Birthday Cake Galore!!

         My birthday rang in the bell of my one-year mark in Peru. This didn’t hit me until I was looking at my clothes and wondering why they were worn out, and it occurred to me that I have been rotating through three pairs of leggings and two pairs of jeans for a whole year.  Somehow the realization that my clothing was a full year old and might not last another year was the thing that really hit me hard. Anyways last year my birthday landed on the first day we moved into our host families in Lima. In the midst of a big transition my birthday seemed insignificant and flew by with very few bells and whistles.  One year later and I am actually settled in one place, with no plans to move for another year. Strangely this is the longest since high school that I have lived in the same place for a year or more. While living in another country with another language may not lead to the most settling experiences I am not packing up my bags to face another transition, transform strangers into friends, and learn a new skill set at a new job. No I am faced with another year of language struggles, getting projects off the ground, and eating more rice, and well da garnet I’m looking forward to it!

            Back to what’s really important; my birthday occurring in a place that I have settled into. Having a September birthday it usually falls right in the midst of transitions: new classmates, new class schedule, new jobs etc.  But this year was different; I was able to look forward to the month of September with friends I had already created, and think about plans for a birthday party seeing as I already knew where I was going to be and with whom.  I’m not a very aggressive birthday planner but it was a fun conversation topic that usually ended with an agreed plan to get Corazon Serano (a famous Peruvian band) to come to our town as well as many many guinnea pigs to eat and of course a large pot of arroz con leche.  People would excitedly ask when my birthday lands, and if I was going to be here to celebrate and I could affirmatively say yes, with the confidence of knowing what I would be doing for at least the next year.

            Well the actual day arrived and I soon realized all the plans I had made were more just for sake of conversation, and none were going to be a reality if I didn’t make them happen. I rose up with the sun and quickly realized that the custom here is to give hugs on birthdays. I received the biggest and first hug ever from my host mom, and then from my host cousin and host dad, to which I started to pick up on the pattern. Over breakfast it was decided that we would kill one of our chickens for the event, and my host mom set out to invite people to dinner. I asked if I could invite the nurses at the health post and with more than the extended family invited to dinner it was becoming an official party.

            Now that we were going to have a party we were definitely going to need a cake. I offered up to make my own cake knowing that this was the best guarantee of getting a good cake, and I was the only one with an oven. My host cousin and I discussed what flavor would be best, and landed on the simplicity of vanilla. We headed off to the store to buy the needed ingredients for both the cake and the dinner.

            After lunch the motivation to make my cake wasn’t coming to me, and my baking procrastination led to me having to go teach a class, instead of make the cake. I told my host mom that I would make the cake when I got back and it would be ready just in time to eat it after dinner.  With that I headed off to the school to announce my birthday as well as teach a class on global warming. Well I didn’t realize announcing my birthday would bring me in contact with every disease in the town as every student lined up to give me a hug. Overwhelmed with attention I laughed through the repetitiveness of giving 80 children hugs. The director of the school then approached me asking about my singing and music abilities; skeptical about what he was getting at, I responded that my skills were all right. He took that to be sufficient enough to crown me as a judge for the singing competition they were going to have that evening. Honored to be considered I made an on spot decision to cancel my environmental club meeting so I could be a judge! I later felt quite guilty about this decision, as it seemed my environmental club should be more important, but most of my students wanted to watch the competition anyways so it worked out.

            As judge I was given my own table, strategically separated from the other judges, an official pen, and an announced entrance. I walked in front of the whole elementary school waving my hand with pride that I was one of the chosen judges. There were five entrees for singers, three of which used the same backup-dancing girls. The girls had to change back and forth from traditional garb, to modern dancing clothes depending on the lead singers request. The singers were judged on their voice, presentation, rhythm and outfits. I’m not going to lie it was a pretty stressful position to be in.  I had to score them purely on what I saw from an unbiased view, when I knew all the students, and the human inclination is to be a bit biased. I argued in my head over one or two points, and felt unsettled after turning in each sheet. A designated student would come around after every act and collect the judging cards, and my heart would skip a beat, panicked that I had judged unfairly. Then I would look to the kid’s mother, who had come home from the farm early to watch her son, and I wished I had given him more points, to make her proud. I clearly did not know what I was getting myself into, I was too eager for the fame of being a judge. Half way through they brought around cocktails and crackers to the judges. These cocktails are their favorite thing to serve at school events, it is a mixture of milk or yogurt, bananas, sugar, and very strong homemade alcohol. They serve them in small plastics cups and it is assumed to help warm you up. Adults are served first but the students down to the babies are all served this warming drink. 

Well with the help of the burn–your-throat cocktail I made it through the judging, and while the person I didn’t give the most points to won, it all seemed fair. However I was not prepared for the accusations that followed. Why hadn’t Franco, or Ronaldo made it into the top three, or why didn’t I give Caleb more points or did I really think Mishel disserved to win?  Oh how I was under the heat, and I realized I needed to get out of the school quick! I shook hands with the director and made for the door, sliding the pen into my pocket as a birthday present.  Despite the questioning of my judging ability I was still jittery off of the confidence as I headed home to share my experience, and see how the cooking for my dinner party was coming along.

            The kitchen was lively as potatoes fried, and meat boiled. The news of my judging had already made it back to my family and I shared pictures of the singing contest, and received more hugs for my birthday. It is amazing how great a hug feels in a community that doesn’t hug as an expression of greeting.  Then my host mom proudly announced that she and her sister had taken it upon themselves to make the cake. To which they continued to add that the first cake they tried did not rise, so they made a second cake!  Well how bad can one really ruin sugar, eggs, and flour, it was sure to resemble some sort of a cake. We set up the larger table in my host parent’s room, which is where we hold all official parties. The nurses came with their families each presenting me with a plastic bag wrapped lotion or body wash. I think they might be hinting at they fact that I don’t shower enough or use lotion that smells good, as maybe I ought to as a proper lady. Dinner started out a bit slow, some talk of potatoes and I observed the conversation from the outside. The main force of energy that always keeps the energy lively, the secretary of town, was tied up in the kitchen and I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by the lack enthusiasm at the table. Soup was served and it was a bit of a relief to have something to focus on other than staring at the wall.   

            However by the time the fried chicken and French fries were served things started to liven up. Conversations turned to birthday costumes in America, and that I should definitely marry someone in Peru to stay forever. After plates were cleared we passed around a bottle of beer in celebration and some Amazona soda to salute my birthday for the years to come. The lopsided cakes were placed on the table with a large candle in the middle, we waited for everyone to gather to sing happy birthday. Turns out the English Happy Birthday song is better known in my site than the Spansh version, but it also turns out that my family and friends know very little of either. After the awkward performance in which most forgot the words, they promised to practice the song for next year. We clapped out the song and I noticed some whispering going on at the other side of the table. I had a feeling they were scheming something but before I accuse or figure it out, WHAMP I had egg running down my hair onto my shirt. The nurse, proud of her sneakiness, jumped with joy as I screamed but caught the yolk before it broke. I took up the yolk in my hand, as my instincts told me I should throw it at the nurse for revenge, but I stopped myself thinking that was probably not the customs here. Before I had time to dispose of it the nurse picked it back out of my hand smashed it into my hair and my host mom added a bag of flour on top.  They were turning me into a third cake it seemed! It was then explained to me that this would ensure that I would have a year of good luck, and that egg was in fact good for my hair.

            After many pictures, good laughs, and recounting the events that had occurred in the egg incident, I headed for the kitchen to clean myself up. Turns out they had already prepared hot water for me in a wash basin and my host uncle offered to pour the water for me. It was the first warm shower I have had in site and boy did it feel good. My host mom scrubbed some hand soap into my hair and slowly the egg and flour came out, and the nurse proclaimed that she really broke the egg onto my head to force me to shower as the other day I proclaimed that I hadn’t showered in 8 days.  I wrapped a blue towel around my hair, and with that went back in to cut the cake and cheers again to another great and lucky year I have to look forward to. It was an incredible feeling to be part of a family, community, and culture on my birthday.  

Hair Cutting Party

                  Last Sunday after all the adults had cleared out of the volleyball and soccer courts to go home and prepare dinner I held back to wait for my roasted banana to finish grilling. Traditionally on Sunday afternoons in my site I go down to watch a little volleyball, get freezing cold sitting there, and hoping that when they are done playing my host mom will offer to buy me a roasted banana fresh off the grill from our Aunt. Every Sunday my host aunt hauls her grill down to the sports court to fill the air with smells of grilling shish kabobs of cow innards, roasted bananas, and beautifully golden brown barbecued chicken wings. On this particular Sunday I as usual had jumped on the offer of a grilled banana, but my host mom left me there waiting for it to finish grilling while he went up to prepare dinner for my host dad who had a meeting that night. Most of the crowd had cleared out of the court except for a few straggling kids and a soccer ball. Well clearly one thing led to another and I found myself on the court running around playing keep away at the same time enjoying my grilled banana on a stick. The game of keep away attracted enough kids to field a full on soccer game and my dreams came true as I was finally playing soccer on a Sunday afternoon, which was quickly turning into night. It was a great game of soccer that filled me with nostalgia for high school organized sports.

                  We didn’t call ’next goal wins’ until 8:00pm to which the girl dominated team that I was leading gracefully drilled a goal into the back of the non-existent net and we ran around screaming goooooaaaalllll, as the boys bowed their heads in an embarrassing defeat. High on my win, a feeling I have never yet once gotten from playing volleyball, I headed back home to where my host mom had already prepared dinner. I drank six cups of lemon water as my host mom explained that we had been invited to a hair cutting party by the neighbors that was going on right then and she wanted to know if I wanted to go. I still don’t completely understand why they have hair-cutting parties for children that are from 1-3 years old, but the tradition is to have a party and cut the child’s hair. My host mom seemed enthused to go but then she admitted that we would have to give money. I was embarrassingly almost out of money as I hadn’t been to town in a long time to withdraw money from the bank and I was left with 7 soles to my name, 5 of which I was planning to use for the car ride into town. We talked it over a while what the appropriate amount to give was at a party like this, and my host mom tip toed around the subject but made it clear that those 3 soles from my end was not going to cut it. At that I committed to riding my bike down to town on Friday and thus I could offer up 7 soles, to which I still received raised eyebrows but she said I could put in my 7 soles and proclaim that I had not gone to the bank and this is all I had. We agreed on this, but I felt a bit nervous about having to make this exclamation, especially coming from the gringa. My host mom also apparently felt a little uneasy about this prospect because just as we were about out of our gate and on our way she offered to lend me 2 soles which I could slip in with my 7 and pretend that it was the acceptable 10 soles which was now clearly the unspoken minimum to give at these events.

                  So off we went my host mom reminding me to zip up my pockets in my jacket so I didn’t lose my offerings as we walked up the steps to the neighbor’s house. We rounded out the party filling up the table with a total of 6 guests. It was very intimate as the hostess served dinner and we talked over the day’s volleyball games, the weather, and the price of potatoes which has plummeted lately. All was very pleasant, except for the fact that I had to stuff a second dinner down, as of course my host mom did not tell me dinner would be included in this event, and she had already served me food at our house. I think it is a pretty normal thing to eat two dinners here, for if you are invited to a party or a meeting during the night they typically also serve food. Fortunately halfway through I was able to proclaim myself full and my host mom slid the rest of my food into a plastic bag to take home for tomorrow morning.  Peruvians are incredibly resourceful with free food that is offered, and for no reason would you ever refuse free food even if you had just eaten a huge meal five minutes before.

                  Dinner finished up and the yawns started to be passed around the table so the hostess went to go fetch her 1 year old daughter from downstairs. Getting the ball rolling on actually starting the hair cutting process fell into the same pattern of what I have observed as the starting of every volleyball game. Someone shouts out they want to play, and they shout around to see who is interested. After there is enough admitted interest this same person collects the money that is the ante up to play the game. It is a slow ritual of eye and chin communication with subtle hand gestures towards someone to imply that they should but their 50 cents into the hand of the organizer. 20 minutes later the money is collected ensuring the commitment of 12 players which leads to some more sitting around looking at the grass. Finally someone gets antsy enough and walks to the court, this draws about two other followers who then stand on the court sporadically calling out for people to get a move on it and come play. In America I believe this delay of action would not be tolerated and occasionally I find myself getting anxious over the fact that nobody is getting up and running to the court to get the game started. Then I realize that this anxiety is perhaps culturally driven, so I quickly fight it down. Finally the slow pokes listen to the calls from the court, make their way down, the teams are debated, and finally after all this the game begins.

And so it went down with getting the hair cut started. There were several calls to start cutting from the guest that proclaimed ready to go home. Then someone else called out for scissors, and there was no apparent response to the request. So we sat there a while longer continuing yawning and talking about how tired we were. Finally someone grabbed a bowl from the center of the table and proclaimed it the bowl for the money. Another call for scissors went out, and we all looked around hoping the scissors would appear out of thin air. The baby started getting fussy so the mother began to breast feed her, while the older daughter reached above all our heads and pulled down the scissors. The next debate was over which side of the table would start the hair cutting process. One side proclaimed that they were just a neighbor and not a real relative, while the other proclaimed that the man of the table should start. Both sides were very adamant about not starting but finally the child who was still breast-feeding was brought over to the man of the table and thus was forced to take up the scissors. We joked about how much to cut, and he made as if to cut off a large chunk, which got the whole table laughing but finally he made the snip, placed the hair on the table and placed his 10 sole note into the bowl. Turned out the bowl was quite wet, and there was more delays in the process as we held up the wet money exclaiming that this bowl would simply not do. A new dry plate was brought out and the nursing baby made her way around the table. Finally it came to me and I made my first hair cut of a one year old, and tried to quietly slide my many coins into the bowl. I was the only one to put in coins, which potentially hid the fact that I was also offering a sole less than everyone else. Well the job was done and it became time to leave. We talked about plans for tomorrow, and soon the two middle school girls came up to see the hair cutting remains. They looked at the bowl and proclaimed that they would count it. At this my host mom jumped up and proclaimed it time for us to really leave not wanting it to become apparent that I had put in less than everyone else. We made our way out with a doggy bag of food to go, and slid out the door just as the girls finished counting the last cent. All in all it was a very enjoyable event. I enjoy the slow pace that things take to get started, even though at times I have to fight back my cultural anxiety that wants things to get going as soon as I step foot in the door. However often my best bonding moments with the community have come from the times we are waiting together for things to get started. I also now know to keep a 10 sole note stored somewhere for the next time I am invited to a hair cutting party.

A Weekend of Hopes and Dreams

            Last Friday I proclaimed the weekend to be ‘Maddy’s weekend’. In my head I developed to perfect plan of going into to town and spending an extra penny for a private room and with a hot shower. I got myself all excited over the prospect of having time to myself, with all the luxuries of a modern hotel, and for whatever reason I decided I deserved this. I would buy some granola and coffee, and make it so I barely had to leave my oasis for the whole weekend. Unfortunately my normal ride down the hill from Orlando was all booked up so I had to go searching for another car. This put me on edge a bit, for every time I heard the sound of a motor I went running out of my room to see who it was, only to be disappointed by motorcycles, and local work trucks. Finally after feeling exhausted of running down my steps too many times, the green truck appeared in the plaza. I ran out the door, and by the time I reached the plaza I was not the only one flagging it down. Our parade delighted in the news that he would be going down in an hour and there was space for all! So back up the hill I went to pack up my things and eat lunch. My cousin was preparing lunch that day as my host mom was out at the farm. It’s a bit awkward being called into lunch that was prepared by a 16 year old, as if I can’t feed my own mouth but so it goes. However just as I was putting some french-fries, avocado and cucumber into my mouth the blaring of a horn disrupted our quiet lunch. Turned out an hour really meant 30 minutes and the truck was there waiting for me. We dumped my lunch into a Tupperware to take with me down the hill, and I leapt into the car starting off ‘Maddy’s weekend’ with a bang.

            The ride down the hill was fairly uneventful just me sneaking some bites of french-fries here and there as we stopped to pick more people up or dropped them off.  I got dropped off at the main plaza and determinedly headed to the hotel with the best showers in town, as well as they offer a great deal for a single room. Nope this weekend I would not stand for sharing a room in the cheap hostel with dirty white travelers that always have extremely stinky hiking boots, and some advice to give me about where I should travel.  So it was I climbed the stairs to the hotel, just picturing the steam pouring out of the shower, and the soft voluptuous pillows. However this all came crashing down with it became apparent that they were all booked up for the weekend and I was sore out of luck.  Fear not I was not to be deterred by this slight set back. I picked up my bag, swung it determinedly over my shoulder and headed back out into the streets, leaving my oasis behind.

            There is a another hostel on the plaza that some other volunteers have stayed at and proclaimed that they also have hot steaming showers. So I headed over there and was greeted enthusiastically with a room available and a promise to lower the price to be the same as what the previous hotel was offering. The kind lady showed me upstairs to the room and I agreed to take it before stepping foot in the door ever so eager to get my weekend started. Well it was true this room did have a bed, and uneven wood floors, a huge closet space and a balcony overlooking the plaza. However a quick glance a the shower proved it was an electric heater (the worse!) and as I dramatically swung the balcony doors open to take in the view, there to my disbelief are the construction workers putting up two towers of fireworks, that are famous here in Peru for any good celebration includes an incredibly fantastic and dangerous fireworks show. I did not realize national police day demanded such a grand party but clearly I was mistaken, and judging by the stage they were constructing in the corner of the plaza the celebration was to include a band and go on quite late. I sunk into the bed a little disheartened at the reality that it would be a sleepless night.

            Well Friday afternoon played out like most Friday afternoons. A bit of Internet fix, a meeting about a project to teach English teachers English, serenaded by a Mariachi band (Which I thought was a Mexican thing but is apparently is also a Peruvian thing?) and celebrating a fellow volunteer’s birthday with free hamburgers. However when the moment came between dancing the night away or going back to my room to watch a movie and go to sleep Maddy’s weekend took control and I headed back to the hotel. I was rudely reminded that the Plaza was taken over by a party scene as the fireworks lit up the sky and the bass shook the floorboards, I curled up in my bed and closed my eyes hoping against all odds that maybe I would fall asleep.  At 2:00am the band finally stopped playing, at 2:30 guests of the hotel banged on the outside door to be let in, and at 3:00am I dozed off into dreams of another world. My internal clock woke me up at 6:00am to which I walked the three steps to the bathroom, and this little improvement of bathroom access put a skip in my step.  While the early morning run did not seem as appealing as it did in my mind when I was planning Maddy’s weekend, the sitting in my bed part drinking a cup of coffee with a book was perfect. Ok Maddy’s weekend was looking to be back on track. I watched the children procession walk around the plaza from my balcony while eating a delicious bowl of cereal.

            Around 10:00am I ran out of things to do in my private room and decided it was time to venture out to the street. After a mere hour out on the town on my own glory I started to get a bit lonely, it seemed it was a bit boring spending the whole day with myself, and I wasn’t doing anything different than any other weekend in town except for the fact that I was doing it alone. So I went to find some other volunteers in the classic volunteer hang out places and sure enough there they were, and boy did it feel good to share my Maddy’s morning experience with others, a pretty riveting tale! But also the knowledge that I could at anytime of my pleasing decide to go back to my solitude, with a private bathroom, and naked dancing in my room as an option comforted me.

At 5:00 that evening I went with my host family to a baptism of the nurse’s daughter, it is a rare event for my host family to come into town so it seemed important that I go. I should have known that all baptisms in Peru are way more than just the church service, but somehow I had it in my mind that I would go to the church service for a hot second, and then be able to sneak out and go enjoy the lasagna dinner that I had been looking forward to. Well that clearly did not play out and I found myself sitting amongst many strangers passing around a bottle of beer, and dancing the night away. While the dancing was fun, the dream of lasagna never disappeared, but I gave in to the fact that Maddy’s weekend was not going to be determined by what Maddy wanted to do. At 11:30pm they finally cut the many cakes, and by 12:30am I finally found a way to sneak out and gleefully head by to my private room.

            That night and next morning I was able to live it up, taking a semi-hot shower, walking around naked, and sleeping in past 6:30am. These luxuries felt like what true American freedom is. All too soon it was time to pack up my bag, pick my laundry up from the cleaners and head back up the mountain. Back to a life that has me in bed by 9:00pm every day, and brain freezing showers that are a good outside walk away from my room.  But I sure do miss a clean private dancing floor!