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.

¡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.

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.

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.