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.