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.
Friday, May 16, 2008
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 caserío, 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.
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 caserío, 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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
¡Dios Mío!
Last weekend I had a meeting in Chiclayo so I went in early with Susan to take care of some other errands. We went to see the movie Rendition which we both enjoyed. Only Susan and I got any of the humor, which I admit was subtle. It was kind of like being transported back to the States; emerging after two hours was somewhat surreal. The one difference was the theater’s temperature which was refreshingly sane compared to the absurdly cold temperatures of movie theaters in the U.S.
Walking back to the hostel afterwards it seemed as if the entire population of Chiclayo was headed in the opposite direction. Go figure, Grupo 5 was playing a free concert just down the street for the anniversary celebration of Chiclayo. No one misses a free Grupo 5 concert. It’s basically sacrilege. Luckily we went back to the hostel first to leave all of our valuable things—cell phone, money, etc.—because as we pushed through the crowd of thousands of people to catch a glimpse of the stage we were accosted by a group of roughly 20 people. It took us a second to realize what was going on because we both just figured they were shoving to get by. Then they started grabbing us and reaching in our pockets, meanwhile knocking us around and causing a general commotion. I imagine it was kind of like being in a mosh pit but I have no firsthand experience. Most of them were trying to rob us but I think at least one guy was completely oblivious of the scheme because I caught a glimpse of him and he was smiling and jumping around like he’d never had so much fun in his life. We were directly outside the entrance for a bar so we pushed our way in, leaving the rabble-rousers behind. Except for an increase in heart rate we both came away unscathed. Our money was all in our bras which is basically the only place to keep it. Pockets are good for almost nothing in a country where sporadic mass robbing is apparently socially acceptable.
While in Chiclayo, I bought my host-sister some kidney beans because she’s anemic and I happen to know that they are a good source of iron. Imagine my surprise when I emerged from my room the other morning to discover my mother in the process of peeling the skin off of every last bean. She had already made a good dent in the bowl by the time I arrived so I just let her keep at it and pretended that I thought it was perfectly normal. Unless she fed my sister the skins while I wasn’t looking I’m pretty sure it defeated the purpose of the kidney beans, as I’m fairly certain that the iron is contained in the skin.
Recently, I attended a mass for my counterpart’s mother who died a year ago. As is the custom here, they continue to celebrate the deaths of loved ones at certain intervals long after they die. It seems like there are at least two masses a week in my community alone. The mass itself was normal but the “lunch” afterwards was, as always, an experience. First of all, they passed out mementos – Jesus clocks with attached picture frames containing a eulogy and a crazy picture of the deceased woman’s head. Let me tell you, everyone and their mother wanted one. My own mother attempted to get her hands on two. In our house we have an entire shelf dedicated solely to these somewhat disturbing mementos. Back at the family’s house, they provided a lunch and more importantly, liquor. At first it was just chicha, but then the Peruvian whiskey came out. Nearly every man there made sure to offer me a drink. The custom is to pass the alcohol around the entire group, with each person pouring themselves a glass and then passing the bottle to his or her neighbor before drinking. However, in this case, the males actually broke the circle and came across the room to offer me a drink. They didn’t care how much I drank they just wanted me to accept it from them. It got a little ridiculous and at one point my host-mother decided I had had enough and made the woman next to me very obviously pass the bottle around me. I actually wasn’t even approaching tipsy because the chicha was really weak and I managed to avoid most of the whiskey. The women were funny to watch because when the whiskey got to them they would pretend to get distracted while pouring it until, oops, all of the sudden they had a full glass. They would make some comment about not realizing their glasses were so full and then they would pour a tiny bit back and drink the rest. One visiting guy from Lima kept trying to take picture of me with his phone only he was drunk and kept trying to take them at really close range. I would be having a conversation and all of the sudden I would realize there was a phone waving around in my face. I’m sure he has some lovely pictures of my nostrils.
Walking back to the hostel afterwards it seemed as if the entire population of Chiclayo was headed in the opposite direction. Go figure, Grupo 5 was playing a free concert just down the street for the anniversary celebration of Chiclayo. No one misses a free Grupo 5 concert. It’s basically sacrilege. Luckily we went back to the hostel first to leave all of our valuable things—cell phone, money, etc.—because as we pushed through the crowd of thousands of people to catch a glimpse of the stage we were accosted by a group of roughly 20 people. It took us a second to realize what was going on because we both just figured they were shoving to get by. Then they started grabbing us and reaching in our pockets, meanwhile knocking us around and causing a general commotion. I imagine it was kind of like being in a mosh pit but I have no firsthand experience. Most of them were trying to rob us but I think at least one guy was completely oblivious of the scheme because I caught a glimpse of him and he was smiling and jumping around like he’d never had so much fun in his life. We were directly outside the entrance for a bar so we pushed our way in, leaving the rabble-rousers behind. Except for an increase in heart rate we both came away unscathed. Our money was all in our bras which is basically the only place to keep it. Pockets are good for almost nothing in a country where sporadic mass robbing is apparently socially acceptable.
While in Chiclayo, I bought my host-sister some kidney beans because she’s anemic and I happen to know that they are a good source of iron. Imagine my surprise when I emerged from my room the other morning to discover my mother in the process of peeling the skin off of every last bean. She had already made a good dent in the bowl by the time I arrived so I just let her keep at it and pretended that I thought it was perfectly normal. Unless she fed my sister the skins while I wasn’t looking I’m pretty sure it defeated the purpose of the kidney beans, as I’m fairly certain that the iron is contained in the skin.
Recently, I attended a mass for my counterpart’s mother who died a year ago. As is the custom here, they continue to celebrate the deaths of loved ones at certain intervals long after they die. It seems like there are at least two masses a week in my community alone. The mass itself was normal but the “lunch” afterwards was, as always, an experience. First of all, they passed out mementos – Jesus clocks with attached picture frames containing a eulogy and a crazy picture of the deceased woman’s head. Let me tell you, everyone and their mother wanted one. My own mother attempted to get her hands on two. In our house we have an entire shelf dedicated solely to these somewhat disturbing mementos. Back at the family’s house, they provided a lunch and more importantly, liquor. At first it was just chicha, but then the Peruvian whiskey came out. Nearly every man there made sure to offer me a drink. The custom is to pass the alcohol around the entire group, with each person pouring themselves a glass and then passing the bottle to his or her neighbor before drinking. However, in this case, the males actually broke the circle and came across the room to offer me a drink. They didn’t care how much I drank they just wanted me to accept it from them. It got a little ridiculous and at one point my host-mother decided I had had enough and made the woman next to me very obviously pass the bottle around me. I actually wasn’t even approaching tipsy because the chicha was really weak and I managed to avoid most of the whiskey. The women were funny to watch because when the whiskey got to them they would pretend to get distracted while pouring it until, oops, all of the sudden they had a full glass. They would make some comment about not realizing their glasses were so full and then they would pour a tiny bit back and drink the rest. One visiting guy from Lima kept trying to take picture of me with his phone only he was drunk and kept trying to take them at really close range. I would be having a conversation and all of the sudden I would realize there was a phone waving around in my face. I’m sure he has some lovely pictures of my nostrils.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Back at Site
Brace yourselves for this one. I usually try to write my blog entries ahead of time but it seems that I've found myself in an internet "cafe" with nothing prepared. There's reggaetton blaring kind of in the background but pretty much directly in my ear. I also happen to like reggaetton so it's a bit distracting.
Since Semana Santa I've spent much more time in site. It's been a much wetter year than most so we've had some issues with the water. The La Leche River has flooded a couple of times, leaving the old Pan-American covered and threatening to collapse one of the bridges I cross to get into Chiclayo. The last time it rose it took out a few light poles and left us without electricity and, hence, water for around a week. The municipality finally got around to sending us water which unfortunately must have been treated by someone who doesn't understand that more of a good thing isn't always better. Certainly, there was nothing living in that water but it tasted like pool water there was so much chlorine.
I've started doing surveys in my community in order to get some more information for my community diagnostic. More than anything, I've found that it has been a good way to get to know people better. It's a good excuse to spend time talking with some of the people I still haven't gotten the chance to chat with. Of course, some people have been confused about why I want to do the surveys. One woman was fairly certain the info was going straight to the desk of the U.S. President. I'm sure he would be highly interested in the details of her trash disposal.
A couple of the visits proved more humorous than the rest. One woman in her seventies decided I couldn't hear when I asked her to repeat the last two parts of her name. She had at least five names. She started edging closer and closer to me until she was shouting into my ear. Her husband's name was yelled at me in short bursts while she thrust her head as close to me as possible kind of like a pecking chicken. I'm assuming this action was an attempt to aide my apparent inability to hear. Then, she told me her husband was 98 years old which I of course believed until 30 seconds later he came striding through the door. She was only 20 years off. He's 78. Luckily for her I didn't tell her husband she thinks he's nearly 100 years old.
At the next house I went to I was asked if I would be interested in doing a radio interview. The senor who lives there works for the local radio station of Pacora. I agreed assuming it wouldn't hurt. Before I knew it he had recorded a short interview which I assumed was just practice and possibly a trial to see if my Spanish was decent enough. Much to my surprise, two days later a teacher in my town told me she heard me on the radio. I asked if she could understand me and she said she could and even added that it was very clear. However, she proceeded to ask me about my knowledge of making crafts out of recycled trash which she seemed quite convinced I mentioned during the interview. I'm fairly certain I didn't but I told her that it does happen to be one of my skills.
The other day I took the opportunity to tell a couple of ice pop venders that, indeed, it is not a compliment to refer to a senorita as mister. They were quite surprised and I later heard them telling their fellow venders about the blunder. Unfortunately, I provided them with the correct word and missed an excellent chance to spread another incorrect form of address around the streets of Chiclayo. They would have believed anything I said.
Since Semana Santa I've spent much more time in site. It's been a much wetter year than most so we've had some issues with the water. The La Leche River has flooded a couple of times, leaving the old Pan-American covered and threatening to collapse one of the bridges I cross to get into Chiclayo. The last time it rose it took out a few light poles and left us without electricity and, hence, water for around a week. The municipality finally got around to sending us water which unfortunately must have been treated by someone who doesn't understand that more of a good thing isn't always better. Certainly, there was nothing living in that water but it tasted like pool water there was so much chlorine.
I've started doing surveys in my community in order to get some more information for my community diagnostic. More than anything, I've found that it has been a good way to get to know people better. It's a good excuse to spend time talking with some of the people I still haven't gotten the chance to chat with. Of course, some people have been confused about why I want to do the surveys. One woman was fairly certain the info was going straight to the desk of the U.S. President. I'm sure he would be highly interested in the details of her trash disposal.
A couple of the visits proved more humorous than the rest. One woman in her seventies decided I couldn't hear when I asked her to repeat the last two parts of her name. She had at least five names. She started edging closer and closer to me until she was shouting into my ear. Her husband's name was yelled at me in short bursts while she thrust her head as close to me as possible kind of like a pecking chicken. I'm assuming this action was an attempt to aide my apparent inability to hear. Then, she told me her husband was 98 years old which I of course believed until 30 seconds later he came striding through the door. She was only 20 years off. He's 78. Luckily for her I didn't tell her husband she thinks he's nearly 100 years old.
At the next house I went to I was asked if I would be interested in doing a radio interview. The senor who lives there works for the local radio station of Pacora. I agreed assuming it wouldn't hurt. Before I knew it he had recorded a short interview which I assumed was just practice and possibly a trial to see if my Spanish was decent enough. Much to my surprise, two days later a teacher in my town told me she heard me on the radio. I asked if she could understand me and she said she could and even added that it was very clear. However, she proceeded to ask me about my knowledge of making crafts out of recycled trash which she seemed quite convinced I mentioned during the interview. I'm fairly certain I didn't but I told her that it does happen to be one of my skills.
The other day I took the opportunity to tell a couple of ice pop venders that, indeed, it is not a compliment to refer to a senorita as mister. They were quite surprised and I later heard them telling their fellow venders about the blunder. Unfortunately, I provided them with the correct word and missed an excellent chance to spread another incorrect form of address around the streets of Chiclayo. They would have believed anything I said.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Semana Santa
In my eyes Easter has always meant the Easter Bunny and Easter Baskets; hence, it didn’t feel too much like Easter here with the Peruvian proclivity for dying Jesus reenactments instead of Easter egg hunts. However, I’m not at all complaining as I was lucky enough to spend Semana Santa (Holy Week) in the Andean city of Cajamarca with a group of fellow volunteers. Cajamarca is the site of the death of the last great Incan ruler, Atahualpa. It’s set in the verdant hills of the Andes and to say it is pretty is an understatement.
The fact that we did next to nothing while we were there is probably a credit to our integration into the campo lifestyle. We were fairly content to just walk or sit around and enjoy one another’s company. We also spent a fair amount of time showing my friend Sara’s brother and friend the ropes of traveling in Latin America. They’re pretty much clueless and they know next to no Spanish. They arrived in country a few days before Semana Santa and already they’ve experienced a bus breaking down in the middle of the night and travel sickness. I had to laugh when her friend asked me if the sheets in the very nice hostel were safe to sleep in. Let’s just say he hasn’t seen Sara’s site yet.
We did make it to Los Baños del Inca for a soak in some naturally heated thermal baths. It’s said that Atahualpa camped near the hot springs before being lured to his death by the Spaniards. Today the operation has been modernized and the hot water is pumped into individual baths. It wasn’t as picturesque as communal outdoor pools would be but, since I haven’t taken any kind of bath besides that of the bucket variety since my arrival, it was amazing.
Coming from the dry forest, the weather of the sierra was a bit of a shock. It rained every day and it was cold. I knew this going into the trip but I guess I’ve been converted to the coastal mindset in which only one kind of climate exists in the world, that being hot and dry, because I didn’t even pack shoes.
Now, I’m back in site and it’s still hot and dry. I was a little apprehensive to go back just because I felt like I’d been gone so much in March but it’s been nice to be back. While I was gone all of the little hens we had began to lay eggs so my host-mother is in a panic and constantly reminding me to eat eggs. My life is now somewhat reminiscent of the Forest Gump scene in which Bubba lists off all of the possible preparations of shrimp, only it centers on eggs.
As usual, life at site is tranquil but often entertaining. Today, I heard a woman telling a neighbor that his bedridden mother could probably be cured by passing a hot pepper over her body and then running from the house while shooing the sickness away with the pepper. She assured him that if that didn’t work, rubbing kerosene over her body would.
The fact that we did next to nothing while we were there is probably a credit to our integration into the campo lifestyle. We were fairly content to just walk or sit around and enjoy one another’s company. We also spent a fair amount of time showing my friend Sara’s brother and friend the ropes of traveling in Latin America. They’re pretty much clueless and they know next to no Spanish. They arrived in country a few days before Semana Santa and already they’ve experienced a bus breaking down in the middle of the night and travel sickness. I had to laugh when her friend asked me if the sheets in the very nice hostel were safe to sleep in. Let’s just say he hasn’t seen Sara’s site yet.
We did make it to Los Baños del Inca for a soak in some naturally heated thermal baths. It’s said that Atahualpa camped near the hot springs before being lured to his death by the Spaniards. Today the operation has been modernized and the hot water is pumped into individual baths. It wasn’t as picturesque as communal outdoor pools would be but, since I haven’t taken any kind of bath besides that of the bucket variety since my arrival, it was amazing.
Coming from the dry forest, the weather of the sierra was a bit of a shock. It rained every day and it was cold. I knew this going into the trip but I guess I’ve been converted to the coastal mindset in which only one kind of climate exists in the world, that being hot and dry, because I didn’t even pack shoes.
Now, I’m back in site and it’s still hot and dry. I was a little apprehensive to go back just because I felt like I’d been gone so much in March but it’s been nice to be back. While I was gone all of the little hens we had began to lay eggs so my host-mother is in a panic and constantly reminding me to eat eggs. My life is now somewhat reminiscent of the Forest Gump scene in which Bubba lists off all of the possible preparations of shrimp, only it centers on eggs.
As usual, life at site is tranquil but often entertaining. Today, I heard a woman telling a neighbor that his bedridden mother could probably be cured by passing a hot pepper over her body and then running from the house while shooing the sickness away with the pepper. She assured him that if that didn’t work, rubbing kerosene over her body would.
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