Modern Mascot

(NB, I wrote this post several weeks ago but due to a lot of time in site (see below) and a trip to the Amazon jungle (to be elaborated in a future post), my Internet access has been limited to say the least. Better late than never, right? Enjoye!)

On the heels of my parents’ visit and the subsequent traveling, I vowed to myself to spend a good chunk of quality time in my site. I returned from my respite in the fancy hotels of Peru rejuvenated and inspired to get back to work. Summer vacation is officially over, for both the kids and me. School is back in session and everyone has returned from their summer travels to Lima. Huaca Rajada is back up to full capacity, 724 people to be exact, and it’s feeling a little crowded.

With many hours to fill and nowhere to go, I’ve spent the past few weeks working on several projects, both new and old. I’m excited to have started my classes again – English twice a week and a culture club with kids (as always, teaching tips or cultural ideas welcome!). The costura (sewing) women are developing a new line of products made from an environmentally-friendly canvas/cotton blend, so I’ve been working with them to develop inventory, pricing and coding on the new products. We’re also setting up a new stand to display their work in the complex, which I’m hoping I can use as a starting point for a broader marketing workshop for all the artisans, particularly with regard to stand organization. As it stands now (haha), everyone throws every product they have on a table with a multi-colored tablecloth. It’s not exactly conducive to highlighting the quality of their work. I’ve also been loitering around the school trying to get some ideas off the ground with some professors and students. As always, persistence is key. If nothing else, everyone in this town is used to seeing me hang around.

Enjoying my culinary masterpiece: guacamole.

Some of our new products.

Despite my renewed work ethic, there are still many hours in a day to fill…especially at night. In the past two-and-a-half weeks I have read five books and watched a lot of episodes of Sex and the City, which upon further reflection is a lot like my life in Huaca Rajada. Except instead of the fabulous clothes, I walk around in dirty t-shirts and sandals made of old tires. And in lieu of dining at the hottest restaurants with my girlfriends, I eat giant bowls of rice twice a day with my six-year-old nephew. And as far as hitting the town and meeting beautiful men…well, I sit in my room alone and watch TV shows starring beautiful people on my laptop. But otherwise, really similar.

But more than anything I’ve been spending a lot of time with my host family. And I’ve had a revelation – I am my family’s pet. I follow them wherever they go, trotting behind at a comfortable distance blindly trusting that they will lead me to safety. We go to parties, weddings, church anniversaries, soccer tournaments. I don’t ask questions; they give a little tug on my invisible leash and off we go. Occasionally I do a little trick or say something funny and everyone laughs; their laughter the belly rubs I so desperately crave. They ring the dinner bell and I obediently take my place at the table and wait to be served.

I came to this revelation last Sunday. My host brother was playing in a soccer tournament in Pampagrande, so Papy, Bryan and I went to watch. A couple hours of soccer later – not being the biggest soccer fan, I amused myself by counting the number of times the makeshift stretcher was called to the field, apparently Peruvians make up for what they lack in skill in drama – I was ready to get out of the sun and head home. But Papy felt the need to give a lengthy pep-talk to Pierre’s losing team. Not having anywhere else to go, I stood an awkward 20 feet away from the circle where the players were changing, gossiping and doing things generally reserved for locker rooms. They must have thought I was some sort of mute groupie. Papy finally finished and headed off the field. A few paces later, he remembered me, turned his head and flicked his wrist, I bounded up behind him and we made for home so I could be fed.

What happens to bad pets.

Oh, and this just occurred to me: when we found our new puppy back in December my family wanted to name it Jessica because he (yes, a he) had blue eyes. Or so they said. Perhaps they understood this analogy far earlier than I did. Luckily we decided on Rambo for the dog -- two pets named Jessica would just be confusing.

NB, mascota = pet in Spanish. Hence the title of this post. Witty in two languages. What.

Parental Peru

Well, it’s official. Liz and Ed have conquered Peru. Or at least the hearts of the people of Huaca Rajada. But let’s start at the beginning. As many of you know, my parents recently made the intrepid journey to the southern hemisphere to spend a couple weeks vacationing, Peruvian style. I had been looking forward to their trip for months, eagerly planning a jam-packed itinerary. We were not to be bored! I think we can all agree that the trip turned out differently than we’d expected, but that we were all extremely fortunate to have this time together.

I met them at the airport in Lima late one night and we headed straight for Miraflores (what I like to call “Peru for beginners”). I tried to keep the conversation going so they wouldn’t take too much notice of the slums of Lima outside our window. The drive to the airport is not this country’s strong point. It was so amazing to see them after all this time, and reassuring to once again realize that no matter where you go in life, your parents will always be your parents. We spent a couple days in Lima checking out some of the city’s highlights – churches, museums, illegal electronic markets and of course, the delicious restaurants. I selfishly dragged them to all the eateries I’m too poor to afford on my own for nachos, Italian food and other non-Peruvian dishes. They didn’t seem to mind too much. Especially retrospectively after seeing what was in store the following week…

Pisco Sours...a Peruvian delicacy.

We also took a couple day trips to the department of Ica where we took a boat tour of the Islas Bellestas, aka, the poor man’s Galapagos. We also spent a day/night in Huacachina, a true desert oasis famous for the ridiculously fun and exhilarating dune buggy/sandboarding tours. A definite highlight of the whole trip. Bouncing across desert sand dunes at 50mph at sunset is something I won’t soon forget.

¨Maternity beach,¨ where sea lions go to birth.

Boat touring in style.
The best dune buggy ever.

After one final night in Lima, we headed north for Chiclayo. Before our bags even made it off the plane, I made an impulsive decision to urge Mom and Dad to rethink our lodging. A couple weeks earlier I’d booked a triple room (i.e., three beds, one room) at a Peace Corps-friendly hotel. It’s a great place, centrally located and with a super-friendly staff, but after a week of traveling with my parents, I realized that my Peru was not their Peru. And that one little room was looking smaller and smaller upon every reflection. Turns out they didn’t need much prompting. Moments later we were on a private shuttle to the Gran Hotel, Chiclayo’s version of the Ritz. But you know, much less ritzy. I felt more than a little guilty about staying in such a nice place, but minutes after collapsing into a king-size bed, cranking up the A/C and helping myself to the in-room mini-bar, I decided after nine months of living on less than $10 a day, I’d earned a little pampering.

Dad´s first juice in a bag.

Comfortably ensconced in our climate-controlled suite, we mapped out Parental Peru Part Two. Relieved to be back on my home turf, I made plans for my parents to meet my Peruvian families – my PC friends and my host family. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, I led my parents to my site. One combi ride later – during which I think my dad finally understood just how tough it is to be tall in this country – we arrived in Huaca Rajada. My usual welcome committee (neighborhood kids) stopped in their tracks as I lumbered up the hill, suitcases and two more gringos in tow. Word spread quickly and soon everyone was peering out of their doors and into my window inspecting the new arrivals. We sat down to lunch with my host family, and despite the language barrier, I think everyone got along swimmingly. My amazing translation skills didn’t hurt either, nor did the fact that no one but me will ever really know what was said…

Dad taught the boys fist pumps, Mom introduced new games (that we’re still playing on an almost daily basis) and I read stories out loud. We’re a regular Sesame Street family – spreading knowledge and laughter wherever we go.

Families bonding.

Twenty-four hours later, I think Mom and Dad had had enough of campo life – though they were troopers, staying in my house, eating the food, trying to communicate – and we headed back to our grand oasis in Chiclayo. We spent their final few days in and around Chiclayo, checking out some of the excellent history museums, eating lots of pollo a la brasa and spending a day at the beach. And then before I knew it, they were off.

It was at times a whirlwind trip and it took me a few days to process all that really happened. I realized that the divergence between my life here and my old life in the U.S. is a lot greater than I’d realized or anticipated. Even having my parents here and showing them a little of what I’m doing didn’t go nearly as far as I’d thought to bridge that gap. It’s one thing to spend a few hours in a place and quite another to live there for six months. It was probably my fault for expecting too much understanding too quickly. I was rereading some older blog posts recently and was laughing to myself at the things I found odd four months ago. I’m still learning and adjusting! In my quest to be the perfect tour guide and hostess, I forgot to allow them the luxury of being overwhelmed and confused by this country. I was quick to explain everything away and defend my current home. That being said, I do think they have a much better understanding of at least what my life looks like and some of the daily difficulties I encounter. And for that, I will be forever grateful that they made this trip. That and, of course, the many many laughs, hugs and memories we shared. Thanks, Mom and Dad! I miss you all over again.

Anniversary Antics

This past week (Jan 24) marked the one-year anniversary of both the museum and artisan complexes, as well as the formation of my artisan association. It was a busy, busy week. I’m pretty sure I danced more in the past week than I have in the previous six months combined. Now, not all of the following events were directly related to the museum anniversary, but they all happened in the same week so I’m lumping them together because that is my right as the narrator of these twisted tales.

The week began with un almuerzo de cofraternidad with my association. I was coming back from errands in Chiclayo and was rushed to get there on time, which I’ve finally learned means about an hour after the scheduled start time. So I rolled in, fashionably on time, and sat down just as the cebiche was being served. There were bottles of Pepsi on the table and about 20 people gathered around. Perfect, I thought to myself, a low-key lunch and plenty of time for me to teach my English class and get in an afternoon run. We tuck into our cebiche and goat, make a few toasts and then Papy strolls in with a case of beer. Silly Jess, have you learned nothing about Peruvians? He takes the microphone (oh, right, one of the museum guards moonlights as a DJ and he had kindly offered his musical talents to our little celebration) and instructs us to get the party started. Cumbia sufficiently cranked, chairs shoved to the wall, cups circling, we take to the dance floor. As afternoon rolled into evening, the drinks kept flowing and the music kept playing. I was feeling my dance moves, and emboldened by compliments on my dancing (“you have really improved since the last time we danced”) and a few vasos of Pilsen I requested some Michael Jackson and proceeded to perform a thrilling rendition of Thriller. Alone. In front of everyone. They loved it. Our relationship has reached a new level thanks to the immortal words of MJ. Suffice to say, I did not run on Monday. Nope, I stayed until the bitter end (8pm), outlasted only by the DJ who was last seen passed out behind his stereo. Happy anniversary to us!

A few days later we celebrated the official anniversary of the opening of the museum. The museum director had warned me that their budget did not allow for much, but they wanted to do a little something to commemorate the day. I got to the complex around 2pm just in time to see the band start. Oh yes, there was a live band playing on the steps of the museum. It was a motley gang of local musicians who I’m assuming offered their services for cheap. Not that they weren’t talented, it’s just that they weren’t very talented. We did a little folkloric dancing on the steps of the museum, took some pictures and called it an afternoon. I was actually surprised by the restraint. Usually a low-key party means one meal instead of two and ten cases of beer instead of twenty, but they really stuck to it this time. Just a few hours of singing and dancing and couple vats of chicha de jora (corn liquor).

The merry music makers.

Saturday afternoon presented one of the things I love most about my life here – the unexpected invitation. I was relaxing (napping/sweating) in my room when my mom came to my window and asked if I wanted to go to a wedding with her. Obviously I accepted, even after she told me I had to wear something nicer than usual. Implying, I suppose, that my uniform of dirty shorts and tank tops would not suit this occasion. Nonplussed I roll out of bed, douse myself with a few buckets of water and put on a dress. And make-up and real shoes. What? Who is this person? I walk outside and everyone gives me a serious once over, but I apparently meet the dress code and we’re off amid a soundtrack of whistles and catcalls.

Turns out this wedding is in Chiclayo (fan-cee) so we head down to the road to wait for a car. As usual, I am given no information or details, I simply go where I'm told. Mom tells me the wedding starts at 5. We arrive to the church at 5.45. No one is there. We ask the guards (the ceremony was in the main cathedral of Chiclayo – a tourist spot) about a wedding and they tell us there is a wedding at 6pm. They also mention that I will not be allowed to enter because my dress is too short. I instantly feel ashamed and cheap and start tugging at my dress desperately trying to cover the scandalous three inches of thigh showing. My host mom doesn’t seem too concerned about either comment, prudently (prudishly?) wearing pants, so we sit on a bench outside and wait. 6pm comes and goes, along with an entirely different wedding party. I’m beginning to think our grand adventure is over before it starts when up pulls a green bus bearing the name Sipan in huge letters. Ah, turns out we were supposed to get on the bus the family had rented for the evening. Also turns out the wedding starts at 7pm. Details, details. I end up being allowed in, God deciding he would let my risqué attire slide this one time, though I’d secretly been hoping I wouldn’t be able to go so I could sneak across the street for a glass of wine and some French fries.

The happy couple.

The ceremony was…um, different. I don’t know if it was because it was in such a public church or if this is how it always is, but everything was very public. It was basically a regular Catholic mass, open to anyone, with a few additions (vows, a homily about love). And no one seemed very happy. There was no smiling, no tears, no real emotion at all. Only a frilly white dress and few rose petals strewn about gave any indication that it was in fact a wedding. Business taken care of, we board the bus and head for the reception site. (Note the following photos were taken by my 12-year-old photographer’s assistant. She was big on taking pictures but not so big on focusing or zooming.) After an hour or so of toasts, receiving lines, first dances and photos, the reception resembles any other Peruvian party. We get our plate of mystery meat accompanied by rice and beans (added bonus this time – hotdogs and olives in the rice…um, gross). In fact, the party lasted so long that we received this meal twice. Not really wanting a second round, I turned mine down, much to the disappointment of everyone at my table who retrieved plastic bags from the depths of their other plastic bags for a makeshift doggy-bag. I was sitting with the campo family. I’m pretty sure we got a few dirty looks from the Lima/Chiclayo crowd. Snobs.

Somewhere early on I was informed that we would not be shuttled back to Huaca Rajada until 4am. Without any other options, I committed myself to enjoying the party and doing everything possible to keep myself awake. This included lots and lots of dancing. As Most Improved Dancer, I must say I was a popular partner. Maybe too popular since at one point the bride’s dance partner (not the groom) tried to switch in the middle of a song prompting her to snap “are you here for her or for me?” Awkward. I think my popularity might have had something to do with the fact that I was the only woman over the age of 18 who (begrudgingly) went out to catch the bouquet. I ducked when it came towards me.

Me awkwardly trying to avoid the bouquet toss.

The rodeo clown dancing with the bride.

Anyway, the party was going along swimmingly and I successfully entertained myself until the bus pulled up around 3.30. In typical Peruvian fashion, everyone ran for the doors in order to secure a seat. I was still on the dance floor, figuring they wouldn’t leave without their most inconspicuous passenger. Sure enough I walked out to the bus with nine people yelling my name and calling me over, in case I couldn’t spot the only car on the street. Relaxing into my saved seat (shotgun!), I reflected on what a great evening it had been. Lots of dancing, lots of weirdness, new friends and, best of all, the bus arrived just at the right time. I was ready to go; recognizing that glassy-eyed stagger that usually signifies the party is about to get ugly. Content and tired, I nodded off only to be abruptly woken by a severe jostling of my seat and the pungent aroma of beer breath wafting alarmingly close to my face. It was the groom and his crew, begging the driver to stay longer. The driver went from being my best friend to my nemesis in one shrug of the shoulders. Stand up for yourself man! Don’t do it! I know you’re tired too! Caving under the slightest pressure, my nemesis quickly agreed to stay until 5. Five AM! I went from reveling in a successful evening to plotting the deaths of all the groom’s men in about 23 seconds. Quietly fuming, I waited out the next hour-and-a-half shooting death glares at anyone who so much as glanced at me. Finally, after squeezing about 147 people into a 50-passenger bus, we rolled off. Hurtling down the pitch-black, pot-holed roads, the darkness broken only by clusters of lights identifying unexpected hamlets of civilization among the seemingly endless fields of sugar and corn, I was overtaken by the strange beauty of it all. That’s the thing about Peru – my moods never last long here. There’s always something new, good or bad, just around the bend.

The next day I forced myself out of bed, or should I say, I was driven from my bed by the oppressive heat, after only a few hours of sleep. I had some last minute coordinating to do with the girls I’m taking to a leadership camp. Meaning that I ate about four lunches since it’s impossible to go to someone’s house without sharing a meal. There’s a heady feeling that comes with parents telling you they trust you to take their daughters away for a few days. I pedaled back home, belly full of generosity, overtaken by my love of this country and its culture. Yeah, I know, my mood swings give me whiplash at times.

Cut to four hours later. Huaca Rajada was celebrating the beginning of Carneval with a yunza, which is a big party that culminates in the chopping down of a gift-laden tree. My family and I walked over to the plaza after dinner and the party was in full swing. As in, everyone was tanked. Not to belabor the point, but drunken Peruvian men really annoy me. I spent most of the evening dancing with my six-year-old nephew. But I’m glad I stuck it out in order to see the main event. (Sadly there are no photos because my photo assistant killed my camera’s batteries in her attempt to capture every single moment of the wedding.) So the organizers of the party have to dance around the tree wielding a large axe. They take turns swinging at the base of the tree until it topples. The person who delivers the killer blow is then charged with throwing (and funding) next year’s event. Everyone (excluding yours truly, I have learned enough in my time here to know that drunks + axe + falling tree is a recipe for disaster) gathers round the tree waiting for it to fall so they can pounce on the free gifts, of which a large percentage were, oddly enough, brooms and dustpans. The tree fell, madness ensued and then it was over. It was kind of anticlimactic, although that could have been because I was standing at a cowardly distance of about 100 yards and couldn’t really see all the mayhem. Judging by the hangovers of many neighbors, the party continued until the wee hours, but once the tree fell I headed home for some much-needed rest.

And that, friends, was my week. Jealous?