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.

Bad Romance

Sex, love, and dating are different, strange, hairy animals in the Peace Corps.  I’ve seen many a chick flick or read a trashy advice columnist that touted the benefits of keeping mystery in a relationship.  Don’t let the man see you put on makeup or hear you fart.  Familiarity breeds contempt.

Any attempt at sexy mystery is doomed to failure in the Peace Corps.  It’s unavoidable that we share poop stories, or that another volunteer will be with you during a poop story in the making.  It is certain that you will have a public breakdown at one point or another.  We don’t get proper hot showers for weeks.  Female volunteers wander around with armpit hair that would make a viking blush. 

This shameless sharing brings closeness of another sort.  I’ve shared situations with my friends here that I’ve never experienced with others.  Levels of physical suffering, sadness, and filth that are rarely reached in the U.S., and certainly not in company. 

And it’s generally a lonely life, so we volunteers look to each other for comfort and levels of understanding deeper than many other relationships.  There’s a current of understanding and love running between volunteers in my group.  Hook-ups and relationships happen despite a lack of mystery and long distance bus travel. 

I haven’t had a whole lot of luck in the PC romance department, just one brief fling with a friend.  At one point, my paramour rolled over and said, “What would happen if I started trumpeting [farting loud and uncontrollably] right now?”  We cracked up.  I’d like to say that none of the other fellows in my past would’ve said that to me (though it’s probably not true). But there’s a level of comfort and a lack of pretension here that’s refreshing.  It’s impossible to keep up facades, so we do away with them all together. 

Maybe I’ll be ready for mystery when I get back to the states, but until then, let’s keep it smelly and straightforward.  Attractive, no?

Going To Waist

During the Amazing Race in Yauyos, I had a station in a health post.  I was by myself for a while waiting for kids to arrive and noticed a scale in the corner.  I stepped on, did some quick cell phone calculator math to convert from kilos and found out that I’m 150 pounds.  I was relieved.

My weight has been an issue for me during my service.  I’ve gained 12 pounds since I’ve been in Peru.  I had lost weight while I was WWOOFing and there have been long stretches when I’ve hovered around 145 pounds, so I’m not remarkably heavier than I have been before. 

It’s a much bigger issue in my mind than it is on my thighs.  I had suspected since all my clothes still fit, but actually weighing myself confirmed it.  I was afraid I’d see a number more like 165.  I feel uncomfortable and unhappy with my body right now.  Trying to look objectively, nobody would say I’m fat.  Chubby even.  But I’m hyper-aware of the new cushy layer that wraps around my abdomen and under my chin. 

I’ve had to let go of a lot of hang-ups and neuroses in Peru, but this is one that is sticking with me and rankling hard in my brain.  I couldn’t tell you why I’m so upset about a little weight gain.  Why I’m so down on myself about it.  It sucks, though.  I’m hoping that sharing will be helpful.

It’s difficult to stay slim in Peace Corps Peru.  The diet is so carbohydrate heavy.  I compromised by only eating lunch with my family, but that always involves a noodle soup and then a main dish with potatoes and rice and often lots of oil.  For example, today’s lunch started with rice soup with occasional shards of squash and carrots.  Then the main plate was greasy spaghetti with some chicken.  The men in my family are rail-thin and the women are normal to chubby.  There’s something profoundly metabolically unfair going on. 

Whenever I go to someone’s house, I’m offered bread or super sweet tea.  When out working on a community project and being fed by Peruvians, I end up having primarily white rice meals.  I could be a real bastard about it and make all my own meals and refuse offered food, but that’s not what I’m here for.  Being skinny doesn’t seem worth being rude to nice people. 

It doesn’t help that I don’t feel pretty most of the time.  Being attractive is generally uncomfortable in Carhuamayo because of all the creepy male attention that comes my way, so I dress dumpily to avoid it.  Junin’s eco-zone is polar tundra, so cute dresses don’t emerge and I’m often marshmallowed in layers.  We have no running water at my house which makes for greasy hair and a perpetual side-braid.  I generally look like a homeless person that’s been through some extreme weather event. 

I’m also hindered by an ankle injury I had in April that has kept me from running all this time.  I’ve been doing kickboxing and P90x videos, but it’s not the same.  I miss running desperately, but I want to wait for my ankle to be all better rather than risk setting myself back more months.  

I really need to find a way to make peace with my situation.  There are things that are out of my control and I don’t have as much sway over my diet and exercise as I do in the states.  It’s comforting to know that I can pretty easily lose the weight I’ve gained when I get the chance.  But it still drives me slightly crazy in the meantime.  I’m going to eat better when I’m able to do so, and hopefully that will help me bajar a bit.  I’m going to put on pants that fit and do my hair when I’m out and about away from site.  I got lots of surprised compliments when I did so at my last regional meeting.   But it’s more important for me to learn to cut myself some slack about this.  I’m not sure yet how I’ll do it, but being kinder to myself can only help all around.  

Possible Eureka

Peace Corps has been an exercise in learning to be more moderate with myself.  My energy has been super low compared to how it is in the states.  Each day, I can do a few productive activites, probably work-out, but will also need a nap and will be in pj’s by 7pm.  There are many times when I find myself wishing I could do more.  I thought it was the stress of my lifestyle, which I’m sure contributes, but now I’m thinking I just have parasites all the time.

My brother Carlos was making lunch and asked me how many drops of bleach he should use to clean the lettuce.  Afterward, I saw him making his way to the rain barrel to wash the lettuce again.  It turns out that my family has been re-rinsing the vegetables after washing them in bleach to get the bleach off.  This negates any microbe-killing effect of washing with bleach.  I thought I’d been eating nice clean vegetables this whole time.  I’ve taken several rounds of giardia meds, but it seems likely that I’m immediately getting re-infected.  Hopefully another talk with the family will help me be healthier in general.  It’s a hope!