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news that, due to the problems the municipality was experiencing during the Presupuesto Participativo process, it is no longer valid.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!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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