Adeptly Adapting

Ask any volunteer in Peru the question they hear most often and they will unanimously, resoundingly respond: “Dime, ya has acostumbrado?” This roughly translates into “have you acclimated yet?” My dictionary gives the translation “to accustom,” which I actually didn’t know was a real word. I always translate it in my head as accustumbrate, which definitely isn’t a word. Anyway, there is only one acceptable answer: “Sí, sí. Todo está tranquilo.” Meaning, yes, everything is fine here, I love it, I’m fitting right in. Regardless of whether or not this is true, this is what the questioner expects and wants to hear. They’re not actually concerned with whether or not you’re comfortable – how could you not be? Forget that you’re thousands of miles from home, speaking a different language, living with a family that’s not your own, spending inordinate amounts of time by yourself…no problem, just tell me you love my country. I usually answer without really thinking; I know what they want and I’m happy to oblige. But I was sitting in a drinking circle (shocker!) recently for a friend’s birthday, and looking around I realized with a start that I felt totally comfortable and relaxed. I understood the majority of the conversation, I knew what was expected of me, I was kind of into the gossip because I actually knew who they were talking about…for a fleeting moment I really felt I had accustumbrated. I say fleeting because there are still a million and one things that confound, frustrate and amuse me, but as month four rounds into five I thought I’d reflect on some of the ways I’ve changed and adapted. So here we go, say hello to Peruvian Jess. She’s kind of weird…but always up for a good time.

• I spit seeds, bones or skin onto the floor while sitting at the table. I also flick the backwash out of the glass before passing it to the next person, regardless of where I am. It would be an embarrassing habit in public, but everyone else is doing it too.

• I have perfected the art of Peruvian “participation” in conversations – I adopt a pensive look, throw in the occasional grunt (ehhh, ahhh) of assertion and offer a courtesy laugh every few minutes. This means I don’t actually have to pay attention and can keep my mind clear for daydreaming of Bojangles and Diet Coke.

• I talk about the weather all the time. A sample conversation (literal translation=much funnier):
Me: “Hi, what heat today, no?”
Peruvian: “Yes, the heat is strong.” (fans him/herself)
Me: “Yes, I am hot. I take much water.”
Peruvian: “Is there heat in your country? It’s always cold there, no?”
Me: “Yes, there is heat there. I lived in the South. Much heat there.”
Peruvian: “Oh, what heat today.”
Me: “I know. There is heat.”

• I can lie shamelessly and unabashedly in order to avoid ever saying the word no. My repeat offense stems from the never-ending requests for private English classes. I get at least three new requests a week. My initial strategy was just to talk around the subject and repeatedly mention the schedule for my current classes. But that wasn’t good enough so I’ve adopted a new strategy: vaguely hinting at several new classes beginning sometime next year. According to me, I will be teaching about three hours of English every day. Fat chance. I’m not proud of lying, but it’s just the way things are done here. I’ve found that brutal honesty doesn’t win me any new friends. And I need friends.

• I flick my wrist in an aggressive downward motion to beckon people towards me. I vigorously wag my index finger in front of my face to signify disagreement, a negative response or general disgust. I started using both of these gestures in mocking jest, but now I catch myself using them seriously and with gusto.

• I’m a one-utensil kind of girl – spoon or bust. Even when given the choice of a fork, I’ll choose the spoon. My family used to serve me a fork but after they saw me successfully navigate a spoon a few times, they realized I’m in it to win it and now I too eat my rice and potatoes with a spoon. It was a proud day for me when I sat down to dinner and was handed a spoon without question. No spoon? No problem. Use your hands.

• Arriving late to a meeting, I have no qualms about walking in, greeting everyone and loudly getting myself a chair and/or helping myself to the refreshments. There’s no shame, Peruvians make their arrival known whether they’re ten minutes or an hour-and-a-half late. Which brings me to one of my favorite customs: refresco hour. I love that for every reunión (meeting) – big or small, long or short – we take a break to share some gaseosa and cookies. I’m already scared of our one-year dentist appointment, though I have taken to brushing my teeth like five times a day to combat all the sugary drinks and snacks I consume on a daily basis.

Don't let the red sunglasses fool you, she's more Peruvian than she'd like to admit.

And just so you don’t think I’m super full of myself and my awesome adaptability, here are a few things that I still really suck at:
• Handwashing clothes – every time I pull my t-shirts off the clothesline they’re stiff as a board because I can’t get all the soap out of them. For this reason, I have not washed my sheets in nearly four months. Are you judging me right now? Stop. You don’t know what it’s like.
• Understanding Peruvian jokes – I’ll laugh because everyone else is, but for the life of me I do not understand what is so funny.
• Enjoying Peruvian television – the slapstick humor, the acting, the drama that seeps into real life, the running commentary by my family…it’s just too much for me. So annoying.
• Getting up with the roosters – I hear everyone outside my window getting ready for school or to head to the fields, but it’s hard to motivate myself to get out of bed at 7am when the only thing I have on my schedule is a 3pm meeting. I am very well-rested these days.

What do you think? Will you recognize me in 2011?

Trading Traditions

It’s the hap-happiest time of the year! Change that to hottest time of the year and you’d hit on the nose for Peru. Seriously, the past week or so, they’ve really cranked up the heat and welcomed summer full-force. My S/. 20 mini-fan isn’t really cutting it anymore. I might have to upgrade to industrial strength if the Peruvian’s warnings are true. Thought I’m naturally disinclined to believe most of what they say about weather, the past few weeks are leading me to think they might be telling the truth when they say that the summer heat reaches unbearable heights. I’m also beginning to understand the beauty and necessity of the post-lunch siesta.

I spent my first Peruvian Thanksgiving (even though there’s no such thing) at a small beach town a couple hours away from site with a few PC friends. It wasn’t the same as being at home but it was lovely in its own right. We played my favorite game of taking turns to say what we’re thankful for, and it seems we can all agree that having a support system of fellow volunteer friends is crucial and special indeed. We then added a Festivus twist and opened the table for the Airing of Grievances. Instead of pointing the finger at each other, we turned our collective critical eye to Peru and Peruvians. It was hilarious and therapeutic. We’re saving the Feats of Strength for New Year’s.

We somehow ended up with a vegetarian meal after we realized that between all the appetizers (guacamole, bruschetta, caprese salad and cheese plate), the world’s largest salad, stuffing (Stovetop – from the States!), about 9 kilos of potatoes (mashed and sweet) and stomachs already full of beer, that we didn’t need a whole bird. It was delicious and communal and we all had to roll ourselves away from the table…so a success! Highlights included watching my friends peel 9 kilos of potatoes with a serrated butter knife (I supervised), having to “borrow” the hostel owner’s stove, eating raw vegetables, and a pre-dinner walk on the beach.

The potato peelers.

Also a highlight: trying to explain Thanksgiving to my host family. I started out by just telling them it was a day that we gave thanks for all the people we loved, to which they replied, “oh, yeah, we have that too – the día de amor in February.” I explained that no, the día de gracias was different and that we have Valentine’s Day too. This devolved into a holiday quiz, each family member taking turns yelling dates and holiday names at me and asking if those holidays are celebrated in the States. Trying to get back on subject, I tried to act out a simplified version of the Pilgrims and Indians, only to realize that I actually wasn’t clear on the origins of Thanksgiving, let alone how to translate it into Spanish. This turned into a rudimentary history lesson on Christopher Columbus, which got even more confusing when I tried to explain that he actually didn’t discover North America and was nowhere near Plymouth Rock. Eventually I just left it at sharing a special meal with friends or family. Once I told them I was going to cook, they forgot everything else and laughed at what I’m sure they imagined to be a disaster. I’m keeping my mad culinary skills a secret for now…I’m a little intimidated by the whole open-flame cooking thing.

So here we are in December and besides feeling nothing like Christmas (see paragraph one), it looks nothing like Christmas either. No wreaths or icicle lights here in the campo. What have come out in full force, though, are panetones, which are basically a Peruvian version of fruitcake, but from what I can tell so far, decidedly more popular than fruitcake. They’re also shaped like giant muffins instead of rock-hard bundts. My friend Katie works at a bakery in her site so I’ve already been the lucky recipient of a few mini-panetones. Not really my favorite things, but hey, give me a few more and I’m sure they’ll grow on me.

A few days ago one of my artisans put up a Christmas tree at the artisan complex. Obviously we don’t really live in the right climate for evergreens, but this did not damper the famed Peruvian resourcefulness. We wrapped some tinsel around the branches, wrapped up a few empty coffee cans in paper and bam, our own Charlie Brown Christmas tree here in Huaca Rajada. My mom sent some U.S. decorations down (so far only one box has made it, but we’re hopeful the rest will arrive before Dec 25), so I taunted everyone with promises of decorations from the United States. Unfortunately I made the mistake of emptying out the package all at once, so in typical Peruvian fashion the few people that were there took all of the stockings and decorated one for every family member. I managed to rescue a few to ensure at least a few families were represented. But all in all, they were a huge hit. Thanks, mom!

Decorating our stockings.

I’m sad not to be with my family and friends over the holidays, (I’m especially bummed to miss my favorite December event – the office holiday party) but there’s something really cool about learning new traditions firsthand. I again count myself extremely lucky to be living in a country with such generous and open people. I know that whatever the celebrations include I will be welcomed with open arms.

In case I’m not able to post another blog before the New Year, I want to wish all you readers (all five of you) a very happy holiday season. I miss you all mucho, mucho, mucho. I hope 2010 sees you planning a trip to Peru!

Proud Poverty

I suppose it’s stating the obvious when I say that the people in my town are poor. I’ve mentioned before the lack of amenities that we take for granted in the U.S.; things like running water, refrigeration, telephones, etc. And while I have not forgotten the sublime pleasure of a high-pressure hot-water shower, these things become less and less important with the passing days. I’ve reflected often over the past few months that people have an amazing capacity for adaptability. If you had asked me six months ago if I would be comfortable eating goat or washing my clothes in the river, I might have put on a brave face and laughed the question away, but I can guarantee that I had no idea what I would be comfortable with or what exactly I was getting myself into. Most days I still don’t know what I’m doing or how much further I can stretch my flexibility. But I’m finding that I am increasingly comfortable with doing (or eating!) what would have been unfathomable a year ago. The physical hardships and lack of material comforts begin to fall away and I’m left focusing on the personal, the human side of this experience.

I don’t like to write negative feelings here for public consumption since my wildly unpredictable emotions change from day to day and nothing is as bad as it seems the next day. But I’m not gonna lie, sometimes this is really hard and really lonely. I definitely have moments where I’m cursing Peru, Peace Corps, Peruvians and myself all in one breath. But after some reflection and the comforting wonders of either chocolate or a long phone chat with a friend, I feel much better and am able to realize that I’m extremely lucky to have this opportunity to get to know another country and another culture. And what I keep coming back to is the incredible generosity of the people here. I can’t imagine what my host family thinks of me or says about me when I’m not around – I must seem so strange to them! But they’ve never treated me with anything less than kindness, welcoming me as another daughter/sister and including me in the numerous family celebrations. In the past few weeks my two nephews have started calling me tía (aunt) to my face. They’ll never know how much that little gestures goes to making me feel loved. Granted it’s not the same as my real family (miss you guys!), but it’s so nice to have some sense of belonging in this strange and foreign land.

Nearly everyone I meet is immediately welcoming, inviting me to a snack or a meal or a beer, or asking me to stop by their house to meet their family, or marry their son/cousin/nephew. The artisans I work with are always giving me little gifts of jewelry or sweets. They want me to know and love their culture as much as they do. I’m always hearing that I’m lucky to live in this part of Peru because the people are so friendly and warm, and while I can’t speak for the rest of the country, I have to agree with this characterization. It’s humbling to hear their stories of hardships and struggles and watch them shrug it off with a laugh or a shake of the head. Peruvians are tough, especially the women. In a male-dominated society, these women have to put up with husbands who treat them like possessions. Machismo is not a myth here. But the women I know are proud and resilient. Like women everywhere they’re just trying to get through the days, provide a better life for their kids and have a few laughs along the way.

We learned in training that Peru has one of the highest proportions of entrepreneurs among developing countries. I was skeptical of this fact at first, but after a few months and a better understanding of the economic context, I’m totally buying it. Take the women in my family, for example, they’re forever selling something or hosting some sort of event to raise a little cash. My host mom, in addition to her work as an Avon saleslady, sells food to tourists (and workers) outside the museum a few days a week. She and my host sister organized a pollada a few weeks back, which is a lunch where everyone pays a few soles for a plate of food. My sister and some friends held a Halloween dance in our town and charged an entrance fee and sold beer at one sole over cost. My cousin recently organized a soccer tournament, charging an entry fee for each team and selling cebiche to all the spectators. It’s just another small example of the basic human desire to have more, to do better. Turns out people aren’t so different after all.

I was watching a documentary with my family a few nights ago on the appalling poverty in the slums of Lima, the focus of which was child labor. My family called in the two little boys to make them watch this, telling them how lucky they are that they don’t have to work and get to go to school. It was an eye-opening reminder that my family doesn’t really consider themselves poor – they know they’re better off than millions of their countrymen. I can learn a lot from them about how to appreciate what you do have instead of always looking for more or for better.

I know this isn’t my usual tongue-in-cheek commentary on the oddities of my daily life, but I think it’s important to illuminate some broader themes of what it means to be dropped in the middle of a rural Peruvian town.

I hope you all have a wonerful Thanksgiving with friends and family. I´m grateful to have so many wonderful and supportive people in my life. I miss you all immensely.

Photo Post!

Me hard at work at an artisan fair.

Some kids dancing at the recent school fair.

Some of my artisans. Please notice the looks on their faces -- I get this a lot.

At a recent rosario in the cemetary, where we waited over an hour for the priest to show up.

My lovely, spacious, white-walled oasis

My site friends on my birthday. Keeping it classy.

My novio, Francisco. He´s one.

Some of my favorite ladies getting ready for a night out in Chiclayo. We don´t normally look like this. Katie, Siobhan, Jess.

My awesome birthday present from my awesome friends.

My posse after a tough futbol game.

A makeshift clothesline for my unmentionables. Move over McGuyver.

Sunset in Huaca Rajada, taken from my doorstep.

Another view of my room.

Some neighborhood girls. Don´t let their smiles fool you, they´re little terrors.

Titillating Trivia

First and foremost, thanks to all for your birthday wishes and amazing packages! I’ve been gorging on chocolate and Hollywood gossip for the past week. My first Peruvian birthday was great. It will come as no surprise to many of you that I love my birthday. Really love it. So I won’t pretend that I had not spread the word around my town since day one. In fact, my favorite opening line in many a conversation was “hey, when’s your birthday?” Mainly so that I could tell them my birthday, and also aprovecharing the fact that Peruvians love their birthdays almost as much as I love mine. Oh, it feels like home in so many ways. But I will say honestly that I had few expectations about spending a birthday in such a foreign environment. While we didn’t have a rockin’ party, my family did fix me one of my favorite meals as a birthday lunch and invited some of my site friends (yes, new development, I think I might have some friendships in the works!) over for an afternoon turned evening turned night sitting outside with a few cervezas. And this came on the heels of a rockin’ good time in the capital city with some of the coolest Peace Corps kids I know. All in all, a success.

A few random, but fun, facts about my life -- just in case there’s a “Jessica’s Peruvian Life” category at your next neighborhood trivia night. You never know…this blog could be going viral.

• I have two pet spiders that I’ve named Charlotte and Wilbur. They’re good companions as they catch pesky fruit flies and no-see-ums. Though I was slightly alarmed when something fell on my head in the middle of the night. Luckily it was only some burning sugarcane blowing in through the hole in my roof.
• My host dad, for reasons still unclear to me, legally changed his birthday a few years ago. It’s now the same day as my host brother’s. I’m guessing it’s to save on birthday party costs.
• My family recently installed a satellite dish. We don’t have a refrigerator, sink, kitchen or complete roof, but we have 300+ channels.
• I’ve started a please and thank you campaign. So far the only active participant is me, but a few days ago my 6-year-old host nephew asked why I say thank you so many times, so at least someone is noticing. Change happens on a small scale, one family at a time.
• My family (excluding me) bathes in a stream behind our house.
• My host sister and some friends organized a Halloween bash for the town. It was held directly outside my window, complete with a 1993 sound system that had my windows rattling until 5am.
• Nov. 1 is Día de los Muertos, so we spent several hours at the cemetery along with the rest of the town in the blazing hot sun. On four hours of sleep (see above), the chicha (homemade corn liquor – sounds gross but, like everything else in this country, it’s growing on me) at the after party threatened to do me in, but my nephew (age 6) took the prize for drunkest. He told my host mom he wanted to be drunk; she laughed and passed him a full glass.
• Yesterday a woman I’d never seen before told me I was getting fat. Today a woman at the complejo told me I’ve lost too much weight and I should eat more. I receive daily comments about getting tanner (I’m standing by a tried and true Southernism: tan fat is better than pale fat). No one likes my red sunglasses but they love my blue eyes. It’s a constant free-for-all on Jessica’s physical appearance…I’m waiting for my picture to show up on the cover of Peru US Weekly: “Gringa Está Engordando!”
• I’m starting a Young Entrepreneurs club at the local school. Of the roughly 150 secondary students I presented the idea to, 60 signed up. Of those 60, about 25 came to the first meeting. Of those 25, 23 laughed out loud when I mispronounced words. Oh, the joys of teenagers around the world.
• Favorite Spanish word of the week: bufanda (scarf). Hearing men talk about their bufandas just sounds silly.

OK, enough talk. Let’s see some proof!

Um, yeah, so I'm having some technical difficulties with the pictures. I will try to upload photos at a later date. Sorry! Just really want to keep you all guessing - what does Peruvian Jess really look like?!?

Birthday Basics

I have attended more birthday parties in the past two months than I have in the past twelve years. Given the time of year, (hint, hint) I thought I’d take a moment to share some tidbits on the basics of celebrating a birthday Peruvian style. The following rules have proven true at all the parties I’ve attended, regardless of age, status or location. I went to one party during training, but was too new to the Peruvian party system to appreciate its intricacies. Now I’ve totally gotten the hang of it – and the parties are super fun! Take notes, I’ll expect this in 2011.

Rule #1: The party never ends. Just when you think you’ve survived the fifth hour of dancing, a new guest will arrive with a caja of cerveza. Said guest will greet everyone individually, open up a beer, crank up the tunes and the party starts anew. Seriously, I put in a good 10-hour day at one birthday party and was still bested by about 20 people. I’ve yet to see the end of a party, a decidedly un-Jesster-like move. Often there are shifts of partygoers, an afternoon crowd and an evening crowd. Only the truly diehards even attempt both shifts. I’m beginning to realize my family considers themselves diehards. Or maybe they just really like seeing me dance for hours upon hours. Either way, we’re a two-shift family.

Rule #2: The drinking circle. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this custom in passing in previous postings, but I don’t think I’ve actually explained the art form behind this magical circle. Beers are served in large bottles here (kind of like a 40 by U.S. standards). There is one glass for the entire circle. The bottle of beer and glass start with Person A. Person A pours a shot of beer into the glass and passes the bottle to Person B. Person B holds the bottle while Person A downs the shot. Person A passes the glass to Person B. Person B pours his glass and passes the bottle to Person C. You get the picture. At first I was slightly disgusted by sharing a glass with 20 strangers, but now I’m really into it; it’s a very communal and social way to drink. Plus there are all kinds of weird rules that are fun to discover. For example, when you’re the unlucky one to finish the bottle, not only do you have to find and open the next bottle, but you also have to pour in a sip from the new bottle to get rid of the bad luck. And it starts to get crazy when we introduce an extra glass and bottle going in the opposite direction. Par-tay! These circles are not just for birthday parties; they’re for everything. Soccer games, festivals, parades, cockfights, Sunday afternoons.

Rule #3: You will be fed at least twice. Most birthday parties start in the early afternoon. You arrive, take a seat in a large circle and wait for lunch to be served. Lunch is always served on Styrofoam plates with plastic silverware. Let me tell you, for the inexperienced, it is tough to cut goat with a plastic spoon. I held onto my manners as long as possible, but I finally caved and now eat Peruvian style – sucking the meat off the bone I’m holding in my filthy hands. A couple hours after lunch, you’re served a "snack", which is usually just smaller portions of what you ate for lunch. Although one time we had popcorn. That was pretty exciting and everyone was amazed that I’d eaten popcorn before. A few hours after the snack, you’re served dinner, which is a repeat of lunch and snack. It’s expensive for the hosts to feed everyone, which is why the most popular birthday gift is a caja of beer.

Rule #3b: No cake. This struck me as odd for awhile because Peruvians love their sugary snacks and drinks, but upon further investigation I’ve discovered that big, fancy cakes are a) very expensive or b) impossible to find out in the campo. Oh well, more room for three servings of rice! Extra carbs for extra dancing, which brings me to rule four...

Rule #4: Gringas are popular dance partners. I’m usually the first one on the dance floor and the last one to leave. Women don’t choose dance partners here; we sit demurely in our plastic chairs waiting for an invitation. You don’t stay on the “dance floor” between songs. Once the song ends, everyone goes back to their chairs. Thirty seconds later, everyone is out of their chairs dancing again. I’m still not sure why we have to sit down between songs because it’s not like people aren’t dancing to every song. My best guess is to ensure variety in partners. You also can’t say no to a dance invitation. That would be incredibly rude. Which is why I spent the majority of a recent afternoon dancing with a 75-year-old man who was at least a foot shorter than me. We took a lot of pictures. Granted, it was his birthday.

Rule #4b: Dancing does not start until after at least five spins around the drinking circle. The motivation behind this should be fairly obvious.

Rule #5: Peruvian women never have to use the bathroom. After a few turns around the drinking circle, nature calls for this gringa. Invariably I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, so my usual tactic is to turn to the closest female relative and ask quietly where I could use the bathroom. Now, I am extremely fortunate to have my own bathroom with a toilet. I’d venture to say that 95 percent of the population in this area does not have sewage services, so they use latrines. I’m aware of this fact and am becoming a very low-maintenance girl. I can squat with the best of them. However, no matter how many times I tell my family that I can go anywhere, my inquiries about a bathroom spot always lead to loud shouting across the patio roughly translated as, “hey, my gringa has to pee, but she’s used to a toilet. What should we do?” Slightly embarrassing when everyone turns to look at you. Luckily this only happens once, after being pointed in the right direction, I stick to my spot for the rest of the day. Oddly, no one else ever ventures near my spot. Must be all that weird water I drink. (My host brother is convinced my water is a secret potion that allows me to stay more sober than all the Peruvians. Amateurs.)

Hopefully in my next post I will be able to share some insight as to how it feels when the birthday is your own. At least I’ll know the drill when the “birthday” song comes on (no, not Happy Birthday, some cumbia song) and the guest of honor has to stand in the middle while everyone dances and claps in a circle around him/her.

I’m also happy to report that I finally bought a replacement camera (a little early birthday present to myself). I’m on my way back to site to take pictures of my family, town, house and friends. So stay tuned, This American Life is about to go visual.

Daily Dose

I’ve spent a good deal of time collecting and relating humorous and odd stories to share with my faithful blog followers, and while these stories certainly go a long in defining my life here, they don’t tell the whole story. So I thought I’d take an opportunity to provide some detail on the more mundane of my activities for all you die-hard readers. And to answer a common question I’ve been getting recently: “What is it exactly that you’re doing there?” Truth be told, I’m still figuring that out. It’s only been a couple months, people.

First a few more details about my town (I am buying a replacement camera soon and will post tons of pictures. I know straight narrative, while incredibly informative and witty, gets old after awhile). As I’ve mentioned before, it’s tiny. Huaca Rajada claims 1,000 people but I’m pretty sure that also includes the population of Sipán, a neighboring town (kind of like a Carborro to a Chapel Hill, or a Seabrook to a Kiawah). We have electricity all the time, except when it goes out inexplicably for a few hours, and running water a few hours a day, except on the days when it just doesn’t turn on. Living conditions are pretty basic. There are a lot of families, mine included, that still don’t have indoor bathrooms or plumbing. It’s definitely a poor part of the world, but it’s amazing how quickly you can get used to the physical “hardships” when you don’t have a choice.

My primary project is to work with a group of artisans. There’s a new artisan complex that was completed in early 2009, which is where my group works. There are eight different workshops that vary from honey to leather, and a number of individuals who rent space in the complex to sell their goods, which are more artesian in the traditional sense – ceramics, jewelry, etc. The complex is located just outside a small site museum which houses discoveries from the nearby pyramids, which are still a live excavation site, in order to take advantage of the tourist traffic. The JACA (name of the artisan association as a whole) was only formalized about 8 months ago so there are still a number of growing pains, especially in balancing the individual workshop within the context of a formal association. Group dynamics and conflicts are already proving to be one of the biggest challenges. I’m trying not to get involved with any of the gossip or petty grievances and maintain my role as “consultant,” which can be difficult because I definitely like some people better than others, and can see who is working and who is not. I’m finding that first impressions standfast and it’s hard to undo what I’ve already, however unwillingly, done, which is gravitate toward the most active and friendly people in the complex. I’ve been trying for six weeks now to call a group meeting to start talking about schedules and possible activities, but that so far has been an exercise in futility. So for now, I just kind of hang around and talk to whoever will listen about record keeping, marketing or formalization.

Anyway, I usually wake up around 8 or so, go for a run, eat breakfast on my own, and depending on the length of my run, the weather, and any sort of meeting I might have planned, either rinse off with a refreshing bucket bath or wait around until the water turns on (usually around 10.30am) to shower. I generally spend the late morning in my room, reading, writing or working on various Peace Corps reports/studies. I eat lunch with my family, watch a little of the afternoon telenovela and then spend the afternoon at the artisan complex. My afternoons at the complejo vary – sometimes it’s really busy with a lot of tourists and there’s tons of people of to talk to, other times it’s really quiet and I’ll help my crazy artisan friend make cookies or Popsicles (I’m learning lots of delicious recipes). Sometimes there are random meetings that I’ll sit in on (I was recently forced to stand up and explain “in my own words” my understanding of the swine flu) or I’ll go hang around the museum and talk to the guides. I come back to my house around 5.30 or 6 and read or write in my room until it’s time for dinner. After dinner we watch a little TV. Or more accurately, my family watches a ton of TV and I excuse myself after what I deem an appropriate amount of family bonding time (which is a sliding scale dependent on such factors as: quality of programming, my level of fatigue, the degree of palatability of dinner and/or quality of secret stash of candy left in my room). Once alone in my room I’ll read some more or watch a movie/TV show on my laptop. And then I’m asleep by about 10pm. Wow, actually writing it down makes my life seem pretty lame. But hidden within each seemingly innocuous activity described above are numerous human interactions, daily oddities and countless “ah-ha” moments that make my life here anything but normal.

And then there are all the days where I do crazy stuff or attend “cultural celebrations” (see previous entries). Both my host parents have more than 10 siblings, so when you factor in all the cousins, in-laws, aunts and uncles…well that’s a lot of birthdays. And a lot of birthday parties. Basically it’s a crapshoot as to how each day will turn out. I’ve found that having one thing planned, even if it’s only a tentative agreement to play jacks with the kids outside my window, goes a long way to keeping me sane. I make a lot of to do lists so I can feel accomplished by crossing off brush teeth, for example. Easy win. I’m also implementing a new rule of Spanish vocabulary practice. I feel increasingly more comfortable with my Spanish, but I’m often struck dumb by a limited vocabulary. You know there’s a language barrier when my most complex conversations are the ones I have in my head with characters from The West Wing. In my defense, it’s a smart show.

I also rely on my fellow volunteers for sanity. Phone calls are always welcome interruptions and great ways to remind each other that no, it is weird to be invited to join the Civil Defense Committee or the Town Appreciation Festival Planning Committee. Our occasional weekends in the capital city are much-needed breaks. We trickle in slowly from towns scattered around the department. We arrive dirty and dusty and oftentimes slightly tipsy from whatever family event we’ve been dragged to on our way. We don’t need to tell each other all the crazy things that have happened to us in the intervening weeks. But we do, we stay up late talking and laughing. We share twin beds and boxes of wine and hugs. We recognize in each other the same dazed expressions, similar hopes and fears, twisted senses of humor and a bond born from an intensely emotional and strange situation. It’s a nice reminder that no matter how lonely I might feel, I’m never really alone.

And, of course, there are the amazingly uplifting phone calls, letters and emails from home. You have no idea how much it means to hear from y’all. Your support, your laughter, your stories, your voices…I don’t have the words. Call me anytime. Anytime.

As always, miss you and am thinking of you all.

Busy Bee

(written 27 September)

And so it continues. I’m happy to report that the past week has been pleasantly positive and righteously ridiculous. I’m moving steadily forward with my Year of Yes campaign. The last week has found me in the following situations: dressed as a beekeeper in a parade, judging a livestock competition, serving as reina of said competition, as the lone female at a Sunday night cockfight, and sharing three twin beds with five people. But let’s start from the beginning.

As you all surely know, September 23 is national beekeeping day in Peru. Fortunately for you readers, I was not aware of this fact (makes for a much better story). Last Wednesday I woke to my host dad knocking on my window at 7am. This has never happened, my family pretty much leaves me on my own in the mornings. Confused I groggily answered (through the window mind you, without opening the curtain to actually look at him) and agreed to accompany him to Chiclayo in about an hour. Having no idea what I’m doing or why is pretty common, so I’m going about my getting ready routine (brush teeth, put on same clothes from yesterday, boil water, drink coffee) when my host sister knocks on my door and hands me a beekeeping outfit (white jumpsuit, mask, rubber gloves and boots) and instructs me to pack it in my backpack. I assumed that perhaps I’d misunderstood and we were in fact going out to the campo to look at my dad’s bees. Nonplussed, I stuffed the outfit in my pack and took off the earrings I’d put on for my day in the big city (note, adding earrings to an outfit clearly denotes special occasion). We get on the combi a short time later and I find out we actually are headed to Chiclayo. As the plans unfold I begin to understand that we will be participating in a parade. I had a sneaking suspicion that this could only end with me looking a fool. Correct I was. Papy and I make our way to the beekeeper’s lodge, don our jumpsuits and proudly take our places in the back of a pick-up truck with Miss Beekeeper 2009, a small child dressed as a bee, and a lot of balloons. We then proceed to drive all over the city for the next two hours, waving signs, clapping, blowing our whistles, the whole bit. Unfortunately since this was the inaugural celebration of Peruvian beekeepers, the parade was less a parade and more like two pick-up trucks and a motorcycle. Don’t worry though; we’re already in talks about next year’s pasacalle. Pretty sure I’ve agreed to help organize. Anything for the union. For the hundredth time in the last month, I really really wished my camera hadn’t been stolen. I look good in white.

In what turned out to be a Papy and Jessica bonding week, I also agreed to accompany (This is a very popular word in Peruvian Spanish, by the way. I think it makes me seem important and helpful) him to a fair over the weekend. This was also an inaugural event, it turned out to be less artisan fair and more livestock competition. One of my artisans (the slightly crazy lady I mentioned in a previous blog) was not pleased by this turn of events and kept grumbling about how no one wanted to buy her algarroba. I too was a little confused the first morning since we were camped out in the middle of a shantytown, pigs being slaughtered to our left and fried to our right. Until I met some of the organizers and they invited me to join the first drinking circle of the day…at 10am. After that, I started having a lot more fun. Highlights from Friday include: sitting on the stage with the mayor for the breaking of bread (or goat as the case may be), dancing with the mayor and various other veterinarians on the stage, being serenaded by a Renaissance minstrel group (yes, they were wearing tights. No, this did not diminish their coolness in the least. A musician is a musician.). Pleased with myself for making so many new friends, I readily agreed to come back the next day. Arriving on Saturday morning, I was again reminded of how absolutely inconspicuous all of my actions are. Everyone in this little town knew my name, everyone reminded me of promises made and everyone was ready for me to join their drinking circle again. Prudently and politely I spent the morning talking to the few artisans and trying to get the word out about the great work in Huaca Rajada. After I managed to score an interview on a local news station talking about my work, I decided I’d earned a little break. I went over to look for some of my new friends and found them occupied (being veterinarians and cattle ranchers) in the organization of the cow judging. They invited me to join them. I, of course, said yes. Several hours later and more cows than I was able to count, I had someone finagled my way into position as both a judge in the competition and its queen (resplendent in a sparkly sash and all). The afternoon is somewhat a blur, but I do recall touching a number of udders, begging for a milking competition (we ran out of time), posing for countless pictures and agreeing to let my new friends plan a birthday party for me. Sadly we don’t get a lot of access to media here in the campo so I can’t report with certainty that my picture or interview actually made it to print/broadcast, but I’m fairly optimistic my reputation will precede me at any future argoindustrial event in the area.

These experiences (and countless others that I lack the energy and wit to properly recount now) have been hilarious and go a long way to making feel like I’m welcome and really integrating in the community. But at the same time I feel like I’m getting more out of this experience than I’m giving. I’m ready to bring more to the table than just sheer entertainment value. I plan on starting up some English classes at the museum/artisan complex in the next couple weeks. There’s also a group of kids that wants me to help them start an organic garden. That should be interesting considering I’ve never managed to keep an herb plant alive, much less things you actually have to plant and care for. It’s non-stop learning down here, friends.

Stay tuned for the next installment of “hey, let’s see what we can make the gringa do today!” I miss you all!
Bzzzily yours,
Jess

Postscript: In the days since writing the above post, I’ve come to an abrupt and humbling end to my reign as Miss Iron Stomach 2009. I’ve spent the past three days unable to leave a 10 foot radius of my, thank God, private bathroom. Amazing what illness and lack of food can do to a girl’s perspective. I no longer find the intestines bleaching on the clothesline funny. Nor do I find Peruvian’s grasp on modern medicine endearing. Just so you know – it’s not all fun and games here in the Peace Corps. Sometimes we’re sick. Sometimes we’re lonely. Sometimes we’re desperately bored. And when we’re really lucky, we’re all three. But I’m feeling better and I’m pretty sure I made plans to attend this weekend’s cockfight, where there will be a cock fighting in my honor. And I’ll leave it at that.

Year of Yes (Sí Señor)

As some of you might recall, I attempted a “Year of Yes” a couple years back. Admittedly this was more to improve my dating life than due to a renewed outlook on life, and it didn’t quite go as planned. Instead of meeting the love of my life and writing a best-selling book about my hilarious romantic adventures and life-altering realizations (by the way Jim Carrey, you’re welcome for the movie idea), I ended up in the Peace Corps. Life works in mysterious ways. Now that I’m in site, I’ve decided the best way to integrate is to say yes! to any and all invitations passed my way. I usually don’t understand what I’m agreeing to, but that makes it all the more fun. I am often confused and completely, conspicuously out of place…but hey, I think I’m developing a reputation as an easygoing, up-for-anything kind of girl. And I’ve had some interesting adventures. Read on for highlights from the first few weeks of my newly reinstated Year of Yes.

· Dead birthday party. I was resting in my room one Sunday afternoon (i.e., watching Arrested Development or Weeds on my laptop), when my host mom knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to go to Pucula with her. Not sure what or where Pucula was, I readily accepted. I headed out the door in my typical Peace Corps-attire; dirty jeans, flip flops, messy braid and uber-cool Ray Bans, noticing after a few minutes that my mom was wearing her nice jeans and makeup. Slightly confused, I asked her where we were going. Pucula, she said, and pointed across the river. Ah, Pucula is a nearby town. We reached the river and everyone starts taking off their shoes and rolling up their pants. My mom hands me her jacket and purse, hoists her grandson on her hips and makes for the water. I follow and manage not to fall down, thankfully, since everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch the gringa cross. Safely across, if not slightly damp (I don’t know how I was the only one to get my pants wet seeing how I’m a good six inches taller. Practice, I guess), we forge ahead, picking up more family members along the way. I still have no idea where we’re going when we get into a moto taxi and head for the cemetery. Visiting dead relatives on Sundays is a very popular activity in Peru, so I figured we were probably just going to put some flowers on a grave. We get to the cemetery and follow a large number of people through the gates. I begin to suspect something different is going on when all the people are heading for the same gravesite. I didn’t think I’d heard that anyone died recently and I was praying (haha) that we weren’t headed for a funeral. Talk about awkward, and long. We join the back of the crowd circling the grave. Looking around, no one seems particularly sad or teary-eyed. I shrug and strike my “ah, this is interesting and I understand everything that’s happening” pose, punctuated by a thoughtful nod every few minutes. I was particularly entertained each time the leather jacket-wearing priest belted out some Peruvian Christian rock on the synthesized electric keyboard he’d brought along for the occasion. After about an hour we started singing Happy Birthday (in English and Spanish) and I finally figured out that today was the birthday of a recently deceased family member. A son got up and said some words and then we all took shots of rum and ate rum-soaked olives. We even got birthday presents – a framed picture of tía Rosa super-imposed over a celestial background. Obviously, this keepsake has a prime spot in my room. Then the whole gang trouped over to the family home for a birthday party, complete with dinner and drinking circles. No dancing though, that would just be disrespectful. It turned out to be a really fun evening and everyone kept joking how in the U.S. we bury our dead and then wipe our hands of them, but in Peru we’ll do anything for a party.

· Optometrist convention. I’ve latched on to one of my artisans, a 60-year-old woman named Maria who makes and sells algarroba (kind of like a mixture between honey and maple syrup) products. She’s slightly crazy and spends most days muttering to herself (perhaps I sense a kindred spirit), but she’s really sweet and lets me sit in her workshop for hours on end making (and tasting) toffees and cookies. I accompanied her to an artisan fair at a university about an hour away last week and I think she now sees me as her personal assistant. So she invited me to help her at an event at the “Casa de Sipan” last weekend. The Casa de Sipan is a house/farm on the river that hosts and caters private events, and the owners invited some of the artisans to set up tables and sell their goods throughout the event. None of the details were shared with me; I just knew we were supposed to be there around 11 (so, close to 1pm Peruvian time) to set up and there were to be about 400 people. I was blown away when I got there – the place is beautiful. It’s like out of a destination-wedding magazine, and it’s less than 5 minutes from my house (hint, hint all my engaged friends – if you want something totally unique and a chance to visit me too…I could probably hook you up. I’m kind of a big deal here.). The event turned out to be the wrap-up party of a three-day optometrist convention held in Chiclayo. It was an interesting paradox to see these well-off Peruvian doctors unload from their buses, start throwing back Pisco Sours and goat, and then look across the river to the shanties that are without power or running water. I also felt conflicted because it was proven again that no matter where I am or what I’m doing; I will always be given preferential treatment as a white foreigner. Sitting at the tables with my artisans, I was continually invited my some of the guests to have a drink and talk some more about my work, Peace Corps, etc. I mingled with a few drunken docs and somehow agreed to help one doctor with a cataract campaign in my town. How I am supposed to help, I have no idea. Total number of projects I’ve agreed to work on: approximately 17. Total number of projects I’ve agreed to work on for which I am absolutely unqualified: approximately 17.

· Baile popular. My host brother invited me to a party in a neighboring town, Saltur, last Saturday night. I figured this would be a typical Peruvian party: people sitting quietly in a drinking circle for the first hour, then cranking the music and dancing until 3am. Which is cool. I’ve perfected the art of the drinking circle and even know a few cumbia songs. But this was a different sort of party. We get to Saltur with a few of his friends and head for a basketball court where there is a live band set up. There’s a fence all around the court and no one is actually inside. We stand around outside the fence for a good 30 minutes and then make our way over to the entrance. Turns out you have to pay to get into the dancing area…even though you can see and hear the band perfectly fine from outside the gate. Whatever, just another custom that my US-grown brain will never comprehend. We go in and start dancing, a couple hours later I am suddenly overcome with the feeling that I am going to throw up. Whether is was from the shots of lukewarm beer, the mystery meat from dinner, the hours of dancing or some combination of the three, I don’t know, but I thought I was going to die. I sprinted from the court and sought solace on a pile of rocks around a corner. I’m sitting there gulping for air when my host bro and a friend come careening around the corner and start yelling at me for leaving without saying anything. Touched by their concern and too tired to try to explain myself in Spanish, I apologized and meekly followed them back. They were convinced that I would feel better if I just kept on dancing. Ugh. I tried, but then I had to explain that I really didn’t feel well. So they turned over the beer crate and made me sit in the middle of the circle while they continued dancing and drinking. Talk about feeling like an out-of-place loser. Luckily I started feeling a little better and found that incredibly, they were right; I did feel better if I moved around some. I found out on Monday that one of the hundred videos and/or pictures I posed for ended up on the local news. My sweet dance skills are slowly becoming a national phenomenon.

· Fun with farm animals. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked to stop by someone’s house or walk with them to their farm in order to conocer the town better. These walks usually lead to a lot of awkward chatter, lots of hugs, a piece of fruit and/or bread and an unwavering generosity from my neighbors. I’m also learning a lot about livestock. Last week, for instance, found me in the middle of a pen of guinea pigs learning how to check their sex by squeezing a certain way in a certain area. I think one of the male cuyes was coming on to me. I then had a long chat with the cuy owner about the tragedy that struck just a few days earlier – someone broke into his pen and stole two cuyes. The next day another neighbor suffered a similar theft. My host family was very concerned since we also raise cuyes. I also spent a very odd hour or two at the home of a family member of a woman who works with one of my artisans (got all that?). No one was there except for her five-year-old son. We fed some cows and some pigs. Then he told me to sit on a bench outside the house and wait. Sitting on that bench by myself in the middle of a farm with chickens literally pecking at my feet, I looked around and though for the hundredth time that day, “where the hell am I?” Then I left. I am still unsure what I was waiting for.

Despite all the above, one of the oddest things I’ve discovered in the past couple weeks is that my host mom is an Avon saleslady. This is so incongruous with her appearance and circumstance that I was positive I’d misunderstood until she proudly showed me all her Avon catalogs. Apparently she buys products from Chiclayo and then sells them out here in the campo. Not being familiar with the Avon pyramid structure, I don’t know if she makes an income or just gets free stuff after selling a certain value. I smell another potential project. The upshot of all this is that there’s now a poster of Patrick Dempsey (who is apparently a model for an Avon cologne) on the wall of the “kitchen,” right next to the creepy kitten calendar and Jesus watercolor. I can just see him winking at me as I choke down various entrails. Patrick is proud of me.

Suffice to say, the last few weeks have been entertaining and eye opening. I still have a long way to go to feeling comfortable in my role here, but I’m along for the ride. And it is quite a ride. Yes we can.

Campo Crazy

So, it’s been awhile. I am now writing to you as a real volunteer. No longer a PCT (Peace Corps Trainee), I have entered the realm of the illustrious PCV world (I’ll leave you to figure out that acronym). We swore in last Friday and the whole group spent one last, crazy night together in the posh parts of Lima, eating non-Peruvian food, drinking wine and just generally drinking away our anxiety.

I’m not going to lie this first week in site has been tough. It’s a weird adjustment to go from having every minute of every day planned for you to having absolutely nothing planned. To go from a group of 36 to a group of one. To go from our gringo bubble to the wide-open campo. To go from…you get the picture. And to do it all from inside a foreign language, that adds a whole new dimension. In Spanish I am reduced the simplest of sentences and expressions. Forget being funny and charming, I struggle with simply talking so as not to appear mute.

I can’t begin to explain the awkwardness of the past few days. I arrived to my site (after spending an extra day in Chiclayo, our regional capital (my excitement about heading to site quickly turned to “I-don’t-want-to-go-let’s-stay-here-together-and-eat-and-drink-and-speak-English-and-not-go-to-site-today-please-stay-with-me-please-ok-great-let’s-go-out.”)), on Monday afternoon only to find that no one from my host family save for my 6-year-old nephew was at the house. Brian gave me the key to my room so I started unloading my stuff. One of my host sisters showed up and helped with some bags and then told me she’d leave me alone to unpack. So I sat in my room for a couple of hours until they called me for dinner. I did get a cookie and some cake though, so clearly they love me. We’re saving the ticker-tape parade for another day.

I had a nice long chat with my host dad, who is super-motivated and has a lot of ideas for projects and opportunities. I really like him. Anyway, we were chatting and I look over to see mom pull a goat’s head out of a pot on the stove. My face must have given me away because they all started laughing and telling me about the goat they killed earlier that day. I went to bed with an uneasy feeling about the next day’s meals. Sure enough I was served goat intestine over rice for breakfast the next morning. Breakfast. Those of you who know me well can attest to my former picky eating habits. Well, there’s no room for picky in Peru. You eat what you’re served. And eat it I did. It tasted like what you would expect goat intestine to taste like, if you are so sadistic as to imagine such horrors. I think it says a lot that rice is my favorite part of many meals. I’ve since started running in the mornings and telling them I prefer to just eat a piece of fruit by myself in the mornings. For now I’m safe from future innards breakfasts.

Aside from plotting ways to avoid goat meals and forcing down mystery meats, I spent a good deal of the first couple days in my room, reading and watching movies on my laptop. I’ve taken the “slow adjustment integration” approach. And I think that’s OK. First order of business is to make myself comfortable and as happy as possible, and if I need some alone time to work up the will to pasear through town desperately searching for conversation, then that’s what I’m giving myself. Talking to all my PC friends it seems like we’re all in the same boat – doing a lot of sleeping, reading and free calling with our new cell phones. But I have been getting out more and more each day.

Yesterday I walked over to the artisan complex to talk with some of the artisans. I plopped myself down and started asking questions. It actually went really well. I got myself invited to a birthday party (where I had to dance with all the 17-year-old boys in the middle of giant circle…and pee outside while the mom watched me to make sure I didn’t fall down), got several free snacks, talked about some project ideas and coordinated with one of the artisans to go to a fair next weekend at a nearby university. I’ve also met with the director of the local school, who seems very willing to work with me. I’ve tentatively set up several meetings for next week. I’ve also already had several “meetings” cancelled or rescheduled. Oh, and I met one of the local political bigwigs, a municipality employee of some sort. My host dad and I went to his house one afternoon and he invited us in for a drink, in his underwear. Oh, Peru. How you taunt and tease me.

And I’m headed into Chiclayo today (or am actually already there by the time I post this) to do some shopping for my room and possibly go to the beach with my PC friends. So things are looking up. I keep telling myself it can only get less awkward from here.

I don’t mean to sound negative or down, I am excited to be here and I know these next two years are going to be full of amazing, enriching experiences. But the adjustment period is just that, an adjustment to a completely different life, far away from anything familiar. I am happy though and taking each day as it comes, content in the knowledge that I can do whatever I want because I’m already the weird gringa and they expect me to be odd. And I’m still laughing at all the little things, even if I have to laugh silently on the inside.

I miss you all, please write or call. I’ve updated my contact information on the right side of this page. We don’t have Internet in my site so be patient and keep reading and writing!

Oh, and no pictures for awhile...my camera was stolen a couple weeks ago in Lima. Sad times. My words will have to suffice for now. Paz afuera.

Lambayeque Living

I survived. I have made it through site visit, and here’s hoping it only gets less awkward from here. But all in all, I had a really good week. I really like my town and my new host family. I can already see a number of interesting work projects. I think I made two potential friends, and I’m only a 45-minute combi ride from the departmental capital, Chiclayo. But let’s start at the beginning.

I arrived in Chiclayo Monday morning with the four other Peru 13ers that will be living in Lambayeque. We had Monday free to explore the city, so some current volunteers came into meet us and give us the official Peace Corps tour, i.e., the good/cheap grocery stores, restaurants and bars. Chiclayo has everything you need (post offices, banks, cheese store) and a lot that I probably don’t – there’s a Starbucks and a movie theater! I imagine I’ll be treating myself to a movie and a latte at least once a month. I’m pretty sure I’ll have earned it. The city is really nice, it’s all walkable, much cleaner than Lima and the people seem really friendly. The only downfall is the aggressive macho behavior. It doesn’t bother me as much as it does some of the other girls, but I think we’ll all welcome the day when we’ve learned to yell back in Spanish. So Monday was pretty chill: we walked around, ate some ice cream, drank some coffee, ate some pizza, drank some wine.

We had an all-day meeting on Tuesday with our counterparts. My two counterparts arrived on time, which I took as a very promising start. (La hora peruana can leave you waiting for long stretches; I’ve already learned to bring a book with me everywhere I go.) One of my counterparts turned out to also be my new host dad. Don Papy, as everyone calls him, works for the museum in my town and is also a part of the artisan group (he sells honey). He seems really motivated about improving the town and we’ve already talked about a number of potential projects. He’s also lived in and around the town his entire life, so I feel pretty lucky to have him as a personal and professional resource. My other counterpart, Carlos, is vice president of the artisan group. He’s more reserved but also seems like a hard worker. The meeting was led by PC staff and was a basic introduction to Peace Corps, the roles of volunteers and counterparts, etc. I’m replacing a volunteer, so my counterparts were already familiar with the basics of Peace Corps.

After the meeting, Don Papy said he needed to run by the market before we headed back to site. Fine by me, I said. Off we go to the market, me with my giant gringo backpack traipsing through the narrow stalls, stepping over buckets of fish, around live chickens and dodging the ever-present taxis. We get to a glasscutter’s shop and order a piece of glass, which will be ready in 20 minutes. Back into the market we head, fearlessly knocking over Peruvians with their sacks of potatoes. Big Blue is back. Armed with a fresh chicken, some limes and a few green beans, we arrive back at the glass store. Ah, bad news. The glasscutter sliced open his hand and had to go to the hospital. There will be no glass for Don Papy today. I had a sneaking suspicion that this glass was for my room, otherwise I didn’t understand the urgency. Defeated we head off in a combi to my new home.

45 minutes later, and a world away, I step off the combi and walk up the dirt path to my house. There are two shirtless men in my room installing a lock, the window is missing a pane of glass, there is no curtain, and two (!?!) mattresses wrapped in plastic are sitting on the floor. I’m instructed to drop my bags and am shuttled off into another room to watch TV with my new host sister. The TV cable is dangling from the ceiling, I try to make conversation with Cinthia by asking what we’re watching (I can’t make anything out from the fuzz) and I get a one-word answer: “television.” Things were not off to a promising start. But 30 endless minutes later, I’m called back to my room. The door has a lock, the window had been taped over for now, a bed sheet serves as a temporary curtain and one bed has been unwrapped and made up for me. Peruvians are nothing if not resourceful.

My room is actually really nice. It’s separate from the rest of the house and is a new construction. It’s huge, a little barren now, but once I get all my stuff in there, it’s going to be great. And, best of all, I have my own bathroom! Granted there’s only running water a few hours a day, but still, the luxury of having my own bathroom cannot be overstated. Having my own door and separate entrance is also key, it goes a long way to restoring feelings of independence that have been sorely lacking the last couple months.

I met the rest of my family a bit later over dinner. We eat dinner outside, sort of; the main room is closed in by adobe walls and has a partial tin ceiling. The stove is open-flame, so there has to be somewhere for all the smoke to go. All the other rooms of the house are built around this little kitchen courtyard. It’s all very Peace Corps. I love it; it’s communal and cozy and familiar in a way that all family dynamics are. Everyone sits around a big wooden table under the stars, being served from ancient cast-iron pots and kettles. There’s a cage with about 25 cuyes (guinea pigs) squealing in the corner. And the dog, Oso (bear in Spanish), curls up under the table, lazily keeping one eye open for scraps of rice or potatoes. I have two host sisters, one host brother and a nephew. All of whom are really sweet and welcoming. We spent a lot of time sitting around that table talking about Peru, my family, the U.S., futbol…I foresee many hours around the old campfire, as it were.

I spent most of the rest of the week walking around the town, meeting some artisans and just generally talking to whoever would look my way. There are two ancient pyramids in my town from the Moche civilization (which pre-dates the Incas by more than 1,000 years), and it’s a live excavation site. I got to tour some of the dig sites and meet the archaeologists. There’s also a new museum that houses all of the recently found artifacts. I will soon be an expert in all things Moche.

This is already getting unbearably long, so I’ll leave off here for now. But suffice to say, I’m happy with my site and excited for what’s to come. One last mental image (it was too awkward to take many photos): one morning I came out for breakfast and noticed that there were several pieces of meat hanging from the clothesline. By dinnertime they were no longer there, our dinner contained some unidentifiable meat. I ate it all. It was good. My stomach is officially made of iron.

Weekly Wisdom #2

I spend most of my time valiantly trying to integrate and understand Peruvian people and culture. I speak in another language, live with a foreign family and voluntarily ride Peruvian public transportation. It’s exhausting. So sometimes it’s a relief (and fun) to relax in my gringa-ness and revel in the fact that people don’t expect me to speak the language. So, in the spirit of embracing differences and making the most out of my stupidity, I’ve compiled a new type of list.

Things you can do when you’re white (in Peru):
· Bring champagne and orange juice into a fast food pollo a la brasa restaurant to make your own mimosas. Drink loudly and obnoxiously, then argue with the waiter when he tries to charge a corkage fee (seriously, a corkage fee in a fast food restaurant?). Successfully refuse to pay the full charge (less than $5) on the grounds that you in fact opened your bottles of champagne.
· Agree to pay S./13 for a taxi. Hand the drive S./10 while your friend grabs the two rolls of toilet paper that are inexplicably in the center console. Pretend not to understand when he asks you for the extra S./3 (roughly $1), despite the 10 minute conversation you had in Spanish less than 5 minutes earlier. Get out.
· Fill up your water bottle from a water cooler in a pharmacy from which you purchased nothing.
· Pay S./1 for two people to home from Lima on a combi (cost should be about S./8 for two people). Feign sleep for much of the ride to avoid the cobrador, then actually fall asleep. Wake up, yell to get off, hand your one sol and don’t look back.

I realize after typing this that I look incredibly cheap. It’s true we do a lot of bargaining and haggling over prices, but I pay the correct price 95% of the time. The combi drivers can be incredibly obnoxious and often try to charge a gringo price, so it feels vindictive to pull one over on them every once in a while. Also, please remember that we are living on less than $3 a day right now. Every centimo counts. And the above all happened in one day, making it seem especially funny and clever.

This past week was pretty uneventful. July 28 is Peru’s independence day so we didn’t have classes Monday or Tuesday. The celebrations were subdued this year because of swine flu. Peru is very concerned about the swine flu. Schools have been closed since July 15 and won’t re-open until the second week of August. I don’t believe there have been a dramatic increase in cases, it’s just that they don’t have enough medicine so an outbreak could be devastating. Anyway, I spent a lot of time with my host family. We watched many movies and spent hours playing cards. I taught them Go Fish and for the past week, my host dad has said, “Jessica, ir al pescar,” every time I’ve seen him. Apparently they really liked the game.

I am leaving this afternoon to head to my site for the next week. I will be living in a tiny town (population: 1000) outside of Chiclayo, the regional capital of Lambayeque (north of Lima, on the coast). I’m really excited to see my town, meet my new host family and counterparts and start this whole Peace Corps thing. It’s sure to be an awkward and funny week. Can’t wait to share some great stories when I return!

Miss you all!