Uninformed Voter: Feb 15, 2009

Saturday, February 14, 2009    3:55pm

     I roll around my bed this morning, with a tissue stuffed into my right nostril.  I’m surprised I’ve slept through the night, seeing as how I couldn’t get to sleep last night.  My nose was running so badly that I had to blow it every 5 minutes, until I finally shoved a wadded tissue up there and took some Benedryl. 

I look at my watch.  7:25am.  So groggy.  The benedryl will do that.  I look at my watch again.  8:24am.  How did an hour go by?  I vaguely recall there being a meeting today, but no one has told me anything about it or what time it starts or where it is, so I think little of it.

     I turn the light on and take a long time making my bed.  I inherited a blanket from Derek when he Early-Terminated from the Peace Corps a few days ago.  Out of 48 volunteers from our group, he was the first to go.  Not only was he in my department, but also my friend.  It was his shoulder I cried on when I shed my first tears in Peru.  I sat next to him at Staging in Washington D.C. five months ago, when we both discussed how we were going to buy horses and get pets.  (He was hell-bent on getting the national dog of Peru, a hairless pooch with a tuft of mohawk.  I likened it to the evil head of the Gremlins.) 

     Today is Saturday, Valentine’s Day.  Derek will be home today.  I picture his mom making him pancakes, in a non-descript California home.  I’ve never met his mom nor seen his house, but I do know he’s from California.  I conjure up some mental imagery that makes me just slightly jealous that’s he’s returned home.  But no.  I have two years ahead of me.  Many adventures and awkward moments to come.  I just didn’t realize how soon my next awkward moment would arrive...

     It’s nearing 10am.  I’ve taken a taxi to the next town, Huaripampa.  There is supposedly a meeting at 9am, where my community partner is supposedly waiting for me.  Where, I have no idea.  I ask the taxi driver if he knows where there is a meeting.  No stares at me blankly, then says he doesn’t know.  I figured maybe he’d been driving others to the meeting all morning.  But that was a dumb thought, because each route down the mountain and back is at least 2 hours.  The woman who was sitting on my lap had gotten out of the taxi and was paying the taxi driver, when she asked me if I was talking about the “Changing of Class” meeting.  Why, yes!  That’s just the meeting I was looking for.  Nothing like getting into a taxi, not knowing where you’re going, then having someone share the front seat with you, only to direct you to exactly where you need to go.

     Now I am standing at the Health Post.  There are four men seated on the benches in the lobby.  I don’t recognize any of them.  There are four women wearing make-up and wearing somewhat professional-looking clothes.  I don’t recognize any of them, except for the woman I just shared my lap with.  A nurse wearing scrubs arrives and says there aren’t enough people to start.  They laugh about “la hora peruana” (Peruvian time) and we will wait longer.  Where is my counterpart?  When I was shoved into the taxi, both his wife and his sister (my host mom is my counterpart’s sister) told me he was waiting for me in Huaripampa, and I was an hour late.  Yet here I am, early and alone. 

     More time passes.  Two men whom I recognize walk up.  They obviously recognize me, because they say, “Buenos dias, Erica.”  Cool.  I’m in another town and someone knows me.

     By 11am, my counterpart and his mother have arrived and the meeting is underway.  I find out that my counterpart’s mother is the president of our “Comedor Popular.”  Hmm, that only took three months to find out.  The room consists of 21 people seated in a semi-circle facing a table.  At the table sits the governor, a nurse who conducts the meeting, and a secretary who writes everything down.  The 21 people are heads of all the local organizations from every town in the area.  I am still unsure about what exactly this meeting is about.  I ask my counterpart how many times a year there is a “changing of class,” and he says once a year.  Great.  Glad I didn’t miss it; I’d only have more one chance to attend during my Peace Corps service.

     Small pieces of paper are passed out, and we begin voting for a new General Assembly.  Shit.  I finally realize the purpose of the meeting.  I shouldn’t be here, and I really shouldn’t be voting.  Why are they letting me vote?!?!?  Oh well, as with everything in my life, I begin to smirk with the absurdity of this situation.

 

President: the first vote is tied.  My bad.  That wouldn’t have happened had I declined to vote. 

Vice-President: the second round of votes is tied.  Whoops.

Secretary: third round...tied.  Oh, come on!  Someone isn’t voting, because it’s always 10 to 10. 

 

     I find it odd that my votes are determining the future of my community and every surrounding community in the entire district.  There are no speeches given or lists of qualifications to peruse.  My basis for casting votes is how friendly the candidate looks or how much I like his or her name. 

     The meeting ends and I sign my name in the register.  There were no taxis outside, so we walk home.  Forty minutes later, I am chewing the meat off the hindquarter of a guinea pig.  I’m holding its little fried leg with toenails intact, and perk up as I recognize a word in Quechua, “siki.”  It means butt.  I wonder why they are talking about a butt, and smile.