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.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Ways to Spell W:

Things are progressing rather slowly in the English class I teach once a week at the local school. It doesn’t help that the teacher shirks his duties as soon as I arrive and coolly strides out the door as if we hadn’t agreed that he needed to be present at all times. Maybe this is for the best. Last time he was sporting a Marijuana shirt. Plus, he apparently maintains order by hitting the kids with a belt, a method I refuse to condone.

In the last class I gave my first quiz. Since we’d been studying the alphabet for, oh, at least a month, I figured a quiz on the alphabet was fair game. The objective was to correctly write down the letter that I dictated. Mind you, I said each letter at least five times and gave them ample time to cheat by looking at their notebooks and neighbors’ papers. Yet, looking at the quizzes, you wouldn’t know the kids had ever heard of the English alphabet. One kid wrote the letter “e” five times and the letter “ll” four times. I didn’t repeat letters. Here are some of the ways they chose to spell W:

Dabio
Davoyu
Daboyu
Davollu
Daduyo
Dadoyu
Dabon
Td

Dabon and Td are my personal favorites. Many times while I’ve been here I have encountered the belief that there are indeed two English languages: the real one and the one which is the written pronunciation of English for Spanish speakers. One girl needed to learn the “Our Father” in English and her teacher had given her a copy with it written in English and Spanish, along with the English pronunciation which looked like gibberish. That’s all good, except once I had gotten done teaching her how to say it she said “Thanks, but I need to learn this version” as she pointed to the pronunciation. In vain, I tried to explain to her that, actually, English is not written like it is pronounced and that no third language actually exists.

La Hora Peruana:

Peruvians themselves will tell you that they perpetually run at least one hour behind schedule. This phenomenon is widely known as la hora peruana (Peruvian time). Up until now I can’t really think of any particular moments when this has irked me. Sure, I still have a slight sense of panic when I’m going to arrive at a meeting five minutes late, but I never really mind when the meeting doesn’t start for another hour.

This Saturday, I went with a group of people from my site and a local NGO to go see another caserĂ­o, knowing fully well that it would surely last longer than it was supposed to and that I might be a little late to the meeting that I had at 3:OO. However, I only went on the one condition that we would be back before 3:00. I should have known when they arrived two hours late to pick us up that is was hopeless. But I made the guy in charge promise to get me back on time and I explained that I actually had to be at the meeting. Somewhere around 3:45, nowhere close to my community, and stuck between the armpit of a sweaty man and the deadweight of a sleeping man, the guy in charge says to me, "Well, it looks like you´re going to make it on time." Then he started running random errands. That´s when I started to get annoyed. Momentarily I loathed the hora peruana and then I realized it didn´t actually matter. I got to my meeting at 4:30.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Weekend Happenings.

First of all, I want to say that I reread my last blog entry and was like, ¨Good God! Could I sound more morose?!?¨ I mainly wrote it because indeed it was a frustrating week and sometimes I do kind of feel like that. But for the most part I am very happy and I love being here. So for those of you that are overly sensitive to any slight expression of unhappiness (Mom), don´t despair. That being said, I´ll continue with the goings on of the fin de semana.

This weekend started on Thursday, which was a national holiday equivalent to Labor Day. Susan and I were both tricked into attending a 6 hour long agro-ecology diatribe which we were told was going to be a party. I was actually really excited about the topic until the speaker begain to speak. First he showed us a horrible video about Mexican campesinos who supposedly grind up rocks to replenish minerals lacking in depleted soils. The video was followed up by the speaker proposing that those in attendance, all poor farmers, begin the practice here in Peru. However, many of these rocks are in the hands of large multi-national corporations and, hence, are completely unavailable to the average Peruvian farmer. Sounds like a practical solution. Susan and I were both incredulous and made sure to point that out. The speaker avoided our questions about feasibility completely and recommended that they group together to place mass orders (on the scale of tons). At least the meeting ended on a positive note. Susan and I were approached by a woman who said, “Well you girls must take your vitamins because you are both so pretty and fat.” Why, thank you. What a compliment.

As for my counterpart, he recently told me that awhile ago he was learning English and Irish. Baffled by the comment, and convinced that Irish must be a language, I said, “Well, I only know English…I don’t know any Irish.” To which he replied, “That’s funny because they both use the same verbs…I am, you are, he is, etc.” It seems that he was learning English from an Irishman which still fails to explain why he thought he was learning both English and Irish. Either way, I came out looking like the idiot.

Until Sunday night, the rest of my weekend was less eventful. I was in Chiclayo Saturday night for my friend’s birthday and by the time I got back on Sunday I was running on little sleep. Thus, when three people came to my house at 8:00 to invite me to a birthday party I was less than enthused. Apparently lacking common sense, I agreed to go. My thought process was that it would aide in community integration. I´m not so sure about that. First of all, I threw on some jeans and went as I was which made me the most underdressed person there. I’m sure that impressed them. The first couple hours I passed sitting along one wall with the grandmothers of the birthday girl and my host-mother. Sounds alright until you consider the fact that I was being offered liquor and beer from one of the men there on a fairly consistent basis. Somehow the grandmothers have all mastered the are of declining but every time I attempted I came off as highly insensitive. I also had to eat cebiche around 9:30 at night which means that today I will most likely die. My participation in the dancing unfortunately began with an intoxicated young man who already has two children. His current wife was not there; however, his ex-wife who he left for his new wife was very much there. Their 6 year old child was also there. Luckily, he eventually left but then came my counterpart’s 17 year old son who regretfully asked me to dance just as a reggaetton song came on. Let me clarify that reggaetton should be avoided at all costs in almost all situations, but especially when in the company of elders, family members, and fellow community members. There is also an unspoken rule here that you should not look a man in the eye while you are dancing with him because if you do it signifies that clearly you are now dating. I have a bit of a problem with this rule and unknowingly left the dance with around four new boyfriends. Thinking I could leave early, as in around midnight, was shot down by the fact that my sister had provided the stereo. I had to stay until 2:00 AM when my host-mother finally determined that she could end the fiesta by simply removing the music.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Feelin' Challenged.

Now, I only say challenged to respect the wishes of my former APCD who asked us to please use the word challenged rather than frustrated. In my opinion the difference is just a matter of semantics and what I’m actually feeling is frustration. Supposedly challenged is more positive but it seems to me that simply saying that “I’m feeling challenged” rather than frustrated does not actually say anything different about my outlook, it just makes me sound like I have a predisposition for being overly anal about my word choices.

So, why should I be frustrated? After all, there’s no doubt that I’m privileged to be living in another country at the expense of my own government—an opportunity no one in my community could ever dream of. The very fact that I can go off for two years and volunteer is proof enough that I’m privileged. In fact, I think this reality probably leads to much of my frustration, albeit indirectly. And this, I believe, is principally because it is such a non-reality to the people in my community that they don’t really know what to make of me.

More specifically, I have now been living here for nearly 5 months and still I would say that the majority of the people here are generally confused about why I’m here. One woman, who I’ve talked to repeatedly, recently exclaimed in the midst of our conversation, “Oh, you’re a volunteer!” Apparently, she was under the impression that I was traveling in Huaca Rivera for TWO years. It’s nice and everything, but two years?!? Another woman thought I was visiting family. Given that all 15 of her children look pretty much the same, I’m not sure what she thought my genetic link to Huaca Rivera was. On a more positive note, visiting each house and conversing with people has helped to resolve a lot of confusion. I would recommend that every PCV come up with some excuse to visit all of the houses in his/her community. Some of the people you would least expect to befriend you will.

As for my own particular house, my feelings toward my host-family fluctuate rapidly. For the most part, it is a really good situation. I feel safe in my house and they give me a lot of freedom to do what I want. Surely they are baffled by many of my oddities but they laugh them off. My sister came back early the other day to find me punching and kicking my way around the main room in the house. Of course I knew I was getting a good cardio workout from the Taebo DVD my Mom sent me, but for all she knew I’d pretty much lost my mind. I think what bothers me the most is that I still don’t feel like part of the family or even like a good friend. Our conversation is still somewhat limited and they demonstrate little interest in my life before my arrival in Huaca Rivera. Not once has my sister entered my room while I’ve been present but on more than occasion she has entered to look through all of my things. A couple months ago I discovered that she had taken a book from my room that I had just purchased. I also discovered a poorly shot video on my camera that ended on my sister’s feet. This week I decided to go look for the book since it still hasn’t reappeared. I didn’t find the book but rather I found Ziploc bags and flashcards. Now certainly, stolen Ziploc bags do not justify an unexpected accusation of theft so instead I took one of the bags back and have remained silent. Surely this passive aggressive action with resolve all of my problems! The thing is that I don’t care one bit about any of the particular items she’s taken. Ziploc bags are not exactly one of my prized possessions. What bothers me is that she had to look long and hard to find them and yet she makes no effort to show an interest in me or my things when I’m around.

Then there is the fact that my only real friend in town is three years old. Five months in and the only confiding I do is in other PCVs and a toddler. Slowly things are starting to change and I feel more comfortable with people all of the time but in the interim it is still difficult when something happens and I can’t share it with anyone. Certainly our realities are different which could partially explain the issue, but more than anything I think it comes down to humans being slow to befriend others when they are already satisfied with their own circles of friends and family. Furthermore, it is not always appropriate to be completely open with the people in my community which to a certain degree inhibits friendship. I’m not going to talk to someone who lives in a house of sticks and cardboard about my ginormous (in-comparison) house back in the states.

I’ve always considered myself to be a very even-tempered person, but I’m starting to realize just how bi-polar my experience is in the Peace Corps. Little things upset me that really don’t even matter. The old woman in my town that thinks I can’t hear may not wave at me and I take it as a personal insult. Or a semi-truck loaded with beer and four men in the cab might follow me for an entire city block while the men yell pick-up lines at me and I find it hilarious rather than infuriatingly degrading. My sister called me the other day and I started crying because I rarely hear from people back at home which I realized even at the time was a bit of an overreaction given that many people do indeed email me. Of course, I’m still pretty mild-mannered. I’m not about to have a conniption fit about plastic bags with special closing mechanisms. The thing is that it is really easy to be overly sensitive to every little thing that happens because I have so much time to think about things and I spend so little time in an environment that is 100% comfortable. And it’s not that I miss the developed aspects of the U.S. In fact, I enjoy taking bucket baths and washing my clothes by hand. But I do think that I lack a certain ability to fully express myself which leads to a certain amount of isolation.

Just to clear up any confusion, I’m not actually manic depressive and I’m actually very content and have not once regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps. However, it would be unrealistic to gloss over the negative aspects of my experience. What’s ridiculous is that at the same time that I acknowledge the things that are upsetting me, I realize that most of my grievances are petty and insignificant in comparison to people with real problems and those who face the injustices of inequality.