Competitive Edges across Cultures

     I have kept the crying to a minimum while here in Perú. They include that time on Christmas Eve for obvious homesick reasons, miss behaving kids staying at our house, and being forced to eat dinner by myself in my room. That other time when the younger kids that were staying at our house were whining and still getting exactly what they wanted (this I think was more due to my monthly cycle of sorts) but for some reason watching them be rewarded for whining put me to tears. And then there was that time when I sat on my host mom´s poncho; which if you want to know the rest of that story it can be found in a previous blog that starts out similar to this one I believe, in that it recounts my crying moments. Well today I bring to you another for the list: that time my team lost playing volleyball.

As I have mentioned in previous blogs the culture of volleyball is incredibly strong here. It is a women’s sport that will occasionally allow some room for ´mixed´ play in which there is usually one guy on each time. All games from friendly neighborhood matches, to games on the official court have a buy in of sorts. They agree on a price which ranges from 50 cents to a Sole, (or perhaps more but I’ve never played at that level),  The winning team takes all and then divides it amongst themselves. Let’s just say in my time here I have lost at least 5 soles, I’m not the volleyball star that I or the community would like me to be. Each Sunday afternoon at around 3:00pm after a good nap, the town comes out to play or watch volleyball/soccer at the local cement court. There is always some sort of drama over who has the net to put up, and who has a good volleyball. It is a point of pride to own a volleyball net, which are attached to homemade wooden posts rather than the metal posts typical in the States.   Eventually someone offers up their net for the games, and two or three women go to the house to collect it as well as rope that during the week is used for horses’ harnesses but for Sundays secures the net in place. Mothers walk around selling, bbq sis kabobs of cow hearts, roasted bananas, rice pudding, jello, and whatever else families have cooked up that day, while kids play on the side line constantly being yelled at to stay out of the actual court lines.

      This past Sunday my host mom convinced me out of my hammock and away from my book to go watch the action down on the courts. On our way down we heard rumors that the elderly women were going to take the court today to show that they still got it. This excited my host mom as she assured me the old people always provide good entertainment because their knees don’t bend as well anymore.  We approached the court and joined several women just outside the entrance to assess the scene. There was a match in progress (not of the elderly) and a good crowd watching on. My host aunt was deep in the competition but had enough time in between serves to notice our arrival and instruct us to go get another net at someone else’s house to set up the second court. It appeared that there were enough out this Sunday to get two games going. After stalling for a while my host mom obeyed and went to grab the other net while I stayed behind to listen in on the town gossip.  Once back with the net there was a bit more stalling as my host mom asked around for who had a ball to play with. Others reassured her that someone will have one once we set up the net, so we headed over to the side entrance, my host mom with the net hoisted on her back, and me trudging along obediently behind her.

Bravely I helped her set up the net, only slightly intimidated by the fact that I might do it wrong. We got it taught and ready for action, and then took our seats in the grassy hillside where several women and families had staked out their viewing positions, sitting upon hand knitted blanket squares to keep their bottoms warm and dry.  We waited and observed the scene for quite some time all the while talking about when the game would start. A girl was made to run and take a volleyball away from some kids that were playing with it, even so with all the materials assembled we still waited around  in anticipation for someone to make the first move. Finally one woman got restless enough and started the movement to the court, she drew up the t-chart on the ground with a chalk-like rock to determine who was betting against who and thus establishing the teams.  In making this chart they can never remember my name and there is always that awkward moment where I wait to see who will mumble a variation of it, always someone pulls through. Another woman began collecting the payment of one Sole, and designated a spectator as the ‘bank’ guarding the money while we played. Sufficiently convinced that the game would begin my host mom set down her knitting and nonchalantly walked onto the court. I followed behind, and gave a confused look to the women hoping they would direct me to one side or the other. It was determined that I wasn’t that great of a player while making the t-chart so the expectations were low, the claim was that I could not make any killer shots so I was not a threat. I had partly brought this reputation upon myself as a self-proclaimed lousy player.

                  Before I knew it the serve was up and we were off to a start.  Normal rotations in volleyball are predictable and circular, except in the cases when there is a weaker player. I found myself constantly being pushed out of the middle zone and onto the sides or deep back corners. This did not help with my confidence but I laughed it off. Despite serving my first serve straight into the net our team did well the first game, they even set me up for a slam that I successfully got over the net. This promoted the other team to holler out that in fact the gringa can play. Feeling good with the win we switched sides. Well it was a slippery downhill slope for the second game. We started losing points, which meant I got pushed further back into the corners, and whenever the ball came towards me another woman would be running at me to get it for me. I would lose points because I wouldn’t go for shots that came semi near me for fear of taking out my team member who was running from the other side of the court to try and cover for me. As our team fell apart the exchanges between my teammates became mean and hostile. They proclaimed that one women couldn’t hit anything that day, blamed another women for not getting her serve, and debated over balls that clearly fell within the line  but were called out. It became a war zone and I felt as though I was just taking up space.

                  We lost the second game throwing us into a third game where I tried the american approach of positivity. I m,mustered up all my nerves and told my team to play more beautifully and together. They laughed that the gringa had spoken up and we continued on our path to losing. The other team began calling me out and passing just to me, and then laughing that someone else would always come over and take the ball from me. My biggest moment was calling a ball out confidently, which caused some laughs and our team loosened up a bit but not enough to pull us out of the dark hole. There went my sole of money as well as my volleyball sole as I left the court deflated.

Ten minutes later I was somehow convinced to play another match which I agreed to with the confidence that they would mix up the teams so it would be a new slate. I quickly realized that the teams would stay the same and we were thrown back into the pit of despair. Our opposing team was strong and confident slamming the ball down our floundering throats, and encouraging our foul talk within the team. I found myself in the back corner holding back tears, wanting nothing more than to sitting on the grass spectating rather than being the spectacle of the losing team. Impressively our team pushed on, not in the winning sense, but in the sense that we didn’t walk off the court. I served the ball into the net and stomped my foot in frustration, and then went back to counting the amount of points I would go without touching the ball. Needless to say my heart was not in the game and I was checked out.

                  Finally the game came to a close and I was once again down a sole. Thinking that was enough losing for me I sat down on the grass fighting back the tears, not wanting to look weak. I had forgotten how much I don’t like losing. On the walk back home my host mom (who was on my team) kept repeating what a great game it was. I was surprised at this response, and my instinct was to whine out ‘but we lost, and you were all mean to each other’ but I had to take a step back. Growing up I was taught that it wasn’t a good game unless you won, that was the goal and that was what was celebrated. I don’t remember losing any closely matched soccer games or tennis matches and thinking wow that was a great game! I realized my host mom had enjoyed every minute of it even though we had lost. I felt like a fish fighting the current the whole time, when I should have given into it and enjoyed myself. Why had a been so focused on winning when this was an opportunity to show off my fun side to the community. It was a relief to hear my host mom repeat what a great game we had played and maybe one day I will be able to appreciate the art of losing.