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A Competitive Edge Follow Up

         Please excuse the silence since my last post, but it turns out June is a popping month for my small town. My mother and good family friend came to visit for our town festival as per everyone’s request. Turns out the municipality knows how to fund a good celebration for our Saint Pedro. The most exciting part for me was when our town mayor came rolling up beside me on his motorcycle and requested that I play soccer with the other women on Wednesday night. I over enthusiastically agreed, and he said he would find me a jersey. Thrilled I shared my good news with host mom that I had gotten a special request from the town mayor to play soccer which seemed was much more exciting to me than to her. 

            It turned out that Wednesday was chocked full of sports game, with the high school team playing a town over, and the adult team playing the hospital from Chachapoyas. We, the three gringos in town, cheered the teams on while sipping on locally made yogurt and trying to make ourselves blend in as much as possible. As the sun went down we decide to head back up for more warm clothes, just about sportsed out from the day. It seemed unclear what time the women would get to take the field as night time was quickly approaching, so I tried to play it cool concluding that there was not enough organization for a women’s game after all. Half way back to my house we looked back to see that in fact there was a team of women playing on a side field all dressed in traditional skirts and sandals made out of old car tires. We were all too cold to go back and see if I could get in on the action, so slightly dejected we headed the rest of the way to my house.  I still had a little hope that the women’s game would still go on, seeing as the mayor did say he would get me a jersey and the women were clearly not playing in official soccer jerseys.

After piling on sufficient layers to be outside for the night we headed back down to the fields, where we were fighting foot traffic the whole way. It was clear that the sports had finished up on the main field and people were heading back up. Not wanting to look like the white people who lost their way we pushed on through the crowd until we ran into my neighbors, and they confronted us as to where we could be going seeing as all the action was long gone from the soccer field. Not leaving time for my to awkwardly respond, my neighbor insisted that we must come with them up to the cement fields with lights to watch the women play soccer, which they assured was sure to be entertaining. Rejuvenated with hope that I still might play we stopped fighting the current, and joined the crowd walking up to the upper courts.  We took our seats on the cement stairs and it quickly became apparent that the women were still dressed in their tradition pink skirts, with white tops, and tire sandals. This was not the attire I had come in, nor did I own anything like it. Once again disheartened, I complained to the ref that I wanted to play to, but he looked at me and said ‘you can’t play in what you are wearing’. The mayor had not given me clear instructions for this soccer match, and I sat back and watched, yearning to be able to show off my soccer skills to the town.

As the match came to an end I vowed to find the correct attire for next year, and reassured myself that there was always next year. We went back up to the house to eat soup with my host family and make plans for the next day in which all of the town’s baptisms and weddings would take place in the church. My host aunt was getting married, and their baby son was getting baptized so it was sure to be a day filled with church and food. After dinner my host mom asked if I was going to go back out to watch more sports. Surprised that there was more planned for that night, I pushed the thought of bed out of mine and decided to head back out. Maybe after all the women would still play that night. My mom and our family friend decided they had had enough for the day headed to bed and I went out with my host family to see the action. We strolled back down to the cement courts where the lights were a glow but only a few kids were playing. It didn’t seem like much more was going to happen so we headed up to the church to listen in on the night’s mass. The church was packed full and the electric piano was putting out some lively music. However it was not loud enough to cover up the ring of my host mom’s cell phone twenty minutes into the service. Turned out that they were looking for me to play soccer. We jumped up from the pews in a moment of hallelujah and ran down to the courts, as it appeared they were waiting for me.

The adrenaline rushed threw my body, for it seemed I was actually going to get to play soccer. The municipality secretary called me over, and it became clear that I would be playing for the municipality team. Each neighborhood in town, as well as the municipality (with women I had never seen before) all had their own teams. Our rush to get there turned out to be a classic hurry up and wait moment in Peru as they were still trying to locate our jerseys. But after only twenty minutes of anticipation I found myself in an official Levanto Municipality dark blue jersey ready to take on a neighborhood team.  The whistle blew and we took off as the crowd grew and the school director announced the whole game. Well it took a short few minutes to prove my skills to the women as I put the ball into the back of the net. The school director only boosted my confidence as he announced my every move to the crowd and told the other team that I should be better marked. It was quite thrilling to finally be playing soccer, a sport that I had confidence in, and love. The two twenty minute halves went by in a blur, as we won 4-1 and I felt on top of the world. At the end of the match as we were walking off the court, one of the women on my team came up to me and pointed out that while I did get 4 goals I also missed 4 opportunities, and that shouldn’t happen in the next game. I laughed thinking she must be slightly joking, but it was clear from the look in her eyes that she meant business and we better win the tournament.

Two other neighborhoods took the court as we sat down and watched to see which team we would play for the championship game. By then it was 10:30pm and it was clear we would be playing at least until midnight, much later than my normal bedtime.  The Amazonas neighborhood came out ahead in the second match (which is the neighborhood that I live in) and soon enough we were taking the court again. The town mayor gave us a pep talk essentially telling me that whenever I had the ball to just shoot for the goal. Well this team had figured out our strength and put three girls out just to mark me; shutting me down enough to only allow me to have one goal in the first half.  I politely asked the three girls guarding me if they would mind just leaving me be so I could play, to which they laughed and gave me a hug, thus stepping even closer to me. In the second half we got two handballs within our box, giving them two penalty kicks, and thus winning the game. While disappointed I could finally see the perspective of my host mom, even though we lost, the game was incredibly fun, I proved myself to the town, and I was elated with energy that made it impossible to fall asleep that night. So yes I suppose it is quite possible to lose, be very competitive, and still proclaim that it was great game of soccer.

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.

Cows

Once again I bring you a story that happened while running. I suppose it may come off as though I am running or walking constantly while on my Peace Corps adventure, but I assure you that this is not the case, it is simply because a disproportionate amount of stories come out of these times. I could tell you about the endless hours I spend sitting in my room, playing ‘flick golf’ on my kindle and listening to Podcasts; shoving the thought that I should be more proactive out of my mind and focusing more on achieving the next high score while pretending I am part of the American stories that are blaring from my ipod. But then this blog would just seem like any bored anxy kid blogging from their room in the States with not much to report on. So I bring to you the occasional moments that I get out of my room, adventure around the town, stumble over some awkward Spanish phrases, and get some vitamin D into my skin. I make it a goal to get out and show my face to the world at least once a day, but sometimes if the rain is coming down, my feet are for once warmed up in my bed, or I am deeply committed to the book I am reading then this is just too big of a goal for that day! I struggle with the fact that my host parents get up at 5:00am every morning to tend to the farm, make breakfast, or busy themselves with the day’s tasks, and I stroll out at 8:00am looking like the lazy foreigner that can afford to sleep away precious daylight hours.  This seems to be a common shared experience for beginning Peace Corps volunteers, and I think this sense of uselessness can be one of the toughest battles to overcome.  I have come up with small strategies to make myself appear busy, for example I am typing this blog up on the municipality computer, which gives me the outward image of being hard at work in a much more public way than typing it up in my room would.  I think what gets to me the most is the perceived judgment or curiosity from others at the fact that my lifestyle here is so different from what they are used to. Sometimes I wish I could wake up with darker skin and hands that show years of working the land, and head off to milk the cows without being a spectacle, while other days I revel in the fact that I am something special to the kids playing in the plaza, I am a source of gossip to the knitting women outside their houses, and a curiosity to the men on the street. This sense of uselessness will ease over time as the gears to my projects start creaking forward, and I do realize that my time here will pass quicker than I can keep up with, so for now I remind myself to embrace the small achievements of each day, and allow myself a healthy dose of American podcasts, to stay connected with my roots of course!

                   Anyways I was out on my normal run the other day and had picked up two kids on the way for entertainment, motivation, and determent for the persistent men that I find sometimes on my running route.  We were having a grand old time talking about the new baby twins that one of the boy’s mother had just had the other day, and how much they cry all night, when we passed the house of one of my admirers.  He jumped up and hollered at me that he wanted to meet me down on the road to show me something. The women were laughing him on, and encouraging me to see what he had to show off.  It was because of this encouragement that I didn´t bolt out of there as fast as my legs could carry me. He was doing a sort of sign language dance to say that he was going to run straight down through his farm to meet me further down on the road.  I chuckled at his ridiculousness dance of communication and continued down the road to drop the boys off at their houses.  On my final stretch back to my house I rounded one of the corners and there was my admirer waiting for me in the road, clearly proud of himself that he had successfully made it there to greet me. As I reached to where he was he grabbed my hand to pull me over to the other side of the road jumping in excitement and aggressively pointed out something down the hillside. I looked down and saw four meek looking cows eating some grass on the hillside. He eagerly exclaimed that they were ALL his. I raised my eyebrows faking my amazement, and tried to figure out why he was showing off his cows to me. He seemed so genuinely excited, but the sight of cows seemed nothing too special.  I couldn’t understand why he had run out of his way to show me these amusing but fairly dumb animals. And then it hit me, he was showing off his wealth, and I was supposed to be impressed.  Oh wow I told him, trying to figure out how I was going to get myself out of this situation gracefully without hurting his feelings too much. I took a step back enlarging the distance between us, and just as he went into a rant about our future together, I put on my serious voice, said I was nearly married with someone in the United States, gave him a high five, and ran off down the road. He was left waving goodbye to me, and wondering why his cow trick did not work.

I don’t intend to come off as a diva in this story which I realize I pretty much do. More the point is that I am not accustomed to looking at cows as money. Here the reality is that raising cows can be hugely profitable, and the meat of one cow can feed a whole community. They are an important part of their livelihood and I should perhaps give them more respect when passing in the road instead of running to the other side praying that they don’t put down their horns and ram me.  The flip side of this is that they have a tendency to eat all the native trees when the trees are young and just planted. This makes it harder to convince people to plant native species, when cows will soon come tromping through.    

Fake it til you make it

             This week some of my projects took a step forward while others took a step back. With the encouragement of the local nurse and many women from the community I started up an exercise class. Back in the states I always romanticized about attending regular exercise classes, meeting potential new friends while getting my sweat on, and essentially becoming more fit. In reality I have sampled many different types of classes, worked out plans on a calendar, and bought up several groupons to gyms that I never seemed to be able to fulfill the 7 classes for $30. Needless to say while I have dabbled in many types of exercise, I was starting up these classes pretty blind. I figured all I needed was some good music, and the moves and stretches would just flow back to my memory. I posted signs around the community announcing that I would hold classes Tuesday and Thursday evenings in the health post. I even hand delivered small reminders to women around town and received enthusiastic responses that they would definitely be there.  My hopes were high enough to ignore the fact that I didn’t really know how to lead an exercise class.

                  Tuesday evening rolls around and at 6:00pm I head to the health post to find the two nurses sitting there finishing up paper work, and two of my potential woman talking with the nurses, their babies on their back, and sandals that seem to say they are not there to do exercises. We joke that they are actually going to do the class, but it is clearly a joke. The nurse assures me that she has told all the fat people in town to come, and that I just have to wait out the Peruvian tardiness. At 6:15 the cousin of one of the nurses shows up and I have renewed hope that there might be people for my class so I wait out the paper work of the nurses, and say goodbye to the women and their babies who have to go prepare dinner. By 6:45 it is clear that no one is going to come and I have once again been tricked by the Peruvian urge to please, but the lack of follow through when it comes to actually showing up. However the nurses and cousin seem invested so we put on the jams and I start with a basic side step jump to get the blood going. I try out some fancy turns with the shaking of the hips, we do some lunges, squats, jumping jacks but my urge is to move through the exercises fast and I find that we have hit every part of the body before one song is done. The second song consists of a lot of random jumping around with our hands in the air and laughing at the three year old daughter of one of the nurses who is imitating our every move. Ten minutes in and I have already gone through all my exercise materials so we circle back around to the side step. Outwardly I have a large laughing smile, but inwardly I am at a loss as to how those exercise instructors can take up a whole half hour let alone an hour!

                  We push forward trying to not stop moving, which results in a lot of jumping up and down, and the nurses throw out some suggestions, but my cover is blown and it becomes clear that even though I go on runs most days I have very little knowledge of how to hold an exercise class. I throw out some of my classic dance floor moves and we try out some Peruvian folk music, which proves to be too slow for our fast paced jumping. By the end of class we are all sweating and laughing and talking about what parts of our bodies we want to lose weight, it feels like I am right back in America. Overall they seem happy and promise to spread the word next class. With their enthusiasm I am convinced that even if I only had one person other than the people I organized the classes with, it was worth it.

After the class I go running home, and give my host mom and my host god sister disapproving looks trying to portray my fake frustration that they didn’t come to my classes even though all day they promised they would. My god sister holds up a small cut on her finger and proclaims that since she cut her finger while cutting tomatoes that she was unfit to exercise. We laughed together at the fact that I had very few members in my class, and my host dad proclaimed that he would never marry anyone that is skinny for this was a sign that the woman had no interest in cooking and therefore could not cook well.  The following classes I had two more participants, that I had to drag to class from their homes but afterwards they admitted they enjoyed it. I continue to remind people to come, and with the energy of the nurse’s cousin I go back every class hopefully and unashamed that my exercise classes mainly consist of us jumping around like monkeys with some wall sits, and sit-ups thrown in every so often.

                  Other project successes include getting an environmental club started with a group of elementary students, and while the first meeting reminded me at how disobedient students are here, I am excited for the potential of this group. The school is proving to be the easiest institute to work with, as the teachers are eager for me to come in and take over their classes. The municipality is rarely open, and the tree nursery is busy planting pine trees, so in the meantime I am working my way through many books, hiking around the mountains, and twiddling my thumbs waiting for Spanish vocabulary to voluntarily stick in my brain.

Bringing Home the Winnings

             Town anniversaries are a point of pride here in Perú. The neighborhood in Lima that I lived in during Peace Corps training was creatively named October 3^rd so as no one would forget about their anniversary.  There is now a history of gringos living in this neighborhood during their anniversary, as it falls during one of the annual training times, and thus an expectation that Peace Corps trainees come, dance like wild animals all night, and perhaps even sing a song for everyone’s enjoyment. Minus the singing, I don’t think we let them down this past year.  Away from the city celebrations get a little more traditional, and in some ways more elaborate. The partying can go on all week long, with the municipality pouring funds into food and drinks to keep the people happy. It is a way to show off the organizational level of the community, and the ‘open heart’ of the municipality. Levanto’s anniversary falls on May 2^nd, so we spent all of last week preparing for it. On Thursday my host dad went out with the community to kill the fattest cow that the community owned. On a side note, our most organized association in town is the community owned farm/cattle. They provide free daily rationing of fresh milk for all families with children under 6, as well as provide milk to our cheese factory, and not to forget the meat of community festivals. It is run by community members with periodic workdays where the men are expected to go out and help. While in recent years there have been complaints that people have gotten too ego-centric, and things are not as organized, from an outside perspective they still seam to do a pretty good job.

My host dad, anticipating tradition to stay alive, was ready at 6:00am to go out and kill this cow. For the next two hours he proceeded to come back in every half hour for more breakfast, each time more disgruntled at the disorganization of the community. Finally at around 8:00 he headed out to get the job done, while I went off to plant trees with other members of the community. After a long day in the field I was walking back through town to my house when I ran into my host parents outside a neighbor’s house. They hustled me inside to proudly show off the cow, which at this point was just the gutted head. One room was dedicated as the butcher room where four women stood around at table cutting up a mountain of fresh meat into small portions. There was a bloody axe left by the door, which showed the men had been in here first to make their mark dismantling the cow. In the kitchen the fire was roaring, cooking up huge cauldrons of potatoes and rice, but there was just enough room on the grill, and my timing was just right, as I witnessed them throw the whole bull’s head onto the fire to burn off the hairs, and periodically heaving it off to scrap at it with a knife. I was informed that this would be my breakfast soup the next morning, and at this I thought it was time for me to leave. My host mom followed me out to go back and make dinner for us, meaning she had been cooking nonstop from 5:00am until 8:00pm, no wonder she said her feet hurt.

Friday morning as promised the brass band struck up at the crack of dawn (5:30am) from the top of the hill right above our house. I was told that the previous volunteer had jumped out of bed in his poncho and ran up to join the band last year. It was hinted that I should probably do that as well, but as I was awoken by trumpets and booming fireworks, my bed seemed all too warm, and the woman that was going to go with me never hollered my name, so I watched from my window as the band made its way down from the hill and into the plaza. There was an impressive group marching with them as the sun began to rise and the party was already getting going. I watched from afar with the neighbors, until it was clear that I had no other choice but to go down and enjoy some brainy soup with the community. It was during breakfast that the town nurse appointed me to be the representative for the health post in the community fun run. I enthusiastically agreed, having had already talked up my running in the community and wanting an opportunity to prove myself. After breakfast we went down and put my name on the list, and then seeing there were no other athletic looking people there I went back to my house to change and get ready. I put on my best running clothes, and strutted around my house proclaiming to my family that the gringa was about to go win the race. They oohed and ahhed but mostly rolled their eyes at my excitement. I ran back down the hill to the plaza, elated with energy, picking up the nurse, my cheerleader, on the way.

We waited for another hour, while the school director called in the athletes over a loud speaker, and I showed the kids that were sitting around how to cheer for me as I came into the finish line. Finally we had satisfactory representation from the school, the municipality, the community representatives, and the community itself, and the 11 of us piled into the large van including my biggest fan the nurse. There were only three women including me, one of which proclaimed that she was only going to try, but didn’t think she could really make it, this just made my confidence grow as I was sure I had this one in the bag. Much to my opposition it was decided that the women would start closer than the men. I complained loudly proclaiming that I could run with the men, to which the men encouraged, and I am sure the other women prayed for me to stay quiet for fear they would be made to run a longer a distance. However at the 2 km mark up the hill, the van dropped off us three women, along with the nurse, one male school teacher, that decided he wanted to be a woman for the day, and another random guy that I did not know. The van then left us in the dust instructing us to wait for the second fire rocket to go off, signaling our start time.

In our waiting time it was agreed no one would go running off on their own, leaving everyone else in the dust, as this seemed unsportsmanlike. Mostly that was directed at me as they seemed to buy into my confidence that I would win, and I whole-heartedly agreed to stay with the pack. The woman that proclaimed she wasn’t going to make it went off down the road with the other random guy, to do some warm up laps, and we laughed that she was going to wear herself out. I realized this was the first official race I had been in since 5^th grade track and field, and the adrenaline was exciting. At last we heard the first rocket go off for the men, and a few minutes later our rocket blasted. The nurse waved us goodbye, as the five of us (including the random tag along guy) took off running. It soon became clear that the tag along guy is coaching the woman that proclaimed she was not going to make. He calls out for her to go slowly at the beginning, but she is very clearly leading the pack. Now I have never been coached in distance racing, but I figured it was better to let her set the pace, so I trailed just behind her, as she continued to go faster and faster. Her unsupportive off brand Chuck Taylor’s smacked the ground as she impressively kept up a solid pace, with me on her back, and the coach running on our side. We left the other two in the dust, forgetting our sportsmanly contract, and I realized she was in this to win this, and her previous statement was just to throw us off. It was amazing how quickly I slipped into my competitive mind frame, knowing the road well as it is the same road I run everyday I planned out where I was going to over take her. We came over our last hill and the last kilometer was all down hill. I let her lead through the curves, as gravity carried us full speed. Things really heated up when her coach instructed her to cut me off on the inside curve, and I found myself nearly tripping over her heals. It was in this act of aggression that my competitive edge fiercely made an appearance. That’s it lady, here I come. I proceeded to cut her off in the next curve and we were neck in neck fighting over the lead. My breathing became constricted, and I knew her body was screaming resistance just as much as mine, so it was down to a mental game. I told myself to ignore the lack of air and pressed down on the gas as I inched in front of her for the last curve and into a straightaway. I heard her coach yell for her to give it her all, that she could do it, but as we rounded the corner not only were my trained children all cheering me on but also my neighbors and family. I hear her sigh a breath of surrender as ran through the crowd of people and rose my hands above my head in victory breaking through the toilet paper finish line that was held up by the school director and town governor. 

            Completely exhausted I walked in two circles and gratefully took the free bottle of water from the municipality. I found my competitor recovering on the bench to shake her hand and then make my way to my fan group to cheer on the men. We speculate what the prize is going to be; some say I won a cow, while others say a box of beer. I suddenly become nervous about the responsibility of my winnings, I did not want to have to lead the town in a drinking circle of beer, as would probably be expected if that was the prize. Soon I start to wonder if I should have let the woman win, as she was clearly more committed than I was, but that is just not in my genetic make-up. Shortly after the men come running in followed by the van with the nurse signifying the end of the race. Over the loud speaker they announce me as the winner for the woman’s bracket and the kids push me forward to receive my award. The school director shakes my hand and gives me 30 soles of prize money, mentioning that it is for the school ‘cevicheria’ fundraiser that is happening later that afternoon. I interpret this as I should give this money to buy many plates of ceviche (a raw fish dish that is famous here) to support the school, and I feel relieved to have some direction with my prize money. I head back home to change and announce my winning to the rest of the family, who pat me on the back in praise. I invite them all to a plate of civiche and we head back down just in time to see the parade going on in the plaza. The local band is playing the national anthem as they raise up the Peruvian and Amazona flags, and the children march formally in straight lines around the plaza. It felt a little like the 4^th of July parade that we have in my hometown in Ashland, but much more formal and shorter. Afterwards we fill up our tupperwares with civiche and I donate all my winnings to the school.

We are then offered Styrofoam plates of rice, beef, beans, and salad for the community lunch, and with our hands full of food we headed back up to the house to eat.

            After lunch and a short nap I join my host mom, neighbor, and the nurse outside enjoying the sun. They are perusing magazines that sell everyday items for cheap prices, and gossiping about the town. I join them as the proud winner of the race, and we laugh as we pick out potential boyfriends for me from the magazine. Soon the conversation turns to my prize money, and the nurse proclaims that since I was running for the health post that the money should go to them. I turn red and then have to admit that I gave it all to the school. In dismay my host mom thought I only bought the three plates of civiche and then accepted my change, she did not realize I gave it all to them. Realizing my mistake I proclaim that in the States the schools have no money so they are usually a good cause to give to. To this the nurse responds that the school here has a farm and guinea pigs and thus have a lot of money, where as the health post has nothing. Realizing my mistake I bury my head in my sweatshirt and proclaim the gringa naivety. They laugh it off, while also trying to get me to go back and reclaim my money. All in all they are still proud to have a winner in the presence…I hope.

A stick Adventure

            For a while I have been trying to get in on some of the exciting activities that the tree nursery technician always says he’s going on. Usually he invites me the day before to go to the ‘campo’ to do something having to do with trees that I don’t really understand in Spanish. I always agree, and he always fails to tell me what time, or when the day comes it gets cancelled, or it is not suitable work for a woman. Persistently I continue to ask hoping one of these days he will take me on a tree planting excursion. Finally last week his wife invited me to go with him on Friday to ‘get sticks from the woods.'  Having no clue what this really entailed I of course agreed. All week I announced to everyone I saw that I was going to go collect sticks which received various reactions. Most told me that it was super far from here and I would be walking all day, others said they wanted to go as well, and some told me to be prepared to sleep out in the woods. I tried to get more details on what collecting sticks entailed or what it was for, as I was under the assumption that it was somehow connected to the tree nursery. Piece by piece I started to gather that this was a community tradition, and we would deliver the sticks to the church when we were done. A car would take us to the next town over so we could start hiking from there which was a recent luxury for in the past when there were no card that hike was much longer.

            On Thursday night my host mom labored away to make my lunch for the next day and I slept a bit anxiously as I had no clue what to expect for the next morning. I woke up bright and early to the technicians voice outside my door talking with my host mom. I decided this was probably my wake up call so I jumped out of bed and made myself decent. I opened the door just as the technician was leaving and my host mom turned to me and said I couldn’t go. My heart dropped and filled with pure disappointment. Why I whined to my host mom, and she went off on a rant that the community president proclaimed that this was not a good trip for me and there was no room in the car for me to go. I would have to wait and go with the technician another day to see the area. My host mom was clearly as frustrated as I was, especially since she had spent so much time preparing my lunch to go. Feeling the urge to cry I went into my room and paced around for a while trying to decide what I would do with myself for the day. I could go on my own long hike and take my lunch with me, but somehow that seemed sad and lonely. I put my gum boots back into their home shelf and went to have breakfast where the conversation centered around bitterness toward the community for not letting the gringa go on the community excursion to collect sticks. Just as we were finishing up breakfast my host mom got a phone call, which I could over hear perfectly due to the tendency for Peruvians to shout into cell phones. Turned out the president of the community had decided not to go and I could have her spot in the car. I was told to meet them in the plaza at 9:00am. Overcome with a new rush of emotion I busied myself sewing the hole in my backpack, collecting my things, and putting on my gum boots. Just as I was about to head out my host dad came home from the early morning farm work to have breakfast. He pulled out some twine and gave it to me describing that I would need it to tie together the sticks once they are cut, as they spring apart as soon as they are cut down. As the clock struck 9:00 I headed to the plaza with my host dad saying ‘you have to arrive at 9:00 but I don’t have to arrive until later’ Which I translated as I would be waiting in the plaza for a long time.

            There was one other woman and son in the plaza that seemed to be waiting that I thankfully joined grateful to have company to wait with. We talked about how long the trip would be, and as the time slipped by predicted what time we would make it back by. Slowly more people joined us, mostly women,  and a few men. My host dad came down a half hour later to size up the crowd that would be going. The men tried to convince him to come, as it seemed the promised hoards of people were not showing up. He half committed and went back up to our house to finish getting ready. A garage door opened and out drove a van, that apparently the town owns. The women including me piled into the van while the men tried to laugh off the fact that they were under represented and started desperately calling others to join. The town governor showed up, but the tree nursery technician apparently backed out of the adventure. Anxious to leave we started revving up the engine and they hollered at my host dad to hurry up. Soon enough off we drive with the whole town out waving us goodbye. 

             We drive thirty minutes on a back road to the nearest town over, squeezing past a small house sized rock that had fallen into the road, and screaming past the farmers on horses that were heading out to their crops. We make our way up a road until we can drive no farther signifying the official trailhead. It turns out this is the first time for all of us and the next 4 hours of hiking consist of hiking straight up on a muddy/swampy trail, stopping every 30 minutes to debate which way we should go, and trying to refuse the peer pressure to take shots of ‘aguadiente’ the local hard alcohol that is made from sugar cane and used to cure dehydration, frozen fingers, and lack of energy. My host dad and the other two men run up the trail ahead of us, seemingly in a hurry for unclear reasons. I fall back with the women as we hike up through farm land that transition into bare grassy ecosystems that mark the high elevations in this area. After about 2 hours of climbing we thankfully reach a circular hut welcoming a much needed rest. My host dad jokes that I have arrived very late to which I blame my inability to walk in the mud, and definitely not due to tiredness. Popcorn, fermented cane juice and water get passed around the group as we re-energize and ponder how much farther there is to walk.  All to soon we are off again galloping through the high grasslands that have been ‘reforested’ with non-native pine trees giving it a sense of a christmas wonderland. I desperately look around for what could be the special sticks that we are looking for, but the area seems fairly barren, and I am still left completely at a loss as to what we are looking for.

            Over the next hill side five lakes come into view and I am excitedly told the legend of Levanto. Apparently a girl was brushing her hair at these lakes while watching over her sheep, when she disappeared and they never found her. I'm pretty sure there is more to the legend but thats all I got form it. The lakes were tucked down within the pine tree groves, but yet still there was no sign of native forest filled with special sticks, so on we march. Summating even higher we reach another hut that looks out over a large valley. This valley is the private conservation area that the community owns. The view was quite impressive and it was only when they pointed way down to some native forests and exclaimed that was our destination that my stomach sank.  I realized we would be running deep down into the valley and then have to hike back up carrying these mysterious sticks. But I slapped on my enthusiastic Peace Corps smile and chased after my host dad was we half ran half slid down the muddy paths.

            Once we were near to the native forest they seemed to grow in patches of thick rainforest-esque forest, carved out by grassland where people had deforested the area. There was much debate as to which forest patch would hold the sticks but finally they agreed on one and we delved in. The change in scenery was incredible, with thick vines coming down out of the canopy of trees. Sadly there is only 30% of these forest left in the area that I live it, but it was pretty amazing scrambling through them. I hear my host dad holler my name somewhere deep in the forest, so I Tarzan swing my way over to where he is handing me seemingly brown sticks and instructs me to hold them tightly so it doesn’t open. I quickly see what he means as the stick splits into fine sheets reveling a bright green color in the center. Admittedly they were pretty amazing. The women run the sticks up out of the forest as the men search for more to cut. It was a pretty productive and exciting system, as we all seemed very relieved to find the sticks. Once everyone had a pile to carry my host dad helped me tie mine up with some twine and prepared my pile to be carried. He insured that I only carry three sticks and I don’t argue him on the point considering the steep climb and hike we still have in front of us.

            At three o’clock we lay out our plastic to sit on the wet ground and enjoy our lunches. My host mom has packed me French fries with fried chicken, and much to my delight someone offers some avocado to add some green to my dish. Unfortunately I finish my only supply of water, and wonder what I will do for the trip back just as the sun is coming out from behind the clouds. Now that I have an idea  of what the sticks look like I start asking what they are used for. I piece together that they are for the church and people come to use them as a remedy of some sort. Then a light bulb clicks in my head as I realize that the coming Sunday is Palm Sunday, and this must be their form of Palms. The wonderful and adventurous tradition that they have kept alive suddenly dawns on me. 

            It was a beast walking back up the mountain side in true Peruvian fashion that ignores any switchbacks and goes with the fastest route. I took off first knowing I would be on the slower end, and was quickly over taken by the men but held my own with the women as we complained about the mud but celebrated our success at finding such nice sticks. I was fortunately in the back of the pack when I took an oversized step and came crashing to the ground sticks and all, essentially taking a mud bath. But pretending nothing happened I was able to pick myself up and continue on our trek. By the time we reached the second hut I was almost getting the hang of the mud and joined in on the full paced run down the other side of the mountain, leaping from rock to rock as if I could fly, stopping quickly to drink the water that was streaming out of a tube from the side of the mountain, my thirst overcoming any thought of water borne diseases. I was keeping up with the pack and feeling pretty proud of myself when my cell phone rang deep in my bag. I ignored the first call, but the persistent Peruvians always call more than once, so I had to stop and sift through my backpack to finally catch the phone on the last ring and inform my host mom that we were still on our way back. This sadly made me last in the pack, but I still came in dancing to join the rest relaxing on a sunny patch of green grass. To which I got a nod of approval from my host dad. I am pretty sure this excursion was the Peruvian equivalent of father/son or father/daughter fishing trips, and I had proven myself somehow. We loaded the sticks on the roof of the van and joyfully took off back toward home

            That Sunday my host mom and I went to the church service, arriving a bit late and filing into the last pew. Everyone was holding up the sticks proudly and as the women came to give us our sticks one of them saw me and excitedly proclaimed that she had been saving one of the sticks that I carried for me. I felt pretty special as I received my tall powerful stick and the woman next to me and had to make due with one that was cut in half. Periodically throughout the service we were told to lift our sticks up and shake them causing them to split apart and open up in beautiful green arrangements. At the close of the service we lifted our sticks up one last time for the Priest to take a picture on his smart phone that took him several takes to figure out how to use. We then paraded out following a statue of Jesus and walked proudly around the plaza serval times, completing my most eventful palm Sunday!