Dec. 15th
Every day lately has been a series of recurring disappointments, ending with an admission of what lies out of my control and a settling for what remains inside the four walls of my bedroom. I wake up to footsteps, chatter and music above me, the roosters, or a broom slamming against my basement door as the dirt, trash and food scraps left on the restaurant floor from the previous day are brushed down the stairs and out the back door to our corral. Cold and confused, feeling slightly nauseous, I look down the low hanging wooden beams toward the colorful handmade tablecloth partially covering my bedroom window, gauging how much light I’ll see today. I think of that first cup of coffee and resolve to get up. The house only get’s louder from here on anyway, plus I gotta put the pressure on the municipality early in the day if I want to get any materials delivered to my community, Chimulque.
I rush into warm clothes and peek outside with high hopes. We’re trapped, again, in between a two thick grey blankets. If the clouds above are high enough there will be a few hours of sun that morning, but if they press down closely overhead we’ll likely be plagued by driving mist all day. Either way, the dark cushion below will rise at noon and cover everything. Anywhere else I’ve lived that experiences crappy weather the rain is a mere depressing or tiring nuisance. People put on a jacket and ride their bikes, grab an umbrella and walk around, hit the wipers and drive their cars, go to work. Life goes on. Here the walkways, roads and houses are made of silty-clay. The slightest drizzle turns the valley into one giant slip-n-slide, and every truck in sight will refuse to deliver materials to village job sites.
As for construction during the rainy season, everyone and mother is a frickin’ meteorologist here. You got the cynics that coldly laugh and taunt that this is what it’ll be like every day until May, that it only gets worse and ya no avanza (progress is impossible). Others, like me, try to stay upbeat and remind them about how sunny it was for two weeks last January, and that there’s still time to make the adobe bricks needed for your bathroom, that the maestros (builders) can cover everything up in the afternoon and just work the first half of the day.
The municipality shares this optimism, so I promise the community members and maestros what I’ve been promised, a bunch of plastic tarps so that the mud bricks don’t “melt in the water.” The municipality ordered 50 square meters of it for my project, and I paid for 25 meters more when I was in Piura buying a bunch of other materials. But somewhere in both our supply chains there’s a link that’s failing. My main-man materials distributor down in Piura, Walter, has assured me every morning this week that the goods will leave Piura at 4 and be in Chalaco that night at 9. He’ll even use his minutes to call me! But come the afternoon and Walter is nowhere to be reached. The municipality likewise plays with my emotions, but more often and to a greater extent—with cement, aggregate, good dirt to make adobes, the plastic, nearly everything else they’ve ever agreed to. Then I gotta be the messenger, feeling like an ass for lying to the community members breaking their backs making adobes that won’t withstand the rains, and to the maestros that show up to work without materials to build with. They must be so used to it, because the next day, they just keep on going, forgiving me for being naïve to how things work here.
“Disappointed” in Spanish is supposedly one of those false cognates—decepcionado—which you would think translates to “deceived.” Really though, it makes sense. When I put faith in the word of others, when I have goals that loft high above the norm, when I make that to-do list, or when I look out on the day and predict the weather, I’m knowingly deceiving myself, making myself susceptible to disappointment. Yet I keep doing it every day, managing to smile all the while, because sometimes some things do work out right, and it’s always better than doing nothing.
Night rolls in and I’m still at nerves trying to make something more productive of the day. Luckily I always put some easy ones on the list—study Spanish for a bit, play guitar, and maybe watch an episode of La Paisana Jacinta with Crhis, a comedy show about this super campo sierra lady (dressed almost exactly like some women in my site and played by a man) that moves to Lima in search of work, and all the mix-ups she gets into trying to adapt to the city lifestyle.
Cold again, curled up in bed under heavy grey blankets. The rain stops and all I hear are the crickets chirping outside. Last on the list is reading for pleasure, however few or many pages I wish and strictly fiction. I turn off my headlamp and arrive at the best part, asking nothing more of myself.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Pedaleando
November 23
About a week ago I was visited during dinner by a young-twenties journalist/radio host who was in-charge of promoting the anniversary of Pacaipampa, our district neighbor to the north. She was confirming the reports that some gringo living in Chalaco wanted to participate in the upcoming mountain bike race. I was taken aback by how good looking she was for someone from the sierra, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to give the cheek-kiss hello, only the safely-distanced hand shake, and kept using the formal “you” in every question. Anyway, she told me that the race was on Sunday, a few days earlier than I expected. We parted ways and I began my training immediately, warming up and stretching in our restaurant while my host bro made lofty but convincing promises to accompany me on his motorcycle for the race, carrying water, snacks, chain lube, his tire pump and enthusiasm.
The next day was the test. I’d been told that if I could bike from Chalaco to Piercas up on the Meseta Andina then the race would be a piece of cake. I had attempted this a couple times before but could only make it a pitiful distance up the merciless inclines before I was holding my knees on the side of the road, trying to recover my breath and cursing my occasional cigarette habit. Now was my last chance to prove that I was healthy enough to do this race. I ate an extra breakfast, packed a lil pouch of trail mix, poured some oral rehydration solution (ORS) into my water bottle, vested myself in spandex biking shorts, kicked the jams and hit the road. I didn’t expect to make it, but the race fervor had taken me over. After a couple hours in the lowest gear I finally reached the ever-expanding plains of the Meseta. I popped it into 2nd and took off cruising down the smooth dirt road, rolling and winding past the occasional horseman or sheep herd, laughing and grinning all the way to Piercas. When I got back to Chalaco I swiftly moved on to my next mission—strictly adhering to my sister Alaina’s training advice. I stopped biking from then until the race, stayed as loose as possible [by breaking into my site-mate Chelsea’s high-ceilinged room to practice yoga while she’s away on vacation], put ORS in every drink, and began eating double-meat and extra rice with my meals.
On Saturday I hopped the bus to Pacaipampa, arriving several hours earlier than the competition. I wandered the streets a little but received some pretty scrutinizing looks and soon became paranoid that everyone thought I was a miner, so I went back to my room in the municipal hotel and relaxed, looking out over the plaza as the sound technician tested the limits of the fifty foot speaker towers for the party that night. Eventually the other bikers showed up and an over-zealous bike race organizer laid out the plan. We were to buddy up in the small hotel, try to get a few hours of sleep, wake up at 3 AM, cram into some pick-up trucks and drive out to Totora, the starting point 60K away. In the freezing pitch dark, sharing a front seat with some random friend of the driver just along for the ride, AC on blast, delirious from dramamine and having barely slept through the booming Cumbia music, I found myself questioning whether this was really happening. A sense of aimlessness and passive introspection drifted in and out as I gazed tiredly at the sierra night sky. I awoke to my head hitting the passenger-side window and slight shades of light outlining the impressive, distant peaks. We crossed over tropical valley floor and steadily climbed the ridge that defines Perú from Ecuador, up to the highest caserío on the very fringe of the district.
The riders de-thawed in morning sun as local folks passed the time commenting on some of the professional bikes from Lima and Cajamarca, comparing them to the rigid fixed-gears from the zona as their kids peeked shyly at the strange gathering. Still focused on my eating regimen, I passed on the traditional breakfast of fried tortillas, cheese and lemongrass tea and instead ate some bread and avocado I’d packed, not minding my impoliteness or having satisfied their preconceptions of foreigners.
The first half of the race was pure downhill, an amazing ride through some absolutely incredible landscapes. In twenty minutes the riders had spread out it was just my bike and I, bumpin along to some tunes. Occasionally I’d pass through a small village of ten or so houses and some campo spectators either yelling “Dale! Dale! Dale!” or just standing their quietly examining the sight. After fording the river at the valley floor I began the slow ascent up the other side. The shady palm trees soon vanished, the road dried to sand, and the midday equatorial sun bore down. A couple of times I shared the climb alongside a few others, but they each fell back and later passed me on the back of pickup trucks. Then I was alone again, about ¾ the way up I’d guessed, with a few sips of water left in what felt like the middle of the desert. I was beat; overheated and dehydrated, back and legs throbbing, chain bone dry and full of dirt, head spinning. I found a small patch of shade off to the side and took five, then resigned to hop on the next passing truck. But looking down the mountain I could see no life, and figured I should at least walk on a bit farther in case nothing came by. A hundred yards ahead a truck did come by, but it was completely full with bikes and their owners, so the driver convinced me to keep going. He stole me some water from a passenger, poured some brake fluid on my chain, and assured me there wasn’t much left until the top, and that from there it was all downhill to Pacaipampa.
I made it into town, dodging tied up mules and kids playing soccer in the street, and pulled up to an empty finish line, fourth place in four hours. Nearly everyone had already gotten back by truck and was lounging in a restaurant with the mayor and other local authorities, drinking Inka Cola and eating ceviche.
And that was it. I almost felt a withdrawal from the race, but knew that it was about time I balanced out. In that short time leading up to it I was all nerves, overly aware of every sore muscle and preoccupied with my health. My Spanish took a concerning dive and I started to involuntarily throw in English fillers, as if the energy required to think about words was reserved for some other body function. I’ve since recovered and am happily back to work. The latrine project encountered a major hurdle the other day that I thought would cancel the whole thing and waste the past year of my life. Just some destructive rumors spread like wildfire by unsatisfied beneficiaries that want to swap the composting latrines for the more socially desirable pour-flush latrines. Luckily the engineers at the municipality and my socio from the health post dominated in the community meeting tonight and everything’s been smoothed out. Day two of construction is tomorrow, Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t ask for more.
About a week ago I was visited during dinner by a young-twenties journalist/radio host who was in-charge of promoting the anniversary of Pacaipampa, our district neighbor to the north. She was confirming the reports that some gringo living in Chalaco wanted to participate in the upcoming mountain bike race. I was taken aback by how good looking she was for someone from the sierra, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to give the cheek-kiss hello, only the safely-distanced hand shake, and kept using the formal “you” in every question. Anyway, she told me that the race was on Sunday, a few days earlier than I expected. We parted ways and I began my training immediately, warming up and stretching in our restaurant while my host bro made lofty but convincing promises to accompany me on his motorcycle for the race, carrying water, snacks, chain lube, his tire pump and enthusiasm.
The next day was the test. I’d been told that if I could bike from Chalaco to Piercas up on the Meseta Andina then the race would be a piece of cake. I had attempted this a couple times before but could only make it a pitiful distance up the merciless inclines before I was holding my knees on the side of the road, trying to recover my breath and cursing my occasional cigarette habit. Now was my last chance to prove that I was healthy enough to do this race. I ate an extra breakfast, packed a lil pouch of trail mix, poured some oral rehydration solution (ORS) into my water bottle, vested myself in spandex biking shorts, kicked the jams and hit the road. I didn’t expect to make it, but the race fervor had taken me over. After a couple hours in the lowest gear I finally reached the ever-expanding plains of the Meseta. I popped it into 2nd and took off cruising down the smooth dirt road, rolling and winding past the occasional horseman or sheep herd, laughing and grinning all the way to Piercas. When I got back to Chalaco I swiftly moved on to my next mission—strictly adhering to my sister Alaina’s training advice. I stopped biking from then until the race, stayed as loose as possible [by breaking into my site-mate Chelsea’s high-ceilinged room to practice yoga while she’s away on vacation], put ORS in every drink, and began eating double-meat and extra rice with my meals.
On Saturday I hopped the bus to Pacaipampa, arriving several hours earlier than the competition. I wandered the streets a little but received some pretty scrutinizing looks and soon became paranoid that everyone thought I was a miner, so I went back to my room in the municipal hotel and relaxed, looking out over the plaza as the sound technician tested the limits of the fifty foot speaker towers for the party that night. Eventually the other bikers showed up and an over-zealous bike race organizer laid out the plan. We were to buddy up in the small hotel, try to get a few hours of sleep, wake up at 3 AM, cram into some pick-up trucks and drive out to Totora, the starting point 60K away. In the freezing pitch dark, sharing a front seat with some random friend of the driver just along for the ride, AC on blast, delirious from dramamine and having barely slept through the booming Cumbia music, I found myself questioning whether this was really happening. A sense of aimlessness and passive introspection drifted in and out as I gazed tiredly at the sierra night sky. I awoke to my head hitting the passenger-side window and slight shades of light outlining the impressive, distant peaks. We crossed over tropical valley floor and steadily climbed the ridge that defines Perú from Ecuador, up to the highest caserío on the very fringe of the district.
The riders de-thawed in morning sun as local folks passed the time commenting on some of the professional bikes from Lima and Cajamarca, comparing them to the rigid fixed-gears from the zona as their kids peeked shyly at the strange gathering. Still focused on my eating regimen, I passed on the traditional breakfast of fried tortillas, cheese and lemongrass tea and instead ate some bread and avocado I’d packed, not minding my impoliteness or having satisfied their preconceptions of foreigners.
The first half of the race was pure downhill, an amazing ride through some absolutely incredible landscapes. In twenty minutes the riders had spread out it was just my bike and I, bumpin along to some tunes. Occasionally I’d pass through a small village of ten or so houses and some campo spectators either yelling “Dale! Dale! Dale!” or just standing their quietly examining the sight. After fording the river at the valley floor I began the slow ascent up the other side. The shady palm trees soon vanished, the road dried to sand, and the midday equatorial sun bore down. A couple of times I shared the climb alongside a few others, but they each fell back and later passed me on the back of pickup trucks. Then I was alone again, about ¾ the way up I’d guessed, with a few sips of water left in what felt like the middle of the desert. I was beat; overheated and dehydrated, back and legs throbbing, chain bone dry and full of dirt, head spinning. I found a small patch of shade off to the side and took five, then resigned to hop on the next passing truck. But looking down the mountain I could see no life, and figured I should at least walk on a bit farther in case nothing came by. A hundred yards ahead a truck did come by, but it was completely full with bikes and their owners, so the driver convinced me to keep going. He stole me some water from a passenger, poured some brake fluid on my chain, and assured me there wasn’t much left until the top, and that from there it was all downhill to Pacaipampa.
I made it into town, dodging tied up mules and kids playing soccer in the street, and pulled up to an empty finish line, fourth place in four hours. Nearly everyone had already gotten back by truck and was lounging in a restaurant with the mayor and other local authorities, drinking Inka Cola and eating ceviche.
And that was it. I almost felt a withdrawal from the race, but knew that it was about time I balanced out. In that short time leading up to it I was all nerves, overly aware of every sore muscle and preoccupied with my health. My Spanish took a concerning dive and I started to involuntarily throw in English fillers, as if the energy required to think about words was reserved for some other body function. I’ve since recovered and am happily back to work. The latrine project encountered a major hurdle the other day that I thought would cancel the whole thing and waste the past year of my life. Just some destructive rumors spread like wildfire by unsatisfied beneficiaries that want to swap the composting latrines for the more socially desirable pour-flush latrines. Luckily the engineers at the municipality and my socio from the health post dominated in the community meeting tonight and everything’s been smoothed out. Day two of construction is tomorrow, Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t ask for more.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Estrellita
19 October
About three to four months ago my little sis Crhis (real spelling) began dropping daily hints about her fifth birthday. It’d go like this: “Daniel, guess how many years I have,” then, “When do I complete five years?” I’d tell her to answer her own question and she’d always reply with the 28th of October, ten days after her birthday, as a test to make sure I knew the real date. When her cousin turned five in August she tried convincing everyone that it was really her birthday and not Emily’s, then when no one bought it and she realized how much longer she’d have to wait she cried until she fell asleep that night. And in September there was a week or two when each day she would ask everyone she saw if they were coming to her party later. For all the hype, I expected something similar to the 1-year-old’s party I went to during training in Lima—60 guests all sitting along the border of the room waiting quietly for their portion of rice and chicken (to be served overflowing on tiny disposable plates and eaten with impossibly small plastic spoons), hired “entertainers” dressed as sexy clowns shaking their tush to booming reggaeton as little girls followed suit, drinking in circles and dancing until midnight when the cartoon-themed three layer cake that cost a good month or two’s earnings could finally be eaten and everyone could go home—but thankfully my family is a bit more modest.
A quote by Crhis, overheard on Nov. 2nd while typing this up: “Papi, cuando es mi cumpleaño?” It’s begun again. Ok, back to the entry.
The party was low key though very high pitched, and increasingly so as these tiny bodies became hyper saturated with the 10 course dessert and candy menu: masamora (goey purple stuff), jello, flan, arroz con leche, popcorn, ice-cream, yogurt drink, lollipops, cookies, caramelos, and finally the cake. I’ve got a funny picture of this one kid that was straight tweaking out. He wasn’t even saying words anymore, just screeching and running, eyes popping out of his sticky face. Aside from the set of coloring markers I got her, Crhis’ only other present was a little doll that sings the English version of “Estrellita, Dónde Estás?” (“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”). Skipping and jumping everywhere she went, I realized that she was mostly just excited about the attention. It was the one day that could shut down her grandma’s restaurant/bus agency, take both her parents out of work, and warrant her ordering every passerby to wish her a happy birthday. The fam was hoping to do a little something for my birthday as well, but I don’t think I could handle another sugar bender so soon. Instead I’ll be camping out with my buddy Chris (-topher) who lives nearby and goin on a much anticipated pilgrimage to a small village named Keirpón to retrieve a former volunteer’s long-lost guitar.
Some fond memories of the Great Amazon River Raft Race (GRARRR): passing to the other side of the Andes and seeing from the plane a forest that stretches on endlessly, untouched and indifferent, and then, the incomprehensibly massive serpent river calmly locking it all in place; being engulfed in flash storms while on our balsa wood submarine in the middle nowhere with no other team in sight, only rain; observar-ing la naturaleza with Birdman and the rest of Team Macho Man on the Slim Jim and passing time with top-5 lists; dripping sweat while watching an epic Perú-Paraguay game on an ancient TV in a creaky cantina packed to its max; being so exhausted but still drinking enough each night to get a few hours of refugee-style sleep in smelly elementary school auditoriums; walking around forever at 4 am with Droch and El trying to find some street food and eventually settling for candy bars out of some guys briefcase; standing on the malecón in Iquitos and saying to myself “Holy Moses, we did it.”
26 October
There are a few people here that live at the very edge of society, in a small adobe house nested on a steep mountainside deep in the dry forests that transition the tropical sierra to the barren desert. Reached only by foot or horseback, noticed only by those who are lost while searching for a fabled guitar, or, more commonly, by those who also dwell on the fringe, simply passing in this case to continue their path towards their own small piece of settled, claimed earth. Static, silent, barely found at hours walking distance from the nearest isolated village of thirty families, a link that appears to break when the rains come and the river washes over their slight foot prints, drowns the huge boulders and floods the riparian sprawl, splits the valley into islands for almost half a year.
Do these remote families live so as an innate or natural conclusion to survival? Is it the result of an inheritance without escape or one that contently resists change? Would they want those health services that I’ve been calling important and basic, that is, enough water of adequate quality and improved sanitation? Does that only matter when we share common resources, the trade-off for sharing common experiences?
About three to four months ago my little sis Crhis (real spelling) began dropping daily hints about her fifth birthday. It’d go like this: “Daniel, guess how many years I have,” then, “When do I complete five years?” I’d tell her to answer her own question and she’d always reply with the 28th of October, ten days after her birthday, as a test to make sure I knew the real date. When her cousin turned five in August she tried convincing everyone that it was really her birthday and not Emily’s, then when no one bought it and she realized how much longer she’d have to wait she cried until she fell asleep that night. And in September there was a week or two when each day she would ask everyone she saw if they were coming to her party later. For all the hype, I expected something similar to the 1-year-old’s party I went to during training in Lima—60 guests all sitting along the border of the room waiting quietly for their portion of rice and chicken (to be served overflowing on tiny disposable plates and eaten with impossibly small plastic spoons), hired “entertainers” dressed as sexy clowns shaking their tush to booming reggaeton as little girls followed suit, drinking in circles and dancing until midnight when the cartoon-themed three layer cake that cost a good month or two’s earnings could finally be eaten and everyone could go home—but thankfully my family is a bit more modest.
A quote by Crhis, overheard on Nov. 2nd while typing this up: “Papi, cuando es mi cumpleaño?” It’s begun again. Ok, back to the entry.
The party was low key though very high pitched, and increasingly so as these tiny bodies became hyper saturated with the 10 course dessert and candy menu: masamora (goey purple stuff), jello, flan, arroz con leche, popcorn, ice-cream, yogurt drink, lollipops, cookies, caramelos, and finally the cake. I’ve got a funny picture of this one kid that was straight tweaking out. He wasn’t even saying words anymore, just screeching and running, eyes popping out of his sticky face. Aside from the set of coloring markers I got her, Crhis’ only other present was a little doll that sings the English version of “Estrellita, Dónde Estás?” (“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”). Skipping and jumping everywhere she went, I realized that she was mostly just excited about the attention. It was the one day that could shut down her grandma’s restaurant/bus agency, take both her parents out of work, and warrant her ordering every passerby to wish her a happy birthday. The fam was hoping to do a little something for my birthday as well, but I don’t think I could handle another sugar bender so soon. Instead I’ll be camping out with my buddy Chris (-topher) who lives nearby and goin on a much anticipated pilgrimage to a small village named Keirpón to retrieve a former volunteer’s long-lost guitar.
Some fond memories of the Great Amazon River Raft Race (GRARRR): passing to the other side of the Andes and seeing from the plane a forest that stretches on endlessly, untouched and indifferent, and then, the incomprehensibly massive serpent river calmly locking it all in place; being engulfed in flash storms while on our balsa wood submarine in the middle nowhere with no other team in sight, only rain; observar-ing la naturaleza with Birdman and the rest of Team Macho Man on the Slim Jim and passing time with top-5 lists; dripping sweat while watching an epic Perú-Paraguay game on an ancient TV in a creaky cantina packed to its max; being so exhausted but still drinking enough each night to get a few hours of refugee-style sleep in smelly elementary school auditoriums; walking around forever at 4 am with Droch and El trying to find some street food and eventually settling for candy bars out of some guys briefcase; standing on the malecón in Iquitos and saying to myself “Holy Moses, we did it.”
26 October
There are a few people here that live at the very edge of society, in a small adobe house nested on a steep mountainside deep in the dry forests that transition the tropical sierra to the barren desert. Reached only by foot or horseback, noticed only by those who are lost while searching for a fabled guitar, or, more commonly, by those who also dwell on the fringe, simply passing in this case to continue their path towards their own small piece of settled, claimed earth. Static, silent, barely found at hours walking distance from the nearest isolated village of thirty families, a link that appears to break when the rains come and the river washes over their slight foot prints, drowns the huge boulders and floods the riparian sprawl, splits the valley into islands for almost half a year.
Do these remote families live so as an innate or natural conclusion to survival? Is it the result of an inheritance without escape or one that contently resists change? Would they want those health services that I’ve been calling important and basic, that is, enough water of adequate quality and improved sanitation? Does that only matter when we share common resources, the trade-off for sharing common experiences?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Suspiros
September 12
Let me write this down. Some times:
I walk up to my café, Señora Luz’s house, to find a skinless pig on the sidewalk, on it’s back, chest being broken into by a small machete and the internal organs being scooped out, along with handfuls of blood, into pots and pans.
Another day I’m drinking coffee alone with Idelma in Tía Luz’a kitchen as she signs to me and tells me something that happened recently, maybe about her son playing in the street too late or her teenage daughter moving back in with her. All the while she mercilessly hunts pesky house flies, rejoicing in each kill, impressively swatting over 30 before I finish my cup.
Later, from the same seat, sipping coffee, I try not to glance at this heavy set mom who took a moment away from making bread and cookie dough to breastfeed her adorable baby girl. Her older daughter is preparing suspiros, or lil’ breaths of whipped sugar and egg with a dusting of sprinkles on top, when the baby abruptly looses thirst and pulls away, exposing the breast completely. The mom just hangs out for a while and tries to entice her kid back to the teat, but baby’s uninterested, so the older daughter dips her finger in the suspiro mix and puts some on the nipple as an allure. Then we all have a fine laugh over it for a good couple minutes, the baby too.
Sometimes I take pleasure in cursing excessively at rocky soil, in English, while digging out bathroom foundations, then in eating two portions of soup in dark kitchens with elderly folks that believe they’re about a century old, that still haul wood to light the stove to make heavily sweetened coffee and that same soup every day and keep the smoke billowing up to soot the walls and dry the cheese, who cry softly and confide in me their life’s sadnesses and physical pains because I’m the only young person around helping them out; because their sons and daughters left to work in the jungle or in Lima and don’t even call.
One time the preschool kids surprised me by singing a song about taking care of the environment at the end of a charla on throwing away trash and the 5 R’s of recycling, reducing, reusing, repairing and rejecting. And other times the other grades got the idea, too. That spells success in my book.
To celebrate Santa Rosa de Lima my buddy Chris and I went camping by this small stone church up on a cliff that overlooks all of Chalaco and Santo Domingo, the town where Chris lives. We climbed on top a skinny pillar and stood with our arms the span of the full rainbow facing us just before night fell. Then we hiked up to the Meseta Andina (Andean Table) and wandered around that strange, wind-swept and barren country among alpacas and their quiet, estranged herders while passively looking for a lake at the end of the river to practice fly fishing, in order to prepare for the real deal, on the Amazon in October.
I got to see my 22-year old socio, Gino, read a poem about self-esteem to a group of about 25 high school students, and then, on a separate occasion, explain to them the difference between sex and gender. I lent him 8 bucks a while back, so he owes me. This week he’s talking about myths and beliefs surrounding the act of sex.
Back in mid-August I spent a day total on busses to get down to region Ica. It was totally worth it because I learned how to build a cocina mejorada and some other neat stuff, and then ride in a beast dune buggy that took us sandboarding in an endless desert. On the way back to site I stopped over in Huanchaco to visit my buddy Eliot and go surfing. We were the only ones out there, getting destroyed by gnarly storm waves and a killer rip, but it was much needed.
Y’kno what’s funny—Dancing. Like when you’re at a club called Bongos and your partner unexpectedly throws herself into a dip and you try to hold her up but the balance is too far gone, so with no choice you give in and fall down with her and stay on the floor a second just laughing about why people do this stuff anyway.
Let me write this down. Some times:
I walk up to my café, Señora Luz’s house, to find a skinless pig on the sidewalk, on it’s back, chest being broken into by a small machete and the internal organs being scooped out, along with handfuls of blood, into pots and pans.
Another day I’m drinking coffee alone with Idelma in Tía Luz’a kitchen as she signs to me and tells me something that happened recently, maybe about her son playing in the street too late or her teenage daughter moving back in with her. All the while she mercilessly hunts pesky house flies, rejoicing in each kill, impressively swatting over 30 before I finish my cup.
Later, from the same seat, sipping coffee, I try not to glance at this heavy set mom who took a moment away from making bread and cookie dough to breastfeed her adorable baby girl. Her older daughter is preparing suspiros, or lil’ breaths of whipped sugar and egg with a dusting of sprinkles on top, when the baby abruptly looses thirst and pulls away, exposing the breast completely. The mom just hangs out for a while and tries to entice her kid back to the teat, but baby’s uninterested, so the older daughter dips her finger in the suspiro mix and puts some on the nipple as an allure. Then we all have a fine laugh over it for a good couple minutes, the baby too.
Sometimes I take pleasure in cursing excessively at rocky soil, in English, while digging out bathroom foundations, then in eating two portions of soup in dark kitchens with elderly folks that believe they’re about a century old, that still haul wood to light the stove to make heavily sweetened coffee and that same soup every day and keep the smoke billowing up to soot the walls and dry the cheese, who cry softly and confide in me their life’s sadnesses and physical pains because I’m the only young person around helping them out; because their sons and daughters left to work in the jungle or in Lima and don’t even call.
One time the preschool kids surprised me by singing a song about taking care of the environment at the end of a charla on throwing away trash and the 5 R’s of recycling, reducing, reusing, repairing and rejecting. And other times the other grades got the idea, too. That spells success in my book.
To celebrate Santa Rosa de Lima my buddy Chris and I went camping by this small stone church up on a cliff that overlooks all of Chalaco and Santo Domingo, the town where Chris lives. We climbed on top a skinny pillar and stood with our arms the span of the full rainbow facing us just before night fell. Then we hiked up to the Meseta Andina (Andean Table) and wandered around that strange, wind-swept and barren country among alpacas and their quiet, estranged herders while passively looking for a lake at the end of the river to practice fly fishing, in order to prepare for the real deal, on the Amazon in October.
I got to see my 22-year old socio, Gino, read a poem about self-esteem to a group of about 25 high school students, and then, on a separate occasion, explain to them the difference between sex and gender. I lent him 8 bucks a while back, so he owes me. This week he’s talking about myths and beliefs surrounding the act of sex.
Back in mid-August I spent a day total on busses to get down to region Ica. It was totally worth it because I learned how to build a cocina mejorada and some other neat stuff, and then ride in a beast dune buggy that took us sandboarding in an endless desert. On the way back to site I stopped over in Huanchaco to visit my buddy Eliot and go surfing. We were the only ones out there, getting destroyed by gnarly storm waves and a killer rip, but it was much needed.
Y’kno what’s funny—Dancing. Like when you’re at a club called Bongos and your partner unexpectedly throws herself into a dip and you try to hold her up but the balance is too far gone, so with no choice you give in and fall down with her and stay on the floor a second just laughing about why people do this stuff anyway.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Busca la bonita
July 31st
July saw me at great heights—snowboarding with my dad on Chile’s incredible peaks—and also at a scary low—being beaten up and robbed in my capitol city of Piura. I’ll start with the good and hopefully make peace with the bad.
I arrived in Santiago, Chile a couple days before my dad and immediately hopped on the next bus for the port town, Valparaiso. There the salty arctic breeze, meaty chicken soup, apples and churrasco sandwiches carried me on and aimless wander through a vibrant maze of streets and alleys decorated with huge murals and eccentric graffiti, on ascensores as they creaked and crawled up the ancient faces of hills with names like “Joyful” and “Beautiful View,” through the breathing house of the late poet Pablo Neruda, and at last into a lively smoke-filled bar to watch the Chile-Bolivia soccer match.
I met my dad at the airport with an unabated happiness of familiarity and an unyielding grin that held months of anticipation. What followed that week were habitual outpourings of the thoughts and sentiments accumulated over ten months united by shred sessions down powdery slopes; growing closer in friendship to my dad than ever before. There are quite a few stories I could tell about rental boards, a fierce storm, an icy cook-out, chains and a car named “Betsy,” an Incan Lake, a lude Canadian, a cute Chilean, and a kind Haitian, but they wouldn’t come out right here. Best wait for Eddy’s faithful account over a couple glasses of wine. I will write one particularly memorable quote from the old man, said to a couple Brazilians and accompanied by arm and hand gestures: “Me speak very little Spanish, mucho English.” And I will take this space to thank my dad for the trip of a lifetime, his untiring optimistic outlook, and all the support he’s given to allow me to be where I am now and do what I’m doing. It was tough seeing him off at the airport. I hadn’t realized until then just how much I missed him and the rest of the family.
After Chile I made my way back up to Chalaco where I was soon visited by my dear friend and mentor, Frieda, and guided through the final patches of my grant application. Then it was a week of more house visits to site latrines, a series of community meetings here and there in the district, polishing the new composting latrine design with Wilse in the municipality and sending in my grant for approval. Sighing in relief I set back out on the road to spend Peru’s Independence Day vacation in the sierra town of Huancabamba, known for its gorgeous mountain lakes and hallucinogenic healing rituals performed by shamans. I passed on tripping balls in a dark room while some guy spits in your face and opted instead for a hike with some buddies to Laguna Shimbe, where we camped shoreside in a small cow barn that we swept free of its many patties. Soaked clothes and shoes made keeping warm tough, and the driving mist and soggy ground made starting a fire absolutely impossible, despite expert efforts, but eventually the weather cleared and we settled into sleep beneath a brilliantly star-lit sky. We awoke to passing birds over a glass lake, under blue emptiness. After cleansing our souls in the purifyingly cold waters we were joined by a shaman and his two apprentice sons and watched on as he sang verses to the earth (“busca la bonita”) and turned in circles spraying elixirs and liquors into the air. Then it was it was a pleasant hike back to Huancabamba and on the late bus to Piura to head back to site for a meeting in Naranjo with the volunteer Matt who did the latrine project out there, while my buddies went on to hike and camp in Chachapoyas.
I arrived around midnight at the bus terminal in a fairly sketchy part of town, where the safe taxi I had called was to be waiting for me out front. I brushed past the mob of drivers trying to give me a lift and out to the sidewalk, and then watched in exhaustion as my safe taxi drove away with another passenger. Did it occur to me to call the taxi company again, or that maybe I wasn’t the only passenger who requested the service? In hindsight, yes. But in that moment, tired from the hike and delirious from Dramamine and an 8-hour uncomfortable bus ride, these thoughts did not come to mind. In that moment a lone taxi driver asked me where I was going and I responded. And despite the steps I’m used to taking to make sure a ride is safe, I felt that looking into the driver’s eyes and asking him directly was sufficient. I don’t know what allowed me to let down my guard so foolishly, but as sure as it’s told we took a wrong turn, onto a dark street where two men quickly got out of the moto-taxi driving in front of us and were on either side of me before I had a chance to make a move. They pinned me down and strangled me as I let out reflexive bursts of protest, and then began punching my face and gut. They dug into my pockets and then went to my wrist. As they unfastened my watch I yelled that it was a gift, and was immediately contested by an elbow to my left eye socket and more blows to my nose and forehead. The driver took us out to a part of town called Nueva Esperanza (New Hope)—a very poor and dangerous “young” neighborhood of Piura without electricity or paved roads. We slowed down and as they tore my jacket off I managed to get out the car, before they could take the rest of the clothes off my back. I lost everything I had taken camping with me, but all told I got lucky. They drove away, leaving me battered and bleeding but alive and without any serious injuries. I followed the lights of the taxi out to the main road where I stumbled about looking for anyone who could help me. An older woman gave me water and a shirt to clean the blood, and then her two sons helped me back into town where thankfully a friend of mine had been staying. I spent the rest of the night turning in bed with a head full of regret, fear, anger, and throbbing pain. The couple hours I did sleep were nightmares, and the next day I found nervous trauma in every thought and on every corner of Piura.
I escaped the city that afternoon have since begun the slow process of putting myself back together in the tranquility of Chalaco. I found myself smiling again today—when making house visits to check up on the latrines in Naranjo, being hugged at random by some little boy in a Spiderman shirt who I had complemented on his saltazo (big jump) from the bathroom stairs. Anyway, I think I’ll grow from this experience, another facet of affliction that I now somewhat understand. From here I move on, get back to work, and try my best to seek out the beautiful.
July saw me at great heights—snowboarding with my dad on Chile’s incredible peaks—and also at a scary low—being beaten up and robbed in my capitol city of Piura. I’ll start with the good and hopefully make peace with the bad.
I arrived in Santiago, Chile a couple days before my dad and immediately hopped on the next bus for the port town, Valparaiso. There the salty arctic breeze, meaty chicken soup, apples and churrasco sandwiches carried me on and aimless wander through a vibrant maze of streets and alleys decorated with huge murals and eccentric graffiti, on ascensores as they creaked and crawled up the ancient faces of hills with names like “Joyful” and “Beautiful View,” through the breathing house of the late poet Pablo Neruda, and at last into a lively smoke-filled bar to watch the Chile-Bolivia soccer match.
I met my dad at the airport with an unabated happiness of familiarity and an unyielding grin that held months of anticipation. What followed that week were habitual outpourings of the thoughts and sentiments accumulated over ten months united by shred sessions down powdery slopes; growing closer in friendship to my dad than ever before. There are quite a few stories I could tell about rental boards, a fierce storm, an icy cook-out, chains and a car named “Betsy,” an Incan Lake, a lude Canadian, a cute Chilean, and a kind Haitian, but they wouldn’t come out right here. Best wait for Eddy’s faithful account over a couple glasses of wine. I will write one particularly memorable quote from the old man, said to a couple Brazilians and accompanied by arm and hand gestures: “Me speak very little Spanish, mucho English.” And I will take this space to thank my dad for the trip of a lifetime, his untiring optimistic outlook, and all the support he’s given to allow me to be where I am now and do what I’m doing. It was tough seeing him off at the airport. I hadn’t realized until then just how much I missed him and the rest of the family.
After Chile I made my way back up to Chalaco where I was soon visited by my dear friend and mentor, Frieda, and guided through the final patches of my grant application. Then it was a week of more house visits to site latrines, a series of community meetings here and there in the district, polishing the new composting latrine design with Wilse in the municipality and sending in my grant for approval. Sighing in relief I set back out on the road to spend Peru’s Independence Day vacation in the sierra town of Huancabamba, known for its gorgeous mountain lakes and hallucinogenic healing rituals performed by shamans. I passed on tripping balls in a dark room while some guy spits in your face and opted instead for a hike with some buddies to Laguna Shimbe, where we camped shoreside in a small cow barn that we swept free of its many patties. Soaked clothes and shoes made keeping warm tough, and the driving mist and soggy ground made starting a fire absolutely impossible, despite expert efforts, but eventually the weather cleared and we settled into sleep beneath a brilliantly star-lit sky. We awoke to passing birds over a glass lake, under blue emptiness. After cleansing our souls in the purifyingly cold waters we were joined by a shaman and his two apprentice sons and watched on as he sang verses to the earth (“busca la bonita”) and turned in circles spraying elixirs and liquors into the air. Then it was it was a pleasant hike back to Huancabamba and on the late bus to Piura to head back to site for a meeting in Naranjo with the volunteer Matt who did the latrine project out there, while my buddies went on to hike and camp in Chachapoyas.
I arrived around midnight at the bus terminal in a fairly sketchy part of town, where the safe taxi I had called was to be waiting for me out front. I brushed past the mob of drivers trying to give me a lift and out to the sidewalk, and then watched in exhaustion as my safe taxi drove away with another passenger. Did it occur to me to call the taxi company again, or that maybe I wasn’t the only passenger who requested the service? In hindsight, yes. But in that moment, tired from the hike and delirious from Dramamine and an 8-hour uncomfortable bus ride, these thoughts did not come to mind. In that moment a lone taxi driver asked me where I was going and I responded. And despite the steps I’m used to taking to make sure a ride is safe, I felt that looking into the driver’s eyes and asking him directly was sufficient. I don’t know what allowed me to let down my guard so foolishly, but as sure as it’s told we took a wrong turn, onto a dark street where two men quickly got out of the moto-taxi driving in front of us and were on either side of me before I had a chance to make a move. They pinned me down and strangled me as I let out reflexive bursts of protest, and then began punching my face and gut. They dug into my pockets and then went to my wrist. As they unfastened my watch I yelled that it was a gift, and was immediately contested by an elbow to my left eye socket and more blows to my nose and forehead. The driver took us out to a part of town called Nueva Esperanza (New Hope)—a very poor and dangerous “young” neighborhood of Piura without electricity or paved roads. We slowed down and as they tore my jacket off I managed to get out the car, before they could take the rest of the clothes off my back. I lost everything I had taken camping with me, but all told I got lucky. They drove away, leaving me battered and bleeding but alive and without any serious injuries. I followed the lights of the taxi out to the main road where I stumbled about looking for anyone who could help me. An older woman gave me water and a shirt to clean the blood, and then her two sons helped me back into town where thankfully a friend of mine had been staying. I spent the rest of the night turning in bed with a head full of regret, fear, anger, and throbbing pain. The couple hours I did sleep were nightmares, and the next day I found nervous trauma in every thought and on every corner of Piura.
I escaped the city that afternoon have since begun the slow process of putting myself back together in the tranquility of Chalaco. I found myself smiling again today—when making house visits to check up on the latrines in Naranjo, being hugged at random by some little boy in a Spiderman shirt who I had complemented on his saltazo (big jump) from the bathroom stairs. Anyway, I think I’ll grow from this experience, another facet of affliction that I now somewhat understand. From here I move on, get back to work, and try my best to seek out the beautiful.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Magia y Amor
May 19th
How did a mountain crab climb into my room?
May 30th
Each day the valley takes a deep breath and fills its belly with Pacific fog, rolling the water into white pillows that invite me to dive onto and sleep within. It’s my safety net; makes me shrug off aimless anxiety and small failures. Sifting through piles of mixed garbage—rotting fruit and vegetable peels, grey ash and brown dirt, soiled diapers and toilet paper, chicken feathers, tuna cans and soda bottles—dumped on the front step of the recently inaugurated waste management site on the first day of recollection was not how I imagined my day when I awoke, but I also didn’t think I’d be laughing about it tonight.
June 2nd
Slow motion and changed plans, courtesy a rusty nail in the bottom of my right foot. While waiting for a lift back from Naranjo, head swimming in shock and blood loss, I grinned and giggled at a piglet fighting a small dog, exhausted of the drama unfolded and welcoming the absurdity. Everything has been overwhelming and rushed lately, and what for? The rains have eased up and hiking is less muddy, but there is only a small window of opportunity to significantly work in between the presidential elections this weekend and when the municipality begins pre-gaming the anniversary. Either way I’ll be reclined in my room, coloring drawings of our newly designed composting latrines.
June 29th
It started with paint, removing the political facades that mostly just served as token of pride or disappointment, replacing them with fresh coats of lime green with mud brown trim, sky blue hanging over a darker deep sea base, a hot pink valentine’s surprise, or a sandy tan dripping onto a speckled walkway. The rind of the auditorium ripened maroon and protected the charming duos that showed up to spin on the walls of its cream core. Then they unlocked the swings in the kiddie park, slapped a tutti frutti suit on the monkey bars, and invited a party of childhood buddies—Bart Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Whinny the Pooh. Then they set up a dozen speakers on 30 foot tall bamboo scaffolding and had a dance off. The little man and his two cows tilling soil got makeovers for their illuminated plaza water fountain debut. The dried up mold on the stairs of the municipality was laboriously scraped away and the rotting, drooping ledges of the building scoured and reinforced with concrete. Harmless animosity arose as Chalaco divided into three soccer teams—Cultural, Leyrita, and San Fernando. A queen was elected based on qualities that ranged from caring about the new solid waste program to looking good in “swimwear” fotos while soaking in a freezing waterfall and then being willing to smile in “campowear” fotos taken up in the cloudy llama refuge. Portable tent restaurants/houses set up shop to dry cow meat above pans of juicy raw fish and inside-out popcorn while shoe, DVD, and foosball emporiums camped out down the street. And as expected, most real work in the municipality came to a halt, pardoned by the upcoming festivities.
It kicked off with a late night march of the farroles, or candle-lit figurines made of thin paper and popsicle sticks, resting atop wooden poles. My winners: 1st place – the bull fight that looked more like two cows kissing; 2nd place – the dragon that was bigger than the kid holding it; 3rd place – the life-sized Señor Cautivo de Ayabaca (a rasta jesus-looking, saint-like holy guy that people from all over Perú honor every year by journeying on foot to Ayabaca and praying or something). Then the turn of the anniversary was marked at midnight by burning a wooden castle filled with fireworks and bumping cumbia music through the frigid sierra air. The next night the covered futbolito court was converted into a bright disco as Sensual Karicia kicked the jams until the wee hours when someone started throwing bottles. The real battle of the bulls was missed for some honest chamba preparing a small patch of a veggie garden on the weathered, rooted face of land left mostly to grass over by Don Otto, whose back and hands have been hurting him. Few people ventured into the foggy rain on the third day to attend the artisan and traditional foods fair, and a few were jealous of the sweet hand-knit coin pouch I picked up there. Less were jealous of the humitas (tamales) I ate there, chowing on the tasty and abundant corn breaders as I excited told them about the find. The last night was a wet mess, when hasta the most campo campesinos gathered in the dark, grassy soccer field to drink in circles and dance their hearts out to Magia y Amor, the Alto Piura huayno kings guilty of the two best songs I hear five times a day, “¿Porqué mujer?” and “Mirame a los Ojos.” Then it was over. The wind swept away the visitors and left their trash behind.
We took advantage of the first municipal work day in weeks to meet with the mayor and his crew and convince them to opt for our new and improved composting latrine design instead of the expensive pour-flush latrine in caseríos that go days and weeks without piped water in the fall. And it worked! He’s [probably] giving my latrine project in Chimulque some more soles and hooked me up with the Department of Infrastructure so that its one of their top priorities and an evenly shared responsibility. “Hey can you work on these CAD drawings and that technical report for me while I go snowboarding in Chile?” “Wow, thanks…the latrine is gonna be earthquake proof, eh?” “I guess I’m cool with that as long as you dudes pay for it.” “Nice. Oh and I’m shooting for an August 1st start date, ¿es factible?” “Awesome, and can you add monitoring and evaluation of my project to the job description of my primo hermano Gino here so that he does something better than make copies all day?” “Righteous, nos vemos in a couple weeks.”
How did a mountain crab climb into my room?
May 30th
Each day the valley takes a deep breath and fills its belly with Pacific fog, rolling the water into white pillows that invite me to dive onto and sleep within. It’s my safety net; makes me shrug off aimless anxiety and small failures. Sifting through piles of mixed garbage—rotting fruit and vegetable peels, grey ash and brown dirt, soiled diapers and toilet paper, chicken feathers, tuna cans and soda bottles—dumped on the front step of the recently inaugurated waste management site on the first day of recollection was not how I imagined my day when I awoke, but I also didn’t think I’d be laughing about it tonight.
June 2nd
Slow motion and changed plans, courtesy a rusty nail in the bottom of my right foot. While waiting for a lift back from Naranjo, head swimming in shock and blood loss, I grinned and giggled at a piglet fighting a small dog, exhausted of the drama unfolded and welcoming the absurdity. Everything has been overwhelming and rushed lately, and what for? The rains have eased up and hiking is less muddy, but there is only a small window of opportunity to significantly work in between the presidential elections this weekend and when the municipality begins pre-gaming the anniversary. Either way I’ll be reclined in my room, coloring drawings of our newly designed composting latrines.
June 29th
It started with paint, removing the political facades that mostly just served as token of pride or disappointment, replacing them with fresh coats of lime green with mud brown trim, sky blue hanging over a darker deep sea base, a hot pink valentine’s surprise, or a sandy tan dripping onto a speckled walkway. The rind of the auditorium ripened maroon and protected the charming duos that showed up to spin on the walls of its cream core. Then they unlocked the swings in the kiddie park, slapped a tutti frutti suit on the monkey bars, and invited a party of childhood buddies—Bart Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Whinny the Pooh. Then they set up a dozen speakers on 30 foot tall bamboo scaffolding and had a dance off. The little man and his two cows tilling soil got makeovers for their illuminated plaza water fountain debut. The dried up mold on the stairs of the municipality was laboriously scraped away and the rotting, drooping ledges of the building scoured and reinforced with concrete. Harmless animosity arose as Chalaco divided into three soccer teams—Cultural, Leyrita, and San Fernando. A queen was elected based on qualities that ranged from caring about the new solid waste program to looking good in “swimwear” fotos while soaking in a freezing waterfall and then being willing to smile in “campowear” fotos taken up in the cloudy llama refuge. Portable tent restaurants/houses set up shop to dry cow meat above pans of juicy raw fish and inside-out popcorn while shoe, DVD, and foosball emporiums camped out down the street. And as expected, most real work in the municipality came to a halt, pardoned by the upcoming festivities.
It kicked off with a late night march of the farroles, or candle-lit figurines made of thin paper and popsicle sticks, resting atop wooden poles. My winners: 1st place – the bull fight that looked more like two cows kissing; 2nd place – the dragon that was bigger than the kid holding it; 3rd place – the life-sized Señor Cautivo de Ayabaca (a rasta jesus-looking, saint-like holy guy that people from all over Perú honor every year by journeying on foot to Ayabaca and praying or something). Then the turn of the anniversary was marked at midnight by burning a wooden castle filled with fireworks and bumping cumbia music through the frigid sierra air. The next night the covered futbolito court was converted into a bright disco as Sensual Karicia kicked the jams until the wee hours when someone started throwing bottles. The real battle of the bulls was missed for some honest chamba preparing a small patch of a veggie garden on the weathered, rooted face of land left mostly to grass over by Don Otto, whose back and hands have been hurting him. Few people ventured into the foggy rain on the third day to attend the artisan and traditional foods fair, and a few were jealous of the sweet hand-knit coin pouch I picked up there. Less were jealous of the humitas (tamales) I ate there, chowing on the tasty and abundant corn breaders as I excited told them about the find. The last night was a wet mess, when hasta the most campo campesinos gathered in the dark, grassy soccer field to drink in circles and dance their hearts out to Magia y Amor, the Alto Piura huayno kings guilty of the two best songs I hear five times a day, “¿Porqué mujer?” and “Mirame a los Ojos.” Then it was over. The wind swept away the visitors and left their trash behind.
We took advantage of the first municipal work day in weeks to meet with the mayor and his crew and convince them to opt for our new and improved composting latrine design instead of the expensive pour-flush latrine in caseríos that go days and weeks without piped water in the fall. And it worked! He’s [probably] giving my latrine project in Chimulque some more soles and hooked me up with the Department of Infrastructure so that its one of their top priorities and an evenly shared responsibility. “Hey can you work on these CAD drawings and that technical report for me while I go snowboarding in Chile?” “Wow, thanks…the latrine is gonna be earthquake proof, eh?” “I guess I’m cool with that as long as you dudes pay for it.” “Nice. Oh and I’m shooting for an August 1st start date, ¿es factible?” “Awesome, and can you add monitoring and evaluation of my project to the job description of my primo hermano Gino here so that he does something better than make copies all day?” “Righteous, nos vemos in a couple weeks.”
Friday, May 13, 2011
El Avion
13 April
A couple snapshots of my life: it’s pretty normal here to clean out your ears with keys or matchsticks. I tried it once just to see what the big deal was. It wasn’t very comfortable. I also tried some sort of smoked meat today, just a bite, and couldn’t help but show my distaste and gave the rest back. All the more for Señora Luz. For breakfast she gave me a type of potato called a carrot in castellano because of its shape. It was served with cheese that had a crusty shell from being kept out so long, but was surprisingly agreeable at first. That was right after the breakfast of fish stew, potatoes, and oatmeal that I ate at my own house. Around 7 tonight my stomach body slammed me onto the bed. Then I ate a couple bananas and was fine.
Ykno they do that same airplane trick to make kids eat their food? And they also say "numero uno" y "numero dos" for going to the bathroom. Are these customs that humans create in isolation; natural habits all cultures will inevitably arrive at? Or are they birthed from one culture and borrowed from the others, flown across oceans in media to arrive on foreign tongues.
11 May
Since then I soaked in the throes of a sierra winter, floated and tumbled in the rocky waters of Máncora for spring break 96, and took my campo project president buddy to a workshop in Lima where he indulged in ample electricity, toilets, showers, water taps, colored pencils, and action movies. He ended up staying four days extra.
A couple snapshots of my life: it’s pretty normal here to clean out your ears with keys or matchsticks. I tried it once just to see what the big deal was. It wasn’t very comfortable. I also tried some sort of smoked meat today, just a bite, and couldn’t help but show my distaste and gave the rest back. All the more for Señora Luz. For breakfast she gave me a type of potato called a carrot in castellano because of its shape. It was served with cheese that had a crusty shell from being kept out so long, but was surprisingly agreeable at first. That was right after the breakfast of fish stew, potatoes, and oatmeal that I ate at my own house. Around 7 tonight my stomach body slammed me onto the bed. Then I ate a couple bananas and was fine.
Ykno they do that same airplane trick to make kids eat their food? And they also say "numero uno" y "numero dos" for going to the bathroom. Are these customs that humans create in isolation; natural habits all cultures will inevitably arrive at? Or are they birthed from one culture and borrowed from the others, flown across oceans in media to arrive on foreign tongues.
11 May
Since then I soaked in the throes of a sierra winter, floated and tumbled in the rocky waters of Máncora for spring break 96, and took my campo project president buddy to a workshop in Lima where he indulged in ample electricity, toilets, showers, water taps, colored pencils, and action movies. He ended up staying four days extra.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I´m the Trash Man! I eat garbage!
3 March
We broke ground on the “waste management plant” on the 1st, a nice piece of land that the municipality is planning to use to bury trash that isn’t useful and recycle or compost the rest. A tree nursery is even in the plans, and it all seemed too good to be true, being only a month after we began talks about the project. A bulldozer cut a new road to access the plant and cleared the mess of blackberries on site. Although the preliminary environmental studies were deemed unnecessary, the mini-diagnostic rapid and inaccurate, and the general planning process haphazard—a build first, talk later approach—I must say that I felt proud of the direction our little pueblo was heading in; a few steps ahead of dumping the trash off a cliff that sits just above our poorly installed and aging water supply lines.
Yesterday I got back to work on the first draft of a monster diagnostic report on Chimulque, the small caserio in which I’m planning to do most of my work this year, and later on I had to pull a late nighter making a presentation on best management practices at the waste management plant; a small but arduous request of Lucho “Coche” (translates as “pig”), the engineer from the municipality in charge of the trash project. I didn’t mind this extra task at first, since I saw it as my big chance to let Lucho know all about my little inquietudes and make sure the project proceeded in an environmentally safe manner. I would even get to plug the inclusion of women in the project, campaign against Styrofoam, and make a case for cleaning up the current dump.
I remember waking up so hopeful. But it all faded around the second slide of my presentation, as Lucho began running in and out of the room, talking on cell phone, smoking cigarettes, and playing around on his computer. Things went downhill from there when I took a walk to the plant after lunch and found a massive pig chowin on the big mound of yesterday’s trash that had been dumped there about 2 months before the site was ready to receive it, and little kids trying to use the site as a short cut. Supposedly Lucho gave the orders, but the trash guys could just be covering themselves. I was past disappointment, legitimately upset for the first time in my service, but luckily the trash guys were good sports about helping clean it up, psyched to be using gloves for the first time ever and pumped to flex their muscles in front of a camera. I guess the lesson is that with this trash business I gotta be more like a fly, on top of things.
29 March
It’s been a really long time since I last wrote, and maybe that’s because I’ve been busy finishing up the community diagnostic and trying to guide this cannonball of a trash project as it barrels down a hill, but I think it also has a little to do with getting settled and comfortable with my life here. It’s something I can manage and wake up to every day ready for, unlike the confusion I felt when I would open my eyes in the morning during my first couple months here. The tranquilidad is pretty distinct from the party week I just spent in La Libertad for Early In Service Training, chilling with friends in Trujillo, surfing and back alley dancing in Huanchaco, a visit to the large sierra town of Otuzco, and a surprise foamy disco thrown in the mix (turns out they are as gross as everyone says). I kinda feel guilty about traveling, something that the folks here in general don’t really do, and also bit negligent from being out of site…
Our dog Bobbi is dying. He can’t move and just whimpers softly say and night outside my window, sounding like a human who’s been crying so long that tears won’t come. My family can’t decide whether or not to put him down.
31 March
At some time today, maybe while I was enjoying a pretty hike, listening to the Kurt Vile album for like the tenth time in two days, inspecting a composting latrine, or getting served liquor, bananas, lemon-oranges, a couple fresh eggs for the road or pig skin soup (complete with hair), our dog Bobbi passed away and was buried in the backyard under some roses.
8 April
Elections are whats up and Peruvians are certainly not afraid of their political opinions. If it’s not corn or the rain savior they’re talking about, it’s either the commy militant Ollanta, the old white dude PPK, the privileged daughter of the Japanese former president Fujimori, or the corrupt liberal party addict who was taught English by a PC volunteer and later became president of Perú. Noone says much about the other dude running, Cateñ-something or other.
In other news I recently got to be counselor for a couple days at this leadership and self-esteem camp dealie
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Giving Light
Feb 12
After countless days of driving rain the sky took a deep breath and dissolved into scattered billows glued to the mountain sides. Now, from my rooftop at the heart of the pueblo, I can see all the way down the valley’s throat, following the waters that poured out of the sierra winter and collected in the Rio Chalaco towards their delivery in the west, where summer burns on. The sun reminds me of the recent lazy days spent near coast, in our capitol city, where the heat cancels all plans and replaces them with music videos in the quad room with the guys and Kerri, some laughs, and the occasional breeze of an oscillating fan. By night though it’s all we can do to stay inside and reasonably sober. Craving something cool and refreshing we turn to that sweet golden beverage we deprive ourselves of at site—until the last consequences, as they say; until morning’s apple pastries and coffee ease us back into humid reality. I can only do a couple days of this, and then I begin to miss the shades of grey over my peaceful island surrounded by an ocean of mud. Maybe that’s why the weather hasn’t affected my mood as I expected it to, because I’ve begun to internalize and accept the vast tranquility of Chalaco, if for nothing else but lack of another option. Like swallowing unfamiliar food to not to go hungry, gulping down my anxiety or nervousness; opening my eyes and stuffing the world into my brain because I was getting bored of the visions I’d make when they were closed.
Feb 13
I swear that the operation of an alarm clock is beyond my capabilities sometimes, or that every now and then my body acts independently of my mind for its own good. I woke up dreading the long muddy hike ahead of me out to the recently seceded annex of Portachuelo, an upstream neighboring casarío called Lucumos (cleverly named so after the large green fruit with a kinda-nasty chalky interior that grows in abundance there). I was informed weeks earlier of a meeting in Lucumos that I should attend, which through rough translation I gathered was going to be about water rights with Portachuelo, since sharing the same water system with their ex hasn’t been working out. I would have called in sick if it wasn’t for the promising sunlight bathing the covers of my bed, or for the document I was asked to deliver to Chemo, my counterpart at the health post there. Or maybe my body just knew what was best and pulled me outside.
The meeting was originally at 9, and I left with enough time to be only 15 minutes late, that is, booking it through perfect hiking conditions. But given that we’re in the throes of winter and the trail is puro barro—a boot deep thick soup of clay and horse shit that sucks your feet down to its earthen core and resists surrender—I arrived swimming in sweat at 10 and was immediately notified by some random that Chemo had postponed the meeting until noon, after the Evangelical service. I was a bit irritated that I had rushed out there for nothing and went to find Chemo and verify this news. Turns out he’s a man of the word, and when I found him at the temple I was forced inside to attend mass, where I flipped absently through the Bible that was thrust into my hands trying to find unrelated verses on jumbled subjects, which were read aloud as a whole, taking turns between the male and female side of the aisle. There was music, too. Small groups of churchgoers would stand with their back to the alter and sing to the crowd while a man with a keyboard struck notes indiscriminately over a free-form tempo, sometimes even after the singers returned to their seats, as if he was just curious to see what sounds would come out. I got a kick out of this at first, but realized I could better pass the time emptying the pool of sweat in my rain boots and drying my socks, so I dipped out to the school and chilled in the sun, thinking of nothing much at all.
After mass was over I got the chance to clarify with Chemo what the meeting was on, and that’s when I found out that the meeting was about me and Peace Corps, that I was to give a presentation on my role as a volunteer so that I could ask for permission to do a community diagnostic of Lucumos. It was a presentation I’d given three times so far, but not since a month earlier when I resolved to limit the number of casaríos I’d lead on with promise of my assistance. It was like one of those bad dreams where you arrive at class and are handed a mid-term that you totally forgot to study for. Blindsided and exhausted from the hike, I stumbled my way through what I could recall from my speech, filling in the gaps with sloppy improv and inventing grammar rules along the way, trying to maintain composure as some women suppressed their laughter in the corner. Despite botching the presentation, the dozen community members that attended welcomed me to come do a diagnostic; a historical offering for a volunteer in the region according to Chemo, one which I reluctantly accepted making clear that I couldn’t do anything till May or June. Truth was that I was embarrassed by my Spanish skills and also stressed by the commitments I was involuntarily making, both recurring anxieties in my life.
I got home feeling down on myself and frustrated with what laid ahead of me, but after a shower and a spontaneous nap, something flipped. Out of nowhere, everything that happened didn’t matter anymore. I wouldn’t even be back there for another 3 months, and it’s not like I compromised the two projects I’m all about right now, the latrine project I’ll be starting up soon in Chimulque and the municipality’s waste management project that I’m helping out with. I was hit with a sudden sense of belonging and familiarity back in Chalaco that assured me things would turn out ok. I also remembered that falling down is an important, too, and kinda funny in retrospect. Eh, just take it easy homes, and every now and then think of what Ben “Gets Shit Done” Dean said about 100 pennies.
Feb 18
Some pretty gnarly stuff goes on in our backyard—the weekly chicken massacres, impatient male and female bus passengers peeing freely rather than waiting for the bathroom, topless campo women breastfeeding their kids, animal parts hanging from hooks, and our zombie dog drinking from an unflushed toilet and then staring blankly at a wall for hours—but the childbirth that happened today takes the cake. I was lucky enough to have arrived from Chimulque just after the mother and her newborn had been escorted to the health center located only a couple of blocks away, but her blood sat right where she did, next to the chicken killzone, soaking slowly into the dirt. Supposedly she didn’t want to go to a doctor because she didn’t qualify for government provided health insurance on account of not having any kids.
I also missed the public lashings the Ronda gave to the guy accused of stealing a television from the school in Bolognesi. There was no trial, just whips on the bottom of the feet with a branch of Lanche, and then delivery to the police in Chalaco, who stripped him naked and gave him a punch. At least the Ronda let him go before taking him around to each one of the 43 casaríos to publicly hit his feet with Lanche as they had originally planned.
Feb 20
A couple gross follies I’ve committed recently: stepping into a bowl of chicken blood sitting on the floor of a dark kitchen, and the next day hitting my head on a low hanging pig’s leg in the same kitchen, even after ample warning that I’d do just that.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Warewolves and Gunpowder
Jan.18
Again the Ronda Campesina pulls through for me, this time in Portachuelo. See the President of Portachuelo’s Ronda was one of the 7 at the last presentation I gave there and he liked what he heard, especially the part where I made a dozen promises that I had nothing to do with a mining company and wasn’t out to exploit their natural resources. So he made a spot for me at monthly Ronda assembly, at which someone from each family must attend or else pay a fine. Though only 2 women were present, the organizers strongly encouraged female attendance and representation—sounds good in my book. In rare occasion, this meeting actually started when it was supposed to, not an hour late, and luckily I entered the room of 70 stares on time. Soaked in sweat from the hike, I took my front row miniature seat and cooled down while the agenda was finalized. We commenced with a recital of Lord’s prayer, followed by a bible lesson about eternal hell, and then a collective singing of the national anthem, of which I managed to mouth a few key phrases and belt out some of the words that make me laugh inside (“Largo tiempo, largo tiempo,” and “Sus luces, sus luces, el soooool!!!”). I took my cue from the Great Awakening talk to shamelessly give thanks and praise to “El Senor” above during my speech, and even though from now on I’ll have to adopt this belief and rock it as truth, I think it helped win some trust.
After racing through my presentation, trying to follow suit with the general speaking pace and not bore anyone, the President of the Ronda called an immediate vote on giving me permission to do a community diagnostic there. I’d never before been so exposed to the axe of social approval, but before any tension or anxiety could well up inside the crowd gave an overwhelming “Si,” with only one loner wearing an extraordinarily tall hat silently shaking his head, “No.” As the lengthy meeting pushed on and the speakers to follow kept referring to all the projects I would do, the latrines I’d construct and trees I’d plant, the joy of acceptance began to dissolve into a feeling that I was taking on more than I could handle, that I’d given an entire community unrealistic expectations just by saying I’d “evaluate the opportunity” to work there.
This inevitability of having to let people down has been my main source of stress lately, since I first wrote the above parts of this entry, until now, about a week later. Even though I can further explain these details during interviews and assemblies, I’ve been finding it really difficult to bring up to people who are constantly saying how they’ve been forgotten by the municipality and never get the support that other casaríos get. The truth is that they all need help, but if I want to do it right I shouldn’t spread my efforts too thin. I had already decided to not do a diagnostic in Bolognesi, so as not to get the hopes up of another community, but then their municipal agent found me in Chalaco and asked when I was going there, if I could help out with building a new collection tank for their water system. I told him I would check it out in a few weeks. Ah, I’m sure it’ll all work out; I’ll try not to get too ahead of myself.
Jan.21
Every full moon the woman known formally as “La Rosita” turns into “La Loquita” (the crazy lady). One can hear her coming near from her disconcerting whistles. Those in her path maintain a safe distance, slowly retreating into their houses and tiendas, locking the door inconspicuously. No sudden movements; if you run, she’ll throw rocks. If you’re unfortunate enough to encounter her at close range, give her what you can, humor her oddities and outbursts, lest she scratch your face or take her clothes off.
I met her a few days ago, as the moon was waxing into glorious plumage behind the blanket of mist that shrank my world to twenty feet in any direction. I was innocently studying Spanish in our restaurant when she jostled me to make acquaintance. She flashed me a toothless smile, rambled something incomprehensible, and extended her hand from a soaking wet poncho. I politely shook it, assuming that she was a family friend that talked too fast for me, and began to ask her name when suddenly she kung-fu gripped my hand and pulled me in for a kiss. I revolted my head to the left and she managed to only land one on my cheek, something my on-looking host family will never let me live down. Then she began singing at light speed an old Peruvian folk song, or “Wino” tunes as they are appropriately called, fell backwards to the ground upon its grand finale, then sprang to her feet and fled the scene yelling, “Chau mi amor!”
For the next few days she crawled the calles day and night, rapidly blurting nonsensical lyrics over nonexistent rhythms, stopping only to ask for a bit of change or food. Late one evening she finagled her way into our house, after all the other patrons had left and just as I was settling into my bed downstairs. I could hear her running around the main floor, and fearing that she’d make a break for the stairs and burst into my room, I barred the door with my desk chair and listened nervously to her every move from my fetal position under the sheets. Luckily my host brother Tonio was patiently entertaining her upstairs, even as she relentlessly sang at the top of her lungs, took off some garments and rolled on the floor, until an opportune moment to coax her back outside with the promise of an exciting bus trip to Pacaipampa.
Señora Luz says that she hasn’t been as “ofensiva” today, since the full moon has past, and has probably made her way back to her casarío, San Lorenzo . I hope so, because her pink dress is currently lying on the sidewalk by our front door.
Jan.22
A lovely evening for a blackout—nice weather, pretty sunset, and everyone out in the street chatting with the neighbors and watching the kids battle it our with squirtguns and water balloons in celebration of Carnival. La Rosita is still around but she’s definitely chilled out and put some clothes on, backing up the whole full moon theory. I think she has relatives in town that take care of her.
I’ve been getting some interviews done in Chimulque and they’re going better than I expected. Even though some questions may be a little personal I think people appreciate the interest I’m taking in their lives and their opinions on community matters.
Strange story Tonio told me this morning: he used to feed his dog gunpowder to make him more fierce, just as (allegedly) the Peruvian army would feed soldiers to make them less afraid in battle. And it worked, too. When he was in his prime young Bobbi could beat up any other dog, got mad respect and all the tail.
Jan.23
Since I came to Peru Lima
After training I moved in with my current host family in Chalaco. Just last spring they lost their father, husband, grandfather. He suffered for a long time, bedridden with a terrible illness. They showed me photos from his final days in the hospital, and then after he’d passed. He was hardworking, honorable, loving, a great father, really funny. His widow, my host mother, Elvira, freezes when Tonio tells a story or a dream he had about his dad. She solemnly reflects in a world away, then her quiet tears begin their slow fall towards trembling lips. Another beautifully kind woman down the street talks in stutters and walks with shakes, wears black every day. She lost her husband to a heart attack over the summer. Whenever I pass by or stop to chat all I can see is his absence. Maybe that’s why Elvira keeps herself so busy all the time, working steadily from the break of dawn till nearly midnight—to evade the void by her side. If she sits still too long it’s all that surrounds her.
I’ve also become unsettlingly desensitized to death in its more customary forms: staring with curiosity at a chicken with its throat cut, upside down draining blood, legs kicking in violent spasms until nothing; passing indifferently by a cow’s leg hanging from a hook on my way to the bathroom; trying to distinguish the sound of a group of pigs getting fed from one being slaughtered; eating meat every day and killing bugs without remorse. Fortunately I still feel pity for our hardly mobile older dog Bobbi, the one that used to eat gunpowder, who I thought had died a month earlier in the corral in our backyard when he stopped eating until he reappeared a couple weeks ago with an appetite for rice and a few more painful steps around town.
I’d been meaning to write this for a while; it only took the wake I attended today in Chimulque. They say he was 90 years old, trabajadoro, honrado, sencillo, humilde, lived alone without any family nearby. The community was raising money for the burial tomorrow.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Avanzando
I took a huge step forward with Chimulque today by getting formal permission to do a community diagnostic there. Interesting little process this was. I went there a few days ago to ask about who should be included as the signers of my permission slip and met for the first time the president of the community judicial system, Icidro Peña Cruz, the strong arm of the law if you will and someone really good to know and be friends with. The guy invited me to relax on the bench outside of his house and proceeded to talk my ear off for the next two hours. When I said I had to get home for dinner, before the rain fell, he served me a deep fried egg in a bowl of sango (Peru’s grits) with some hierba buena tea and kept me a half hour later. I didn’t mind this much because he was interesting, seemed to enjoy the company, and could get me all sorts of street credibility. Something about him makes me generally at ease and on point with Spanish, too. Maybe it’s that he resembles my dad a bit, by the cut of his jib I mean, and he’s clearly not an annoying borracho. Just a simple old farmer who lives without household water, electricity, or any sort of toilet, understands the importance of clean water and sanitation, and thinks composting latrines are the cat’s pajamas. Plus I somehow tricked him into thinking I’m really intelligent, a good feeling after so long of appearing dumb for my inability to communicate well. He nearly hugged me when I said was an environmental engineer, except that guys here don’t give hugs, just pats on the shoulder.
Anyway back to today. I hiked down to Icidro’s humble adobe abode with my little constancia de permiso, four lines reserved for the signatures of Chimulque’s head honchos—my buddy Mr. Icidro Justice Cruz, the municipal agent and karate master Mr. Miagi, the lieutenant (whatever that means) Mr. Cristover, and Mr. Teofilo, the president of the water and sanitation committee (the JASS). Icidro’s wife answered the door and said he was bringing their horse to graze but that she’d call him. She went out to the street and sent an impressive whistle into the hills and yelled up to Capt. Justice. He responded immediately and flew down the fields to greet me, grinning upon arrival the way my dad would and commenting on the beautiful weather, a grey sky that hadn’t rained yet. He read the short document aloud, taking his time and frequently skipping lines without noticing, then happily signed it with a shaky hand and offered to help me find the other guys.
Our first stop was close by, another house in the “Valle Hermosa” annex of Chimulque where Icidro lives, all of which lacks the basic service package. The municipal agent, real name Berturen, wasn’t around but was expected to arrive within the hour, so we sat on the bench in Bert’s backyard and talked water and culture differences while watching birds flutter round trees, dropping conversation every now and then to listen to their song through wind shifting leaves. Mr. Miagi finally showed up, greeted us kindly as he sauntered near, and commented on the nice weather this late in the day. He glanced over the document through thin slits in his eyelids (hence the nickname), nodded contently, and gave his seal of approval. Next was the lieutenant, the only one I’d never met. His house has electricity, so instead of waiting outside on a bench for him to return from work in the fields, we were invited inside to sit in a dark room that’s only light came from a TV showing WWF Smackdown, and then an old Eddy Murphy flick called Terror Profundo. I was a bit nervous as I waited, seeing as how I didn’t know the guy and here I was chilling in his living room watching the tube with his wife and kids. Luckily he was drunk when he arrived and all it took was a quick recognition of Icidro for him to trust my brief explanation of the document and sign it without second thought. The last stop was the JASS president, Teofilo, a smart and very capable guy with whom I’d done an inspection and disinfection of Chimulque’s water system a month earlier. He’s been all about Peace Corps and composting latrines thanks to the last volunteer, Matt. So finally I got the full go ahead to start the diagnostic, what’s more in a nearby casarío that’s been nothing but enthusiastic about working with me. Things are looking good, in Chimulque at least. I’ll find out soon enough what’s up with Portachuelo and Francisco Bolognesi. De todas maneras, I’m on my way.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Mudd Butt
Dec.31
An hour until the New Year and it’s looking like I’ll be in bed reading, maybe sleeping. Supposedly they burn effigies of famous people, like a politician they don’t like, and throw coins and candy into the air. Fireworks go without saying. Maybe I should be caring more, or maybe part of me is trying to stomp out desire. At any rate tonight’s been pretty good. Had a nice dinner with the extended host family, and by the lack of timidity Tonio (my host bro) had over post-meal farts (go figure, they’re funny in Peru
The effigies were totally worth staying up for—stuffed with fireworks, doused in gasoline.
Jan.2
It must be the rainy season that’s awakening these monstrosities from their underworld. Five tarantulas in the carretera today, all but one smashed by some passerby, the one huge bastard that scared the crap out of me when I stepped inches from its salivating jaws, swift limbs, fuzzy abdomen. I let out nearly every curse I knew, hexed it real good-like, and then spared its treacherous life, granting it the right to terrorize another hapless soul. May this queen bee spread word throughout her kingdom of my kind and gentle feet.
Jan.4
“…a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.” – Einstein’s Dreams
A man in his element—Juan Carlos, local DJ of Radio Rondera, pumping out district hits from his shoebox studio, the whiney Peruvian jams blaring directly at him not through headphones but two large amps. Barely able to hear me at shouting voice, his head in perpetual swagger, like Milhous in the pup-tent or the Budabi Brothers in Night at the Roxbury. From now on this dude it my main form of communication with the boombox-toting campesinos always tuned into either this station or Radio Chalaco, the Rondera broadcasting important municipal messages from 5-6 at night, with 1-2 seconds of loud music filling up all sentence pauses in the announcements since the technology is not there to play it lightly in the background.
Some muchachos later got me to show them whatever tricks I could do on the most busted skateboard I’ve ever been on. No grip tape, warped deck, broken bearings, cracked wheels. Within minutes I snapped one of the rusted trucks, making it finally unusable.
Jan.6
There’s that good ol’ fashioned natural high again. I gave my first presentation tonight in a nearby small casarío, Chimulque, about Peace Corps and my role as a volunteer. Though it took the customary hora peruana for everyone to arrive, to my amazement almost 30 people showed up. Do I owe this to Juan Carlos’ radio magic? Or maybe Chimulque just has it together, knows about Peace Corps, and really wants clean-water access and someplace decent to take a dump? Though I felt pretty intimidated in a room full of tight-knit community members 10-50 years older than me, the short presentation went off with few Spanish errors and zero of the shaky voice syndrome that occasionally haunts my talks with peers. When I was done, instead of asking questions on the community diagnostic process or what exactly I can help them with, the assembly broke into a free-for-all session on all the stuff they want to see changed. So I can’t say for sure yet but it seems like when I go back on Tuesday I’ll get the formal go ahead (document signed and stamped by 3 parties, of course), saying I can come in and do interviews and such. While tomorrow’s presentation to Portachuelo, a distant casarío that distrusts gringos, probably won’t be as easy, I’ll have the advantage of a respected health-post worker, Chemo, backing me up. Plus Chemo said some folks there heard the announcement on the radio, so the meeting is definitely on. And that’s tomorrow. Now feels pretty good, some lucky night.
Jan.7
Portachuelo didn’t go so hot. Only 7 people showed up, two of them being Chemo and his wife, who on the bright side, I must say, warmed up the crowd quite nicely during the hora peruana with heaps of anecdotes. I’m giving it one more shot in a couple weeks. I’m just glad I got home safe hiking in the foggy dark on unfamiliar, steep, slippery paths, even if I arrived with a mean case of the mudd butt (literal).
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