Puppetry in Spanish

            Recently I got back from our Early In Service Training (EIST) which is a bit of a landmark in terms of the peace corps volunteer journey, for it means that its about time to get working. Its also a time to listen to the stories from the other people in your training group and although everyone says ‘don’t compare sites’ the human instinctual thing to do is of course deeply pick apart and compare sites. What types of food does your host family serve? Who’s dealing with the most extreme weather? What types of community partners do you have? Is your municipality supportive? Do you exercise frequently? Have you cried? And of course the most enjoyable stories are the have you pooped in your pants stories. There is a deep black hole of site comparison that is like an addiction nagging at you to ask the questions and try and see how your site sizes up, or where you can brag about your conditions being harsher than someone else's. During this reunion I often found myself knee deep in a story about my site and then half way through thinking back to a This American Life episode that talked about conservation topics that nobody cares about and realizing the story I was describing was exactly one of those. My inner voice would scream ‘nobody cares Maddy’ and I would have to find the quickest exit out of my boring story about how I had strep throat for two weeks but didn’t want to call the med doctors. It was an interesting challenge for me to try and find stories from my last three months of an intensively different life, that I really wanted to share with others, but I didn’t want to come off as someone who just likes to hear themselves talk.

            I got back to site re-energized with many new project ideas to get started on. I have always been one for education for as much as I’ve denied wanting to become a teacher it is what seems to come naturally to me. I went into the school and asked the director if I could teach environmental education once or twice a month in every grade pretty much from kindergarten to high school. He immediately agreed and went to arrange a time for each elementary school class for the coming week. Once again I was surprised at how efficient and willing he was to have a random person come and teach in his classes, but I am grateful for the trust in my abilities weather its wise or not! After that meeting I realized I better figure out what to teach as it appeared I was jumping right into this. Our technical trainer during my first couple weeks here was a strong promoter of  puppets and she brought in some amazing puppets that she uses to teach environmental education. Motivated by this, I found a pair of smart wool socks that I have had for over five years, which where the heel should go is just a hole, and decided it was time to re-purpose these socks. For the next three days I vigorously worked on creating characters out of these socks that could talk about animal homes to 5-8 year olds. My host family laughed and thought it was very curious that I had made my socks into animals, and I felt pretty proud of my resourcefulness using plastic bags, an old rubber bouncy ball, and sea shells to make my socks come alive.

            I wrote out a script and then tried practicing it once through right before my first class. I found it impossible to hold the script up, and put two puppets on my hands. This detail I had not thought through fully, but I was out of time to plan so I headed to class realizing I would just have to figure it out as I went. The first class only had 10 students in it and they loved the puppets. They laughed and bared with me as I switched hands of puppets and let the script fall to the floor several times, but we all made it through.

            Feeling confident from my improvisation during the first class, the following day I went into my second day avoiding anymore preparations. This class had 15 students with clearly a lot more energy. I first had them draw pictures of make believe animals, to which they did at a remarkable speed. Then I brought out my puppet friends and I watched as some fell in love and some were deathly scared of these new characters. They listened attentively to the story and my confidence was once again rising. At the end of the story I put the puppets down to sleep and we dove deeper into what it means to have a house and why animal’s houses look different. This is when the train started to derail. The students were eager to answer my questions but were also bouncing off the walls with energy. We drew houses for their make believe animals but when I tried to have a discussion about the essential things that all homes must have there was very little focus, and many requests to wake my puppet friends up and bring them back. After three deep breaths as a whole class, and a bit more drawing I gave into their pleas and brought back out the puppets to teach them Old MacDonald. As soon as I put Rosita, the puppet, on my hand they all went quiet and were entranced by her. She was able to lead them through the wrap up discussion and they all listened attentively, rose their hands one by one, and actually engaged. I found myself standing up in front of the class becoming jealous of my own puppet for being able to get them all to listen. Later reflecting back on this I laughed at the fact the I was envious of Rosita and I suppose that is the beauty of puppets. Now when I walk through the plaza the students run up asking where Rosita is and when she will come back.

Home Remedies

Last week I was in the municipality office trying to blend in as an ordinary worker with a 9-5 job. I sat down at the swively chair to use their extra desktop computer and with good posture began typing up my very important community diagnostic work. Not going to lie it was a pretty fun power trip to greet everyone that came through, as if I was a regular on the scene. Well this glory lasted a good 10 minutes when all the sudden I was over come by nausea and felt that if I didn’t get out of there I was either going to puke or faint and that would just be embarrassing. I jumped up and turned to the secretary reaching my hand dramatically to my forehead I proclaimed I had forgotten an important book at home and that I was going back to get it. She laughed at the fact that I had just settled down and was now leaving as I hurried out the door. I got halfway up the road to my house when I realized in my daze of nausea I had forgotten my house keys. It was pretty awkward to have to turn around and go back to grab them but I also didn’t feel completely present in the world due to the nausea so I followed me feet back up the stairs to the municipality. I once again faced the secretary who gave me a confused look t which I countered with a smile, snatched the keys from ‘my’ desk and jingled them in the air in an action that expressed what I had no words to say. Once again I was back out into fresh air which seemed to help my nausea and I made my way back home. Now I was pretty focused on getting back to the municipality promptly so that I could swivel around in that chair some more and created my presentation that I was supposed to have done by the end of the day. I was convinced this nausea was going to pass right over. I went into my room and sat on my bed for a little while, popped an Ibuprofen and grabbed my Spanish dictionary as proof I had gone back to get a book. I took a deep breath in and tried to get my stomach to settle. This seems to be a frequent strategy of mine as it is one way I can both calm my nerves and convince the rice and potatoes to settle more into my stomach.

On my way out of our gate a vaguely mentioned to my host mom that I didn’t feel well, but I had to go back to the municipality to finish my presentation. I got back to my desk and readjust into my working position. The computer was up and running, my fingers were flying across the keyboard, and I happily greeted the old ladies that came wobbling in to get their pensions signed so they could receive money from the government. But my attention couldn’t be held by my busyness as my mind wondered into a fit of panic, nausea, and faintness. I felt a fever wash over me and I knew I had to get out of there before making a scene, however I also knew that my getting out of there would also make a scene as I came in with a stated purpose of working all afternoon. Running out of time I stood up and started feeling my forehead and breathing deeply. I turned to the secretary who was occupied helping someone but I interrupted exclaiming that I was not doing so hot. She looked up surprised as I walked dazed out of the room. Outside of the municipality I was focused on making it home before puking, but I ran into the town governor who was my original motivation for working at the municipality that day I had to talk to him about our upcoming travels to Lima to a Peace Corps conference, and I knew I would run into him at the municipality. Unfortunately the timing was all wrong, he looked at my face and said I looked really pale, and I merely mumbled yes I must go home now. And that was that, my opportunity to talk about bus tickets and travel plans lost as I stumbled up to my house.

Once home my host mom could see that I was not well so she had me drink warm lemon water. Then she went off and found some herb branches, which she proceeded to lightly beat me with all over my body and started talking to me about the dead. At first I didn’t understand what she was saying and I proclaimed to her ‘No I’m not going to die!’ but apparently she didn’t mean I was going to die, but rather I just needed to talk to the already dead. She hung the herbs above my door as I went in to lie down. I fluttered in and out of sleep still slightly stressed about the fact that I had not finished my presentation.

The sleep and more ibuprofen helped improve my symptoms and finally by mid-afternoon I was able to get out of bed feeling much better. I walked out clearly with more re-vitalized energy and my host mom exclaimed that the dead had given me a hug and I looked much better. I collected myself and headed back to the municipality. I decided the only way to go about my entrance back was to make it a grand entrance, so I pranced in and announced ‘look who’s back and feeling better!’ with a little shoulder shimmy just for emphasis. The secretary laughed and then had to recount the story of my leavings and goings of the morning to the mayor and every one else that was in the room at the time. I made good headway on my presentation, and the governor returned to the muni so we were able to iron out our trip details. Things were looking up as the secretary and I headed home for dinner. The dinner conversation was centered around many re-enactments of my several strategies of leaving the municipality that morning from the secretary, and my host mom filling in the other side of the story about how I thought I was going to die. I provided quite the comic relief for the day, but I relished in being the center of conversation at the dinner table, until the ibuprofen wore off and I had to go lie down for the night. Later that week in Lima I did have to take a stool sample (not surprisingly a difficult and gross task that I successfully completed and then left in the staff fridge at the Peace Corps office in an unmarked paper bag for the doctor. Later that day I went to retrieve to hand over to the doctors and found that the bag had been opened and moved to another fridge…gross!!! Anyways I had a bacterial infection that is clearly up nicely now!)

So far being here I have learned several home remedies, while I provide my host family with various western medicines. This fulfills goals number two and three of the peace corps which are solely about cultural exchange, so you are welcome Peace Corps! Some of the things that I have learned are as follows:

-Pee in open wounds; Once when my host uncle got a nasty deep dog bite they asked if I would pee in a cup so they could pour it on the wound to disinfect it. I unfortunately or fortunately could not pee under pressure

-Sugar in open wounds: On the same dog bite wound a couple of days later my host mom filled the wound up with sugar to help it heal

-Passing the egg: Our dog got very sick the other week and they all said he was going to die. My host mom passed a chicken egg over his body and rubbed it into his fur. Then she cracked it open into a cup and looked for ‘eyes’ in the yolk. We found one which meant the dog would be alright, and to this day that dog is doing better than ever!

-This happened before my Spanish was all that good but I went on a wild black chicken hunt with my host mom and her sister. Finally we found one and then used its feather I believe and pressed them on my host aunt’s baby’s wrists. I am not sure what this helped, but we did enjoy eating the chicken the next couple of days.

-Apple tea is good for sleeping.

I am sure there are thousands more that I will learn but I thought I would share a few with you in this blog. I also witnessed my host mom beat my host dad with the same herbs she used on me when he had a hangover, so it works on any types of nausea.

            

A doggy tale

                        The town of Levanto falls completely silent on Saturdays.  There are no mothers out washing clothes or gossiping on the corners, there are no children kicking soccer balls and screaming in the streets, and all the shops are closed shut. The families have all migrated out with dogs and horses in tow, to the farms.  They’ve packed their rice and potato lunches in Tupperware containers, and carry plastic bottles of chicha, the fermented sugar cane juice, for refreshment. The town becomes ghostly and abandoned, waiting to be brought back to life on Sunday afternoons when the people take the day off from the farms to relax and socialize.

            This Saturday I opted out of a day of collecting potatoes and instead decided to spend the day enjoying the quiet and trying to finish writing my community diagnostic. After an hour of sitting in front of my computer, coaxing it to turn on with little success, I got restless. The sun was out which is enough of a rarity that I couldn’t let it slip by in my room. Gathering up my things I decided to head out on my favorite trail and set up my hammock to read for a while. I put on my local sandals made out of old car tires that bring in many compliments and headed out. Once on the trail I quickly became lost in my thoughts as I jumped from rock to rock in order to avoid the mud. I felt alive and energetic as I half skipped half ran down the path.

            All of the sudden, jolting me from my daydreams of American food, a dog leapt up from a yard I was passing and starts barking. Now I have gained confidence with dogs around here, I can usually shush them away like the locals, but when I looked up and saw this one running toward the yard gate I found myself praying that the gate was locked shut. Much to my horror my prayers went unanswered and the black, medium sized shorthaired dog slipped out from behind the gate barking aggressively. I performed my local shushing noises and waved my hand at the dog, as if to push it away, but to no avail. Suddenly, at a blink of an eye, appeared two more medium-sized dogs, all three advancing on me, growling, bearing their teeth and barking. They forced me back onto the side of the trail up against the blackberry bushes, the bigger one in the middle slightly ahead of the others, its teeth as sharp as nails. At this I turned into a state of panic as my options ran through my head. Tactic number one: shush the dogs away and act like I am about to beat them…not working. Tactic number two: pick up a rock as they taught me in training, and throw it at the dogs…there were no rocks or sticks on the trail. Tactic number three: scream in utter terror and hope that someone hears me. Now I can count the number of times that I’ve truly screamed in a state of panic: once in second grade when my brother jumped out of a corner and thoroughly scared the bajibbers out of me, once when a homeless man in Tanzania exposed himself to me in the street during the middle of the day and the only logical reaction at the time seemed to be to scream and run, and once when I was chasing after a guy that stole my camera in Spain telling him that it was not the ‘right’ thing to do. But here I was out of options of self-defense, so I selected tactic number three, hoping that there might be some straggler still in the house to come out and help me. I looked at the sharp teeth of the dogs and just let the panic run up from within me and transform itself into a shear scream, my body shacking, and pictures of myself lying on the ground and the dog running off with my leg in its mouth flashing through my head.

To my great relief there was a grandma still in the house who came out with a look on her face that seemed to think someone was dying. She waved her hand at the dogs and as fast as they had came they were gone. I mumbled under my breath that I don’t like dogs and then composing myself, looked up at the grandma who seemed to be trying to figure out why she had heard deathly screams. I greeted her politely, told her that dogs scare me, and then awkwardly continued up the path. It took me a while to recover from the incident, I can still see the teeth of the dogs ready to tear me apart, and I can’t figure out how the grandma got them to run away so quickly. The concept of training dogs is such a process in the United States it has created a whole industry around it. Here they stick with the beating technique making dogs flinch anytime you reach a hand out to pet them. They are there to provide protection on the farms and occasionally companionship, but some can seem like wild animals in the woods. I will not let the dogs scare me away from this path as it is my favorite, but I will start carrying a stick or rock for this house!  Turns out a couple of weeks ago I was also attacked by a rooster on this path as I was trying to take its picture…but that’s for another post!

un accidente

     I am currently having some technical difficulties with my computer, it seems it doesn't like to be touched, for when ever I gently stroke its keys it gets overwhelmed and shuts down. But I did want to bring you all this one quick story.

    I was sitting in my classroom after spending the last 15 minutes ushering students out of the school convincing them that yes in fact it is time for them to go home. I sat down at a desk to finish up a project we were working on of making toilet tube rain sticks. I was gluing on the top of the tubes when I was suddenly overcome with an urgent need to pee. I ran through my options in my head: I could go in the school bathroom but the door doesn't shut so I would run the risk of the creepy janitor walking in on me. A note about the creepy janitor he is always inviting me to my house and saying I am the most beautiful gringa he has ever seen, so you can see my hesitation to the option. My other choice was to hold it and wait till I got home. So I opted to wait persistently pushed through sealing one more top for whatever reason and soon found myself in a moment of panick. I had reached a point where antimatter was screaming at me that is was about to overflow. I looked around the room and saw a plastic container I had been using for old paint water. I rushed over to grab it, pausing to let a crisis moment pass, bent over to grab it and walked over to the corner of the room. As I set down the container I looked up and realized the Windows and doors were wide open, I rain the same risk as if I were in the bathroom, and the bathroom seemed more civilized. Considering myself crazy left the pee in a container idea, and decided to head for the bathroom, but it was too late and I found myself there in the middle of the classroom peeing my pants and laughing at myself that I didn't have any bodily control. In wet pants I walked straight home not making eye contact with anyone, avoiding all greetings, straight to a new pair of pants. I like to think this only happens to me in foreign countries but I think it could have happened anywhere.

Caught in the Rain

            I have been working doing family surveys of a handful of people in both my main community of Levanto as well as the annexes of our town. We have three annexes which are small communities up to an hours walk away that all fall under the same municipality. As of last Wednesday I had visited all but one of the annexes, this one happened to be the farthest away and thus I had been saving it for a day that came with a lot of motivation. All the sudden on this particular Wednesday I was overcome by this just after lunch so I put my coat on and asked my host mom how to get there. She looked at me confused and clarified ‘you want to go to Qachuc now, in the afternoon?’ Well yeah clearly that’s why I was asking how to get there! She proceeded to reason with me by telling me I was crazy, the path was too muddy, and I would be back at dark if I left now; better to get up early, eat some breakfast, and go tomorrow with an early start.  I saw her reasoning as if I left early enough I could catch the people before they headed out to the farms anyways. So that was that, I had no choice but to put off my motivation until the next morning with the goal of leaving the house by 7:30.

            Unfortunately Thursday morning came and I didn’t drag myself out of bed until 7:45. Embarrassed I head out of my room to the bathroom with sleepy hair and tired eyes. My host dad, about to leave to work on the farm, had waited just long enough to be able to comment on my lateness exaggerating that it was 9:00am and I was just waking up! Laughing him off I get myself ready quickly and as I sit down for breakfast my mom implies that we will be going to the annex together as she proclaims ‘lets get going to Qachuc’. It is hard to drink burning hot tea quickly but I’ve gotten pretty good at the aggressively stirring technique to aerate the tea and cool it down to a drinkable temperature. The skill is somewhat useless and seems somehow very American for every time I feel like I should be in a hurry here I end up rushing to wait some more. At the time however it seemed my host mom was ready to leave and wanted to get going, it turned out she was going to harvest some carrots and beets on a farm that was in the direction of Qachuc so she would walk with me part of the. This was a slight relief because it meant I could follow her on the trails, which were much faster than walking along the main road. I finished up my tea and bread and got my boots on. I have a pair of three quarter height boots from the states that are rubber at the foot and then waterproof fabric for the ankle bit. They get a lot of attention here because they are different from the normal black rain boots that everyone wears, and they are super lightweight. These facts both make the Peruvians jealous but also weary constantly warning me that a spine is going to go through them and stab me. The biggest problem for me is that the have no tread and the mud her gets like slick clay when it’s wet. Anyways I put on my boots, knowing the trail will be muddy, and go out to see if my host mom is ready. Well predictably I end up waiting for her for 15 minutes before we are set and ready to go.

            This trip confirmed that I really should invest in the black rubber boots and leave my slightly more stylish boots for times of paved road rain walking. My mom walk-jogged ahead of me in the mucky paths as I slowly and careful picked my way trying not to fall on my bottom thus making a fool of myself. Every few minutes my host mom would look back laugh and wait for me, commenting on how I need to buy better boots. We proceeded in this manner for 20 minutes, down to a small river and up the other side of the valley. As we approached a fork in the road my host mom described to me how I would proceed up the hill to the road, then walk on the road for a while until I came to a big house with two water tanks in front of it. At this house I would take the right hand path and proceed until I reached Qachuc. She meanwhile would be taking the lower path to the farm where she would be harvesting vegetables. My lunch was prepped back at the house for when I got back home, all I had to do was turn on the gas stove. Easy enough I thought so we split ways and I headed up the path to the main road.

            Upon reaching the road there was a man sitting on the side taking a break chewing on some coca leaves; the stimulant of choice. We greeted each other and he inquired about where I was headed alone. Funny enough he happened to be headed in the same direction. Once again I found myself with company but this time since we were on the road I could keep up with his stride. We went through the classic conversation topics: where was I from, how many were there in my family, is it true they speak only English in America. We talked about if I was used to the environment in Levanto yet, how long I was going to be here and how long I had been here. We touched on my single status and weather I was going to marry a Peruvian, which led us to my age and that I was still young. We even got to the topic of rain and if there was any rain in the United States, if the United States was made up of only cities or if there were farms, and how much my family must miss me since I was so far away. For thirty minutes we kept up impressive conversation if I do say so myself. At the large house we took the path, which proved to be muddy and full of deep puddles where my companion showed me how to squeeze along the sides and jump from rock to rock in order to get through and before I knew it we were approaching the town. At an old Incan ruin site we talked about how there was no money to clean up the ruins in the area and then he split off to his farm and I headed down the hill to the town.

            It was around 10:00am by the time I reached town, much later than I had anticipated and the farmers were already out in the fields. I convinced myself that just the walk alone was worth my time and I didn’t have anything better to do but to explore the area. So I went to the only open door I could see, a small store front and figured I would get at least one survey done. The woman graciously invited me into her home and I sat down to find out she had lived in Lima for 10 years before moving back here, she has one 9 year old daughter who was eager for attention, and she herself delivers recyclables from her house to Chachapoyas to sell, the first person I had met that does this! After our interview the little girl offered to be my guide through town as we hunted for more people to survey. She took me to all her aunts’ houses, her grandma’s house, and her cousin’s house, and by the end we had visited most houses and successfully found a few people actually home to interview. We re-visited one aunt on the way back just to look at the pigs again and then the rain started to fall. Lightly but enough to makes us run back to the little girl’s house and take cover. We put on some Alvin and the Chipmonks singing to Peruvian songs and waited for the rain to pass. Alvin’s lips did not quite line up to the songs he did have some pretty sweet dance moves that we tried to mimic fairly unsuccessfully.

            Finally there was a break in the rain and I decided to make a run for it. I thanked the mother for her hospitality, and the young girl disappointed in seeing me going told me if I left now I could never come back, and with that I was off. The trail was slick and I debated taking the main road all the way back but not wanting to get stuck in the rain I went for the faster route. I munched on the apple my host mom had sent me with as I joyfully headed down the path feeling accomplished that I had gotten so many interviews out of what originally looked like an ill planned trip. Just when I was getting to full of myself and my confidence was growing the rain came again, this time not so gently. I found myself in a full-blown downpour, the cloud had taken over our mountain and essentially the air I was breathing was rain. In a flash the trail turned into a river, and I was soaked to the bone. My boots filled up with dirty water fortunately warmed by my body temperature. I gave up any attempt to walk carefully, and took on the mini lakes that filled the path cutting straight through the middle and running up the other side. Farmers who had been out in the field were crouched down under personal plastic coverings as the watched the crazy gringa running through the rain.

            Finally I reached the intersection of the path with the road at the large house and here I found a farm gate with a roof, where another fellow was waiting out the rain. He had been riding his motorcycle into town when the rain hit, and it was coming down so hard he had no choice but to pull over and take cover. I joined him standing on the gate huddled under the roof as we watched the rainfall and covered most of the above mentioned conversation topics. For 45 minutes we watched if fall, my heartbeat slowed letting the cold seep in, but I hung to the gate and waited. The fields were saturated with water and the sky gave no signs of letting up. Finally it seemed that the rain was slightly lighter and I decided that in order to prevent myself from freezing I better run along the main road back home, hoping for a car to drive by and pick me up, and realizing that the paths were muddy rivers it would be faster by road. I strapped my backpack tight to my back, stuffed my cell phone into my bra, as this seemed the driest place, and started a nice jog. The road was raised enough and had enough rocks in it that it wasn’t too slippery, but there was a raging flashflood creek on the side of the road that would every so often cross of the road washing it out completely. My heartbeat started picking up again and I once again felt high on adventure, feeling as if I could conquer the rain. Just to keep me in check I suppose the downpour started up again and I had to duck into the shelter of an abandoned house. Leaning against the outside wall under the overhang of the metal roof I watched the water pour off the hillside in waterfalls.  I was just dozing into a daydream when a young boy climbing the side fence to the house startled me awake. His family apparently was waiting out the rain on the other side of the house and in his boredom he discovered me. We exchanged a few sentences about how strong the rain was and then he slithered off back to his family’s hole.

I waited planning my break for it, and once again feeling the cold overtake me. One of my English students rode by on his horse giving me inspiration to make a run for it. One foot in front of the other, the water sloshing in my boots, my bright blue flowered rain coat standing out against the mountains, I made my way home. On the road to my house I saw two young girls that I usually give high fives to waiting expectantly with their hands outstretched. I didn’t have it in me, my hands were tingling and I could barely move them, I made a sad a attempt at an air high five as their faces fell knowing they weren’t going get the full satisfaction of a true high five.  None the less my head was focused on getting into my room, stripping off my clothes, drying myself, and putting on at least three layers of pants and shirts. I fumbled with the key as my hands had lost function, but relief came over me, as I knew I had survived the adventure. I heated up my lunch and drank four cups of apple tea, finally feeling warmed to the heart. They don’t lie when they say it is rainy season here!

Three Shorts from the Campo

                                                                      ~Trashy Business~

            I am rounding my three-month corner marker of being in-site. This is a significant marker in Peace Corps terms for it means that I should be integrated into my site, can speak the language with some proficiency, am prepared to start my projects, and I can take vacations.  In other words these past three months I have had an excuse to not work, because Peace Corps deemed this time as acclimation to the new environment, but now that my three months are up I no longer have this crutch to tell people the reasons behind my waking up late in the mornings, and hanging out all day. Last week I did come along a half days worth of work that would make my whole week feel like an accomplishment. I attended a meeting at the municipality with the town mayor and the three other regional representatives. My reasoning for being there was to have them fill out a quick analysis of the town, which I can use in the write up of my community diagnostic. They took my being there as an opportunity to volunteer me to help out with some sort of trash activity they had to do that week. The Spanish flew across the table faster then I could pick it up so it was unclear what exactly I was being volunteered for. What I did know was that it would involve boots as they asked for my boot size. So I agreed to meet them the next day at 8:30am to go do something with the trash. I will mention here that one of my program goals is to help start up recycling programs and problem solve alternative means to dispose of trash besides burning it which is often the preferred choice. So I was more than happy to go along on this trash mission, as it seemed to be just the type of work that I am supposed to do.

            Thursday morning came and I announced to my host family that I was off to help the municipality with the trash, hoping for some kind of shocked reaction, but I got nothing more than a nod of approval. Arriving five minutes late I was predictably the first on the scene and thus settled myself onto the wall of the municipality; one leg crossed over the other, my arms in my pockets in what I thought was a cool and collected waiting pose. Thirty minutes later the secretary arrives with the keys into the storage room and promises of boots and masks for me to wear. Sure enough in a box she pulls out boots just my size, gloves, and a mask for the ‘trash dust’. Just as I am proving that all fit well the town mayor pulls up in his pickup truck to receive his gear. By 10:00am we seem to all be accounted for and suited up so we pile into the truck and head out, at this point I am still not sure where we are going or what we’ll be doing.

            We drive up to a site I had walked by several times and had wondered what it was intended for. Turns out the city a couple months back had built a mini land fill, with a roof, and aeration system. However in the last two months of trash dumping the trash collector guy had dumped the trash outside of the hole. Thus upon driving up to the site we were faced with a large pile of old decomposing, fly infested trash. We got out of the car and relaxed for a while looking out at the farm filled vista. Here I was with the mayor and regional directors, positions in the States that seem strictly political and only get their hands dirty for the picture, and we were about to dive into the trash pile that most of the community didn’t know existed. After our twenty-minute relaxing session we gloved ourselves and started separating trash, pulling out plastic bottles and tin cans to be recycled. I fought back the apparently cultural urge to scream and moan as the flies swarmed, the smell filled my nostrils, and I pulled apart plastic bags of dripping old molding trash to recover bottles once full of Amazonas soda, coca cola, yogurt, and whatever else the kids are drinking these days. We were knee deep in trash dumping it into the deep hole and nobody complained once, I thought everyone complained about touching other people’s trash, but I guess some just get over it and go about their job.

            Two hours later we had filled eight large bags of recyclables and moved the pile from outside the hole into in it. The man in the hole responsible for evening out the mound struggled to find a way out, but with some good cheering by the gringa (me) he found his way out and we loaded up the car. It was very promising to be with the municipality taking care of trash, and seeing a commitment to recycle items. It was also very informative to go through everyone’s trash and see what is being thrown away. At the very least I have good reasoning to the municipality to build a recycling program that gets the people to separate trash and organics in their homes, with the motivation of not wanting to go back to the molding trash piles in the future. On our way back we stopped by the local soccer/volleyball court where the community comes out to pass time on Sundays. We spent another two hours picking up trash and cleaning up the field area. By the end of it I was exhausted and ready to wash my hands, but definitely felt like I was actually doing work for my program goals for the first time so far.

            On my way home I practiced my Spanish in my head of how I would recount the details of my day to my family over lunch. I hoped to get some good laughs and shocked reactions from this story as what normal person goes to sort through trash. I crafted my words, got the tenses right, and felt ready to be the entertainment of lunch. I waited for soup to be served and for my host mom to sit down before I dove in. I hit every line as I had practiced in my head and I was getting no reaction. My host dad grunted, our visiting nephews kept interrupting with stories from their day on the farm, and my host mom shrugged as if this was normal. I figured that they weren’t understanding me, so I told it again hoping this time I would get a little more than a grunt for my half days work in the trash, but no apparently this is not news worthy, and the only thing that got a bit of chuckle was the fact that I wore boots and gloves.  Giving up I jumped into the nephew’s conversation about the differences between male a female bodies, to which I commented oh yeah women have larger hips so they can pass the baby threw, and this fact of nature got them all laughing.

                                                                  ~Boys will be Boys

            After my classes one day I was hanging out at a neighbor’s house making some arroz con leche and watching bad quality telanovelas. We needed some cinnamon so one of the young girls of the house and I walked to the small corner shop to buy some. On the way back we ran into one of my students, now this student was intelligent but he was also the student that punched another student in the eye during my class one day; giving him a bloody nose, all because the student was annoying him. So he has a bit of anger management issues, but of course to my face or one-on-one he is very kind. He greeted me formally and politely which I appreciated and as we entered the house he continued down the street. Just as we turned around to close the door we look up and there he is mooning us in the middle of the street. Not sure he anticipated us turning around another time or not, but we looked at each other in shock and then shuffled into the house bursting out laughing loudly like middle school aged girls. Boys will be boys no matter where you are in the world!

                                                               ~Brand New Bike~

            I got a bike delivered to me from the Peace Corps, one of the great benefits of being a volunteer. It came in on the bus from Lima wrapped in layer upon layer of plastic wrap. My host grandma was there for the unveiling, where my excitement of having a bike turned to venting out some hidden anger within as I tore at the plastic wrap. This change in temper seems to be a frequent occurrence with this bike. Later that afternoon I decided I would take it out for my first joy ride. My host mom and my barely able to hear host grandma were there to send me off. I checked my tires and decided the front tire needed just a touch bit more of air, mostly because I wanted to try out the fancy small pump that they sent with the bike. I ran into my room to grab it skipping with excitement leaving smiles on my onlooker’s faces. Grabbing the pump I worked hastily in anticipation, shouting out one word remarks about how beautiful and nice my bike is. Inserting the pump into the tire I start to pump rapidly but what greets my ears is the sound of air whooshing out of the tire. Oh my host mom says, that is not the right sound. I proceed to pump harder thinking I can overpower the seeping air, while my host mom shakes her head and laughs. What proceeds is an hour of putting the pumping into the tire, pumping it up aggressively, feeling the tire and seeing it is completely flat, all the while my partially deaf grandma holds the tire steady while shaking her head and saying what hard work this is. To check to see if air is coming out of the pump I put the nozzle on my host mom’s cheek and say ‘see airs coming out, why is it not going into the tire?’

            I flipped the bike over to try and get a better angle, as well as relieve my host grandma of her tire holding job, mostly so that she would stop looking over my shoulder as I crumbled into a fit of failure. I took the tire off the frame completely to see if this might help. I dismantled the pump, hit it against the ground, and put it back together. Over and over again I put the pump into the tire, pumped rapidly, counting my pumps to 50, and yet no air would enter the tire. My host mom got bored of the process and went into her room, my host grandma shook her head and repeated what hard work this was turning out to be, and I proceeded to feel ashamed at my inability to work a bike pump. Eventually having enough I proclaimed that the pump was broken and my host mom came up with a list of other people that had pumps, all of whom were currently out in the farms. I sulked into my room wanting to cry-laugh the situation off feeling like a four year old about to throw a tantrum in a 26-year-old body.

            A couple hours later after going for a walk around town I returned to my house empty of people, with the bike sitting there still staring at me. I took a deep breath and calmly picked up the pump. I looked the pump in its one eye-hole, stared it down, took the hose out of the plastic covering, and discovered that by doing this I could still pump and the air didn’t seep out of the plastic top casing. I slowly inserted the pump into the tire and what do you know that tire inflated in less than 50 pump strokes. In disbelief that I had solved the problem in about 5 minutes I started dancing around our outside staging area. I mounted that bike I rode it right up the hill with children running after me, but with this success nothing could slow me down. I suppose there is a lesson in this story of patience, staying calm, and walking away from things to come back to them later but mostly I clearly do not perform well under the pressure of my host grandma’s eyes.

  

A Bread Incident

Paper Mache Masks

             Proclaiming disgust for the only kind of cheese we have here in the region, one of my fellow Amazonas volunteers decided the only solution to this problem was to have a queso fresco cook off. Who could prove that something good could be made with this bland wet cheese? So for our next regional meeting we planned to come with our best attempt to hide this cheese into some sort of delicious meal. I got my host family involved to brainstorm ideas of what to cook, but then I realized to win this competition I would have to create something a bit more American. My obsession lately has been baking cakes, cookies, and bread in my electric bubble oven that I inherited from a previous volunteer.  I decided I would create some sort of caramelized onion brochette with some cheese on top. I planned on making the bread rolls the afternoon before heading down to the capital city. That morning I had my English class with older students who at the end didn’t want to leave to go back home, which I found very flattering and took as a direct compliment where in reality they probably just wanted to hang out with each other more. Anyways to get them to leave I told them they could come back this afternoon if they wanted and help me make bread. On my way home I stopped by the local small shop and bought the ingredients. On a side note we are making paper mache masks in my classes which is taking a lot more flour than I anticipated, so I am now infamous at the shop as the white girl that buys a poop ton of flour. When I entered the shop that day I didn’t even have to say anything to the shop owner she just when straight to shoveling more flour into a bag for my bread.

            After lunch I was drifting into the sweet dreams of my rice coma when outside my window I hear one of my students yelling my name. Poking my head out my window it is clear that this student is ready to get his bread baking on, so I tell him I’m coming and regretfully roll out of bed. I gather up my oven, ingredients, and cooking utensils and head over to the neighbor’s house where there is a better table to work at. The other students weren’t there yet so we head to their houses to gather them up.  We find them diligently cleaning the mud off their boots to make them look like new again. Soon enough I have six students excited to have a new adventure for the afternoon. We head back up to the neighbors house and set to work. Hander, the smallest but most vocal of the students steps up to the plate as leader. He looks at the recipe, that is in English, and jumps into a monologue of commands and proclamations of what he thinks the recipe says and who should do what. The others roll their eyes and grab the Kindle from him that has the recipe on it, quickly figuring out how to turn the pages and scroll through all the pictures of bread that are in the ebook. I take the spoon and control out of Hander’s hand and set my minions to work. Flour is flying everywhere as the students chant, ‘mix mix mix’ while each takes a turn incorporating the ingredients. Mix is perhaps the only word I have taught my English class so far, but they are learning how to play Frisbee quite nicely. We set the dough into the oven with hot water to allow it to rise and busy ourselves by playing music and looking at pictures on the Kindle.

            Forty minutes later I open up the oven to see the progress on our rising dough, and it’s a bit bleak. The dough seems about the same size as when we left it, but the students are antsy to mold it. Accepting that I am not a baker, and these conditions are no bakery I take the dough out and divide it up amongst everyone. At first I come down hard wanting all my rolls to look alike, determined to win the cheese cook off competition, but seeing the joy these students find in molding the dough, and begging to make it look like other pictures in the book I let them go wild. There is a bread here called letter bread because it has an ‘A’ on the top of each roll although the A really looks like a fight breast cancer ribbon, anyways the students quickly come up with idea of molding their dough into letter bread except with the first letter of their name on the top of each one. They make rolls for their friends, for me, for their family, and everyone they can think of, carefully rolling out each letter and placing it on top of a dough bun. They are proud of their rolls and eager to put them into the oven, so I decide to skip the second rising period and we pop the buns into the oven.

Hander making Cinnamon Rolls

            This time while waiting we start up a game of soccer keep away outside on the street. One of the kids has a small brown ball, which quickly picks up the dirt from the street and spreads it all over my pants and sandal bearing feet. The shouts of joy from the game brings the neighborhood out to watch and I am loving the confidence that comes with finally playing a sport I am actually somewhat good at, as opposed to my pathetic volleyball skills. We take a break to check on the bread, which has nicely browned in the oven so we take out the first batch and put in the second. I look at the carefully molded bread rolls and realize that I can’t pack them up to take to my cheese competition, not when each roll is unique to the person that made it, so we divvy up the rolls according to who made them. Mayra my one strong female leader of the class hands me a roll she has made with an ‘M’ on the top and we decide we better sample the bread to see if its any good. Munching on bread we head back out to continue our game. I am at the top of the hill trying to get the ball passed Hander who is in the middle, I fake left go right, wishing I had the agility of my high school years, and then I wind up to chip the ball over Hander’s head down to where the others are waiting. Unfortunately as my foot is coming down for the swing the contact with what I thought was the ball was hard and unforgiving. The brown rock that I have mistaken for a ball drills into my big tow, my sandal goes flying, and the actual ball goes nowhere. The pain rushes through my toe, and I begin a delicate chicken dance hopping up and down, singing eowww eowww, hoping that this word translates into all languages as a yelp for pain. I try to take deep breaths not wanting to show the weakness of tears to my students who have gathered around and all looked confused as to what they should do to help this hopping yelping gringa. Finally they guide me to the steps and I sit down rocking back and forth laughing at the situation, as it seems better to laugh then to cry.

            Next comes the onset of Spanish suggestions of what I should do to best care for the toe. Out comes a container of freezing water with the remaining salt from my cooking mixed in, and I find my foot being guided into the water. There are suggestions of going to the health posts, claims that I should cut the whole toe nail off, attempts to clean off the dirt, and imitations of my chicken dance of pain. It is a chaotic scene, that just makes me laugh/cry more and I surrender any hope of explaining what I think should be done with my toe, and allow the neighbors to come up with a solution. Finally my host mom is drawn out of our house from all the commotion and she helps gather up my oven and cooking supplies and guides me back to the house. They decide we should trim the nail so that when I am asleep it doesn’t catch on the blanket and fall off. I agree to this, but moan in pain and laughter as my host mom trims my toenail; probably being a bit over dramatic, but it seems more comedic that way. They trim up the toenail, as my host dad shows off his toe that was trampled on by a cow, way more legit reason to have a purple toe than my wimpy story of mistaking a rock for a ball. Every other sentence they say is either how dumb it was that I was playing soccer in sandals or about how my toenail is going to fall off. They then bring out the purple stuff, which I demand to read before they apply it, I see the word anti-biotic and decide it can’t be that bad, and soon my already purple toe is covered in more purple anti-biotic dye. Satisfied with her nursing job, and proclaiming that she has done everything that the health post would have done, my host mom heads back to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I sit there still in pain for a while soaking up all the attention I can get from visiting neighbors until I get cold and hop back into my room.

Kid carries bike up hill

            The next morning I wake up with one toe that is much larger than the other and can only put back on the flip flops to head into town for our monthly regional meeting. I pack up my things; breadless with a painful toe, feeling very unprepared for this meeting. In the street the neighbor is still showing passersbys the rock that I kicked showing how far it traveled down the street from my pure force. At the regional meeting other volunteers laugh as they see my violet toe proclaiming that the purple anti-biotic is what they usually use for cows and horses, but occasionally they also put it on their face for herpes, so it seems to be a universal cure. My dreams of winning the cheese cook off crumble as I end up making salsa and guacamole to complement some tacos. However I still enjoy the delicious food, and I’m even more satisfied knowing that six other kids in my site also got to enjoy some bread!