Surviving Life in Peru

What is it like living in rural Peru?  Not me, not a volunteer that earns “relatively” nothing, yet can live comfortably, eat well, take vacations.  I am referring to the people I live with.  The people of the most rural parts of the country.  The farmers/agriculturists that provide food for the rest of the country, yet can hardly feed themselves.

After two years living in my Andean community of 300, I have been present for four harvests.  Approximately every six months, from planting to harvest, a crop is produced.  Unlike other parts of the country which rely on annual rains, the people of the Cordillera Blanca have the benefit of year-round glacial melt from the surrounding mountains.  Even so, the profit margin is slim.  The best prices come to those who harvest first, before the market is saturated.  The main products of the region are potatoes, corn, peas, wheat, and kiwicha (amaranth). 

Last month, it was time to harvest the peas my host family had spent six months preparing: plowing the field with two bulls, planting, watering, caring for, and finally harvesting.  The whole family comes out to pick the pods off the vines.  After a couple days’ work, the sacks are taken by car to the nearest town where they are sold at market.  According to my host mom, a sack of peas sold for S/.120 ($43) a few months ago.  Now late in the season, they sold each sack for a mere S/.50 ($18).  [Current exchange rate $1 = S/.2.8.]  Each family member is paid S/.10 ($3.50) and the transportation costs S/.4 ($1.50) per sack.  After six months of work, my host father earned S/.30 ($10.70.)  As he recounted all these details to me just a few hours ago, he described the latest harvest as a “failure.” 

With less than two months of Peace Corps service to go, I can’t help but imagine what will become of my host family after I leave.  I pay monthly rent of S/.120 ($43) to cover room & board.  They surely depend on that income to survive.  They have been talking of moving to “the city” after I leave.  Whether that means an hour away or 8 hours away to Lima, I can’t imagine how that will improve their opportunities.  For miles and miles outside of Lima, there are pueblos jovenes or “young towns” that are cropping up as people are abandoning the country in search of a better life.  Unfortunately, what they are finding on the sandy coast is infertile farm land, higher cost of living, pollution, and distance from support of friends of family.  

So what is the solution to survive?

I don’t know.

Ladies and gentlemen…We have a fence: Jun 25, 2010

It is 3am on a Friday morning, and my alarm is going off.  I get up, get dressed and ready to go, and am waiting in the darkness of the patio by 3:45am.  The stars are incredible and the moon is nearly full, casting a crisp blue glow on the sleeping world.  Only that my part of the world isn’t sleeping.  There was a school anniversary celebration in the next town, and drunken men are stumbling back to their houses.  These are not the characters I’m waiting for.  I’m actually waiting for the president of the newly formed Tree Planting Committee and his donkeys.

The day before, I had hauled 180 pounds of barbed wire from the National Park office in Huaraz to my house in Cashapampa.  It of course couldn’t have been one straight shot, but rather it entailed a truck, a combi, a mototaxi, and a colectico over the course of three hours.  Once everything was safely packed into the back of the colectivo for the last leg of the trip, I bought four huge bottles of soda in anticipation of celebrating the building of the fence.  Halfway up the mountain, there was a shifting of barbed wire which proceeded to puncture one of the soda bottles.  I knew everyone in the car so I offered them all soda, which is a very Peruvian thing to do.  It was a nice moment we all shared as soda was dripping everywhere and on everyone and the driver stopped so we could have a few minutes without bumps.  We made it the rest of the way without incident although I’m sure several passengers were waiting to get to a bathroom.

Getting back to that incredibly early morning…  There I was waiting in the dark with 11 rolls of barbed wire.  One by one the forestation crew showed up with one pole each, as did my sitemate who changed her mind about thinking 4am was too early to meet.  The president of the reforestation committee was concerned that only 10 of the 115 members of the tourist association had shown up by the 4am meeting time.  Nonetheless, he told us to start hiking and he’d wait until 5am for any latecomers.  The moon had just set as we made our way in the dark up into the ravine.  Climbing, climbing, climbing for a few hours until we reached the reforestation area as the sun came up and warmed my body and frozen hands.  I pulled out the map given to me by the National Park, and couldn’t figure out where these parcels of land were located.  Instead of one big plot of land, there were seven small pieces So there I was not having any idea where to build these fences, plus without the manpower and fence posts that were needed.  I thought we’d have to guess and build a fence on land that looked suitable for tree planting.  My sitemate and I decided on an area that looked like it might have been one of the parcels on the map.  Not feeling totally convinced of this fence-building business, I walked back towards the group of men and saw that not only did more men and fence posts arrive, but so did one of the park guards.  The same park guard that was present the day the parcels of land were picked out by engineers from the National Park.  He knew exactly where every parcel was located, and confirmed that the one my sitemate and I had picked out was indeed one of the seven.  Woohoo!  Good guess!  The men ate breakfast and then got right down to work.  There ended up being 35 men with their fence posts.  Enough to build two fences around pretty decent-sized plots of land.

A few hours later, I looked out across the plots of land that were newly fenced-in.  They also dug all the holes at the correct distance apart, so that we wouldn’t have to worry about tourists bringing tools and leaving them, or the possibility of being stolen.  The tourist will just have to bring up their tree and put it in the hole.  We even cleaned up all the cow patties and made a designated area for compost.  Within a few hours, all the planning of a year and a half came together.  Next week, we’ll bring some trees to the area to start selling them to tourists so that we can see how the process works.  If it goes well, we’ll let the project loose and see what happens when tourists have the carry their own trees and plant them unsupervised.  Hopefully in the future, there will be a park guard hired specifically to oversee the project and be stationed close to the reforestation parcels.  In the meantime, we’ll see what happens this tourist season in order to make improvements for next year.

Phase One: April 19, 2010

The project is underway.  This morning I went into the mountains of the Huascaran National Park to visit one of their tree nurseries.  It was amazing to see so many Polylepis, an endangered species, growing in the tree beds.  Instead of being in small individual bags as I had imagined, they were growing directly into the soft soil of the beds.  We pulled them out of the ground gently and cut off the secondary roots to promote hardier growth.  When I had 200 saplings, they filled just two bags.  Since they took up much less space than anticipated, I arrived in Cashapampa with ease and had stopped worrying if a member of ASAAM would be there to meet me.  I had left a note for the president a few days earlier, but since there was no way of receiving confirmation, I had no idea if anyone would show

That morning when making arrangements to obtain the trees, the National Park asked my coordinator if she could also drive a park-guard to Cashapampa, since she was taking me there anyway with the trees.  That was quite fortuitous, since it was the first time Cashapampa was receiving training from a National Park park-guard, in order to train two locals (ASAAM members) to be in control of the Cashapampa park entrance.  He would be in town for three days training the new guys, and helping them with the park fees, documents, registration book, etc. 

When didn’t arrive in Cashapampa until 4pm, and I figured no one would be around the ASAAM locale nor the park booth entrance.  But since the new park guard had arrived and he had to talk with the president and so did I, we went together.  Lo and behold, who was waiting there at the park booth entrance? None other than the president, the two new park-guard trainees, and my favorite ASAAM member who is always eager to support my project ideas.  I told them I had 200 Polylepis saplings in my house, and the discussion began… Where do we put them?  What if someone steals them?  How many beds to dig?  What dimensions should the beds be?  How many beds are needed for 200 saplings?  How will tourists know they’re for sale?  How will the trees be transported up into the mountains?  Should we build a full-scale tree nursery to produce our own saplings, or simply obtain them from other nurseries as needed?  Good questions, gentlemen, very good questions.  Finally we are heading towards the same page.  All these concerns that have been whirring around my brain for a year, are surfacing in the minds of those who need it.  The president said they’d dig a hole the next day, and I could bring them the trees the following day.  Awesome.  The project may not be as organized or supported as I would have liked, but we’re starting, and for that I am relieved.

Passing the Voice: April 16, 2010

A large part of what I do is communication.  In Spanish we say, “pasar la voz,” which literally means “to pass the voice.”  This morning I woke up to another beautiful sunny day.  There hasn’t been much of a rainy season this year, which gives me a slight uneasy feeling.  For one, the seeds I’m planting in the tree nursery will need almost daily care without the help of rain.  And two, the tourists will begin to arrive in masses to enjoy the 4-day Santa Cruz trek which starts in Cashapampa.  With not a cloud in the sky, I set out to the next town on foot, a mere 40 minutes’ stroll.  The benefits of walking there are mostly determined by whom I encounter along the way.  Walking past the plaza, I see the staff of the health post.  I stop to coordinate plans for a project they are starting called, “Healthy Schools.”  The staff of the health post had approached me for support on this initiative, since I can go into the schools and give talks on health issues related to the environment.  I wrote down the date for the next meeting and continue on my way.  Leaving the plaza, I run into one of the administrators of the rural internet project.  I’ve been asked to teach computation classes, but with only 3 of the 5 computers working, we need to get those fixed first.

Once in the next town, I go to the house of the president of ASAAM, the tourist association I work with.  The 112 members of ASAAM have agreed to my project idea, but I’ve been floundering with how exactly to go ahead in a sustainable fashion.  Sure, I can write up a business plan, take care of the marketing, obtain the trees, solicit a parcel of land from the National Park, and dig the tree beds myself, but…that wouldn’t be very sustainable, would it?  So instead of doing all that work myself, I’ve been trying to form a tree committee made up of interested ASAAM members so that I can support them in the project.  After all, this is for them, the community, the park, and the tourists, but certainly not me.  I presented the project idea several times at several ASAAM meetings with and without the Park present, and still have seen no progress towards forming a tree committee.  I consulted my boss and our regional coordinator, and both agreed I should bring the trees in regardless, and show ASAAM we need to get started. 

So there I am, knocking on the door of the ASAAM president, to find he is out of town for the day.  I write a quick note, trying to succinctly say everything I need to say, in one short paragraph (in Spanish) while his wife is standing in the open doorway waiting for me to hand over the message.  It says, “Good morning.  This Monday I will be bringing 200 quenal  Please ask an ASAAM member to be present to help us with the trees.  We will arrive Monday, April 19, 2010 in the afternoon.  Thanks, Erica Wrona, Peace Corps.”  I had a whole list of things I would’ve liked to discuss, but I’ve got to work with what I have. trees to the ASAAM Cashapampa meeting hall.

Then I head up the hill to the house where a friend used to live.  One day a year ago, I was running through this town, and heard a gringo’s voice yell, “Gringa!”  I looked over and there was a white person sitting there playing cards with the kids.  Turned out he was a returned Peace Corps volunteer from Bolivia, had returned to the states after his service, was going on a major bike ride from California to Chile, but got hit by a truck in Big Sur, California and woke up in a hospital, lucky to be alive.  And there he was that day, sitting in the plaza with an infected arm.  He had arrived in my neck of the woods due to its proximity to thermal baths.  After spending the day soaking in the natural healing powers of the baths, he tried to get a taxi off the mountain, but the taxis don’t leave after a certain time in the afternoon.  He stayed the night in one of the local’s homes, and ended up staying six months.  He was building a house and working the fields, planning to make his life here, until his arm got re-infected and the medical facilities here weren’t sufficient to treat him.  So, what I became was the messenger.  I would pass messages back and forth between the family and what I’d receive via email from Zach.  In return, I am friends with another wonderful Peruvian family, and gives me an excuse to stop on by anytime to see how they’re doing.

The third stop of the day was down the hill, past the plaza, past the school, and up the opposite hill.  I knocked on the door of the pastor’s house, and encountered his wife.  I told her that I had received an email from the missionaries at Ingleside Baptist Church.  They would be arriving in the middle of May for a week.  They are staying here, at your house, I said.  She looked neither informed nor surprised.  Just happy and smiling.  And talkative.  Her Spanish vocabulary was at times wordy and formal, as I’d heard previously that she had learned Spanish from the Bible.  With my mission complete, I headed back to Cashapampa for lunch.  I didn’t accomplish anything tangible, but I had spread a lot of word.

Neighborly Love: March 9, 2010

My host father came down with something.  Dizzy spells, headaches, and rapid loss of vision lasting for I don’t know how long.  Besides working his field, he also used to be a taxi driver up and down the mountain.  When these symptoms began a year or so ago, they thought it was something in his diet.  I suggested cutting out the MSG that is thrown into every meal in copious amounts.  When that didn’t solve the problem, and the symptoms worsened, he went to the health post.  They told him to go down to Caraz.  The doctors in Caraz didn’t know what was up, so they suggested he go to Lima.  And that is where my host family has been for the last two weeks.  All concern of my host father’s health aside, I was pretty stoked to have the house to myself for the first time since…ever.  I bought some pasta and groceries in the capital and dreamed of cooking for myself again.  Normal portion sizes, when and where I wanted to eat, what I wanted to eat, vegetables!  The possibilities spilled out before me.  Day one consisted of my host mom running around the house like crazy trying to coordinate leaving the kids with the relatives, leaving enough food for me to cook, making sure her mother brought alfalfa for the animals everyday, and packing.  She didn’t have time to cook lunch for us, so we ate at her brother’s house next door.  (This is the same family we are tapping electricity from.)  Several hours later, before I had put water on for dinner tea, there was a knock on my door to come over for dinner.  The same happened the next day for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner again.  You can all guess how many times I cooked for myself in the last two weeks.  No, not zero.  But close.  Twice.  Only twice was I able to convince my neighbors that I was okay boiling water.  That’s what I’m used to eating for breakfast and dinner.  Tea and bread.  Simple.  I even tried explaining that I’d bought all these groceries, and my host mom left food also, but it wasn’t even in their realm of thinking why I’d want to cook and eat alone.  Let me explain that it’s great to have company, but the quantity of food is ridiculous.  Have you ever eaten and eaten and eaten and wondered if it would stay down there?  That happens here three times a day.  I even made a pledge to start counting my daily intake of potatoes from here on out.  Just to get a general estimate of how many I’ll have consumed in 27 months in Peru.  Part of the problem is that the food tastes good.  And since it’s not a balanced diet, my body craves more and more, without actually getting what it wants.  I do take a daily multi-vitamin and calcium-magnesium supplements, but my palate knows it’s missing something.  Besides the food tasting great, and enjoying the company, I try to live in the moment.  Every meal, I take in my surroundings in an attempt to burn them in my memory cache.  I know that the time will come, in the not-too-distant-future, that my life will return to “normal” and my time here will be a blip of my memory. 

The neighbor family consists of mom, pop, toddler boy, older son, two daughters, geezer dog, and ash-colored cat called “gringo” because when he’s not sleeping near the warmth of the stove, he’s actually white.  The make-up of mealtime is different every time, depending on who needs to be where at a certain time.  Sometimes the elder daughter cooks if mom is out at a meeting or something.  Sometimes it’s just me and mom as everyone else had already eaten and gone off to play.  The best meals are when everyone is there, including the dog that lives across the street and finds himself in every else’s houses except his own.  Including the chickens that wander in and we all hiss and throw rocks to make them leave.  Including the flies and moths that make themselves uninvited guests.  Tonight I sat there, taking it all in.  The chatter in quechua/spanish, the radio playing anything from traditional music to dance club music, the toddler crying/yelling/fighting/laughing/playing/anything but actually eating.  School started this week, and each student received three notebooks from the municipality.  The colors of the notebooks were a hot topic tonight.  Then we moved onto what I did today, what I’m doing tomorrow, and what I did yesterday.  Since I take three meals a day with these people, one could imagine the repetition of conversation topics.  I talk about the antics of my rabbits a lot, and whether I think it’s going to rain.  There’s not too much going on, not much to stress me out.  I remember once a few months ago I was having a discussion about my sitemate.  I said she had stress due to a project she’s working on.  I received some quizzical looks.  “Estrés,” I repeated.  More blank stares.  I pointed it out in the dictionary, just to make sure.  My family said they’d never heard of it.  I went into the capital and asked some friends about what I’d encountered, and they said the people in the country don’t have “stress” in their vocabulary.  Now nor do I.

Stars: March 8 , 2010

Like the first explorers navigating their ships through the open sea, I orient myself by the stars.  We must take the constellations for granted, seeing them all our lives on those carefree summer nights, or on those crisp-clear-take-your-breath-away winter ones.  I look up and am awed by the fathomless universe shining down upon me.  I recognize not one single star nor constellation.  Things are different here, south of the equator.  Likewise, the water drains in the opposite direction.

How I Learned to Use Only One Electrical Appliance at a Time: February 25, 2010

After two hot showers with my newly-installed “electric shower,” the power went out.  Let me revise that number to one and a half hot showers, since the power went out right in the middle of shower #2.  Which leads me to believe that the electric shower pulled too much energy through the line, and thus melted the cable.  My family says that the neighbor “cut” the cable, and since three houses share the same power line, we are all without power.  In order to fix the situation (correctly) we must wait for a professional electrician.  In the meantime, my house is tapped into the neighbor’s house on the other side of us (incorrectly.)  Before being told the rules of tapping into someone else’s power, I went about my electrical needs as before.  I was sitting in my room with the lone lightbulb glowing, and my laptop plugged in to get some music flowing.  Then suddenly I was in the dark, my incomprehension growing.  Turns out it was all my fault, without my even knowing.  Go figure.

Cashapampa House Tour: March 2, 2010

Take a tour of where I am living during my Peace Corps service in Cashapampa, Ancash, Peru.

A Good Year: February 16, 2010

A good day stems into a string of good days, stemming into a good week, a good month and I dare to say, a good year.  Yeah, it’s February, but…I think the uphill battle is behind me.

After 451 days of having one shower option (freezing glacial cold), I took a hot shower in site.  Gone are the days of traveling 3 hours to the capital just to take a hot shower.  Yesterday, I received the best gift I could have imagined: an electric shower.  The silliest part is that the shower head has been installed since my arrival, but it has never been hooked up to electricity.  One day last month, I asked what it would take to hook it up.  My host dad said it was a matter of one part.  The wiring was already complete, leading right into the latrine.  (Latrines are usually several paces away from the house, but they brought mine directly into the patio so I wouldn’t have to walk far in inclement weather.) Yesterday after returning from the school, my host dad said there was a surprise.  I almost asked if was a good surprise or a bad surprise, since one of my baby bunnies has been ill, I thought maybe it had finally died.  But no.  It was a good surprise.  He opened the latrine door, and there was not only electricity hooked up to the shower, but a lightbulb!  I would no longer have to bumble around with my flashlight in the dark, wondering what kinds of bugs were lurking in the corner.  More than that…HOT WATER!!!  As I took my first hot shower in Cashapampa, I smiled as the steam escaped through the cracks in the door.  I tried not to think of the shoddy wiring, and the fact that electric showers work by electrocuting the water as it passes through the shower head.  Glorious.

Clean and ready to go, I headed out to undertake a task I’d been postponing for two months: finding someone.  It sounds simple, but it can be quite a process. 

First, you must walk in the general direction of the village. 

Second, you must answer all the passers-by questions as to where you are going.  Using this as an opportunity to spread the word about whichever topic you wish to expound upon, this second step can take a while.  For example, every time I run into a member of the tourist association and they ask me where I’m going, I answer that I’m going to speak with the president of the tourist association.  Then I tell them why: to form a committee in charge of building and maintaining a tree nursery.  For what? To sell native tree species to the tourists.  Ahh, I can see the cogs grinding in their heads.  Spending time on this second step is crucial to getting the word out on this project.  Hmmm, selling trees to tourists?  Interesting.  Then, when it comes time to actually form the committee, some of the members will have already heard of it, and their interest will be piqued.

Step 3: Once in the correct village, look for anyone outside their house, perhaps hanging out in the plaza.  Aha!  Children!  I approached with a smile and hoped they wouldn’t be shy and not talk to me.  Quite the opposite.  They came closer and said, “Buenos dias, Erica!”  Well, that’s a good sign, since I was 45 minutes from my village, and somehow these kids knew me.  They invited me to a mango, but I respectfully declined, saying I was looking for the house of so-and-so.  They pointed me to the house next door, and even directed me to the correct door, since every house has 4 entrances and you can’t tell what’s front, back, neighbor side, etc.

Step 4: Knock and see who answers.  Prepare for setting up a date and time when the person you’re looking for will be there.  So I knocked, and an old man’s voice yelled in quechua.  I could only assume he was asking who it was.  I yelled my name and asked if the prez was there (using his name of course).  More quechua.  I repeated myself, and was determined to stay there until I talked to someone other than the door.  By now the kids had come around the corner to see what I was yelling.  Finally, the old man opened the door.  He was hunched over and leaning on his walking stick.  I introduced myself and told him I work with the tourist association, of which so-and-so was president.  Was he there?  No, he’s working in his field.

Step 5: Either plan on returning at another set time, or find the person in his current location.  Today, the old man opted to take me directly to where his son-in-law as it turns out, was working.  The old man warmed up to me quite quickly when I said I’d come back tomorrow and he asked me what he should tell his son-in-law about my visit.  I told him to say that Erica had stopped by, and that I’m the only gringa living around here, so he’d know who I was in case he forgot my name.  The old man laughed, and said it wouldn’t be necessary to come back tomorrow, that he would personally show me the field where his son-in-law was working.  We walked across the plaza and looked down into a field where I saw a small group of people.  I was shown the path to get down there, and found my person with his fingers deep in the nostrils of a bull, while his wife poured some liquid into its mouth.  When they had finished, I approached and shook his hand that had bull snot on it.  He apologized for the dirty hand, but I didn’t mind in the least.  We spoke briefly and he invited me to Monday’s 6:00am meeting so I could talk about the tree nursery.  Awesome.  That went too well.

Step 6: Breathe and smile. 

 

 

 

 

Summer School: February 7, 2010

Life in Cashapampa has become increasingly familiar.  I've found that riding a horse around town is a great way to get around.  Chances are good that I will run into someone I'd like to talk to, and I've been able to spread the word about summer school classes.   Week one I found myself sitting in an empty classroom.  Week two brought 1 student, and week three brought 4.  Poco a poco, "little by little," they will arrive. 

With only one month left of summer school before regular classes commence, I have big plans for the handful of students that show up.  Besides coloring and learning about the environment, we will be moving on to bigger and better feats: throwing trash in a hole.  This has been an on-going goal of mine in which I have encountered a plethora of obstacles for what would seem a simple project.  Now all the pieces are in place and I have a good feeling this is going to happen.
Hole: check.  Permission to throw trash in hole: check.  Manual labor to assist in trash clean-up: check.

Another huge undertaking on my list of summer school activities is a World Map project.  We have measured out the grid area, painted it with two coats of ocean blue, and are in the process of drawing the grid itself onto the wall.  Horizontal and vertical lines will create over 1,000 individual blocks at 8 cm² apiece.  Then, the countries are drawn block by block in pencil.  The final step is painting each of the blocks, thus creating the whole world.  

 

 

 

What $3 can buy. Feed a child? Or ride a horse?: January 30, 2010

Everything takes time.  When I arrived here a year ago, I thought it would be so easy to ask around for a horse to ride.  Well, the asking itself did turn out to be easy.  It was the receiving that turned out to be difficult.  A few weeks ago I thought I had finally found my guy.  I had known him to be a member of the tourist association I work with; and he also happened to be a horse owner.  He offered to show me his horses and take me riding, and after meeting his two beautiful Peruvian Pasos, I was hooked.  The problem was, when I arrived to go riding at our scheduled time a few days later, he was nowhere to be found.  His mother told me he had gone off to Lima.  When I arrived back at my house, my host parents saw the downtrodden look on my face and tried to console me by saying they weren’t even his horses, and they would find me another horse to ride.  Back to square one.

I wasn’t standing on square one for very long.  My host dad brought me to talk to another guy, who also happened to be a member of the afore-mentioned tourist association.  The deal would be S/.10 per ride.  Being equivalent to about $3, that seemed like a bargain to me.  Seeing that deal turn from idea to reality…priceless.

You can't have your cake and eat it too: January 30, 2010

I always hated that expression.  If you already have a cake, of course you’re going to eat it.  Maybe I’ve hated that expression because I didn’t understand it.  Until now.

After an excruciatingly long time of getting myself trusted around the school, have the director to allow me to throw trash in a hole, and given a key to the classroom to hold summer school, I thought it would be smooth sailing from here on out.  The cake had arrived.  But that expression was on to something.  I can’t eat it too, if there are no students here to share it with.

Week 1 of summer school: empty classroom.

A Good Day: January 30, 2010

What constitutes a good day?  Well, today I woke up by the knocking on my door as I slept.  I heard someone say, “I’ll ask her,” and I knew it was my sitemate.  We were supposed to meet in Caraz, but her colectivo passed my house and she swung in to see if I wanted to share a ride down the mountain.  Once off the mountain, I went to the internet place to make up some flyers for summer school.  There are several things Peru does right, and computer places are one of them.  You can walk into any number of internet places, more than there are Starbucks in any given city.  For 1 sol per hour (equivalent of 30¢) you can use the internet, draft documents, listen to music, whatever.  Even more numerous than internet places, are telephone places.  Who needs a cell phone when you can walk into a locutorio and place a call?  Same goes for mobile cell phone sellers.  I’m not talking about mobile phones, I’m talking about the people who sit on a stool with a cell phone, and you pay 50 peruvian centimos (18¢) to make a call.  It’s quite convenient, and when I landed in Detroit for Christmas holiday, I couldn’t believe no one was offering this service.  I had to ask random strangers to use their cells.  And where were all the street vendors?  What if I had wanted a bottle of water or a mango?  That’s another thing Peru does well.  You can buy anything you want as you walk down the street, without ever having to step foot off the sidewalk and into a store.  And if you’re in a city such as Lima, you don’t even have to get out of your combi, bus, or taxi.  The street vendors come to you, sometimes even entering the bus or combi, and selling things you didn’t even know you needed until they arrived right in front of you.  Why yes, kind sir, I would like to buy some nail clippers.  And plastic hangers!  And toilet paper, everyone needs toilet paper.  Ahh, the peanut lady.  I like the sugar-coated roasted ones. 

Where was I?  Not Lima, but rather the sleepy tourist town of Caraz.  Ahh yes, the closest chunk of civilization to my tiny Andean village of 300 inhabitants.  After making my flyers advertising summer school offered by yours truly, I walked to a school supply store and made copies of my flyer.  I bought some plastic bags that served as sheet protectors, and met up with my sitemate for a delicious ceviche lunch.  For those who are unfamiliar with ceviche, it’s a fish & seafood concoction marinated in lemon juice and spicy pepper juice.  It’s your sushi equivalent of a spicy tuna roll, but without rice.  Thank god.

Back in Cashapampa, I made the flyers more colorful with markers, and taped them up inside the plastic bags.  As the sun was winding itself down for the day, I made my way though town with flyers in hand.  I’m never out and about an hour before dusk, and I was surprised by how many people were hanging out.  Everyone was interested in what I was doing, so before I knew it, I had several parents excited about sending their kids to summer school for an hour a week.  Other parents wanted to know why I wasn’t teaching younger grades (the grades their kids are in.)  I explained that I’m one person, and I’m teaching four grades per week.  If all goes well, I will expand the grades to my after-school club once the school year resumes in March.  So I posted the flyers around the public buildings, with each time someone telling me to post it higher and out of reach, because they will get pulled down by kids.  Well, so be it.  No one can read it if they’re too high.  And since I’m giving everyone three days’ notice, the flyers only need to serve for three days.  After that it will be by word of mouth.

Serendipity, or How I Learned to Just Give Up: Jan 30, 2010

The last year of trying to get work started has felt like trying to find unicorns in Antarctica.  Who will listen to me?  Who will support my projects?  Who will take my ideas and run with them?  I’m not forming a hunting party in search of a magical beast, I just want your permission to throw trash in a hole.  After three months of getting the classic run-around as to who is responsible for constructing a trash hole, I discovered there was an existing hole on the school grounds.  How the school director failed to mention there already was a hole, after 16 visits from me, and posters describing the hole-digging process, is a mystery to me.  I came across it one afternoon when I took my Eco-Club outside to take pictures by the tree on the school grounds.  Look! A hole!  At that point, I was in too much shock at how much energy I wasted talking to the director, that I didn’t realize how close this existing hole brought me to the goal.  With the school year winding down, I couldn’t subject myself to one more false promise.  Even though I needed to obtain permission to use a classroom for summer school, I decided to deal with it after the holiday.  But who was I kidding?  I knew no one would be there upon my return from vacation in the states, and the realization of summer school was a long shot.  How would I ever find the director during summer vacation?  So I gave up.

     Traveling back to site requires several buses, combis, mototaxis, and colectivo taxis.  The last leg of the trip, the colectivo, can take anywhere from 10 minutes to several hours while waiting for the car to fill up with passengers.  When I arrived at the colectivo, there was only one person inside: the school director.  The chances of this occurring are small, and I smiled to myself as the mountain provided yet another serendipitous encounter.  (More on that next.)  After an hour of conversation, he told me to come by the next day to pick up the key for a classroom.  The next day, not only was I given the key, but I was allowed to pick a classroom with the best wall to paint a world map.  I was also given free reign of the school grounds, to plant trees and…drum roll please…throw trash in the hole!!  I would have never expected being so elated over garbage, but the amount of time and energy just getting to this point was hard-earned.  And ridiculous.

     Now I will return to the subject of serendipity.  I cannot count the number of times I have searched for someone for days on end, only to bump into them the moment after I stop looking for them.  When the president of the tourist association was impeached, I had no idea who would be the new one, or when the voting would take place.  Most of my work is with the tourist association, and not knowing who to talk to about projects put a real halt on my progress.  For two months, I asked the vice president, the board of directors, and association members about any information they knew.  Some names were thrown out, along with when there would be a new president and board of directors, but the answers were always different (which is not uncommon and I have come to accept it as how things are.)  So what did I do?  I gave up.  After living here for a year, I was slowly starting to understand that everything happens in its due time.  No matter how adamantly I want something to happen, I have to be patient and wait for the community to be ready.  Going to Lima for mid-service medical exams, I hailed a colectivo from my house and settled in for the ride down the mountain.  We picked up passengers along the way and they all chatted away in quechua.  I recognized one man as being in the tourist association, but I didn’t feel inclined to talk.  Remember, I had given up.  Of course he starts talking to me, since I’m pretty well-known and have been the only woman amongst 112 men at their meetings; I’m hard to miss.  I act cordially but don’t offer up any of my project ideas.  I’ve told them to so many people for the past year, with no takers, that I frankly don’t see a point as I’m heading to Lima.  After several minutes of inane conversation, he starts pressing me on how I can support them to improve their organization.  I take a deep breath and give him my schpiel.  I tell him about constructing a tree nursery of native species.  Using the results of the tourist survey I handed out over the tourist season, 95% said they would buy a tree to plant inside the national park.  The director of the park has already offered to donate a parcel of land to plant the trees.  I go on and on, waiting for his eyes to glaze over.  This time however, instead of getting lackluster nods, he seems authentically interested and wants to know more.  He tells me that as soon as I return to Cashapampa, find him in his house.  He gives me his name and tells me he is the new president.  Of course.

     A week later, I have just stepped out of the colectivo when a member of the tourist association walks down the street towards me to tell me there is a meeting tomorrow morning at 6am.  Well that’s great, except that I haven’t gone to the new Prez’s house to formally discuss the ideas I have.  The next morning, I sit up front in the only remaining seat.  It is 6:05am, and I’ve forgotten that these men are one of two entities in the entire country that are punctual.  The other being buses.

     I didn’t even recognize the new Prez, whom I was sitting next to, until an hour into the meeting when he stands up and asks me to present my tree nursery idea to the 112 members.  I can’t believe he remembered.  I talk briefly and sit down, then have my socks blown off as he says they are writing it into the Master Plan.  Once again, the workings of the mountain have surprised me and exceeded my expectations.  If I hadn’t taken that colectivo, that morning…if I hadn’t arrived at that moment to receive the message about the meeting…if I had arrived a day later and missed the meeting altogether…my idea would never have made it into the Master Plan.  The statistical probability of everything coming together is astounding, and all I can do now is sit back and wait for serendipity to happen again.  I must remember that I can’t force anything to happen up here on this mountain, but just give up and wait for it to happen in its due time.  I think I saw a unicorn winking at me from behind that bush over there.

Mad love goes out to all the teachers in the world: September 16, 2009

This afternoon was the first meeting of Club RAHU.  That meant I had to track down the key for a classroom.  This, of course, meant tracking down the director.  At 8:00am, I arrived prior to the director and most teachers.  While I waited for the director who never showed up, I had an amazing 30 minute conversation with the “truant officer.” He ended up helping me find a teacher willing to hand over his key for the afternoon.  Since it happened to be the same teacher as one of the grades I invited to join my club, he asked if I wanted the permission slips I handed out yesterday.  Sure.  How many could there be?  I announced the club with only one day’s notice.  I was afraid of no one showing up, but it just goes to show you never get what you expect.  Out of 15 students, 12 handed me back the permission slips.  Oh my god.  This was the smaller of the 2 classes.  The other class wasn’t there today because the teacher didn’t show up. [Substitute teachers don’t exist here.]

 

At 2:45pm, 15 minutes early, I arrived at the school to find 30 students waiting for me.

I had prepared an agenda of four items to cover. 

1. What is the club about & what do the students want to learn?

2. List of rules.  This included choosing a “magic word” to yell out when there is too much ruckus.  We decided on “elephant” because it is a loud animal.  We practiced a few times, and it worked surprisingly well.

3. Activity!!!  Earlier today, as I was thinking of what I had in the way of paper, I came across my mountain of manila envelopes that all Peace Corps correspondence comes in.  (Check out the before and after pics.)  I passed out all 30 pieces of paper which I had cut and hole-punched.  I couldn’t believe how many students showed up.  I had each student write their name, and leave space next to it.  Then I had each student draw their favorite animal. 

My personal favorites:

~The sections of animals.  We have the duck section, the cat section, and three elephants (one of which is a blatant copy of a well-done two-toned pink and blue elephant.)  

~Edward drew two ducks - one right side up and the other on its head.

~Clever was the only one to draw a dog.  I would’ve thought dogs would be more of a favorite.

~Evert’s sheep is pretty cool.

~I like Elizabeth and Santa’s bird things.

~Angel and Josep drew pretty sweet-looking cows.

~Thalia’s got a smiling fish going on.

~Theyson.  What the heck is that?  Whatever it is, I like it.

4. Photos of the class wearing their names.  This was the highlight of the meeting.  Except the timer never worked out.  What you’re not seeing in many photos is me running through the kids yelling, “Corre! Corre!”  (Run! Run!)  I never made it in time.

It turned out to be a great day, despite the fact I’m missing three markers.

Ready or not... September 15, 2009

It’s time.  Whether I’m ready for it or not, I’m jumping in.

After getting together in the capital to celebrate our one year anniversary in Peru, I returned to site with newfound energy.  I made fliers to distribute to the students in 4^thth grade of primary school.  Tomorrow I will hold the first after-school meeting of Club R.A.H.U.   [Props to my site-mate for coming up with the acronym, which means “mountain” in Quechua and in Spanish stands for “Red de Amigos de Huascarán,” which in English means “Network of friends of Huascarán” because we are located at the entrance for the Huascaran National Park.] and 5

The fliers weren’t perfect and I was tempted to revise them and push the start-date back another week.  But if I waited until everything was perfect, nothing would ever get done.  I found the teachers and asked if I could speak to their classes.  I talked about the club and said I hoped to see everyone tomorrow.  Jeez.  I hope someone shows up.  I hope the director gives me the key to a classroom.  I hope I don’t crash & burn in front of these kids.  What am I going to talk about?  I’ve never taken a class on teaching, and prior to last year, kids scared the crap out of me.

I was on my way home when I saw a woman collecting trash in the path to/from the school.  I asked if I could help, and ended up collecting a huge bag of trash until it was filled to the brim.  I walked with her all the way to the plaza and she said she’d be collecting trash around the school tomorrow if I wanted to help.  I told her I would be there in the morning helping in an English class, and would look for her afterwards.  I’m actually looking forward to picking up trash.

From the plaza, I went to the park entrance booth.  I asked how the tourist surveys were going, thinking that they were probably used as firewood or toilet paper in the week since I first left them there.  The control booth guy asked if I wanted him to get them.  So…they weren’t in the control booth.  Okay, don’t freak out – this was to be expected.  I say he doesn’t need to “get them” but I just want to know if any have been filled out.  He asks again if he can go get them.  Yes.  That may clear things up about their whereabouts.  He returns 5 minutes later with the bag I gave him a week ago.  I’m thinking that this bag has been untouched and chilling in someone’s house for a week.  I pull out the red folder and my jaw drops when I see there are 20 filled-out surveys inside.  He explains that some people want to fill them out, others no.  I can’t believe I left this task in the hands of someone else, and it is working!!  By then there is a small crowd peering in as I translate the results to Spanish.  I explain what projects we could work on based on the answers thus far.  There is little response for hiring llamas as pack animals instead of donkeys.  There has been a huge response to the idea of selling trees to the tourists to plant inside the park.  I give a little speech on business and marketing, realizing these guys have no concept of customer service.  Yet they are listening to me, and they seem to be absorbing and understanding what I’m saying.  Accommodate the customer, and business will improve.  Offer services the tourist is interested in, and money will flow into the community.  I didn’t bring up artisan products yet, but I plan on giving a whole spiel at the next meeting of the tourist association.  To know that thousands of tourists come through this small town every summer, and no one has thought about selling food or water or artisan products!  Unbelievable.  My biggest fear is that some outside party will swoop in and build a hotel or store, before I can motivate the community to do it.  My community is a huge untapped goldmine, and could easily be exploited.  As it already stands, vast amounts of income do not stay within the community.  The guides earn between $50-100 daily; they speak English and have been certified by the Casa de Guías which represents the Mountain Guide Association of Peru.  EVERY guide hired is from the capital 3 hours away.  NOT ONE guide comes from Cashapampa itself.  Compare this to the men I work with who earn $10 daily as donkey-drivers.  If Cashapampa isn’t the perfect example of needing to convert to eco-tourism, I don’t know what is.

Happy Birthday Mom!: September 9, 2009

The last three days proved typical.  There was no hole dug at the school, so I pleaded that they store the garbage until after the Anniversary, and DO NOT BURN IT in the meantime.  I offered to come in and explain garbage management to every student, class by class.  If I can convince the school to dig a hole, put garbage in it, and stop burning it, I will consider my two-year service to be a success.  That’s where I’m at.  I just want to see a hole.

Too Good to be True?...Yet to be Determined: September 7, 2009

My mother used to tell me, “Lower your expectations and you’ll never be disappointed.” 

With that in mind, I set out on another day of uncertainty which has become my life.  In this country, it’s not enough to lower your expectations; it is necessary to have zero  expectations.

I went to the school and found the director in the middle of making announcements regarding the events of the upcoming Anniversary.  He talked about proper attire according to the events of the week.  Wednesday = street clothes to play sports.  Thursday = school uniform to march in the parade.  Tomorrow (Tuesday) he wanted the kids to tell their parents about the mandatory work day.  Aha!  Although I knew he wasn’t about to make an announcement about digging a mini-landfill, I could stop by the parents meeting tomorrow and steal some parents to dig my hole.  I would take some parents with their tools!

After the announcements, I asked the director what the teachers had said about digging the hole.  He said it was fine.  Later today the maintenance guys would dig it.  I’m thinking, “Yeah, right.”  I tell him I will come back tomorrow, just in case.  If the hole’s not dug, I’ll steal those shovel-wielding parents.  Maybe there’s hope.

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I return to my house and see the bag of yet another failed project sitting on my table.  The tourist surveys.  The planning meeting for the surveys was five months ago.  The surveys were printed four months ago.  My site-mate and I tried to train the worker at the park entrance booth at that time.  He had NO idea what he was supposed to do with these papers we handed him.  We did some role-playing activities.  We explained how to hand out the surveys, then pretended we were tourists arriving in Cashapampa after our 4 day trek along the Santa Cruz trail.  He still had NO idea what he was supposed to do.  My site-mate yelled at him.  This guy was living up to the nickname we gave him, George McFly.  He was bumbling around and utterly confused.  He said he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do what we were asking him to do.  We explained that we worked on the surveys with the President and Board of Directors of the tourist association.   I felt bad for him, that he hadn’t had the access to education like we had, and couldn’t comprehend the instructions we were giving him.  He thought the surveys had something to do with something else entirely.  It was a frustrating experience, and we told him not to worry about it.  We would return another time when someone else was manning the booth. 

The next time I had enough energy to deal with the surveys again, I decided to do it in true development-work style.  I went to the president himself.  This time, I wasn’t messing around.  I arrived with clearly written instructions, clipboards with attached pens, extra pens, labeled folders, and a laminated paper to post in the entrance booth.  The laminated paper said in English & Spanish: “Please fill out the tourist satisfaction survey located in the park entrance booth.  Available in English & Spanish.”

The surveys were in the possession of the president for almost two months.  During this time, he was fired as president and took off to Lima.  In the meantime, I was in the Amazon thinking of the thousands of tourists coming through my town and how much data we would have for next year’s tourist season.  Boy was I wrong.

Upon my return to Cashapampa, I went to the entrance booth to see how many surveys had been filled out.  None, because no one knew anything about them and had never seen them.  I try to find the president, and found out that not only is he no longer the president, but has also taken off to Lima.  I ask his wife if the surveys are still inside the house after all this time, and she doesn’t know anything about them.  She was STANDING there when I handed the prez the bag and went over the instructions line by line.  Whatever.  I had other things to worry about.  [That was the week I was trying to find someone to bring to the PC workshop with me.]  More weeks go by, and I finally get the surveys back.  It is a miracle they are intact and the pens weren’t stolen.  Luckily or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, the surveys never left the bag which never left the house of the prez.

Which brings us to today.  I walk to the entrance booth with these damn surveys.  It is September 7 and we are very near the end of the tourist season.  I try not to think of it as a huge missed opportunity.  Instead, I think of my replacement volunteer and the work he/she has cut out for them.  ;)

Low expectations. Low expectations.  No expectations.  No expectations.

I arrive at the entrance booth.  The man greets me by name as he’s registering a group of tourists.  Although he is busy getting change and registering tourists, he asks what he can do for me.  I explain the surveys.  I post the laminated sign.  He reads the Spanish version of the survey.  “Sure,” he says.  Just to make sure he understands, he repeats what he is supposed to do, without my asking him to do so.  “Have the tourist fill it out and leave it in the red folder.  Replacement surveys are in folders marked English or Spanish.  Any questions, I’ll find you in your house.”  He double-checks who I live with.  I tell him I’ll come back in a few days to see how it’s going.  I walk away, thinking maybe there’s hope.

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Almost to my house, and a community member flags me down.  He asks about “Recliclaje.”  I don’t know if he’s referring to recycling, trash in general, or the municipal landfill in my site-mate’s town.  We chat for quite a while, about the trash, trash collection, and his wanting me to give a community talk about separating garbage.  Oh my god.  Really?  This is fortuitous.  I tell him I am currently working with the municipality, the mayor, the techs and engineer that work in the landfill, and we’re coordinating the whole garbage management thing, and I’m planning on going from town to town to explain garbage separation & pickup.  I told him that as soon as I know anything more, I will let him know. 

Upon reaching my house, it is barely 10am and I have had an unexpected productive day.

I wonder if it’s all too good to be true.  When I see physical results, I’ll believe.  Until then, my success is yet to be determined.

Untitled: September 3, 2009

Yesterday was Wednesday.  Wednesdays I go to the school to help a high school teacher with her English class.  What this “help” actually translates to is her disappearance while I teach her class for an hour and a half, without having the actual authority or language skills to make her students pay attention to me.  This also has to do with the course material, which is dense and boring and way over the heads of these kids.  It’s not their fault their teacher can’t speak English.  It’s the school system.  Why have English as part of the national curriculum if there are no teachers to teach it?  Part of me is tempted to just take over completely.  One Wednesday a few months ago, the teacher didn’t show up.  The school director told me to teach the class.  I began by asking what they already knew and what they wanted to learn.  We settled on colors.  After a lesson on colors, we played a game.  The class was divided in half into two teams.  One player had to come up from each team and write the color in English that I yelled out in Spanish.  There was an English word bank they could refer to, but they had to be quick and write the word faster than their opponent.  When I returned the next week, I brought cookies for the winning team.  We played this game another time with fruits and vegetables.  That time, I yelled out the food in English and they had to draw it.  They really got a kick out of “peach” because the word for pee in Quechua is “pichi.” 

After an almost two-month absence from school (because of the holidays & class cancellations due to the swine flu scare), I returned to school yesterday.  I taught the class while the teacher disappeared for an hour and a half.  Afterwards, as I was trying to track down the director to tell him about the ECO-Club I’m starting, I was asked to sign a document stating I would attend the teacher’s meeting at 12pm that day.  I thought it would be a great opportunity to spread the word about the ECO-Club, so I returned at 12pm.  The elementary school teachers that I needed to talk to weren’t there, so I didn’t get a chance to talk about the club.  I did, however, volunteer for the “Caldo de Cabeza” committee.  You will realize that “Head Soup” is my least favorite food in the world.  And I’ve eaten huge fried ants, fish heads, and chicken feet.  How this volunteerism occurred is a long story, but has a lot to do with the lack of participation by the teachers.  The meeting was to plan the logistics of next week’s school Anniversary.

The meeting went something like this:

The school director was finishing up a meeting with the equivalent of the Parent/Teacher Association.  Except instead of it being Parents & Teachers, it is just the Parents.  The parents were yelling at the director, presumably after spending the morning fixing up the school in a mandatory work day, or face a fine.  These people are poor.  The majority showed up to haul rocks and cement walls, to avoid the fine they can’t afford to pay.  They must be getting hungry, so they start to trickle away by 12:30pm.  The director tells the teachers, who have been congregating in the courtyard, to enter the room to start the meeting.  Twenty minutes later, 12 of the 23 teachers are inside.  Another 10 minutes of shuffling papers and piddling around, and the director begins the meeting in record time.  Only one hour behind schedule.  That is amazing.  They start going over the food, budget, and necessary committees.  Who’s going to buy the food, what are the ingredients, how much food is needed, who will prepare the food, who will serve the food, etc.

Out of the 12 teachers who actually showed up, no one wants to sign up for any of the committees.  This is painful to be a part of.  One teacher brings up an obvious point: That only 12 out of the 23 teachers are signing up.  Yes!  Someone understands!  I make a suggestion.  I say that where I come from, if we are forming committees, we make lists of the committees and leave open slots for each committee.  Ideally, there would be 23 tasks divided into however many committees there are.  This way, everyone has to sign up for something, whether you’re at the meeting or not.  This also rewards the people who are present, because they get first dibs on the committees they want to be on. 

This advice falls on deaf ears.  The director tells me they have a list.  They are writing down the names as people volunteer themselves to a task.  He’s not getting it.  No one’s volunteering, and on top of that, they keep coming up with new committees.  One week before this huge event, and they don’t even know how many people they need for each committee, because they don’t even know how many committees are needed.  Somewhere in the confusion of the meeting, I volunteer to “support” the cooking team.  I end up being the only one on the committee.  I say that I will not cook head soup alone because I am not from Peru and don’t know how to cook it.  I repeat that I will help, but not do it alone.  After much discussion, and teachers volunteer each other rather than themselves, and there are 4 more people, including men who I’m SURE do not know how to cook.  They are arguing, because someone else volunteered them, and the director suggests the men enlist the help of their wives to come in and cook.  My god, is this really happening?

This goes on for 3 hours.  They keep adding tasks such as, “Oh, what about prizes for the winning soccer team?”  “Oh hey, we forgot about food for the band.”  And my favorite… “Hey, do we have a band?” 

I leave the meeting in a stupor.  I got two different answers about when I need to be there to cook the soup.  As we are walking up the steep, rocky footpath towards the main road, I ask about how they will collect the vast amounts of trash produced by the disposable plates, cups, and cutlery.  They ask me what I mean by collect it.  You know—Haul it away, take it to the main road, carry the cylinders up the hill.  By donkey?  They laugh.  Haha, a donkey.  Why is this a difficult question?  I re-phrase the question.  WHAT do you do with the trash collected in the schools’ cylinders?  The answer: We burn it.

As an Environmental Education volunteer, it is hard for me to hear that they burn trash in the school, when there is a fully functioning municipal landfill with collection twice a week.  All they need to do is haul it up the hill.  All they need to do is bury it in a mini-landfill.  All they need to do is CARE a little bit about ANYTHING beyond planning yet another party that detracts from the actual point of a school—education.

Seeing this as an opportunity rather than a quandary, I return to the school the next day with presentation in hand.  I implore the director to build a mini-landfill.  One class can get it done in an hour.  It won’t cost anything.  He leads me outside as we search for the groundskeeper who is in charge of burning the trash.  The groundskeeper looks frazzled.  He shows the director the broken pvc-pipe he is fixing, and lists all the other projects he is working on.  He doesn’t care about the girl who shows up and orders him to dig a hole.  I tell the director, in front of the groundskeeper, that we need to find a teacher and class to dig the hole.  Not the groundskeeper himself.  All the groundskeeper needs to do is throw the trash in the hole and put dirt on top, and NOT BURN IT!  Back in the director’s office, I hang up the poster I drew about how to dig a mini-landfill.  1 meter by 1 meter by 2 meters in depth.  Not rocket science here.  It’s a hole.  You fill it with trash, then dirt, then plant a tree if so inclined.

I leave a note to the teachers explaining the importance of respecting the environment; stating that I will return at 8:00am Monday morning to help dig the hole.  I tell the director that in the meantime, please find a teacher willing to help.  In my mind, I know I’m talking to a brick wall.  He just doesn’t understand that it is HIS responsibility to get this hole dug.  No teacher will willingly volunteer their class and time when they have other things to get done before the Anniversary. 

Once again, I walk home with my tail between my legs.  How do I change custom?  How do I change mentality?  How do I make someone CARE about something they don’t care about?  How do I CONVINCE someone to care about something they don’t care about?  Where is it even my place to push my dogma on someone else?

Humble Beginnings: September 1, 2009

Since the last entry, the frustrating circumstances of my life are taking baby steps in the right direction.

~I am finally over the flu/sinus infection, head-cold, and raging headaches.

~The table arrived one morning while I was eating breakfast and had completely given up on ever receiving it.  It did not fit through the door as anticipated, but my host parents swapped it out for their smaller kitchen table.  With my books and paperwork organized for the first time in 10 months, I feel like a normal person again.

~One of the men who couldn’t come with me to the PC conference bumped into me and asked me to come to a 6am meeting.  Okay.  I am here for the community even though you are not here for me or my organization.  Even though my program is Environmental Education and you are asking me to attend a meeting about building a health post.  Yes, I’ll be there.  At 6:05am, I was the ONLY one there.  Surprise, Surprise.  I sit and wait in the cold and without breakfast, but am in much better spirits since ditching the flu.  By 7am, there is a small crowd of 15 people.  I end up writing up the official minutes for the meeting, and I feel important and wanted in my community (two things I have felt have been missing for quite some time—see previous blog entry.)  People were thanking me for being there, and as I walked home, I realized just how many people know my name and wanted to know where I was going so early in the morning, and what I was doing later, and will I be at the afternoon’s soccer game?  Which leads to…

~I played soccer for the first time today in over 10 years.  High altitude soccer.  Even though I trained for the marathon at altitude, it’s nothing compared to sprinting after a ball for 2 hours.  We played men versus women.  Luckily we had one guy on our team and he was really good, yelling instructions at the girls and giving tons of positive reinforcement.  We won 6-2, even though the men were much more skilled and one of the women scored a goal on ourselves.  (No, it wasn’t me, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been.)  The women are real cute, playing in their traditional skirts.  The woman with the baby on her back wasn’t there today, but in previous games, she’d run around with her baby bouncing around in the blanket tied to her back.  It’s amazing how much weight one can carry with a blanket tied around your back.  Speaking of which…

~I carried huge bags of compost on my back, from my site-mate’s tree nursery, to my  I had to do it in four trips.  Each one must have been 50 pounds.  I am beginning my mission of re-introducing native tree species to the Andes mountains.  I spent hours over the course of several days filling little baggies with the soil mixture I prepared with the compost I hauled.  Next, I will soak the seeds to get them germinating, and hopefully get them growing and in the ground by December.  Although I started the task solo, a little helper came to investigate what I was doing and ended up helping me to not only fill the baggies, but sift the dirt to remove the rocks.  When we had finished with our pile of dirt, she ran to the pile to sift more.  I kept trying to explain that we were done, but she wanted to keep going.  Background information on this little girl:  I think she’s my host mom’s little sister.  She doesn’t go to school, and therefore never really learned Spanish.  I once asked her why she didn’t go to school, and her cousin told me she has “brain problems,” so she stays home and takes care of the animals, whatever that means.  When I arrived in Cashapampa in December, she was my least favorite person.  Now I’m starting to think she has a developmental disability.  Although I have extensive experience in this field, there was something about her lack of respect for people’s space that really got to me.  For instance, one day I was outside reading a book.  She thought it funny to throw dirt at me.  I told her that if she continued, I would go inside.  Then she splashed water on me.  I went inside and thought she was a lost cause, since I couldn’t even communicate with her.  Now, 10 months later, she screams my name and giggles and runs around in excitement when she sees me.  And today, she was the first person to help me in stage one of reforesting the community. She was rattling away in Quechua and smiling at me, asking if she could take pictures of our progress. community tree nursery.

~And there you have it.  In one day—I participated in a community meeting, worked in the tree nursery, received surprise help from an unlikely source, played soccer on the winning team, ate three square meals, prepared a lesson for my first class to be held next week, and played with my bunnies.

Oh yeah, my host parents bought me pet bunnies for my birthday. 
They thought I needed something to take care of, since I don't have children.