Chapter Closed

It's official. I am no longer a Peace Corps volunteer. I've left Huaca Rajada for the last time, said good-bye to Chiclayo, turned in my residency card, and eaten my last plate of ceviche. All that's left in schlepping two overweight bags across two continents. 

I wish I had some profound and clever way to summarize these two years, but I don't. It's been such a complex mix of emotions and experiences and right now all I feel is dazed. I'm sure that with time I'll be better able to define my Peace Corps experience, but when I think about it right now I'm struck by the contradictions. 

I learned to true definition of loneliness, but I met some truly amazing friends. 

I went through moments literally pulling my hair out from boredom, but I swam in the Amazon river, summited Andean peaks, and bused my way around a truly beautiful country.

I feel a little more jaded, but I was repeatedly humbled and awestruck at the simple human kindnesses that marked my days. 

I feel a little wiser, but I've regressed to the sense of humor and vocabulary of a 14-year-old boy.

I felt sadder and more isolated at times than I imagined possible, but I laughed harder and smiled wider than ever before.

Basically, it was a wild ride and it barely seems real. But it was wonderful, amazing, life-changing, hilarious, and unquestionably worth all the low moments.

Thanks for reading all these months. I'm planning on keeping the blog going through my next adventure (stay tuned for details), so keep me bookmarked and check back soon for the next chapter in my American life. 

Road Rage

I have never willingly put myself through such constant physical discomfort as I have by braving the cars, vans, and buses in Peru. I think by now you all understand that I am much, much taller than my Peruvian counterparts. My legs are literally twice as long as some of the women I know here. It’s silly that I even try to fit into Peruvian-sized spaces, but when the alternative is staying in Huaca Rajada indefinitely, you better believe I’ll squeeze myself into the first thing with wheels that’s headed west.

 Terminal Epsel, Chiclayo: organized chaos.

Taxis are ubiquitous in all Peruvian cities. In Chiclayo, both mototaxis and ticos are popular and cheap ways to get around. A mototaxi is a similar to a rickshaw but with a small motorcycle for power, usually steered by a 15-year-old boy. As with all things wheeled here, there are varying degrees of luxury and age. Roads are rough and bikes and cars take a beating. Shocks are pretty much non-existent and we ride low to the ground, which can make for a bone-jarring ride on the best of days. Especially when you’re loaded down with gallons of water, boxes of wine and stacks of books to take back to site.

Ticos are mini-taxis most often seen in northern coastal cities. They’re like a miniature version of a Mini Cooper but a whole lot jankier. I would say they comfortably seat about half a person, but we routinely squeeze four gringo-sized people in there. Anything to save a few centimos (that we then go spend on overpriced and underwhelming pizza). I have ridden with six full-sized adults before, plus the driver. It’s like the circus – how many clowns (Peace Corps volunteers) can we fit in one tiny car?

Looking frightened on one of my first Lima combi rides.

Combis are beat up minivans that run circuitous routes around the cities or shuttle people between the capital city (Chiclayo, for example) and a campo town. Rides can cost anywhere from 50 centimos to 4 soles (one good thing about public transport: it is cheap). The best seat in the front passenger seat but then you have an up close and personal view of the many, many times you almost die in a head-on collision. A combi can comfortably seat eight people but they routinely squeeze up to 15 adults, a slew of nursing babies, and bulging bags of produce and/or livestock. I once rode for two hours with a pig strapped to the roof. That pig seemed to enjoy his trip about as much as I did (side note for all you non-farm dwellers, pigs are extremely loud. Like louder than you’d ever imagine.).

How many Peruvians does it take to change a tire?

Coosters are what I’ve spent a large percentage of my time on these last two years. A cooster is a larger version of a combi, sort of like a public school bus in the States, but much older, more beat up, and all-around horrible. The average trip from Huaca Rajada to Chiclayo takes about an hour-and-a-half, but this can vary depending on a number of factors: road conditions, the driver, passenger weight and cargo, number of stops, flat tires, etc. The best ride I ever had took just under an hour and the worst was upwards of three hours. There’s an art to riding coosters that I’ve finally perfected.

Fun with Peruvians on moving vehicles.

Not even visiting siblings are immune to the joy(e)s of public transportation.

As a tall lady, I initially sought out the aisle seats so as to provide myself with a little extra leg room. This is correct in theory, but as the cars inevitably fill up and all manner of Peruvians squeeze themselves into the aisles, your extra leg room is quickly overtaken by muffin tops, squealing babies, and unsteady drunks. There is no such thing as personal space on a crowded trip. I’ve become intimately acquainted with more strangers than I’d like to recall. No, the best seat is a window seat in the first or second row. The back seats take the brunt of the potholes and it’s nearly impossible to disembark from the back row (picture the gangly gringa literally climbing over seats knocking unsuspecting grandmothers upside the head with giant bottles of water). I wish the pictures I had did better justice to my stories, but the best/worst rides are far too crowded to even think about getting out a camera and snapping a pic. Just trust me when I say it’s a painfully hilarious experience.

Please note the difference between the length of my leg and the back of the seat.

Long-distance buses range from the awful to the luxurious. I once took a 14-hour trip to Lima on a directo bus (i.e. economic) with Papy’s head on my shoulder and my seat unable to recline. That was pretty bad. But on the whole, overnight buses are pretty comfy, especially after two years of practice.  I just bought my LAST BUS TICKET EVER and went for the nicest of the nice – a 180 degree reclining leather seat. I’m giddy.

My typical Peace Corps experience: waiting for a car to anywhere.

I started out this blog post intending to convey how much I hate public transportation, but writing and remembering some of my favorite stories, well, it all seems kind of funny and endearing now. I’m sure this also has something to do with the fact that I have only about two trips left. Hindsight is a funny thing. 

Back to Basics

I’ve spent a lot of time and space chronicling the amusing oddities of life in Peru on this blog. Recently feeling reflective, I skimmed over some previous blog entries, and it was both horrifying and enlightening to see how my writing (which I suppose is an extension of me…hey, cool, I’m “evolved”…) has evolved over the last two years. Reading early entries I'm struck at my own naiveté, my confusion, my awe. I thought everything was so strange, so funny. About a year or so in, I started to become a little more analytical; no longer confounded by drinking circle etiquette I focused more on the differences between here and there, between us and them, and realized that maybe things weren’t so different after all. And then all the things that had delighted and confused me in those early months started to annoy me in their repetitiveness and predictability. I was desperate for escape and set my sights further afield.

And now?

In my own banal predictability, I’ve come full circle and am again charmed by this place, by these people. The little things that became invisible in their familiarity are now blindingly apparent. Like the smell of the adobe stove that clings to your clothes after lunch, the spicy-acidic taste of fresh ceviche, the gurgling sounds the faucet makes every morning around 11 when the water turns on, the thwacks of the soccer ball outside my open window.  I am trying desperately to commit to memory these images, smells, tastes, and sounds. Trying to linger a little bit longer in my daily routines absorbing what makes them so familiar and, at the same time, soon-to-be so foreign.

I know I’ll never forget this experience, but I also know that these comforting sensations will someday soon be relegated to far reaches of my memory. I’ve started carrying my camera with me everywhere, taking random pictures of dirt paths and doorways because I know one day I’ll forget the way the sun reflects off the tempered glass of my neighbor’s window every afternoon.  Even my daily runs through swaying sugarcane fields seem profound from this perspective of almost-hindsight. Will something that has been such a part of my daily existence be easily forgotten?

And the people. Argh. The people. How do you say goodbye, most likely forever, to the people who have been the one constant in your rollercoaster emotions? Their laughter and conversation sustained me on days when there was little else keeping me here. How do you thank someone for literally keeping you sane? I can only hope to carry a little of my host mom’s sly wit and boundless capacity for mothering with me, to sear the sound of Bryan’s high-pitched giggle to my heart, to hold onto the optimism and generosity that so many people have shown me over countless lunches and lazy afternoons. Sitting beneath my open window on a typical afternoon, I can look up from my book and identify the neighborhood kids by the tones of their shrieks, the chords of their laughter. Will the new soundtrack of my life ever hold this much innocence, this much promise? I doubt it.

It’s becoming all too real, friends. Goodbyes suck.