My Bellybutton Is So Interesting!

I’m sorry that this blog has been a lot of navel gazing recently and light on adventure.  I’m technically not allowed to go adventuring yet and I’m still going through a lot of changes.  Not to mention that there’s time to think.  I hope this hasn’t been too boring for you to read.

But! changes are brewing.  The rainy season is only another month and school and work are starting back up for the year soon.  With any luck, I’ll have more projects and be able to be outside more.  I’m also going on a major trip in a month which should result in lots of awesome adventures and pictures. 

I’ll always be reflecting, but hopefully it’ll be cut with more fun and action in the future.  Thanks for sticking with me! 

Here are some photos of animals decorated for Carnival and traditional dances.  They have parades and parties on the coast and in the cities.  In the campo, we paint some sheep and make sacrifices of cigarettes, liquor, and veggies to the Pachamama (Inca earth goddess) for a good year.  It’s interesting how the celebration reflects what’s important to the place.  

Visiting

Look who showed up at our house the other day!

It turns out that this image of Jesus travels around to different houses from now until Easter, when they parade around town with him.  My family was really excited to have him.  At night, we lit candles, had neighbors over, said a rosary of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, read Bible verses, and sang hymns.

All of this was almost as foreign to me as any traditional dance or ceremony I’ve seen in Peru.  Pass an egg over someone’s body to diagnose illness?  Ok.  Repeat a prayer in front of a plastic statue in a beanie?  Sure.  I’m supposed to come from a Christian tradition, but that night didn’t have any deeper meaning for me.  My family was intense about it and even asked if the image could swing by again before Easter.  I didn’t find a connection.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out on something important.  Religion was largely nonexistent in my childhood.  I’ve done some casual investigations into different faiths as I’ve grown up, but nothing has hooked me.  I was really into my religion classes at Villanova and wish I could have taken more, but nothing called me to believe. 

I don’t reject the idea of God, I just don’t know what it means.  I understand the appeal of prayer and chanting.  I get into that repetitive zone sometimes while running or backpacking.  The most I’ve felt God has been when I’ve been in awe of nature or unexpected kindness.  I remember thinking that there must me a God when I was studying biology and was floored by the complexity of life. 

When my family was praying, I felt disconnected and pretty bored after a while.  There are a lot of beads on a rosary and the hymns seemed tuneless.  Part of me wishes that wasn’t the case, though it seems likely that it just wasn’t my style.  I wish I had a clearer idea of the path to a religion or spirituality that would work for me.  I suppose I’ll just have to be open and I’ll find it if it’s for me.  

The Night Man Cometh

I’m rarely out and about after dark.  There isn’t much to do in Carhuamayo at night.  While it’s a safe town, that’s likely when something bad would happen to a gringa walking around alone.  There are some drug abuse problems here and alcoholism.  Though, I’ve seen just as many drunks on Sunday morning and noon on Wednesday.  My house is out of town a bit, without streetlights (no streets), and Peruvians don’t illuminate their properties like Americans, so it’s a special quality of dark.  I can be seventy feet from my house, but feel like I might as well be camping. 

The other day, I was leaving the city of Junin after dallying too long picking up birthday packages and chatting with gringos in a patch of grass.  I went to find a collectivo and was the only one in the car for over an hour.  Collectivo catching is tricky business.  Sometimes you’re the only one for quite some time, and it can be tempting to get out of the car and wander down the road hoping for a bus to go by.  Peruvians only seem to come in swarms.  There have been several times that I’ve jumped out of a collectivo to flag down a bus that didn’t stop, only to turn around to find the car I was alone in suddenly full of Peruvians and pulling away. 

Anyway, I was reading a book in the car, a little anxious about the falling dusk, for quite some time.  Then a pack of Peruvians appeared with bags of potatoes and oatmeal shoots and piled in.  There was no seatbelt, but I think the sheer pressure of our clown car organization molding me against the door would have kept me in place.  We finally took off into the twilight.

Places look different at night.  The spaces between towns are pretty empty, but they seemed even more so.  The darkness blurred out the potato fields in the hills and the small earth-colored houses, even after I wiped the condensation of a dozen breathing bodies in a station wagon off the window with my mitten.  It was beautiful and let me imagine a wild open landscape.  I suppose it still is in some ways, even though the hand of people has been on it for thousands of years. 

It was fully dark by the time we got home to Carhuamayo with a 20 minute walk out of town facing me before reaching my house.  I wasn’t worried, but I was conscious that I had my camera and cell phone and was obviously carrying packages.  I got home without incident.  It turns out not many other folks are out after dark, either. 

On a clear night, the stars in Carhuamayo are incredible.  It’s so cold on cloudless nights and the stars are like thousands of ice crystals coming out of an abyss.  Somehow the cold makes them sharper.  My house is out in a field and up a hill from the highway where I was walking.  It’s a tricky hill because it used to be raised beds of potato fields, so there are waves in it like the ocean far from the shore.  They are awkwardly spaced and I stumble up and down even in daylight.  It’s well into the rainy season, so the paths my family has walked into the waves are canals of muddy water.  Because of all the obstacles between me and arriving to my house without a muddy ass, I walked with my headlamp.  Halfway up the hill, I took a break to turn off the lamp and look around.  There were open patches in the clouds where the stars and moon peeked through and it was incredible to let the darkness fall around me like a curtain.  I didn’t stay long, but it was lovely to experience my town in a new lack of light.  I was happy to get to the top of the hill to dry clothes and barley soup.  

Staring Contest

Being stared at is a reality of Peace Corps life.  I can´t imagine there´s a volunteer in the world who escapes it.  Maybe some of the folks in eastern Europe until they open their mouths.  I´m really happy that I´m not strikingly beautiful or famous or deformed and don´t have to deal with this in the States.  Though sometimes here I feel like an awkward combination of the three.  There are several flavors of stare that I encounter in Carhuamayo. 

1. The Abuelita Stare
-This one is only bothersome if I´m in a bad mood, because how irritated can you be at an old lady in her pile of sweaters spinning yarn?  It´s usually accompanied by an, "adonde va?" or, "has acostumbrado?"  If they´re feisty, the stare may be accompanied by a kiss or yank on the cheek.

2. The "You´re My First White Person" Stare
-My very favorite.  It´s usually just little kids.  Their eyes go dragonfly-wide and you´d think they saw a neon fire-breathing unicorn rather than a gringa.  They´re incapable of looking away and if they´re walking in front of me, sometimes they´ll be staring so hard they trip over things and fall down.  I like to pull out funny faces for these kids because it just heightens their look of disbelief.  Peace Corps, blowing minds.  

3. The Gringa Jogging Through Potato Fields in Tights Stare
-Equal parts amusement and confusion.   

4. The Need A Shower Stare
-This is the worst by far and comes exclusively from men.  It´s palpable, yucky, sadly ubiquitous, and makes me walk faster.  It´s not hard to imagine what´s running through their minds since my foreignness makes me attractive and Americans have a reputation of being easy (the other day, I learned the phrase Estados Ho-nidos).  I have never been so thoroughly objectified so regularly and I range between ignoring and loathing it.
4.a.  This stare is especially confusing because I almost go out of my way to be homely here.  I wear my PC vest every day which gives no hints to my figure along with baggy hiking pants and usually several bundles over top with either a knit cap or sun hat.  I wash my hair twice a week and wear no makeup.  Earrings are the extent of my extra effort.  Until the other day, I had an armpit hair situation that would make even a campo man think twice.  Why on earth would anybody still think about hitting that?

Speaking of which, my relationship with men is complicated here.  I´ve met lots of wonderful fellows.  My brothers are incredible, I work with nice men at the muni, and the male nurses at the posta are my favorites.  But at the same time there´s the stare and the catcalls and the general ickyness.  I have to approach new male relationships with caution because I don´t know if they´re talking to me because I´m gringa or because they´re intersted in me as a person.  I´ve had a few fleeting suitors that I´ve had to verbally smack down a bit because it was painfully obvious they were only talking to me because I´m white. 

Peruvian campo dating is something that I haven´t been interested in even poking with a stick yet.  Here´s why in another list form.

1. Machismo
- Cheating is the norm.  They come on way too strong, proclaiming love and praising your incredible beauty.  Herpes is rampant and Peruvians usually don´t show symptoms.  Getting tested for STIs is unmanly.  Being seen as a gringa and not a person.

2.  Lack of Campo Goggles
- Looks are pretty negligible to me once I start to really like someone, but the Peruvian campo look is not doing it for me.  I´m looking for 2/3 a set of teeth or higher.  No more than 5 inches shorter than me.  As much as I love beards, few things put me off more than bad facial hair.  Here, every man is sporting the pre-adolescent wisps or five or six carefully cultivated wiry black hairs.  Take me back to Mantana. 

3. Potential Drama
- Chisme (gossip) is a virulent national pasttime.  No thanks. 

I´m making more friends with respectful professional men that act like humans toward me, and it gives me hope for my comfort level moving forward.  Tomorrow I´m going to go tell jokes with the gay male nurses.  What a relief they are. 

That’ll Do

The Peace Corps has been a great exercise in learning to give myself a break.  I’ve always had high expectations for myself and I’ve found that time and again, for one reason or another, I can’t live up to them here. 

I often compare myself to the Stasia that worked on the farm in Montana over the summer.  I’d wake up at 5am, go for a 45 minute run, then work in the fields all day.  And I felt awesome.  I was really peaceful and content and tuckered out in the evening, but ready to do it again by the time I woke up at dawn the next day.

I don’t have that kind of energy in me right now.  Last week augmented the situation because I didn’t eat a good meal or sleep a full night the whole time and was emotionally wrung-out.  I’m still recovering from that.  But I find I have the energy to do one productive activity well.  Yesterday, I slept until 7:30, taught healthy cooking class, then came home at lunch and took a nap.  I put my fuzzy fleece pants on at 5pm.  I haven’t had the energy to exercise much at all recently.  I went to make myself a salad for dinner last night, but my stomach looked at the spinach and declared that it wasn’t up to that digestive work, so I had a piece of bread with avocado instead.  I don’t feel depressed, just a lack of energy.

Even though I’m not doing very much, it’s the best I can do at the moment.  Summer Stasia would be very disappointed, but I’m trying to be gentler to myself and am in a completely different situation.  At the farm, I was in lovely sunshine, had a ton of good friends not far away, and was being fed the most nutritious diet I’ve ever had.  I don’t have any of that going on here.  It’s the rainy season and often unpleasant to go outside.  Before I came here, I thought the loneliness was exaggerated.  I figured that people are people and I could make friends with Peruvians just as easily as Americans.  For some reason, that’s just not the case.  And I’ve said enough about my diet for you to know that it can’t compare to local organic vegetables and elk steak. 

I think it’ll get better with time.  It just takes longer here than it would elsewhere.  Once I get caught up on sleep and vitamins, I’ll want to run again.  The weather and my relationships will only get better from here.  I feel that I still have the lightness and energy inside me.  I don’t think Peruvian Stasia will be as vibrant as farm Stasia, but that’s ok.  Learning to be easier on myself feels like an important step in growing up.  Soon enough I’ll be ready to push hard on new projects and talk to everyone and climb mountains.  Until then, I’ll try not to begrudge myself some good naps.    

I watched these videos today and they made me really happy.  In May, there was an elaborate surprise baby shower for my cousin and my Unlce Jim flew me to Philly from Montana to surprise my family.  I`m pretty sure I have the coolest family ever and feel so lucky to be a part of it.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgsglapVtDg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iT3A6n_6cBY&feature=related

Anna Was a Fully-Grown Independent Woman With a Car and a House on the Hill

My Spanish is improving, so it’s not as exhausting to speak it all the time.  It’s actually the toughest when I’m with gringos and Peruvians and have to go back and forth.  I’m even forgetting some English words.  I was talking to my mom the other day about how she went hiking in Pennypack during a warm February day.  I wanted to say that she was taking advantage of the nice day, but all I could think of was “aprovechar.” 

The barrier can be frustrating because my self-expression suffers a lack of eloquence, but there’s a freedom to being the best English speaker within miles.  I can get away with a good deal.

Unfortunately, my family knows the word, “shit” and all attention turns to me whenever I say it on the phone or yell at the chickens. 

I was in my office the other day and was feeling pooped.  The clear remedy was filthy hip-hop.  It was so fun to play and sing along to “Coochie” and “Make Her Say” in my office within earshot of any official that walked by and be totally safe.  It’s nice to find small pleasures in things that are otherwise daunting challenges. 

Huckleberry Died

He died in the night on Friday.  I had one of my paranoid wake-ups around 1 am and reached over to feel his belly for breathing.  I couldn´t feel anything, so I jiggled him a little.  He didn´t lift his head or squeak so I unwrapped him from the sweatshirt I had him in and put my ear to his chest.  There wasn´t any sound or movement.  I wrapped him up in a sweater and called my mom.

My family helped me bury him in the garden the next morning.  They´ve been very nice to me, though they find me strange for being so sad and for all the effort I put into Huckleberry this week.  That´s just not how things are done here. 

This was the first time they´d seen me cry.  I haven´t been too leaky since I´ve been at site.  I cried once when I was too sick to move, another time while watching WALL-E (at the end when the robots hold hands and WALL-E comes back), and a few other times, but never in front of my family.  I started to cry this morning while brushing my teeth, and I´ve found that they are mutually exclusive activites.  My family gave me lots of hugs and pats and sympathetic looks.  It was nice of them to support me even though they might not get it. 

It´s so strange that I only had Huckleberry for a week.  I was already used to fixing two breakfasts and sharing the pillow.  I keep expecting to see him wagging in the yard or curled up on my sleeping bag.  It´s odd to be alone in my room again. 

As sad as I am that he died, there´s relief in it as well.  I was grinding myself into the ground trying to take care of him.  I´m a bit thinner, much more tired, and have more forehead wrinkles than previously.  I´m glad he´s not suffering anymore.

I started to think that he would go on Friday.  It was a hard thought to accept.  But he could barely walk anymore, he was getting progressively colder and weaker, and he´d do a strange head-shake.  Before I went to sleep that night, I watched Huckleberry´s jerky breathing for a while by my headlamp light and waited for it to stop. 

My family is on a campaign to get me a new puppy so I won´t be sad anymore.  It´s taken a lot of doing to convince them that I´m not ready and it won´t make me feel all better.  I´ll try again eventually, but it´s time for a break.

It´s funny that I wanted a dog so badly, then my family found Huckleberry, then he went so quickly.  I´m going to suss out the deeper meaning of that for myself when I´m not so exhausted. 

I was really excited for Huckleberry to be my dog.  He was a good boy.  It´s a shame he couldn´t have stayed longer.