Plant Your Garden and Watch it Grow

One of my nascent projects is a vegetable garden in a little school for pastoral kids.  Since we live so high up in the atmosphere, nothing really grows besides sheep and potatoes.  As an experiment, I built a little cold frame at my house and planted a bunch of seeds, and not everything died!  The other day, my host mom and I transplanted some cabbage, onion, and carrots into a tiny garden.  I'm hoping that with more care and some inside windowsill germination, we can have better survival rates and get some lettuce and beets going.  

If the little starts aren't clobbered by a hailstorm, we'll have the makings of some darn fine local coleslaw.

Body Language Barrier

A new Peace Corps volunteer in the sierra of Peru has a lot to learn in order to communicate with any kind of success with her community.  First there's Spanish, then likely a bit of regionally hyper-specific Quechua sprinkled into that Spanish, then slang, swears, and innuendo.  Even though I thought my language skills were pretty solid when I arrived at site, I had to deal with a whole new sort of body language.  Folks were sticking their tongues out and flapping their arms and being mystified that I was mystified.  Thankfully, after a year, I've decoded some of it and have created this handy picture-guide. 

1. 

"Ven aqui" or hailing a cab.  Hold arm out straight and flap wrist up and down like a dead fish.  The more violently the mom's wrist is flapping, the more trouble the kid is in.

2. 

"No."  Say in no uncertain terms that you will not pay that ridiculous price for that watermelon.  Make a fist, point index finger to the sky, and pivot the wrist back and forth rapidly at as great an angle as is comfortable.

3. 

"It's hot out, no?"  When Peruvian men are overheated, lifting up the shirt to air out the belly is the preferred method of cooling off.  My host siblings were embarrassed to do it for the camera, so we only have a blurry shot.  

4.  

 
"That girl, over there."  To surreptitiously indicate/incriminate the person next to you, stick your tongue in your cheek to be less obvious than pointing with your finger. 


5. You would think that after all this time, I'd be used to being a sideshow, but my cultural sensitivity is getting a bit careworn and frayed at the seams.  Especially when being gaped at, especially in the town where I've been living for a year, especially by adult men with better things to do.  I used to put my head down and walk by faster, but now some days I hit them with one of these bad boys.

 They usually get the point after 30 seconds or so of this.  I just hope my face doesn't stick that way.

Pretty Bird

I just stumbled off the bus back in my site after 10 days in Lima for medical checks and a Youth Initiative Committee meeting.  Since there wasn´t much to do, all us volunteers recessed into hedonism.  Expensive dinners, long hot showers, gay discoteca until 4am, and the slightly better brand of boxed wine.  From a glass.  But the best part by far was being able to spend that amount of time with my fellow volunteers again.  I wasn´t tired of them even after a week of almost constant togetherness.  I suppose all the alone time at site builds up social capacity.

That week was also a bicycle pump attached to my self-esteem balloon.  As I´ve said before, I got out of my way to be frumpy at site to deflect creepy male attention.  It´s also cold and impossible to stay clean, so the hair is braided and layers are piled on.  I think it´s a factor of contrast, but I got a shower, put on some eyeliner and jeans that fit and walked down the street like a parade float.  I got lots of compliments on my long hair and my PCVC said that it looked like I had been working out.  At my checkup, the scale said 142, and I came to Peace Corps at 138, so not bad!  I wonder how much of my feelings of chubbiness are mental.  I was also really popular at the gay club and the men would come salsa with me.  I´m taking it as a compliment, because otherwise it´s too confusing.

I think the Peace Corps is helping me be more of the person I want to be.  I´ve always been kinda self-conscious and reserved, but service is beating it out of me.  I have so little time with my peers that I can´t waste it holding back.  I´m always wierd looking and stared at, so self-consciousness needs to go out the window if I´m to leave my house.  Might as well put on a rainbow hat and a giant feather earring.  Because, as my favorite quote of the week went, "Life is wierd, now so am I." 

Feliz Dia de Accion de Gracias!

Happy belated Thanksgiving!  I made a little American holiday style lunch for my host family.  Volunteers Leslie and Grant came over to share the love as well.  Here´s but a small portion of my family happily munching away.

I made cole slaw, mashed turnips, chicken, green beans, and an apple dessert.  I was cooking all morning, but it turned out delicious and I´m pretty pleased with myself.





I wish I had made more because it was a big success.  It turns out my little host brother David loves coleslaw.  I guess kids will eat just about any vegetable if you put some mayo on it.  Happy Thanksgiving!



The Meat We Eat

I complain a lot about Peruvian food and my resulting stomach aches and more ample thighs, but there are redeeming characteristics about my campo diet.  There are some delicious dishes (mmm alpaca) and other wider systemic benefits.

Peru recently passed country-wide ban on all GMO foods.  This is incredible.  Most modern agriculture development is based on GMOs and a lot of the produce and food-products coming out of the United States are GMO.  The U.S. failed to pass a law that would make labeling of GMO foods mandatory in grocery stores.  And here´s Peru, which is often ridiculous and backward, taking a very brave step in agricultural policy.

The way Peru raises animals has made my transition to carnivory much easier.  Sadly, the country has largely industrialized chicken and egg production, with soccer-field sized sheds lining up in the deserts outside Lima.  But in the campo, meat and milk production is largely un-industrialized.  In Junin, cows, sheep, and alpacas wander the pampa all day tended by shepherds and live what largely seem to be happy bovine, ovine, and camelid lives.  They eat grass and never encounter corn or a feedlot.  They are slaughtered by owners and then sold to butchers down the street who, in turn, sell to the señoras.

There´s also a much more transparent relationship with the meat we eat in Peru.  There are no boneless skinless chicken breasts shrink wrapped and ready to go.  When I wanted chicken breast for Thanksgiving, I went to the butcher and watched her graphically dismember a chicken with a cleaver and lots of bicep strength.  When I got the meat home, I had to separate it from ribs, organ bits, ans sinew.  I had chicken juice up to my unskilled forearms before I was done.

Meat at the market looks like the animal it came from.  Featherless chickens, still in possession of heads and feet, lie on blocks of wood.

Sheep and alpacas are skinned and headless, but otherwise intact.  And the heads are usually in a pile a few feet away.



There is very little waste.  Señoras are constantly knitting socks from the wool of their deceased sheep and alpacas.  I can attest from personal experience that we eat all the parts.  I´ve gnawed on gristly clumps of meat hanging off of spinal columns and gratefully transferred testicles and eyeballs to someone else´s soup bowl.  The parts that are unappetizing to humans go to some underfed dog.

I feel much better about eating meat in the Peruvian campo that I would going to Guenardi´s in Pennsylvania and picking up a rotisserie chicken.  I´ve often met the animal or one of it´s friends and have seen it´s peaceful daily lifestyle.  I haven´t worked up the guts to kill anything myself, but I feel much closer to the animals I eat.  The campo life lends a transparency and responsibility to animal eating that would greatly beneifit human and animal health and well-being if we had more of it in the States.

OMG That´s So Gay!

I go to a man named Oscar for my infrequent haircuts.  He´s really nice, engages me in conversation about things other than the weather, and is good at cutting hair.  He also happens to be gay.  And older host brother was visiting and mentioned that he needed a haircut, so I recommended Oscar.  He scrunched up his face, shook his head, and said, "Es un maricon."  He´s a fag.

I immediately felt my face flush and lots of angry firecrackers went off in my brain, but all I managed to say was, "¿y?"  It would be useless to open a discussion with this particular host brother about homophobia.  We´ve had extended, heated arguments about whether everything on the internet is true and whether or not sharks are fish.

One of the most frustrating things about my PCV existence is constantly backing off of issues like these in deference to "cultural sensetivity."  You´re constantly late, mean to your wife and dog, and homophobic?  That´s cool!  It´s your culture!

That´s a frustrated oversimplification, but there are lots of things I´m not really allowed to express, such as:

"You´re two hours late for a meeting you arranged and are going off on a 40 minute soliloquy about how long the meeting is.  That shit is unprofessional and thoughtless.  Fuck you!"

"You didn´t try in high school, got pregnant at 16, and spend most of the day feeling sorry for yourself when other women applied themselves and are doctors and politicians.  Fuck you and your inertia!"

"You bought that dog, it protects your house, and is heartbreakingly loyal to you.  You can at least feed it once a day and stop kicking it.  Fuck you!"

Any subverting of these ideas needs to be gentle and guerilla style, but I often am tempted to shake people.

But let´s direct this tangent back to homophobia.  It´s a really widespread and disappointing characteristic of Peru.  One of my best volunteer friends is gay.  He´s one of the sweetest humans I´ve ever met, a dedicated volunteer, and a devastatingly good dancer.  But he´d likely be rejected by his community if they found out his sexual orientation, so he has to keep this fundamental aspect of himself a secret.  It seems a terrible shame that he can´t be accepted for everything he is.

I reflected on this some more and reminded myself that millions and millions in my own, supposedly advanced, country feel the same way about homosexual people.  In my life, I´ve interacted with a select minorty of Americans.  My veterinarian and professor parents mostly have friends with letters after their names.  I grew up in a reasonably diverse Philadelphia suburb and most recently spent my America time with socially and environmentally concerned grad students.  I´ve never spent time with people who picket funerals, commit hate crimes, or even vote against gay rights.  It´s a mindset that I feel very distant from and mystified by.

For now, I´m going to feel grateful that I wasn´t sent to one of the African countries where being gay brings the death penatly.  I´m not sure how to effectively work toward equality in the Peruvian campo.  I´ll keep going to Oscar for haircuts, hanging out with him, and try not to choke anybody.

A La Lauu!*

*"Holy shit, it´s cold" in Quechua.

The rainy (and cold) season is coming to Junin.  Thankfully, we´re still at the beginning.  It´s more of a flirtation.  The rain and cold comes for a few days, goes for a few.  There won´t be a serious commitment for another month.  That´ll drag on for 6 until the rain and Junin figure that they weren´t right for each other and break up just to do it all again this time next year. 

Cutting Room Floor

Here are some photos that I like, but don't really fit in a coherent post.  Most are from my time in and around Lima with Peru 20.

Here I am in Lima with some inspired graffiti.  I'm in my bus clothes, but happily have a cappuccino in hand.

A boat nap.

A pretty pelican and more fishing boats.

Inka Cola to go.

Cormorants!

Kids asking the 20ers for their autographs after teaching a class at their school.

I got a bad sunburn on my arms during a hike the week before and my skin was peeling.  She got shy when the camera came out, but this little girls was helping me peel the skin off.  Here I'm encouraging her by getting a nice big piece ready.

Here's the Pacific!

We went to a really sophisticated museum.

With excellent taxidermy.

Back in Junin, here are the future terrors of Carhuamayo. 

The puppies get food all over their heads when they eat.  Elka pins them between her legs so she can lick them.

The end!

PC Cinema

Despite being hard a work doing community development, we have a lot of free time in the Peace Corps.  We are far away from friends, get tired of speaking Spanish, and there is a lack of nighttime activities, so we watch a lot of movies and TV shows stored on vast harddrives.  But not all programs are suitable for Peace Corps volunteers, there are rules to be followed to maintain the highest possible levels of happiness and entertainment value.

1. No scary movies:  I was scared to go to the latrine at night and dismayed at my house's chances in the zombie apocalypse.

2. No touching romances: Peace Corps is lonely.

3. Comedy is good.  Extra points if it's quotable: Parks and Rec, Portlandia, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia are some of the most popular among volunteers.  Put a bird on it!

4. The more explosions the better: Day-to-day campo life is pretty boring.

5.  The more seasons/episodes the better: We've got two years here.  

6.  Disney is great, Pixar is better.

7. Spanish is ok, English is better.

8. If the 2 sol pirated movie you bought at the market has people standing up and walking in front of the screen, it goes back.  

Siembra de Papa y Tanta Wawa

It’s been a cultural sort of week up here.  This Sunday, we all woke up early to plant potatoes.  We shouldered our tools and sacks of seed papas and hiked up the hill to the chakra.  My mamita sorted out the good potatoes while my brothers Carlos and Eber and my host dad and I planted.  

Carlos and I were a team and we rotated between using the takia to make a hole and popping the potato in.  The soil was incredibly hard and the takia turn was grueling.  I had to kick it with all my strength to get the blade to enter the soil.  

Sometimes, I’d kick too hard and lose control, and the long handle would slip off my shoulder and whack me in the neck or head.  It's good that Elka was there for moral support.

Carlos did 2 rows with the takia for every one I did, but I was still wiped by the end.  Putting the potatoes in the hole was a way easier job, but it still required lugging a heavy bag of papas up and down the hill.  We worked from 8:30 to 2, with rain, wind, and thunder rolling in at the end.  It felt good to work outside, but I’m glad I’m not a professional papa farmer.

To regain strength, everyone in town is making tanta wawas for All Saint’s Day.  Tanta means bread in Quechua and wawa is son.  Folks make breads in shapes of people, llamas, and doves.  They’re about challa sweetness and have sprinkles on top.  My family rents a panaderia oven and makes hundreds.  I remember eating stale ones last year in December when I arrived.  For Dia de los Muertos, they make up a table with lots of the breads and other foods that ancestors enjoyed as offerings.  Ours had masamorras (jellied anything: corn, potato, you name it) and meat as well.  The offerings are left out and then eaten by the family the next day.

My folks brought their haul back from the bakery and it fills up an entire delicious-smelling room.

These are some of the wawas.

Here is David and Stefie with some pan de maiz.  It's cornbread, but not America style.

We'll be eating these for the forseeable future.  They're really good and hopefully we'll finish before they turn into rocks.

Digestive Double Feature

Letting It Out

It was regional meeting weekend in Huancayo, but I was feeling miserable.  I only dragged myself there to buy giardia medicine that isn’t available in my site.  I did the most basic errands, nibbled on food at family dinner, but mostly rested in the 10 person hostel room we were sharing. 

One afternoon, I was lying in bed, cruising Facebook, and composing my own twelve-part fart harmonies.  All my protozoan guests were jogging around my intestines and creating a hindenbergian quantity of gas.  If I didn’t have a release valve, I would’ve burst or been found bobbing against the ceiling. 

Then, to my chagrin, girl Alex from Yauyos walked in.  She was disheveled and had runny mascara, so clearly something was up.  She immediately started on her tale of woe, which, like most Peace Corps meltdowns, was an accumulation of crappy things that ended up as a steaming mountain of misery. 

I tried to listen empathetically, but most of my attention went toward holding in my farts.  I’d let a tiny one squeak out and say, “Uh huh” or “Oh, really?” too loudly to try to cover it.  Alex only became more upset and my stomach began to make grumpy dinosaur sounds in protest.  After realizing she had been going on for a while, Alex said, “I’m sorry I’m dumping all this on you.  It’s just been so much piling up that now I can’t help but let it out.”

“Alex,” I replied, “I have to tell you, this giardia is still really bad and I can’t stop farting.  I’ve been holding it in, but I can’t keep it up much longer.  I’m happy to listen, but I’m going to need to be farting while you’re talking.”

                And that’s how we both let it out.  Alex told me her woes and I tooted my sympathies until we both took exhaustion naps. 

A Close One

I quickened my pace and kept my head down.  I pulled my sun hat down low over my brow and didn’t greet anyone.  I murmured dozens of frantic pleas to god or the pachamama or whatever deity holds sway over this freezing stretch of pampa.  My stomach roiled and it felt like my intestines were in my shoes.  My breath came quick and I shifted to short, rapid strides.  Just let me make it.  I turned the corner and saw the “Servicio Higienico” sign.  My fingers fumbled for my coin purse to get my 50 centimos ready.  Please please let me make it.  It’s so far to walk home.  I handed my coin to the lady and sprinted in to the stall.  Please please.  I made it, but just barely.  And now I owe all sorts of good deeds and favors to Jesus, Krishna, Joseph Smith, and the Big Potato in the sky. 

Grizzled Veteran

Last week, I went down to Lima to help with Peru 20’s training.  So you know, every group is given a number and there are two groups a year.  I was Peru 18, 19 was a group of small business and youth development volunteers, and now Peru 16 (environment and water and sanitation) is leaving and being replaced with 20.  Make sense?

I’ve been here a whole year and am facing tearful goodbyes to my 16er friends and looking forward to making new friends with the 20ers.  We’ll be getting 3 new folks in the Junin region. 

I can’t believe that I’m suddenly the veteran who is all experienced and knowing things.  But I remember exactly how training felt and I’ve come a long way since then.  It was funny to field questions from the trainees and see how their anxieties were the exact same as mine at that time.  Where will I live?  Can I cook for myself?  Will I poop my pants? 

I was pretty overwhelmed, lonely, and sad during training, and also absorbing so much every day.  You’re in a tiny, turbulent bubble in the training life.  I’m so much happier now that I’m out in the world as a volunteer.  I don’t think many folks got to know me well until we had separated after training and I was able to stretch my legs, leave home behind, and be myself

. 

The new group seems really nice, and I’m excited to get to know them better when they’re real volunteers, too.  It felt good to be able to ease their minds about things and show them how to teach children.  

I was with them while they were preparing to teach their first classes in an elementary school.  They were so worried due to a mix of lack of experience and Spanish skills and some stayed up past midnight working on their presentations.  I can’t wait to see them when they’re like me, waking up in the morning and thinking, “what’ll I teach today?”  It’s always great to get some new blood and ideas into the group.  They’ll also have beginner’s enthusiasm which will help those of us who have been here a year and are  a bit disillusioned with how things work in Peru.  

Golden Showers

 This will be the last time I apologize for not posting, because that’s just how all my posts will start from now on if I keep it up.  I had concerns with starting a blog: how public it is, is it narcissistic?, and will I keep up with it.  It was much easier to find material when everything was new and different.  Now, Peru is just my life, strange and bewildering as it is.  I’ve also been traveling like crazy for the past month or so and will hopefully have more time to write coming up.

Anyway, I had to tell you a new hygiene thing I learned about my family.  Turns out, they sometimes wash their faces and hair with pee.  They say the Incas did it and it treats acne and all sorts of skin conditions.  I suppose pee would act as an astringent, but I think I’ll be sticking to my bar of soap.  

Photo Op.

Sorry no post for a long while!  I've been traveling all around.  Check out Facebook for some photos from my tech. exchange in Amazonas and the 3 day bike ride around Lago Chinchaycocha.  I'll write up some stories soon.  

I'm currently in Lima preparing to go to Peru 20 training tomorrow to talk about environmental education in elementary school.  I can't believe I was where these guys are just a year ago.  The things I didn't know, the things I thought and worried about, how I thought my life would be.  It's all so radically different.  Hopefully I'll have time to write some coherent thoughts on it sometime.  Until then, I'm just excited to meet the new blood!

Chau!  

Wakala*

Stasia: What’s this?

Carlos: There’s a sheep fetus inside.

Stasia: What are we going to do with it?

Carlos: We’re going to eat it.  Papi says it’s good.

Stasia: …oh.

I feel like I’ve been pretty open minded and good about eating what I’m served so far, but my foot is emphatically being put down on this one.   If you look closely, you can see the outline of its little face up top. 

*A Quechua expression meaning “gross” or “yuck.” 

Elka The Dog: Butterfly Hunter

Who doesn´t like photos of a dog on a hike?

Famous Last Words

We said a lot of them that day:  "It can´t be that bad."  "I´m sure it´s just a little further."  "That dog was probably dead before, right?"

Our best laid plan that went awry was our trip to Yauyos for the Amazing Race, an ecological/historical/cultural race organized by the Yauyos volunteers.  We Juniners were bringing teams of kids down to compete.  All together, we were 5 volunteers and 18 jovenes making the journey. 

We ran into problems from the beginnig.

We needed to get the kids to Huancayo, a 3-4 hour bus trip away to meet the vans that would take us on to Yauyos.  The night before we were to leave, we heard rumors of a parro outside of Huancayo.  There was protesting and cars weren´t able to get through.  We spend an anxious night and were all up by 5 the next day, lingering outside of our bus company offices to try to get word one way or another.  We eventually united in Junin and got word that cars were getting through the parro and one bus would be leaving shortly.  Normally there are busses ever 45 min, so this one bus was in high demand.  We shoved the kids on at 10:45 am.  There were seats for a few, but most of us ended up standing, sardined into sweaty dankness.  We couldn´t lift our elbows to take our jackets off.

We surfed down the river valley road in the direction of Huancayo for an hour or so, pouring sweat and shallowly breathing air that smelled like wet wool and chuño, praying that someone, anyone would crack a window.  Then the bus stopped and the cobrador told us all to get off.

It turns out we had hit the parro (stop) and would have to walk to Jauja, the next city.  All the Peruvians on the buss grabbed their belongings and immediately started walking and us volunteer had a talk to weigh out the options.  One volunteer had been up all the previous night vomiting and another had a bum knee.  For better or worse, we decided to walk until we could find a car.  A lady selling sodas told us it would be an hour, and we were sure she was exaggerating.

So we loaded up.  We tied bags to rolly luggage and each volunteer was carrying a large backpack and various items in their arms.  I lucked out by having the relatively light bag of sleeping bags for most of the time.  5 volunteers, 18 kids, all of our luggage, as well as tents, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, and assorted other camping gear headed off down the road.

It took 5 hours.  At least it was a nice day.

As we were walking, we asked for time estimates from people that were coming from the other direction and got answers between 2 and 6 hours.  Some people had been walking since 8 in the morning. 

The road was littered with rocks.  Some small, some boulder-sized, some stacked up to form walls.  

Trees had been cut and laid across the road.  There were broken bottles and smoldering tires.  Some creative person had even strewn cactuses around.  It was slow going around these obstacles with all our junk and the pavement was hard on our kneese and feet.

After two hours or so of trudging, we came upon a tiny town.  Naturally, the kids hadn´t brought water or snacks, so we stopped to try to find them some food.  The only tienda had already been picked pretty clean by other travelers, so we all had a clementine, a packet of cookies, and a soda and kept going.  The kids were champions.

An hour down the road we ran into some active protesting.  People were throwing bottles in the street and rolling boulders down the hill to block the road.  They didn´t target us, but they didn´t stop doing these things when we were passing through.  This was the one time I got angry because some of the kids could easily have been hurt.  Thankfully, nobody got crushed by a boulder or glass in their foot and we made it by.

A few of the protesters were walking in our direction, saw how pitiful we were, and graciously offered to help us with our bags.  We oblidged and asked them what on earth was going on.  Here´s the story:  The regional government wants to build a new airport in Jauja.  Jauja already has an airport.  The people want to use some of the money to renovate the airport, and the rest for other things.  To demonstrate this point, they organized a two day parro in Jauja and the surrounding roads.  This just happened to be when we had to travel.  It was more about government corruption than the airport and things were coming to a head over this issue.  

We parted ways near a bridge and re-shouldered our extra bags.  We were almost in Jauja, our destination.  There were hundreds of people gathered ahead, protesting.  As we were resting, we saw the bottle-throwing boulder-rolling protesters marching around the corner behind us to join the larger group.  We huddled the kids together and made our way through the crowd.  

It was frightening.  There was yelling and drinking and a smouldering dog carcass.  We made it through unscathed and saw the buildings of Jauja.  We thought, "Great!  We can get the kids a rest and some food then get out of here!"  False. 

We ended up walking another hour through the city of Jauja, trying to reach the plaza where all the businesses were.  We found the central district a ghost town.  It turns out that the city was participating in the parro as well and nothing was open.  Not a tienda, not a polleria.  Nada.  We plopped the kids down in the plaza and Grant and I ran around knocking on doors.  People turned us away, saying everything was closed and they couldn´t serve us.  Our car fron Huancayo couldn´t get through to get us out of there.  Dread filled us as we considered trying to find someplace to spend a foodless night in a hostile protesting city.

Thankfully, we were saved by a lovely señora who approached us and took us to her hostel.  Everybody got a bed and some rice with an egg for dinner.  I have never attacked a pile of white rice with such gusto. 

Everything else turned out fine.  We made it to the Race and the kids had a good time.  They were troopers through the whole death march, with only light complaining and pouting.  Peruvian kids are made of tough stuff and we were really proud of them.

The rest of the Race stories pale in comparison to that one day, but we had some fun ultimate frisbee time at the end, so I´ll leave you with that.