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, death has had a near daily presence in my life. My host family in Lima lost their son at a young age on his birthday. He got in a fight and hit his head badly on the ground. A huge soccer banner hung in the living room of my friend Josh’s host family, in remembrance, him in his yellow and green jersey, a big smile. We had the same one in our house, but stored away, kept clean. Blanca preferred the same picture in a small frame above the TV. When my Lima host dad would visit from where he lived and worked seven hours away, he and Blanca would spend long hours shut inside their bedroom, crying their guts out, emerging red-eyed and exhausted, as if they’d just weathered a terrible storm. Always on their mind, he was constantly mentioned. I didn’t have the right words, so I let how it made me feel speak through my motions. They gave me his soccer shorts, swimming trunks, and favorite meals, even offered me his broken bicycle. I borrowed his bed, linens, dresser, desk, lamp, room, weights.

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.