Just in time for the holidays, I find my room decorated in red and green. Mold, that is. My 6' x 8' bedroom has been sweating (drying out) for the past week after the recent installation of cement and plaster. Since there is no window or any real means of ventilation, I have been living in a cold, damp cave for seven days.
Sunday is market day in the closest city, Caraz. Caraz can be reached via 40 minute taxi ride, or a 2-hour trek down the mountain. The host dad of my fellow volunteer, Callie, offered to walk us down the mountain and get non-gringo prices in the market. I spent the night in the next village with my friend Callie, experiencing her Peace Corps version of living -- peeing down a sewer trap in the middle of her patio. We watched episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" with what little battery she had left on her laptop. When her alarm went off at 4:40 am, we wondered why we thought walking to Caraz was a good idea. We both decided it wasn't worth the hassle to pee in the patio as the sun was rising, so we held it. It was a bladder-jarring downhill journey, but the sun coming up to shine on the mountain was well worth it. I started shedding layers as I warmed up and reached for my water bottle only to realize I had forgotten to fill it. Clean, purified water is something I always took for granted before arriving in the land of bacteria-laden tap water. After a while, the urge to pee had subsided, and I was thankful that my dehydrated body was able to reabsorb the water content of my bladder. Two hours after our departure, we arrived in the city of Caraz. I was dreaming of a nice cafe with gringo/tourist bathrooms and relaxing conversation with my friend. Scrambled eggs, tea, pastries, perhaps. Well...scratch that. Callie's dad decided we should eat in the market. We enter the food section, where meat is hanging everywhere and I see a vendor blow her nose into her hand and flick it somewhere. We sit down at a stall, faced with six different kinds of meat entrees and a raw lamb's head. This is a whole lot of meat to see and smell at 7am. As we order coffee and bread, Callie whispers to me that she doubts the water is boiled. I look at the kettle on the gas stove and agree that this food vendor probably doesn't boil the water for 5 minutes as a safety precaution against bacteria and protozoa. I try to enjoy my breakfast as the smell of raw meat wafts into my nostrils.
Callie's dad asks us what we need to buy, and I find myself wondering two things: 1). Where is the bathroom and why haven't we used it yet? and 2). How can we ditch her dad politely so we can shop uninhibited (it's beyond uncomfortable using money around someone who doesn't haven't any.) The money situation is probably the most uncomfortable aspect of this whole experience [and there are many uncomfortable situations to choose from]. After we get some quotes on a bed, a stove, and a tank of gas, we tell Callie's dad that we are meeting up with another volunteer. Thank you for walking us down the mountain. Have a good day.
We leave the market to use an internet cafe. I ask if there's a bathroom nearby. I get a funny look and am told to use computer #5. Okay, forget it. I didn't really need to pee. An hour flies by on the slow internet connection. Finally we meet up with a volunteer from Peru 9. We walk to his apartment where I can finally pee after 6 awake hours and 8 sleeping hours. His apartment makes me feel normal, like life can continue happily based on your surroundings. I am dehydrated and brain-dead. We chat for a couple hours, then head back to the market to set up the purchase of my bed which has to be strapped to the top of a taxi for the bumpy hour drive up the mountain.
Twelve hours since we left, I arrive back to my house. I set up my bed, finally unwrap the mattress I bought a week ago from its protective plastic covering, and enjoy my new sheets and blankets. I notice my room smells unusually mildewy. I look at the exposed wood beams and see an explosion of mold on each one. Then my flea bites start itching, and I don't know if it's the old ones or fresh. I work myself into a panic and convince myself that I will die of mold spore inhalation. A night of tossing and turning turned into a morning of vomiting and diarrhea. I barfed in my room into a plastic bag. I felt like crap, so I laid in bed all day while my host mom, Santa, brought me tea. Later that day, Callie's dad walked down to my site to tell us that she's been sick all day also. Santa has a look of relief and tells me she was worried that it was her cooking that had caused my illness. Now we know that it was clearly the unboiled coffee water.
I spend another night worrying about the mold spores that are multiplying at an astonishing rate. Callie arrives during breakfast and tells me she was sick too. I wonder where she used the bathroom for diarrhea, since she just has that pee hole in the middle of the patio. I bought Clorox to kill the mold properly. Searching through the PC medical kit, we find latex gloves and gauze. Using the string from my bed frame, we fashion a face mask with the string and gauze. Resourceful. The mold spores are floating around in a cloud of un-hygenic-ness as I try to wipe them away. I catch the bleachy mess into the same bag I barfed into the day before. An hour into the process, I realize the bleach has eaten through the bag and my barf is leaking onto the concrete floor. Perfect. I throw it out my bedroom door into the living room where at least it can leak onto the dirt floor. My next step is to paint, hopefully sealing in any mold that I missed. And flea killer.
I didn't think my first week would consist entirely of making my space livable. Maybe next week I can actually work on my Community Diagnostic.
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