Time Travel

“Time keeps on slipping into the future” – Steely Dan

Time has a funny quality here. There are days that seem endless and months that pass in mere minutes. I at once can’t believe I’ve lived in Peru for all of 2010 and also feel like I’ve been here much, much longer. There’s a sense of sameness in small towns like Huaca Rajada, a feeling that time is somewhat irrelevant. People come and go, easing in and out of our lives as they seek work in Chiclayo, Lima, or further afield, but they’re always welcomed back as if no time has passed at all. Conversations veer to the familiar – the weather, family members, the latest town gossip. One doesn’t have to be here every day to understand the cycles of the seasons or the small family dramas that play out similarly in households around the world.

We tell time by the cars leaving for Chiclayo. It’s time for lunch with the “Rápido” (even after 16 months, I have no idea why this particular car is so named, they all seem equally slow to me) lumbers down the dirt road, Chiclayo-bound. I know it’s Saturday because Jackey (my other host sister) and her son come spend the day with us. Otherwise there is little difference between a Monday and a Thursday, or a Tuesday and a Sunday; the days blend together in a lulling rhythm broken only by the occasional campo baile.

When I return to site after a week or two of travel, I’m always a little worried that my artisans or family will have had some important meeting or participated in some big event without me. But every time I come back, they greet me as if I’ve always been here. As if my absence was a fleeting second. Sure, there’s a little friendly guilt-tripping – “Jessica, it’s been years,” they say. But I get this snarky retort whether I’ve been gone two days or two weeks. No, they respond, nothing new is going on here, nothing new to report. “Aqui estamos,” they reply day after day.

In many ways this blasé attitude toward the future is incredibly frustrating. It’s hard to motivate people to work when they are convinced that this is their lot in life and little they do will ever change their situation. Granted, there are a few incredibly motivated people in my town, but two or three people, mighty as they are, can’t carry an entire population forward. So from a development standpoint, time works against me.

But on a personal level, it’s been comforting to realize that I’ve woven myself into the fabric of this town, of it’s unique pace and personality. I don’t know when it happened, but one day I suddenly knew the combi schedule, I could predict what was for lunch based on the weather. It’s odd to find yourself at home in a place that once seemed so remote and alien. Time has a way of making everything eventually familiar.

Sometimes I wonder if they’ll remember me when I come back to visit in five, ten, or twenty years. I can’t answer for sure, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I’ll find the same women gossiping in the shade of the algarroba tree, and they’ll welcome me back into their folds as if no time has passed at all. As if I’ve always been here.

I hope you are all enjoying a wonderful holiday season, wherever you are!

Turkey Trotting

I spent my second, and last, Thanksgiving in Peru on a fantastic journey to the southern highlands of Arequipa. Kim and I ventured down to the Texas of Peru (so called because of their fierce independence and autonomy) for a week filled with beautiful scenery, incredible food, and great company. Thanks so much to John, Kristen, Russ and Jean for their wonderful hospitality!

Plaza de Armas, Arequipa.

We arrived to the white city of Arequipa late in the afternoon. Under fellow volunteer John’s expert tutelage, we still managed to get in about three meals that day, plus several sweet treats. Some ingenious arequipeña created a most delectable desert – queso helado (cheese ice cream). It’s incredibly buttery, velvety, savory and icily cold. I made it a mission to try as much of this ridiculously good dessert as possible. Warning: this entry might include a lot of food talk. We basically ate our way through Arequipa. It was our duty as red-blooded American girls, acknowledging (and exceeding) the time-honored tradition of stuffing yourself silly over Thanksgiving. Anyway, John showed us around the city for two days. Highlights include: go-kart racing at a place that makes Frankie’s Fun Park look downright classy, visiting a hauntingly beautiful convent in the heart of the city, drinking a frog milkshake at the market (yes, a live frog was killed, skinned, sautéed and blended before our very eyes. I have a video if you don’t believe me), feasting on crepes, tacos, stuffed peppers, and generally enjoying what I now consider the prettiest city in Peru.

Frog juice = good for stress.

Santa Catolina convent, Arequipa.

Getting in touch with my artistic side.

Beautiful red walls of the convent.

We headed for Chivay on Thursday to prepare our Thanksgiving feast. Chivay is a district capital and the base for many of the Colca Canyon (deepest canyon in the world) tours. Two volunteers from my training group live in Chivay – the indefatigable Russ and Jean. They graciously opened their house and kitchen to our hungry group and we prepared what can only be described as a feast. We spent hours in the kitchen preparing every traditional dish we could think of, laughing the day away in our borrowed chef’s coats. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed cooking and the fraternal atmosphere of a bustling kitchen. My contribution: heart-cloyingly buttery mashed potatoes and slightly-burnt-but-still-delicious homemade mac ‘n cheese. We had a lovely meal, complete with the vocal stylings of Russ and Jean. I literally had to wheel myself away from the table. So good.

A happy kitchen. (Jess, John, Kim, Russ)

The feast before the starved volunteers descend.

Now that’s a good looking plate.

Instead of hitting the mall on Black Friday, Jean, Kim, Kristen, and I opted to burn some of our Thanksgiving calories on a hike ’n bike through the Colca Canyon. Jean led us to some nearby towns, stunning canyon views, and one seriously scary bridge crossing. We then rewarded ourselves after our very strenuous four-hour excursion with soak in the local thermal baths. Obviously I’d earned this after my one attempt at exercise during the entire vacation. Vacation, people, vacation. You are supposed to stuff yourself silly and wile away the days in public baths. Have you learned nothing from my previous blogs?

The fearless travelers overlooking the Canyon.

Finally we headed for Kristen’s site, Cabanconde, a supremely beautiful town on the edge of the canyon entrance. Cabanaconde is only about 3,000 people but they have no less than three bars and five hostels, including a really swanky hotel. Needless to say, lots of tourists come through. I can’t even begin to explain how different all the canyon volunteers’ sites are from mine. I’m more than a little jealous. We only had about 12 hours in Cabanaconde but we did manage to spot the famous Colca Condor (honestly, it looks just like a regular bird) and trek out to the edge of the canyon for more great views.

Wow. A bird.

It was a whirlwind trip but well worth all the traveling. Obviously, I will always cherish childhood memories of Thanksgivings with family, but this year will go down as one of my favorites, and certainly one of the most memorable. There was something really beautiful about mashing everyone’s family traditions in a completely foreign setting. What resulted was echoingly familiar but decidedly unique. Far from home, in a land rich with their own cultural traditions, we recreated a notion of our collective home.

Dancing with the Dead

Leave it to Peruvians to turn even a trip to the cemetery into a celebration. Gone is the hushed grief, the painful silences, the eerie stillness of it all. Instead we visit the dead, leave them flowers, share a large family picnic around the gravesite. We tell them stories about neighbors, cousins, and ourselves because we know the Peruvian thirst for gossip is never quenched. We throw a big party twice a year in their honor –- on the anniversaries of their birth and death, marking the bookends of their life. They might be physically gone from our lives but their presence is acknowledged and celebrated on a daily basis.

There is something quite beautiful and moving in honoring your departed loved ones in this way. I’d noticed it in passing before, but over the past few weeks I’ve spent a decidedly un-morbid amount of time in and around Peruvian cemeteries.

A few weeks ago, for Day of the Dead, I spent an entire day in the cemetery with my host family. We packed a big lunch and camped out for the day. There were families visiting almost every grave, enjoying their own picnics and paying their respects to deceased parents, grandparents, spouses and friends. Kids were laughing and squealing in the background, making dirt pies to sell to the adults. The ice cream vendor made a killing (pun intended) selling sweet treats to the sweaty revelers. Instead of a somber event, it was a happy day punctuated by chatter and sweet rememberances. It was a time for family and friends to share meals and memories. Obviously I don’t have a personal connection with any of the deceased relatives so it’s easy for me to gloss over any sadness, but in talking with my host family and observing the day, I really don’t think it’s a time for sadness. The dead aren’t honored here by crying over our losses, we honor their memories by spending time as a family, united in a shared love for someone no longer here.

A couple weeks later, Papy’s sister died. She’d been sick for a long time so it was no big shock, but it’s always sad to lose someone. What followed was a whirlwind of familial activities: a wake, a funeral precession, a burial ceremony, a post-burial ceremony, and lots and lots of shared meals. I was present for it all -- what’s a family event without the token gringita, after all? Sure there were some awkward moments, namely walking behind the coffin, standing heads above the rest of the mourners, throwing flower petals as we marched through the streets. More than one person stage whispered, “who is that white girl?” But overall it was a time for family and I was welcomed, as always, with open arms. The generosity of the Peruvians I know is boundless. Amid their sadness they found the kindness and love to feed me, include me in the rituals and ceremonies, and talk to me. The whole three-day affair was marked less by sadness and more by joyous moments of family love. It was unexpectedly moving for me. Once again I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for being able to be a part of these private moments.

For all its hardships and loneliness, Peace Corps really does offer us this incredible opportunity to live in another culture, with all the joy and pain that brings.