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.
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