 L Bum-Bum Cola bottle is even stranger. I don't think many a wine sommelier would recommend the combination or the wine for that matter.

After we ate, we exchanged gifts. Some years they don't get any presents but this year they decided to select Secret Santas and I was included. Susan and I both recieved musical jewelry boxes. Susan´s was verging on heinous while mine was shaped like interlocking hearts and boldly proclaimed "I love you!" Her 15 year old brother who gave it to me claimed that he didn't pick it out. I have no doubt that both of those boxes will make it home to the U.S.

We stayed up until 3 AM watching a DVD of cumbia videos. Perhaps it is a credit to my integration that I now actually enjoy cumbia videos--poorly made music videos complete with horrible acting, scantily clad women and large groups of grown men in matching outfits enthusiastically doing choreographed dance routines. Nothing else could really explain it; it's certainly not discerning taste. Sometime during the third viewing of the DVD, which included 81 videos, we realized that Susan and I actually appear in one of them, a video taken of a Darwin Torres concert in Pacora. We realized it when we noticed that there were crickets everywhere.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Feliz Christmas!

Chocolotadas

As a new arrival to my community last year, I wrote about the onslaught of Christmas parties which begins in mid-December. Known as chocolotadas, these parties include the invariable constant of hot chocolate and may include turkey, sweet empanadas, panettone and toys. Chocolotadas are primarily for children and are hosted by local organizations and potential political candidates. On any given day there may be as many as three such parties.

While the children are perfectly content merely to be at the chocolotada, the mothers take full responsibility for analysing the quality. I have come to learn that the hot chocolate must be made with milk and it must not be hot. Turkey and empanadas are optional, but panettone is required for a successful outcome. Anyone who hosts a mediocre chocolotada is subject to the local gossip. The current mayor apparently served hot chocolate made with water and gave out small toys. I already knew he was a poor politician but now it is confirmed.

On Sunday, I helped out with a chocolotada which was hosted by the local ecological committee. Based on the criteria I would deem it a success. Instead of toys we handed out pencils which my parents brought me from the States. I should probably not admit that they are remnants of an embarrassingly large pencil collection which is a holdover from childhood.

As we were about to start the event, a couple of representatives from ECO, the sponsoring NGO, showed up, prompting the president to claim that the party was so thoroughly ecological that the hot chocolate was even made from organic cacao beans which he himself had harvested. I figured he was joking so when one of the NGO workers turned to ask me if it was true, I immediately said, "No, of course not." I was quickly shushed by the other members of the committee. Cacao is not even grown in this region.

Later on the same guy was talking with the kids about the importance of protecting the forest and the role they play in its protection. I had to laugh when, after explaining everything, he asked the kids what kind of work they do, implying work that is done to protect the forest. One excited little boy, clearly confused by the question, screamed "¡A la leña!" meaning that he goes to cut down wood for cooking. Then the NGO worker asked what they should do when all the trees they have planted are grown, too which one boy enthusiastically responded, "Cut them down!" He was serious.

A Oyotún

Also on Sunday, I went with Susan to visit our fellow volunteers, Wil and Eva, in their new site. They are from the same group as us but recently changed sites. As always it was interesting to see a different site because it is easy to imagine a false reality for other volunteers until you actually see where they live. The geographical variability of Perú makes for a lot of site diversity. Among volunteers, comparing experiences can be very helpful but also dangerous because the reality is that each person's experience is very unique.

Their new site is about 3 hours from my own. It is also located in the dry forest, but it is nestled among hills and lies along the bank of a placid river, which I imagine is significantly less placid during the rainy season.

Anyway, we made the trip to their site, not only to see them but also to attend the local grade school promotion for which Eva was selected as the madrina (godmother.) Eva already possesses her own unique sense of style but for this event she decided to go all out. Embracing Peruvian fashion, she purchased a top which mixed sequins with an unrecognizable blend of animal prints. It had a random flap hanging from one side which was complemented by a sheath of sheer fabric which was draped from her pants at the hip. Really only Eva could pull off an outfit like that and still look normal.

A promotion in Perú is not like a promotion in the States, especially not a grade school promotion. In many cases it involves dancing and it involves beer. This particular promotion was scheduled to commence at 8:30 but was delayed for two hours because the godfather was late. No one seemed at all upset by this. Of course, once it started speeches had to be made, every graduating student had to dance the waltz with what seemed like every other person present, and the godparents were presented with at least 8 roasted guinea pigs each.

As guests of the madrina, Susan and I were given special seats at the front and we were presented in front of all. When it came time for pictures we were included in the sole picture of the students and the godparents. Plus, as individual pictures were taken, numerous mothers and aunts asked us to return to the stage for more photos. Someday they will probably show those photos to friends and family and pretend like they know us. Maybe they won’t even pretend; maybe they will just talk about how pretty or strange we are because we look different.

The DJ at the event was rather amusing. While we were still waiting for the godfather to arrive he decided to play some classic love ballads in English, such as Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You and the Titanic theme song. Susan and I took note and mistakenly glanced in his direction. He and his posse were all staring at us, as if by playing romantic English songs they believed they were sending us not-so-subtle and irresistible signals. During the dance he played the standard mix of cumbia, salsa, merengue, and reggaeton; however, he also had a rare penchant for techno and Susan had to dance “retro rock” with the school professor.

Privacy? What’s that?

Yesterday I had to pay a visit to the doctor’s office in Chiclayo to get some stitches removed. Unfortunately, the stitches were located on my underwear line so that keeping my pants on was not optional. Of course, I walked into the emergency room to get them removed and the doctor was not only a male but also young and highly attractive. Neither he nor the nurses knew where the stitches were located but when I told them they at least shut the door opening into the main hallway. Nonetheless, they gave me no gown and the nurse would not allow me to remove my own pants. I’m still not sure why as it seemed far more difficult for her to remove them. While I was lying on the table in my underwear, a random young male assistant burst through the door and seemed a little startled. I don’t think he really knew what to do with himself. Yet, he came back in a few more times. As I was pulling up my pants, I realized you could see through the door into the rest of the emergency room so that everyone else in there could also see me. Luckily, I’ve been here long enough to expect as much.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

365 Days

365 Days living in a rural Peruvian village. 365 days speaking Spanish and still sounding like a child. 365 days of sleeping under a mosquito net in an adobe house with a tin roof. Almost 365 days without rain or cold weather. Countless rides on moto-taxis and combis. Months of bucket baths and months of washing clothes by hand. Infinite calls to Susan. Too many probably. Lots of time spent thinking. An entire year completed as a Peace Corps volunteer.

What amazes me the most is just how quickly it has gone. The past 365 days that I have lived immersed in the oddities of another culture seem normal. These days, even hearing rats on my roof seems normal. Falling asleep at 9:00 PM is normal. Of course, certain things still baffle/amuse me--la hora peruana, tacky market clothes, a general fear of cold beverages and air movement, cat calls, etc. Certain things still bother me--machismo, political corruption, and language difficulties.

Clearly a lot has changed since my first few months in site. For one, I am actually "busy" now. Furthermore, I have made certain realizations which have made me more comfortable with my situation. Namely, I have come to accept that recieving no recognition for my work is okay and possibly preferable. Also, I have learned that attempting to integrate 100% is impossible and naive. I will always be viewed as the privileged foreigner, which is only logical, because, newsflash, I am. By that I do not intend to imply that I no longer care what they think of me. I respect the local culture, participate in it, and do not flaunt my wealth. But if I do something differently, it's okay, because they expect it and will probably make fun of me.

While I relate to the reality of my fellow community members, the fact that my reality is not their reality was made perfectly obvious during the last week which I spent in Lima. After one year of service all volunteers head to Lima for a group meeting and medical checks. We stayed in Miraflores, an affluent, seaside neighborhood where most tourists stay. I'll just say that people in Miraflores walk their dogs on leashes and all of the dogs are pure-bred. There is a grocery store there which looks like a Whole Foods and more than one Starbucks. Basically, it is worlds away from the majority of Perú. But from my perspective, the strange thing was that it's also normal there.

However, when my PC doctor made an appointment for me at one of the top hosptitals in Lima, I had a momentary glimpse of what it could be like for a campesino to enter the world of the wealthy. First of all, my doctor walked in dressed to the nines and I'm fairly certain she had an authentic Matisse print hanging on her wall. She's visited Disney World with her kids several times. I've never even been to Disney World. Anway, she took one look at me and began to insult the mosquito bites on my legs which are from last summer and really not that bad. She was astounded that they were insect bites and seemed perplexed by them as if I should have been capable of avoiding them. When told that I bucket bathe, she shook her head in dismay.

The dentist was also interesting. It was way nicer than my dentist office in the states, with flat screen T.V., a hand-held x-ray pen and instantaneous digital images of my teeth.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Giving Thanks

Summer is coming. So are the holidays. The fact that the two coincide is so foreign to me that it feels nothing like the holiday season. Nonetheless I celebrated Thanksgiving with two other volunteers in Huanchaco, a beach town near Trujillo. We took our best shot at preparing Thanksgiving dinner at our hostel. I attempted to recreate my dad’s amazing stuffing and failed. It looked and smelled like it, but tasted like Stovetop. Luckily Ashley came to the rescue with an amazing and totally non-traditional mango dessert, a creation of her chef-in-training boyfriend.

Now, back at site since Sunday, I have played soccer with the girls three days in a row. They are kind of obsessed which is excellent, except it’s killing me. I can barely walk. My toes are bruised, possibly broken, my quad muscle is burning, and I twisted my ankle. On top of that, I went to use Internet in Pacora today and, while leaning down to move the chair closer to the computer, slammed my forehead into the monitor. It was ridiculously stupid but hilarious at the same time. I now have a welt over my right eye.

Common sense.

For awhile now, I’ve been fairly convinced that the Peruvian proclivity for blaring music was to blame for my own personal hearing loss. I’m not joking when I say blaring either. The other night the neighbors had a party and brought in a sound system, called sonido (sound.) Note: the speakers which accompany sonido are HUGE, larger than many Peruvians. The speakers were placed roughly 20 feet away from my bedroom wall and produced music so loud that it actually shook my bed. I was forced to sleep using earplugs and could still hear the music.

Now, I was judging my hearing loss solely on the fact that I now have to listen to my IPod on a much higher volume than when it was purchased. Finally, I confided in Susan that I thought I was losing my hearing. Thanks to her level-headedness I realized that I am not going deaf, but rather my IPod is probably less powerful than when I first purchased it.

Momentarily I was really impressed by Susan’s commonsense. That was until moments later we passed by what was clearly a military base. It was blatantly obvious. Every other building was painted in camouflage. I made a passing comment about how they had gone a little over the top and how it was clearly a military base. However, before I could finish my statement, Susan interrupted in agreement, but in such a way that made it clear that she did not know what it was. Turns out she thought it was some kind of business which involved cows and she had mistaken the camouflage for cow spots.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Vivero

Vivero means nursery in Spanish, as in plant nursery. Last summer I helped the female park guards build a simple vivero to help out with their reforestation efforts. However, when the rains stopped for the winter, the vivero fell to the wayside. The women began sweeping random trails through the forest and I swept right along with them. I was fairly convinced that the vivero would never be used again.

Recently, however, they actually ran out of places to sweep. I thought it would NEVER happen. I finally had the opportunity to suggest a return to the vivero, which they surprisingly agreed to. Talking with the women, I tried my best to inspire them to care about reforestation. I really don’t think they were particularly inspired but they enthusiastically agreed to put me in charge of ordering them around for two hours every week. I attempted to explain that I wanted it to be a group effort and that I was not the boss, but they rejected that and told me that for the next year I will tell them what to do.

Soul Camp

A week ago I participated in Camp ALMA, a weekend long leadership camp for adolescent girls which is organized by Peace Corps volunteers. It was primarily organized by one youth development volunteer but the rest of us helped her with the process. Personally, just getting four girls from my site to the camp on time was enough work for me. (One girl was still packing at the agreed upon time of departure. Her mother was busy washing approximately 50 mangos to send along with her. Mangos were not on the packing list.)

The camp took place in La Reserva Ecológica Chaparrí, a 34,000 HA private dry forest reserve located more than an hour east of Chiclayo. All of the camp participants, roughly 20-25 girls, came with volunteers from the Lambayeque region. As some of them arrived in heels, I don’t think they were completely prepared for “camp” as we understand it in the U.S. However, none of them complained about sleeping in tents. I believe they were shocked by the limited shower time. In general, I think many Peruvians from the coast bathe more than people in the U.S., at least Peace Corps volunteers. The girls from Huaca Rivera were completely dismayed when I told them I hadn’t showered in over two days. They also complained about too many vegetables in the soup which was the equivalent of blasphemy to the volunteers, all of whom were elated.

For the girls, the camp was an incredible opportunity. In the first place, most of them had never been away from home, at least not without a fellow family member. Some of them had never even been as far as Chiclayo. Others had traveled more extensively. Furthermore, they were introduced to themes such as self-esteem, women’s health, and female leadership. They also got to meet several Peruvian female professionals. Most importantly, they got to interact with a bunch of girls their own age. We introduced them to plenty of games, including the human knot and flip-cup, a classic drinking game played on college campuses across the U.S. Of course, we played that one with water. Either way, it was NOT my idea.

By the end of the camp you could really see a big difference in the girls. Of course some of them were ready to get home, but some of them were actually sad to leave. For me, the camp made me realize just how much the Peruvian educational system lacks in terms of youth development, especially for girls. In fact, in the Western Hemisphere, the Peruvian education system is second-worst only to Haiti. I realized on the way home that almost all of the girls would go home and no one would understand what their experience. They would get home and be expected to immediately wash the clothes or make dinner, no chance to rest. In the States, most kids getting home from camp would go home to understanding parents who would take interest in what they did or at least let them sleep for awhile. Two very different realities. In the end, what is really important is that they will, at least, always remember it as a positive experience.

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At the end of the camp all of the girls had to plan an activity to do with their community. I was shocked when, within an hour of returning to Huaca, two of the girls were at my door wanting to plan the meeting we had discussed. The next morning the other two came by my house.

One week later we actually had a successful meeting with several of the other teenage girls from Huaca Rivera. While they weren’t all jumping up and down with excitement, they agreed to begin a weekly clean-up campaign. Afterwards we played soccer, that is, until nearly 50 teenage boys arrived from surrounding towns to play for money. I was surprised that the girls didn-t mind the on-lookers and wanted to keep playing, despite complaints from the boys.

Honestly, I think that playing soccer with the girls in my town is my most exciting accomplishment since arriving at site. Sure I’ve accomplished more concrete things but, after an entire year, I have never done something so interactive with my community.

I just want a door.

Since I’m moving houses I have to buy a new door to install on my room. I thought it would be simple. It actually might have been simple had I not chosen to order my door from the sketchiest looking door maker in Chiclayo. Given that Chiclayo on the whole is sketchy looking, choosing an even sketchier looking section to buy my door was stupid. The “business” I selected had no sign, no office, no one in charge, no clear purpose. What it had was wood, lots of wood lying around everywhere and random people cutting wood. Hence, I assumed they could make a door. I even ordered a door and paid for half of it. However, when I returned a week later there was no door. And a week later, still no door. The second time, I happened to talk to the owner who was every bit as shady as his business. He informed me that because he had not written the receipt for my door he, the OWNER, was not responsible for dealing with it. He told me that he could not possibly refund me and that I would have to go find the guy who had written the receipt and talk to him myself. Nor did he ever suggest actually making the door. All the while, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I did my best to yell at him in Spanish and made sure to insult him by reminding him that I would make sure to tell my fellow country men about his shameful Peruvian business. I also threatened to go to the police. No surprise, that didn’t work so I had to call Enrique, our security officer, who talked to him and scared a bit of sense into him. In the end, he gave me the money but only after he went to see the guy who took my order.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

The Near-Mullet Experience

For the second time in my life I decided to put my hair into the hands of a Peruvian hair stylist. It was a spur of the moment decision, and in retrospect, probably not that intelligent. My friend Val recommended a salon, located on the street with all of the other salons in Chiclayo. Given that it was packed and chaotic, I should have left immediately. Instead, I waited patiently and allowed a young man with horrible blond highlights to basically attack my hair. I should have known when he combed all of my hair into a ponytail on top of my head and chopped it off, that it wasn’t going to be pretty. Part way through, I realized that my hair was taking a classic shape, that of the Mullet. As he was winding down I started to realize that the mullet still hadn’t gone away. I decided it was time to intervene and politely asked if he was going to remove the bottom layer of mulletness which he apparently thought was de moda (in-style). He seemed a bit perplexed and began to thin out the mullet with a razor, really only exacerbating the issue at hand. Getting a bit concerned, I decided he needed a bit more guidance. “You see the scissors? Yeah? Well, maybe you should try using them to cut off the rest of that mullet.” With that, he finally removed the mullet but, by that point, the rest of my hair that remained was in classic school marm shape. I wasn’t happy. But it only cost $3.50 and hair grows, so I guess I can’t complain. Still, a mullet?!

Friday, November 7, 2008

OBAMA

I’ve never been a really patriotic person. That fact that I have lived exactly half of my life governed by presidents named George Bush probably explains that. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, one might expect that I joined to serve my country, a country I was proud to serve. Well, I did not. If anything I had reservations about joining because I did not like the direct links between the Peace Corps and the U.S. political establishment.

What amazes me is just how quickly my sentiments changed. Hearing Barack Obama accept the U.S. presidential nomination brought tears to my eyes, not necessarily because he is a skilled orator, but because of the vast implications of the election. For the first time, maybe in my life, I am actually proud to be from the U.S.A.

Given the wide-reaching implications of U.S. government actions, the election was also very important for many Peruvians. I’m fairly certain that ALL Peruvians who were aware of the election were ardent Obama supporters. Even the Peruvian shamans publically declared their support for the candidate. The day after election night, the largest newspaper in the country, El Comercio, even published an entire special section on the election, which shows just how important it was. I’m quite certain the last election of a Peruvian president did not receive its own section in the New York Times. Honestly, it is a relief that Obama won because I cannot imagine attempting to justify the election of a candidate such as Sarah Palin. Explaining why Bush won two times has been hard enough.

What really impressed me about Obama’s acceptance speech was that he, at one point, emphasized that the work that lies ahead is not his own personal burden. Each and every U.S. citizen is also responsible for participating in the sustainable development of the country. And participation is key. If anything, a President should serve to motivate the people and I hope that he succeeds in creating the movement he aspires to create. We should learn from the problems we are facing and take a proactive approach to solving them, rather than relying solely on the government to fix them. That goes for inequality, health care, environmental issues, etc. Most importantly, we must acknowledge that we are privileged and we must realize that that privilege gives us both the ability and the obligation to work towards a more just society.

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I went to a birthday party on All Saints Day for a man who was turning 118 years old. His son, the oldest man in Huaca Rivera at the age of 92, was celebrating along with the rest of the family by consuming intoxicating amounts of beer and chicha. Apparently, it didn’t matter that his father died at the age of 26 and had been dead for 92 years.

While there I heard one visiting woman from Chiclayo whisper to her mother, La Gorda, that she was surprised that I could tolerate the chicha. Her mother leaned over and explained to her that I have a high tolerance because in the States we all drink whiskey.

I also taught everyone at the party to say "shit". It was kind of unintentional. Basically, they kept apologizing when they said something they thought was offensive so I told them that we also swear in English. That quickly led to me translating mierda into English which spawned lingering choruses of “shit!shit!” around the table.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Spiders in Compost / Surprise, the Host-Sister is Back!

Yesterday, while making compost with the female park guards, I ended up in a 1 m³ hole in the ground with a tarantula the size of my fist and, miraculously, I didn’t freak out. I calmly scooped it up with my shovel and removed it from the hole, at which point the women quickly smashed it. Given my previous sentiments towards the entire arachnid family, barring daddy long-legs, I was pretty impressed with myself. At one point in my life, anything with eight legs over the size of a dime was too much for me to handle with any kind of reasonable behavior. However, after being lectured by the women about how poisonous they are, and about how I was lucky it hadn’t attached itself to my leg, I promptly removed myself from the hole.

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Speaking of compost, I’ve been making a lot of it lately. As the price of urea, a nitrogen fertilizer, has skyrocketed in the past year due to rising petroleum prices, people are starting to take an interest in organic alternatives. In the last month I’ve given several compost talks. Susan and I even got together to give a joint lesson in Pacora. We posted signs all over town and in our communities. In the end, there were over 20 people there, most of them male farmers from the district. I was surprised that so many interested people showed up. I’m sure they were surprised to find that the event was being hosted by two young girls from the U.S. Some of them had ridiculously specific questions like, “Exactly how many kilos of compost should I apply to one hectare if I am going to plant yellow corn?” In general, I was really impressed with how interactive the participants were and I think they might actually apply what they learned. In the upcoming weeks we are going to teach them how to make biol, a liquid fertilizer, and humus.

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The presupesto participativo is finally really over. Knock on wood. I don’t actually believe it. They say that next year I will have S/.5000 to construct improved cooking stoves in Huaca Rivera. That’s half of what they allotted me the first time, but just about perfect for the number of people that are signed up, exactly 25. I had a meeting with the participants to let them know that the project was approved and that they should begin making the necessary adobe. One woman complained about not wanting to make the adobe and I was relieved when the rest of the people didn’t take her side.

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On Saturday morning, I heard a familiar voice coming from the next room, my old host-sister from Lima. Apparently, she’s back, for good. No one told me she was coming back. It really threw me for a loop because I knew my boss was coming on Monday to talk with my host-mother about me changing houses. Well, he did come, but by the time he got here I was even more thoroughly confused about whether or not I should move. For now I’ve decided to stay in my current house for a couple of weeks to see how it goes with my host-sister back. But I don’t know if, in the long run, I will be happy with that decision.

Friday, October 24, 2008

La fiesta de San Francisco

The parents have now come and gone. Despite the fact that I did not go out of my way to make them comfortable, they handled every situation with grace and thoughtfulness for the culture. They never once complained. Well, my Dad did look pretty irritated when he, the largest of all the roughly 23 people crammed into a combi the size of an Astro van, was forced to sit, not on a seat like the rest of us, but on a TINY stool less than a foot wide in all directions. They braved the latrine, the chicha, the public transportation system, and, most impressively, my site during its one-and-only annual festival.

As soon as we arrived in my site on Saturday morning—day one of my community’s celebration of San Francisco, the patron saint—I knew my parents would be in for an unusual experience of my site. While it was nothing close to the reality of everyday life, I do feel like it provided them with an extreme, condensed version of my experience in Perú, minus the tranquility which admittedly dominates most of the time. The festival was entertaining, hilarious and absurd, enjoyable, full of generosity and drunken people, unreasonably loud, and involved plenty of Catholic ritual and beer.

I unnecessarily explained to my parents that, indeed, it was not normal to have a band repeatedly march by my house. We ended up following the same band to the church where we attended the mass. My mom and I were asked to walk a banner up the aisle in front of the packed congregation. Thankfully the priest only asked my mom one question, “¿Cuál es tu nombre?” and it couldn’t have been clearer. Following the mass we were invited to stay and eat with the donors, volunteers, and organizers of the event. I ended up sitting separately from my parents, which created a bit of a difficult situation, because, regardless of how many times I told them, people just didn’t seem to understand that they didn’t understand Spanish.

In the afternoon, we watched a dance competition and a soccer match, both of which ended in fights. The dance competition ended with a discontent crowd and a pissed-off judge who decided to speak her mind in a not-so-friendly way. The soccer game literally ended in a brawl.

By the evening we were all fairly drowsy so we settled down in front of my house with the rest of my family to watch the passing activity. My host-mom mentioned something about watching the image of the saint pass by later in a procession so I told her we would like to see it also. Well, I should have known that watching the saint pass by would turn into participating in the procession along with everyone else from my town. The total distance we covered was approximately the size of four city blocks but, as we walked it at a pace slower than what I previously thought possible, it took more than two hours to complete.

Day two consisted of more of the same. We awoke to fireworks blasting and the blaring marching band. In the morning we did manage to escape for a lengthy walk in the dry forest reserve bordering my community. We walked until we reached the pyramids from the pre-Incan Sicán culture which are currently under excavation. Even though it was a Sunday we got a tour from the guard. As expected he knew Rob, the volunteer I replaced.

In the afternoon we got to spend time with one of my closer friends from site and her family. “El Chino,” another favorite and my friend’s uncle, was passed out in the corner when we arrived. Part way through our visit he awoke; his awakening was classic. To start with he had been passed out with his head down and covered by a wide-brimmed straw hat. As he came to he slowly and painfully opened each eye, one at a time and with much squinting and great effort. As he turned his head in my direction he noticed my mother first. By the time he saw me he was fully alert and in the process of whipping off his hat and barreling over to greet us. Fully alert is probably an inaccurate description of his state since he conveyed his entire greeting to my mother with over-zealous hand movements. The greeting consisted of pounding his chest with both hands and making some kind of Italianesque kissing motion. My poor dad was sitting by him and had to deal with the hand movements for a good hour. The guy was oblivious to the fact that my Dad would never understand his Spanish. The funny thing was that my dad kept turning to me to translate and every time the guy had said the same thing, that I am well loved here. At one point the guy turned to talk to me and just pointed to my dad and then thrust his hand above his head indicating that my dad was very tall. My mom was seated by “La Gorda” who kept calling my dad Gordo instead of Gordon. No one could figure out my dad’s name.

Probably my favorite incident from the entire 48 hours occurred as we arrived back at my house. My host-mom’s over-sixty brother was there with a friend and an empty crate of beer which they had polished off in our absence. The friend, a talker, started into a rambling and haphazard conversation with me and my parents. At one point he asked their ages which for some reason piqued his interest. This led straight into the question for my father which was “Do you still blow?” I, befuddled and translating directly, turned to my parents and said with a really perplexed look on my face, “He just said, “Do you still blow???” Then, he unfortunately elaborated, accompanying his question, “Yeah, does he still blow?” with painfully obvious jerking motions. The other one joined in, completely interested in the response, “Does he still make love to your mother?” Why I translated that statement is probably the better question. Neither one of the men seemed to think that, just maybe, this was an inappropriate topic.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Los Padres

For the last week I've been with my actual parents from the U.S. They arrived in Lima on the 29th and since then I've been showing them the more realisitic side of life in Peru. We started off in Miraflores, the not-so-realistic side of Peru. An affluent, costal neighborhood of Lima, Miraflores is packed with tourists, hotels, and expensive restaurants. I almost went into shock when I emerged from the taxi in Miraflores to see two separate people walking healthy dogs on leashes!

From Lima we continued up the coast to Trujillo, where we stayed in the coastal town of Huanchaco and visited Chan Chan and Huaca de la Luna (pre-Incan ruins). My parents were highly impressed by the $4 breakfast we purchased which included organic coffee and cream, a fruit salad with natural yogurt and honey, fresh juice, a pancake, and an ocean view. Of course a $4 breakfast is ridiculously expensive when you are thinking in soles, the local currency, but it was delicious.

The last couple of days we spent in my site, which happened to conincide with my community´s annual festival. Not surprisingly, I have much more to say about that but it deserves a separate entry.

Currently we are killing time in Chiclayo, waiting for more information on an indigenous strike which, as of last night, was blocking the road to Chachapoyas, our next destination. Hopefully the strike lifts and we can continue on our way. If not, it looks as if we will have to rethink our plans.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

La Pan-Americana Antigua

Reminiscent of an aging highway in the states, the old Pan-American feels a bit used, a bit dusty. Pacora, the closest town to my community, is cut by it, as are all of the towns out in my direction. Once the major road between Piura and Chiclayo, but no longer, it is still highly trafficked. As opposed to a highway in the States, personal vehicles contribute to a small amount of the traffic. The cars you’ll encounter on the Pan-American are primarily dedicated to public transport and to the transport of goods.

In the category of public transport you’ll see moto-taxis, estations (station wagon taxis), ticos (random sketchy car taxis), combis (van taxis), and double-decker tourist buses. Of those, the scariest to watch are probably the tourist buses. They kind of wobble down the road at high speeds, tilting from side to side. The most dangerous to ride in are probably the combis. I’ve yet to meet a combi driver whose driving skills I completely trust. And I’ve never been in a combi with seatbelts for anyone but the driver and one of the front seat passengers. Sometimes the seatbelt isn’t even real but they require you to wear it anyway so they won’t get in trouble with the law. I always refuse, telling them it’s their own fault if they get stopped. It’s one of the only things I ever get into arguments about. They always give in.

More entertaining are the vehicles used for the movement of goods. These range from donkey carts to semis. However, the most colorful are what I refer to as mango trucks because during mango season their primary task is to transport mangos from field to market. These are like no small-semi you’ve ever seen. They are always painted in obnoxiously bright colors and on the back they usually are adorned with a larger-than-life religious image, often an agonized and dying Jesus. One of my goals while in Perú is to capture a picture of one of these mango trucks that is transporting corn. For some reason, when they load them with corn they just go crazy and they don’t stop loading until the corn is piled to a height nearly double that of the truck and protruding from the back.

Rules of the road? At first glance, it appears that there really aren’t any. And when it comes to obeying the official laws I’d say that first glance is accurate. I have personally witnessed the hand-signal language of combi drivers which is used to alert fellow divers to temporarily obey the law when cops are present. That probably has something do with the alarming number or crosses and little chapels dotting the side of the road commemorating people who have died in accidents. Otherwise it is just controlled chaos. While the Pan-American appears to be only a two lane road, it can at times have up to four lanes. Passing is not reserved for when no one is approaching in the other lane. Rather, it is expected that on-coming traffic will take note and move on over to the shoulder.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

¡Que viva el santo!

On Monday I turned 24. I wasn’t sure if anyone would even know, so I was prepared to pass the day like any other. However, a group of somewhat random women ended up organizing a small party which consisted of cake, papa a la huancaína, wine that tasted slightly better than cough syrup, a cocktail, some singing and plenty of somewhat forced and awkward dancing. I had to dance the Marinera with every single person in attendance even though it’s pretty complicated and none of them could dance it either. They also serenaded me which was pretty hilarious in itself. My counter-part, who out of nowhere busted out a perfect tenor voice, sang the main part, while the rest of them, all with horrible voices, sang the chorus. I tried to thank them, but I couldn’t really figure out a way to truly convey just how much I appreciated it. Considering how little they have, and that they rarely buy cakes for their own birthday parties, it was extremely generous.

Back at home I invited my host-mother to some cake. Earlier I had gone to the house to invite her to the party. She actually had no idea it was my birthday and was a bit surprised. However, she said nothing like, “Oh my goodness! I had no idea. Happy birthday!” No, she said, “I already ate lunch,” and didn’t come to the party. Still, as I offered her the cake I assumed that we were on good terms. Then came a diatribe about how she was mad at me for having my birthday party at another person’s house. She refused the cake, telling me that I should have told her it was my birthday, because she would have bought me a cake. Maybe it was my fault, but I would have felt awkward telling her “Tomorrow’s my birthday; maybe you should throw me a party.” I tried in vain to explain that I had not actually chosen to celebrate my birthday in the house of another and that I wouldn’t have even celebrated if it hadn’t been for those women. At this point she told me she didn’t believe me. She looked pissed. I got upset, put the cake down, thanked her for wishing me a happy birthday and walked away. She followed me into my room, continuing to explain that she was highly offended. I mean, what would my real mother say when she found out that I had not had my party in my own house?!

I started looking for a new house/family. It’s really not that easy and kind of over-whelming. There are only 50 families in my town and at least half of them are related to my host-mom, if not more. Furthermore, most of them do not have any extra rooms. It´s also far more difficult to chose a host-family now that I know so many of the habits and histories of the families. I approached one señora who previously offered me a room, but she told me that she didn´t want any problems with my current host-mom. By the time she started listing other families I could live with, I had pretty much gotten the hint.

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As far as birthday celebrations are concerned, many volunteers dislike them. In the Peruvian campo, they are usually family affairs and consist of a circle of people drinking, usually for many hours. I, however, usually find them quite entertaining. The last one I went to was already in full swing by the time I got there. It was me and eight other people. I got stuck between two very campo men who had already been drinking for awhile. Most of the time they were both talking to me at the same time. One of them kept bursting into song. He sang with such force and frequency that it was difficult for anyone else to carry on a conversation. When the food came out and I didn´t eat (because they had just served me a special plate of food), he insisted that I at least consume the spoonful that he was waving around in my face. I told him I couldn´t eat the big hunk of meat on it so he picked it out with his fingers, in the process knocking beans all over my lap. The man on the other side of me was delighted when I told him that it is indeed legal for me to marry a Peruvian. He proceeded to warn me about Peruvian males, and told me that it was okay for me to date them, but that I should never remove my bra. He got stuck on this subject and told me at least four more times before he decided to share his advice with the rest of the group. I left around the time someone was asking me to pronounce my last name in Peruvian.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Kidneys and Chinos

At least in the rural parts of coastal Peru, a day rarely passes without someone mentioning that they are suffering from kidney pain. When I first arrived I was perplexed by how many people were afflicted by this strange and ubiquitous “dolor de riñones.” I mean, kidney pain sounds like it should be taken pretty seriously. Eventually I figured out that most people here confuse back pain with kidney pain and any mention of kidney pain became a little less alarming. However, the other day I was especially amused when one woman, complaining of extreme shoulder pain, was immediately diagnosed by a fellow woman as suffering from a kidney ailment. She said, perfectly serious, “Oh, that’s gotta be your kidneys,” followed by a chorus of “Yep, definitely the kidneys,” from the other six women standing in the circle around her. Unanimously they agreed that she should go to the health post for a series of shots that would cure her kidney ailment. I wasn’t sure what I could say at the moment without butting directly in the head with the kidney myth, so I waited awhile until the woman was a bit separated from the group. I kind of sidled up to her furtively, fearful of being reproached by the rest of the women, and whispered, “It might not be your kidneys…it could be your muscle. I think you should try icing it.” Of course, she went to the health post.

The Beijing Olympics highlighted another custom—the practice of calling all slightly Asian looking people “Chino.” The country of origin really is of no importance. Even many Peruvians have the nickname. Thus, just imagine the opening ceremony. There were the Japanese Chinos, the Chinese Chinos, the Korean Chinos, etc. During one gymnastics event, the Peruvian announcer was highly perplexed by the presence of an Asian-American athlete. His commentary went something like this: “And now we have a Chino…wait, it appears that he’s not a Chino…he’s American…but still a Chino?!…Well, he likes Chinese food!”

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I bought an English shirt which looks roughly like this:

Ever mode honey girls
they’re been together
EVERY
UGIZ
EARTH
And Luck
GOOD



Seriously? Ugiz?!

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The neighbors named their new dog Gringa. Should I be offended? I mean, I’ve never really seen an ugly puppy but this one would be right up there with the best of them. I believe they got the idea from the many patches of white skin which have appeared through its brown fur due to excessive fleas.
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Municipality update: So I went there for the millionth time at least and was told, yet again, that the Presupuesto Participativo had been postponed. I'm still waiting to figure out if they are going to fund my improved cooking stove project. Then, while talking with the mayor about waste management, he suggested that we continue the subject over pizza...and then recommended a nice hotel...which we could stay in. How nice.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Bwuuuu

There is a noise they make here—kind of like a high-pitched bwuuuu—that would perfectly describe how I feel about the past week. You’ll probably notice it the next time you see me, because I can’t seem to converse without it now. Its meaning is flexible but tends to convey something along the lines of “Good God!” In this case, if I used it you would understand it as “Oh my God, you don’t even know!” But that was last week and, after a bout of crying in the municipality, I’m feeling much better. Yes, I cried in the local municipality. I’m sure they think I’m emotionally unbalanced.

I cried not because I was actually that upset that I was being denied funds through the Presupuesto participativo, but because I was repeatedly being told that my entire concept of development, whatever that is, was just plain naïve, and that the people will never change. The idealist in me cried. The realist in me was discouraged, because realistically I don’t believe positive sustainable change is possible without a good dose of idealism.

I left emotionally drained and laughed in the park with Susan harder than I have in a long time. I think it was somewhat of a turning point. If I actually wish to see some kind of shift in mentality among the people in my community I have to start looking at my work more like a job. No one really takes me very seriously and maybe I haven’t given them enough of a reason to.

Up until this point I think I have been walking on eggshells, tripping over myself just to avoid offending anyone because I live here and because I’m supposed to integrate. But I’ve got to be more honest with people. Not everything is perfect here. Everyone burns their trash. No one recycles. The development committee is defunct. People are perfectly capable of telling me that they have no money for an improved cooking stove and then buying S/70 of beer. Of course it’s all normal, but that doesn’t mean it should be.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Spoons

Some weeks fly by, others just seem to keep going and going. This would be one of those weeks, one of those “Oh my god could this week really go any slower?” weeks. Occasionally, that’s a good thing but not usually. Hence, the saying “Time flies when you’re having fun.” And honestly, things are not that bad, but I’ve had better weeks. Let me explain.

Monday: I rushed to the Health Post for my first sign-up for the improved cooking stove project I organized only to sit there for, oh, six hours. One person happened to stop by and chat and, as an afterthought, signed up for his FREE stove. As everyone in my community was well-informed I expected an impressive turn-out.

Tuesday: I lost my cell-phone for the second time.

Wednesday: My six year old friend informed me that the neighbor stole bamboo from me.

Thursday: An unexpected visit from my friend Susan, alarmed that I might be dead in a ditch because I wasn’t answering my phone, came at the perfect time. However, in the midst of our jubilant reunion she delicately broke the news that, due to the problems the municipality was experiencing during the Presupuesto Participativo process, it is no longer valid. In other words, I will most likely not receive money to do an improved cooking stove project.

Friday: Before I describe the seemingly insignificant event which provoked tears later as I was talking with the nurses at the health-post, let me back up to Thursday. As Susan was going to leave, my host-mom yelled at me for leaving my dirty dishes on the table. At this point, she must have noticed that I had, heaven forbid, borrowed one of her spoons. Now, back to Friday, I discovered that my host-mom had moved all of her silverware, a plethora really, to the only lockable drawer in her hutch, surely to prevent me from furtively stealing more of her apparently precious spoons. Maybe I’m over-reacting, but I’ve lived with this woman for NINE months. By now I imagined she would be affectionately calling me hija (daughter), a possibility which long ago went out the window. The least I could have hoped for was that, by this point she would care for me enough to share a spoon. I’d been living with the delusion that, despite her unfriendly façade, she secretly cared for me, but no one locks up her spoons from a trusted companion.

Also on Friday morning, she told me she wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, so I should prepare my own lunch. That was normal enough, but then she returned by 11:30 and ate with the neighbors and didn’t invite me, which culturally is insulting given the importance placed on sharing food with others. Basically, I’ve been living with a passive-aggressive old woman for the better part of a year, and I could go on about all of the little things she has done and not done to make me feel straight-up lousy, but, in general, I’ve had enough. So, I don’t know when or where, but I’m moving.

Weeks like this provoke plenty of thought about my actual purpose for being here. By that, I don’t even mean to suggest that I’ve considered leaving, because I’ve never come close. But it is natural to grasp for an explanation of why things aren’t going smoothly and very difficult when no simple explanation exists. I can not justify my disappointment in a lack of support from my community and my host-mom when, in all reality, it was my own decision to become a volunteer. Yes, they did request a volunteer, but can you blame them if they didn’t really understand the Peace Corps philosophy or care about it for that matter? It is difficult to understand the lack of involvement on the part of my community, when I can see how affective little changes in lifestyle could be. But couldn’t the majority of the human population be blamed for the same apathy? It’s not fair to place the blame on anyone when the factors behind the situation are, in all reality, so complicated as to be nearly indecipherable.

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I encountered another creature in my room—an owl. I think it was a Subtropical Pygmy Owl, but I’m generally terrible at bird identification.

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When I first arrived at site the nurses at the health post insisted on measuring my height because I didn’t know it in centimeters. Now, I’m pretty good at math, but I’m also lazy when it comes to doing math in my head. Thus, I took their measurement of 190cm as veritable fact and told everyone who asked that I was indeed 190cm. As they view me as somewhat of a giant, everyone believed me. I started doubting myself when a couple of times males who were taller than me reported their heights in the high 170s. Nonetheless, I never bothered to double check the measurement. Then recently I was watching the Olympics and the U.S. basketball team happened to come on. I wasn’t listening that intently, but when the announcer chanced to mention the height of Koby Bryant, a staggering 198cm, it caught my attention. I’d been telling everyone that I was nearly as tall as Koby Bryant!

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Pictures

The dance contest.
To view more recently added pictures, click here.

Dancin´ In the Streets

After leaving Huaraz, I headed further south to Lima to visit my host-family from training. Even though I had not been back for around 8 months it felt almost like I’d just left. That evening I took a night bus with my host-sister and a cousin to Huancayo, a high-altitude city (3244m) in the central sierra. Upon arrival we headed for Sicaya, a smaller town capping a hill fifteen minutes out from the city. Huancayo is a pretty basic city, functional but not too charming. However, Sicaya, a quaint, bucolic town with rolling streets and sweeping views of the surrounding farmlands, feels a world apart. Most of the houses are aging, and the older women still wear traditional dress—big skirts, shawls, and peculiar hats. My host-mother grew up there and every year she and the family return for the annual celebration of Santiago.

We, as in me and at least 20 other people, stayed in the house of my host-mom’s parents. That’s 20 people for about 7 beds. But I’m not complaining; I feel very privileged that I was able to stay with such a hospitable family. They treated me like a daughter.

Within minutes of my arrival, the grandma was already fretting about where she could get me a costume to ensure my participation in the dance competition the following day. No was not an option so I went with the flow. In the end, some kind of elderly aunt decided to let me borrow her costume. Thus, I went dancing through the streets of Sicaya with around thirty members of the extended family—followed by our own personal orchestra— in a large pink skirt and my very own funky hat. Mind you, no one bothered to teach me how to dance the Santiago until we were leaving the house and headed for the competition. En route I guess I kind of picked it up because someone commented afterwards that it looked like I knew what I was doing. However, we did not win the contest.

Following the contest we literally danced our way over to the family’s designated portion of the plaza, where the band continued to play. Every family, of which there were around 60, had its own band as well as its own section of the square. I could barely hear our orchestra due to the neighboring band which was several members stronger. At least 30 to 40 crates of beer were brought in. All activity stopped until the beer was blessed and then the dancing continued. I had my picture taken with a handful of random relatives. Most of them were short old men, who were amused by the sight of such a tall white girl wearing traditional clothing. Some random Peruvian tourists also had their picture taken with me and my host-sister. Furthermore, I was subjected to a “photo” by a stranger that turned into a video, a fact I realized moments later as the camera started creeping slowly downwards.

Later on we danced our way to a rented locale, where more of the same ensued. The dancing consisted of a mix of huayno, hauylas, and Santiago. I called it an early night because my little host-brother was sick but all around town the dancing and drinking continued for quite some time.

The following day, we put on costumes of different colors and danced to the cemetery. There were people everywhere, with each family visiting the graves of its family members. More beer was brought in and for the first time in my life I got tipsy in a cemetery. A couple of mothers with semi-single sons started arguing over which of them would be my mother-in-law. In fact, a good portion of my time in Sicaya was spent discussing when I was going to find a Peruvian husband. My seven year old host-brother even commented that next year I would have to come again and that I should bring my “chico” along too.

After a few hours in the cemetery we danced back across town to the rented locale and continued with lunch and more dancing. Once again the festivities continued into the night.

I spent a couple more relaxing days in Huancayo before heading back to Chiclayo. Transport back to Lima ended up being a bigger headache than I expected. When we arrived at the terminal in the morning to buy tickets it became apparent that there were lots of people milling around, including lots of police. The bus companies decided to raise the ticket prices up from S/.10 to S/.100 which clearly caused discontent among the people. All of the windows in the terminal were smashed and no buses left that day. I eventually found a bus leaving that night which got me back to Lima just in time for a day bus back to Chiclayo. In all, I spent over 40 hours on buses during my two week vacation.

Canyoning

One pleasant morning in Huaraz, Susan, Val and I decided to wander over to some tour agencies—of which Huaraz has plenty—to get some information about a certain hiking trail. At the first agency we stuck to the topic at hand. In the second, we were coerced into putting our lives into the hands of random Peruvian males and repelling down waterfalls in a remote location outside of town. It started with a simple suggestion by the guide that we join their canyoning tour which was leaving shortly, an offer I immediately dismissed as ludicrous. However, Val’s interest was piqued and she pressed for more information. I recall little of what was divulged about the actual trip, but when the price dropped suddenly from S/.50 to S/.35 something snapped in my brain and I heard myself saying, “Why not? Sounds like a good idea. What else are we going to do?” This I blame on my Grandma Vern, known for mass purchases of canned tomato soup solely because, go figure, Jewel was having a sale.

An hour after signing up, we were on our way. No waivers were signed. Susan was given a helmet that could be knocked off of her head with a light flick. Of the three of us, only Val had been repelling before. Upon arrival, we discovered that another group was already there, just beginning their first decent. Consisting of four thirty-something males, the group preceding us was a sight to see. Basically they were all quite macho until they themselves had to descend. As the first guy went down, the rest yelled words of wisdom and advice, followed by affectionate nicknames like huevón (tool.) Not a single one of them followed the advice he yelled down at his peers.

As our turn approached I think we were all expecting a bit of instruction. That was ignorant. Before I knew it I was handed the ropes and awkwardly attempting to scramble down slick boulders. I was basically calm and unconcerned until a mere 30 seconds later when I reached the edge of a 20 foot sheer drop. Now, I’m not afraid of heights, but I was only 30 seconds in to my first attempt at repelling with no clear instruction on how to actually repel. At this point I was like “Whoa, you want me to do what? I don’t think I get it.” Finally, I just went down, trying to make it less painful as I went. I didn’t even really notice the freezing cold water soaking my body until I got done. I was pretty sure at that point that I never wanted to do it again.

Nonetheless, preceding Susan was well worth it. As Susan dislikes heights, I really don’t know why she agreed to go. She was pretty much wigging out by the time she had to go. It was a good while before she would even budge from her starting position. I was later told that she was in tears and I can vouch for the fact that plenty of obscenities slipped her mouth. A few collisions with the rocks later she made it down safely. Val followed calmly, looking like an expert.

Two cascades later, I was freezing. Literally freezing. But it did get easier and, by the end, it was even kind of fun.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Fiestas Patrias

Peru is currently in the midst of celebrating Fiestas Patrias, the celebration of its Independence from Spain. As far as I can tell so far, the celebration mainly consists of parades, which is nothing out of the ordinary. Peru seems to specialize in random parades, sometimes for a legitimate reason but usually not. I'm convinced that if I wanted to I could very easily throw my own parade without notifying anyone. It may be unorganized, disrupt traffic, and have no point, but who cares...it´s a parade!

Anyway, because it is a national holiday, Peace Corps gives us four vacation days. Thus, I decided to travel, along with the rest of Peru and three friends, to Huaraz. Located between the Cordillera Blanca and the Cordillera Negra, Huaraz is a bustling Andean mountain city located at 3052 meters above sea level.

Getting here was an experience of course. My friend Susan was put in charge of buying tickets and she opted for the normal bus instead of the one with beds. Mind you it was a night bus, so sleeping would have been preferred. To travel on the one with beds would have cost a whole $3.00 more so maybe that deterred her. She also decided to put us in the two front seats, directly behind the big glass window separating the passengers from the front cabin where the driver and his assistent reside. Now, normally, in Susan's defense, this is not problematic. However, it just so happens that this particular assistant, hired to keep the driver awake on the 10 hour ride, was darn good at his job. In fact, I don't think he could have been better suited for his line of work. He was so good that at three in the morning he was still beating his hands on the dashboard to the raging techno he had a penchant for. The man, who was at least 40, definitely did not look like the techno type. He also had a really loud and distinctive guffaw and a proclivity for using swear words rather heedlessly.

When we finally got there in the morning it was freezing. I packed shoes this time but I still arrived wearing sandals. As the luggage was being unloaded from under the bus one of the compartments popped open by itself and a man crawled out. Apparently he slept under there which had to be an interesting experience given that the bus was snaking through mountains. All in all, the trip was well worth it because the city has some impressive views of some of the tallest peaks in Peru, including the tallest, Huascaran, which tops off at 6768m. The city also boasts its fair share of appetizing restaurants catering to the large number of gringos who come to trek and climb. And there are a lot of them, gringos that is. They are easy to spot of course, standing about a foot above the rest of the crowd and sporting expensive outdoor gear. The prices in Huaraz reflect the tourists that arrive. Aji de gallina that costs S/.3 in Chiclayo can cost you upwards of S/.13 here.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Typical

I actually took the time to wash an apple before eating it, a precaution I never take. Since I was getting over dysentery, most likely caused by food poisoning, I figured it was worth it. Upon opening my newly bought jar of peanut butter I encountered a swarm of ants. After exterminating most of the ants I walked back over to my bowl of sliced apple and stepped on the rim causing the apple pieces to fly everywhere. In the process I’m sure they picked up some more dysentery causing microbes, but I proceeded to apply peanut butter and eat them anyway.

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The cricket plague refuses to go away. The other night I woke up to crickets dive-bombing my tin roof. The next morning, I killed roughly 200 crickets, all of which were in my room. More continued trickle down from the cracks in the roof. Across Peru the rooms of fellow PCVs have become maniacal torture centers focused soley on the extermination of crickets.

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I lost my wallet the other day, which contained my bank card. I immediately called the Peace Corps office to have them cancel the card. However, a week later when I still hadn’t heard from them I called to check up on the situation to find that, in their words, “A random man called and reported that he had found my wallet in his car. No one contacted you?” Unless I unknowingly propelled my wallet through a car window, this was not feasible. And, I was never contacted by a random man informing me of the whereabouts of my bank card. Needless to say, Peace Corps finally canceled my bank card.

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A fellow volunteer of mine has a crush on one of the municipality workers in her area. She called me the other day to ask if a text message she wanted to send him was okay. It read, “Hubo sol hoy día, ahora soy más oscura.” This translates as, “Today there was sun for a brief moment, now I am dark/shady.” What she wanted to say was, “It was sunny today, now I am tanner.”

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Without fail I always use the word especie (species) when I am trying to say especia (spice). This leads to some awkward sounding conversations… “I like to put a mix of species on my pasta.” Or “These beans must have a different species in them.”

Presupuesto Participativo: Try Saying That Fives Times Fast

After a temporary suspension of the Presupuesto Participativo, it was resumed last Thursday by two technical specialists from the regional municipality. Basically they started the entire process over, which meant more useless, unproductive hours of hearing the same information repeated again. During the second meeting, Susan started drawing pictures of how to make the meeting better. Some examples: Punching the tech guy in the face, computer failure, chair fight, sedatives. The speaker managed to make a power point presentation that consisted of a mere 6 slides last for 3 hours. When he reached the slide about the environment he got sidetracked for a good 30 minutes before coming around to the topic at hand, at which point he decided to explain the benefits of improved cooking stoves. As he began to explain that traditional stoves consume wood, I figured he would follow through by explaining that the improved stoves are favorable because they consume less wood. Wrong. Out of the blue, he burst into an animated description of how the specific wood burned in the stoves emits toxic fumes and that improved stoves are good because the highly dangerous, life-threatening smoke is funneled outside into the environment. Amazingly, Susan and I made it through that meeting with out injuring ourselves or committing any crimes.

Voting day finally arrived and Susan and I were pleasantly surprised when we were both granted funds for our projects. Nonetheless, the meeting was no exemplary demonstration of democracy. While the meetings leading up to the voting suggested that voting would actually take place, what actually occurred was rather different. First of all, we were presented with a pre-prepared list of the projects that had been accepted along with the funds to be allocated to each. Then each agente participante, a person with the ability to voice their opinion and to vote, was allowed to defend/dispute the decision which had been made with regard to their project. Flaw 1: no actual changes reflecting the opinions of the people were made. Imperceptible word changes were made which appeased the majority, but no critical semantic changes occurred. With regard to the funds allocated, not a single change was made. I raised the point that spending 20,000 soles to improve the bathrooms in the market was absurd, especially given that this project was never previously discussed but randomly appeared on the list of approved projects. Everyone agreed but nothing changed. Flaw 2: there will be no accountability for those projects that have been approved. Take the bathroom project. With regard to the complaint I raised, I was told that any money that remained from the renovation would be used elsewhere. The problem is that elsewhere probably means the mayor’s own pocket. No one was required to turn in a profile of their projects and no research was done to determine how much money the projects will actually cost. All of the money that was designated for projects was listed in nice even sums like 10,000 or 40,000 soles with no breakdown of what that money will be spent on. I’ve heard that it is a common practice to receive the money and then bribe people to write false receipts to account for money that is spent elsewhere. Flaw 3: Peruvian law was blatantly overlooked at least twice. Indeed, I was present as an agente participante despite the fact that this is illegal according to Peruvian law. At the end of the meeting they tried to elect me as the president of the comité de vigilancia, the committee which ensures that the funds are allocated and spent correctly. I pointed out that it was illegal for me to accept the post and that it should be held by a Peruvian who actually understands how the system works. However, they proceeded to elect me to the position of treasurer on the Consejo de Coordinación Local, apparently a very important committee. Given that I don’t have any idea what its function is and that I detest balancing checkbooks, I think it was a bad idea to elect me. Regardless, I gave up arguing the legality of the issue and accepted anyway.

The bottom line is that this process could be a very effective way to distribute funds within the country but it isn’t. Corruption and an uneducated populace prevent it from being a positive step towards sustainable development.

Godmother of a Beautiful New……….Spotlight

Throughout Perú and much of Latin America, nearly every town and community celebrates a patron saint. Currently Pacora, my municipality, is celebrating the birth of San Pablo, the patron saint of the town. While the central day of the festival is the 30th of June, the celebration is already in full swing and I’ve been told it doesn’t end until the 13th of July. For weeks now, the plaza has been completely surrounded by temporary restaurants and vendors, each one blasting a different cumbia song at inordinate volumes. Recently, a really frightening train posing as a children’s ride was set up on one corner of the plaza. I saw it running the other day and I honestly can not imagine putting a child on board, let alone paying to do so. It runs at ludicrously high speeds all the while emitting disturbing noises.

I’m struggling with the fact that this festival is supposedly in honor of a saint. I attended a large mass in honor of the patron saint with my host-mom and even that didn’t convince me. However, that probably had something to with the fact that in the middle of the mass they decided to hold a benediction for recently installed spotlights. Of course no blessing is complete without godfathers and godmothers and I soon found myself holding one of the ten red strings dangling down from the new lights. Mind you, I had no clue what I was being named a godmother of until the next day and, thus, assumed that holding the red string had some more grandiose significance. My host-mom was also included as a godmother, along with 8 other unsuspecting people. After the priest made the rounds blessing the lights, splashing each of us in the face with holy water, we were asked to make a donation. The woman collecting the money paused briefly in front of me but I stared at her awkwardly until she walked away. At this point I assumed we would return to our seats and listen to the rest of the mass. Instead, we were taken to a small room on the side of the church where we were fed. First, they gave us whiskey cocktails. Not what I expected. My mom didn’t drink hers so she gave it to me. I was the only one there that drank two of them and I’ll just say that I was feeling it by the time I was done. The alcohol was promptly followed by chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. I even would have eaten the chicken, despite the fact that my host-mom thinks I never eat it, but I despise mayonnaise. And knowing that it had come from a bottle that said “Please refrigerate after opening,” directions that had certainly been disregarded, I just couldn’t do it. My host-mom said she didn’t want my sandwich and then proceeded to take a second sandwich from the tray. Thus, I was forced to stuff the large chicken and mayonnaise sandwich into my pocket. That wasn’t awkward. Once we had finished we were brought back into the mass which I sat through somewhat buzzed. I’ll say that it was more entertaining than a normal mass but I didn’t feel any holier for attending.

The next day I met Susan at the fiesta. First we went to the soccer game, where after about an hour we realized we were indeed the only females there. Roughly half of the people there had mullets so we probably should have left. One man tried to pick us up by throwing a rock at Susan’s head. That was ingenious. At one point an older man walked in and, despite the large amount of blatantly obvious empty seating, sat directly next to me. This I contribute to the inexistence of the concept of personal space in Peru; however, once he realized who he was sitting by, his interests turned from the game to us. He passed the rest of the time staring at us with a baffled expression on his face. After the game we went back to the plaza, where we attempted to avoid joining the large quantities of young Peruvians incessantly circling the park. We decided to split a beer which was probably scandalous, since women here don’t tend to drink among themselves, at least not in public. Most of our time was spent people watching and ignoring drunken men. Compared to the first festival I attended back in January, I realized that I now viewed the festival from a different perspective, much more aware of who was there and more accurately able to describe what was going on. Later on we went to the dance, which is unlike anything you would call a dance in the States. The first thing we noticed was that, to enter was to enter accepting your fate in the case of fire. The only entrance and exit was through a tiny door, roughly four feet tall. Due to the current cricket plague, there were crickets everywhere, which made the already dirty locale a bit more disgusting. The crickets did have one upside: they made it easier to laugh at the drunken men who asked us to dance, as they usually approached with one perched like a pet on their shoulders. A trip to the bathroom revealed the grossest bathroom I’ve ever seen, complete with crickets. Imagine many human fluids of different forms and then imagine crickets jumping from those fluids onto your face.

To my surprise I returned to the festival the next day with my host-mother to attend the morning mass. Of course, we had to get there two hours early so we could sit and watch them set up. At 11:05, the local priest came over the loud speakers to say that the bishop from Chiclayo would be arriving shortly and that he was happy to announce that the mass would start on time. I found the announcement somewhat confusing given that the mass was supposed to start at 11:00. We ended up staying in Pacora until 6:00 pm which was somewhat tortuous given that I had no idea how long we were going to stay. We got lunch, not at one of the restaurants, but from a sketchy looking street vendor. Granted, we only paid $1 each, but I consider it a miracle that I suffered no ill effects. As we were leaving I had to laugh when a group of men offered me a drink only to receive a death glare from my host-mom. It shut them up immediately. If you’d seen it you would understand.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Calmer Waters

El Presupuesto Participativo

As of late my experience in site has begun to shift towards the less dramatic. My first community meeting was successfully completed three weeks ago, with roughly 40% of the households represented. I discussed the benefits of improved cooking stoves to get an idea if there was interest in my community. For the most part they feigned interest in the health and environmental benefits, but were actually intrigued by the possibility of ceilings and pots and pans free of the blackening effects of the smoke produced by their traditional open flame stoves. Due to the positive reaction of the community towards the stoves I’m currently in the process of organizing a project and looking for funds. Unfortunately, this could have been significantly less painful than I’ve made it but, apparently unsettled by the lack of drama in my site, I decided to work with the local municipality.

In other words, I decided to acquire the necessary funds for the project by means of the Presupuesto participativo, the Peruvian government’s decentralized approach to the annual allocation of funds within each district. Basically, local organizations are allowed to present projects and to vote on which projects will theoretically receive funding from the municipality within the upcoming year. As the law states, each municipality is responsible for the organization and the realization of the process. Well, apparently I was jumping to ridiculous conclusions when I assumed that my municipality would therefore know how the process works and that the presupuesto would be a convenient and simple way to fund the stove project. I actually probably couldn’t have selected a more absurd way to most likely not get funds.

First of all, my local municipality is staffed by roughly 30 incompetent people, including the mayor himself. I visited at least four times asking for what specifically I needed to do to sign up as a participant, receiving at least four entirely different answers, none of them correct. Fortunately I ran into some random well-informed citizen who actually knew how the process should be run and who gave me a booklet from the State which detailed the steps of the process. Returning to the municipality, I turned in a request to participate in the Presupuesto and in passing mentioned that I had read about the rules and regulations of the process in a booklet produced by the State, a booklet I assumed they had. Rather than even pretending like they knew what was going on, they honest to God asked me for a copy of the booklet. Within a week the presupuesto had commenced, despite the fact that I was previously told it wouldn’t start until August.

Somehow, they managed to locate the one capable person within the municipality and put him in charge of the process. Nonetheless, I have found my hope for funds dwindling with each meeting. In the first meeting, my friend Susan and I arrived before the people running the meeting. The second meeting required more will power than I possess to not laugh. It started off when the acting mayor, who has a Hitler mustache, walked in wearing what I swear was a Nano-pet. Furthermore, the presentation was accompanied by the over zealous use of a laser pointer which, had I not been able to see the speaker, I would have thought was in the hands of someone suffering from a seizure. At the calmest part of the entire meeting, Susan randomly lost control of all of her papers and threw them into the air. Her host-Dad slept through the entire meeting which was pointed out more than once by the speaker. Probably the most ridiculous part of the meeting was when the speaker asked for general examples of projects that meet the specifications of the districts ten-year plan. What followed was a deluge of arguments in defense of each participant’s project. My favorite was the señor who, with complete disregard to the question at hand gave a detailed and heated explanation of why his community needs an improved road. To make it even more entertaining, the guy had a bulky sidekick who added no useful commentary but rather added frequent grunts in support of his friend’s diatribe. Attempts by the speaker to return to the subject at hand failed until the guy got on a random tangent in which he decided that what the district really needs is a museum. When Susan and I showed up to the third meeting, we arrived to find that the actual mayor, who is currently suspended for impregnating a 17 year old girl, had made an attempt to enter the municipality to resume his duties. Thus, the process was suspended until further notice.

Friends in site

Recently, my host-mom gave me an unprovoked lecture about the shady characters I have chosen as friends. In my defense, they also happen to make up the local environmental group. Hence, I feel somewhat obligated to participate in their weekly meetings given that, after all, I am an environmental volunteer. That said she does have a point. It so happens that they don’t boast the strongest moral record. One of them, the adulteress, I discussed in an earlier entry. The other one is estranged from her mother, ruined her daughter’s first marriage and gravely insulted my host-mom. They were both referred to as unas tremendas, or pieces-of-work, by my host-mother. My personal favorite is the president of the group, who perhaps I’ve discussed before because he also happens to be my counterpart. God only knows how he got through Peace Corps security checks because, as my mom put it, he is a terrorist. A former member of the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path)* and just released from prison two years ago, my counterpart is still on parole. This I believe as he boasts the nicknames, condenado (condemned) and preso (prisoner). However, my mom is convinced that my counterpart murdered while I prefer to think that he meddled in the more idealistic side of the ordeal.

*The Sendero Luminoso was a Maoist movement that began in 1980 and continued into the 1990s. While it was founded on the basis of idealistic goals, it led to the death and disappearance of 40,000 to 60,000 innocent people.

Friends from home

This past weekend I received my first visit from people from home, three friends from college—Leslie Morrison, Lauren McCurdy, and Kristin Kopf. Before greeting them at the bus station I actually got a little nervous, wondering what it would be like to see people from home after not seeing anyone for over nine months. As soon as I saw them I realized that worrying was futile because it felt like I’d just seen them a week ago.

They could only stay for around two days, but the visit was still very enjoyable, if not entertaining. I was sad to see them go. They handled the trip to my site, including the moto-taxi with no problem and in my site they were excellent guests. I’m sure they were thrilled by the only knowledge I could really provide them about my site, which besides random stories about people, consisted of plant names, both of local species and of crops. I didn’t realize until I’d pretty much pointed out every plant that they probably didn’t think it was that interesting.

The people of Huaca Rivera were intrigued by seeing three new gringas and were extra exuberant with their greetings. More than one person gave them guava, a sweet white cotton-like fruit that grows in a long green pod and the only fruit still in season. [note: It is not the same as the fruit known as guava in English. In Spanish, guava is called guayaba.] I was relieved that the people in my town were not uncomfortable with them.

However, all of my friends were unexpectedly uncomfortable with my latrine, a smallish hole in the ground housed in a tin shack. I’ve never had issues but as soon as Kristin entered and shrieks of laughter followed I realized that I’m apparently gifted. Basically, it requires the ability to squat without moving around, a talent lacking in my friends. Nonetheless only Kristin couldn’t make it into the hole. Despite Leslie’s ridiculous inability to bend her knees beyond a 10 degree angle, she somehow managed to make it into the hole.

On the second day in my site, we took a walk to visit El Santuario Histórico Bosque de Pomac, the dry forest reserve bordering my site. It was really nice and they were more impressed than I expected by the pyramid we visited, which basically looks like a mud hill. The vista from the top does provide a pretty overview of the park. However, the highlight of the walk occurred in route when a moto-taxi overloaded with around 8 male university students from Lambayeque who I had never seen stopped a few feet in front of us. In true police fashion, they rapidly filed out of the moto. I noticed one of them had a camera and so I immediately knew that they wanted a picture either of us or with us. I was hesitant but Kristin apparently thought I knew them and so enthusiastically agreed. Thus, a picture of the four of us surrounded by 8 random guys was taken. The picture was taken before any greetings were exchanged and within about a minute of taking the picture they were back in the moto and heading down the road. Leslie pointed out that the four of us looked like hell, un-bathed and sporting t-shirts, and that if any of them proudly showed that picture to another gringo, the gringo would be highly unimpressed. Nonetheless, it will surely be a highly prized possession.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Chisme (gossip)

I’ve always been the first to ridicule the unrealistic qualities of telenovelas. But recently, life has taken a turn towards the dramatic and it seems as if maybe they really aren’t that ridiculous after all.

It all started last week when early one morning my host-mom announced that my sister was leaving for Lima. Taken by surprise, I assumed she meant at a later date. Then my sister emerges with her luggage and less than thirty minutes later she was gone. I asked questions and got nothing but vague responses. For all I knew she would be coming back in a few days. Nope. Thanks to a benevolent neighbor I found out she was having an affair with a 30 year old man who has an 8 year old kid. Mind you, my host-sister is only 17 and looks younger. The wife (not exactly clueless) showed up at my sister’s high school last week and threw food in her face. Thus, my host-mother felt it necessary to send my sister off to Lima for a period of chastity. Naively, I thought that she was perhaps not even aware that an opposite sex existed.

A day or two later I noted that one of my twenty year old host-cousins was also missing. I overheard something about her moving to Lima so I bluntly stopped and asked her Mom, “Where’s Nancy? Someone told me she’s in Lima. I had no idea she was leaving.” Apparently her mom didn’t know either, because she promptly started crying and told me that her daughter left with her boyfriend on the same day as my host-sister without saying a word. A week later and she still hasn’t called. She just left. Now the boy is back in town and he still hasn’t come to talk to the girl’s parents. Basically scandalous.

Most recently I was doing household surveys when the woman I was questioning abruptly chose to divulge to me that her husband was having an affair with one of the women in town who has been the nicest to me. According to her, this woman is also her eldest daughter’s best friend and her husband fathered her two year old child. I had NO idea. She has two other kids by different fathers also.

Maybe the funniest part of all of this is how people pretend to be oblivious to the gossip—that is until they know that you also know. For example, I have mentioned to several people that my sister recently left for Lima. At first, they feign complete shock that she left. However, as soon as I mention that I think there was some kind of problem they exchange knowing glances. Before too long, with next to no provocation, they are regurgitating every last detail of the affair as if they themselves had witnessed it.

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In the process of asking questions for my survey, one woman wrapped her baby grandchild in a large sheet and hung it from the rafters. The baby remained lost in the depths of the blanket so that only its rough outline could be seen. It looked kind of like how the stork carries babies. The woman proceeded to forcefully swing the baby so that it was, in my opinion, flying recklessly around the room. It came close to hitting random objects numerous times until finally it did smack into the table. The women in the room were relatively nonplussed, while I was like “Good God, the kid just hit the table!!” Meanwhile, I was trying to ask questions without seeming completely dismayed by the extreme swinging of the baby.

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There is this man in my town who I may have mentioned before who always treats me with the utmost respect. In any one conversation he includes the word efectivamente (effectively) at least 20 times, including in many situations that are completely unnecessary. He recently has been assisting workshops in order to start a small business. I keep running into him and he always tells me very seriously about his plan of action. Unfortunately, he also has the habit of carrying around his work plan in a pink Barbie book bag which is the perfect size for a small child. He wears the book bag over both shoulders. I swear I try to keep a straight face but it’s not easy.