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.

What I'm Dealing With: Sometime end of August

I always try to keep it positive, but sometimes there is only so much patience a person can have before feeling angry, frustrated, unwanted, unneeded, and utterly useless.

Scenario 1:

I’m sitting on a combi heading back to site after an amazing trip to the Amazon.  I am reminiscing about the beauty of the jungle while contemplating the immensity of the white-capped mountains that stand before me.  This country is amazing in its geographic diversity.  I think to myself, “What a gem Peru is.”  But the people don’t know it. 

I watch the woman in the seat in front of me trying to open her window.  When she can’t, she flags down the cobrador (the person in charge of collecting the fare).  He takes from her a plastic bag filled with the remnants of her lunch on a styrofoam tray.  I watch in horror as he chucks it out the window.  There is no reaction from any passengers.  This is normal for them.  As the mountain gods loom down from above, I can only wonder if they are just as appalled as I am about the disrespect the people have for the environment.

Scenario 2:

Ahh, back in my community at last, where I feel I can make a real difference.  Here, I feel I have some sort of authority to teach people not to litter, unlike the random combi passenger who would have looked at me like I had six heads if I had scolded her about throwing trash out the window. 

I have returned from the jungle with a heinous flu, but I drag myself out of bed to look for a community member to bring to a Peace Corps workshop on Eco-Tourism and Reforestation.  This is an all-inclusive trip to another department in Peru.  Most people cannot afford to travel and have never left their region, so any opportunity to attend a paid-for event is jumped on in a heartbeat.  I start off by seeking out the president of the tourist association that I work with.  My town hosts thousands of tourists that come through every year to trek through the Cordillera Blanca region of the Andes Mountains.  They hire the services of the association members as cooks, guides, and donkey drivers to carry their gear.  The president of this association is also my community counterpart, the person that is supposed to show me around the community, tell me when important meetings are, and help coordinate meetings of my own.  I find out that he has been fired as president for allowing an employee to work even though said employee was prohibited from working due to his stealing a donkey.  Ahh yes, of course.  One should never permit a donkey-stealer to work.

I am directed to the vice-president who is now acting as president.  I track him down in his house after asking 15 people where he lives, then invite him to the conference.  He says he cannot attend but will spread the word and find someone to go with me.  Great!  I give him a day then track him down again.  He tells me he has found an associate, let’s call him Carlos, and I am happy because I know him to be a leader in the community and active in both the tourist association and the tree nursery.  I begin my search for him, asking another 15 people where his house is.  Carlos isn’t home, but his wife is.  She knows nothing about the conference.  Weird.  Wouldn’t a husband tell his wife that he is leaving for a week?  So I leave a note expressing the importance of finding me as soon as possible so I can purchase the bus tickets.  At this point, the meeting is 4 days away.  I walk away feeling relieved I have found a responsible community member to accompany me to the conference.  As I approach my house, who do I bump into but Carlos himself?  I tell him that I’m happy he will be attending the conference.  He quickly tells me that he can’t.  He has several meetings that he must attend.  Seriously?  Every meeting in this town either starts 4 hours late or never happens at all.  Was this man really giving up a free trip for meetings that will probably never happen?  Fine.  I tell him to spread the word that I’m looking for someone to attend a free workshop. 

The next day I begin my search again.  I leave notes at people’s houses, I find them in their fields, and enlist the help of my counterpart’s son, let’s call him Mario, to explain in Quechua the importance of this workshop.  This goes on for days, until the day before the conference I have no leads.

I was trying to stay in good spirits, knowing that something would work out.  But it all came to a head when I inquired about WHY people didn’t want to come with me.  Was it because I’m a woman?  Do the people feel uncomfortable around me?  Do they have other more pressing items to attend to?  Can’t leave their families for a week?  I asked Mario to translate what was being said in Quechua as people were declining my offer over and over again.  I was feeling like my self-esteem was taking a beating.  I couldn’t even pay anyone to come with me.  Mario said the reason was because it was a “pérdida de tiempo” and “no gana nada.”  

In other words, they believe that 1. It is a waste of time & 2. They are not going to gain anything.  Wonderful.  So the community that I’m living in, and supposed to be working with for two years, thinks my organization and me—being an extension of my organization—is a waste of time.  Furthermore, the literal translation of “ganar” to gain  There is no value in education here.  I don’t know if it’s just my town, the sierra, or all of Peru.  But the intensity at which it exists is frightening. refers not only to earning of income, but also means gaining of knowledge, experience, and training.

I ended up bringing Mario with me, who is active in the community tree nursery, and agreed to go with me a few hours before I had to leave for the conference.  Although the conference turned out to be super-informative and pertinent to my work in the community, I can’t help but have a bitter taste in my mouth for the apathy of its citizens.

Scenario 3:

I ordered a table from my site-mate’s host father, who is a carpenter.  Although I could have easily purchased a table from the market, I figured I would support the local community and give business to the family who my friend lives with.  He charged me 50 soles, but I only had 20’s, so I gave him S/. 60 and told him to keep the 10 sol change.  Maybe my friend would get a few more veggies in her diet, and I’d get my table done faster with a 10 sol tip.  Additionally, I live in a very small room with limited space, so knowing that I could place a custom order for a smaller-than-usual-table made me sure of my decision.  One month went by with no sign of the table being ready.  The motor broke.  Month two.  There’s no wood.  Month three, then four, then five, all with a plethora of excuses.  Six months later, my table is done.  I check it out and it is 15 centimeters wider than ordered.  It will certainly not fit through my door and will take up half my room.  Oh well, at least it’s done.  He tells me he will send it down in a car tomorrow.  Although we are having our regional meeting the next day, I tell him I will skip the meeting to wait for the table.  [This was 2 days before the conference, and I was also still looking for someone to take with me.] 

The next day comes and goes.  I walk in the dark up to my friend’s site which is the only place for miles that has cell phone reception.  [I left this part out of scenario 2—the whole crying and upset about the conference thing.  So I was calling my boss to tell him I had no one to bring with me.]  On my way back home, I see a taxi driver that knows me.  I asked him to bring the table down.  He said he was done for the night, but would bring it first thing in the morning.  I’m sure everyone reading this can guess that that never happened.

I go to the conference and am not surprised that the table hasn’t arrived in my week-long absence.  I see the taxi driver, and he is very apologetic about forgetting my table.  He will bring it tomorrow.  Sure.  Tomorrow arrives and I am once again in my friend’s site.  Her host dad says he tried to send it down in a car, but there have been no cars.  Liar.  I spend the afternoon running outside every time I hear a car go by.  Five taxi drivers give me various reasons why they can’t drive the table 5 minutes to my house that is along the main route to anywhere.  I am offering well above the normal fare to carry my table.  Finally the sixth driver says he will bring it down if I find rope to tie it down.  I find it hard to believe he doesn’t have rope.  I have seen mattresses, bags of rice and produce, chickens, doors, and children tied to the roofs of taxis.  Whatever.  I ran inside to find a rope, tripping over a chicken tied to a stake.  (I almost took that rope, but it was too short and skinny.  Plus there was a chicken tied to it.)  Within 30 seconds, I hear the car drive away.  I run outside and stand there open-mouthed.  Once again, I find myself in disbelief at the frustrations in my life, and am desperately searching for reasons why I am putting myself through this.

Baa Baa, Little Scary Sheep. You taste gross too: Jul 15, 2009

My host parents got married yesterday.  The whole ordeal began a few days ago when I walked out into the dark patio to brush my teeth.  The stars were brilliant, and there I was looking up at them while walking towards the sink with toothbrush in mouth.  There was movement in the darkness so I looked down and not four feet from me, a sheep stood staring at me with its crazy sheep eyes.  I got startled, then chuckled. There's a sheep staring me down in the patio.  The next morning I realized there had been two sheep, but I couldn't see the black one in the dark.

Monday I spent the day at the Municipality witnessing the civil marriage of my host parents, Santa & Julio.  When we returned to our house, the wedding feast preparations were under way.  The sheep had been slaughtered and their body parts were hanging all over the yard.  I saw a few more animals get slaughtered (namely chickens) and moved to the more mundane task of peeling potatoes.  There must have been 200 kilos of potatoes.  Sitting in a circle of 7 women and 1 man (grand dad), I peeled potatoes with my pocketknife while the group chattered away in Quechua.  We filled three huge pots, each the size of a witch's cauldron.

It was getting dark, so I headed into the kitchen of my extended host family to find out what that thumping noise was.  I walked in and saw the huge kitchen table covered in mutton.  Next to the table, one of my "aunts" was sitting on an over-turned bucket wielding a 3-foot machete.  She is hacking away at the meat, using a tree stump as her table and cutting surface.  Chips of bone are flying everywhere as she is chopping the rib cage, legs, and other parts into manageable pieces.  I plant myself on a chair and watch while drinking tea.  Some parts of the sheep had already been fried up and were being passed around.  The word "grizzle" comes to mind.  Whatever it's called, I took a pinch and declined further ingestion of these fried sheep parts.  I figured I'd get enough to eat at the main course the next day.

The next day arrived.  I got up early and got dressed because we were heading to church before breakfast.  My host mom told me we are eating up there, where the church is located.  This must be true, because I heard the bread man go by, and Santa didn't run out there to buy bread.  I'm ready to go by 7am.  At 8am, Santa told me to go next door to eat breakfast.  Hmmmmm?  I walked over to where the meat-chopping took place the night before.  All the family was there again, still rushing around and cooking as if they'd never left the kitchen.  I sat down to await breakfast.  The woman who was chopping meat last night is now dicing intestine.  Breakfast arrives in a bowl in front of me in the form of a dish called "caldo de cabeza."  Literally, "head soup."  Not only had the sheep's heads been simmering in broth all night, but it was augmented by the freshly-cut entrails.  I look into my broth and can make out the ripples and ridges of the intestines and wonder how I'm going to chew and swallow all that texture so early in the morning.  For the first time in this country, if not EVER, I do not think I can eat what's in front of me.  Will it be chewy?  Will it taste foul?  Will I choke or vomit?

I see everyone else devouring their soup parts, and the kids were fighting over long strands of intestine tubes.  Bite.  Chew Chew Chew.  Gulp.  I concentrate on other things, and little by little I eat the soup.  I finally make it to the end, to the meaty bone that I'd been saving for last.  I pry at it with my spoon, about to pick it up and sink my teeth in.  That's when I see it is a sheep's hoof.

After my lovely breakfast, I head back to my own house to wait for everyone to get ready.  When I walked in, I heard my host dad crying.  Sobbing really.  Santa calls the pastor in, who was eating soup next to me moments before, and he performs some sort of ceremony of words.  It must have been very moving, because Julio continued to sob louder as if someone has died.  He must have been really happy to be getting married.

After an unbelievably long amount of time, Julio stopped crying and everyone was running around getting ready, getting the kids dressed, combing hair, etc.  We are finally on our way to the church.  It is 10am.

At 11am we arrived hot and sweaty at the church.  I sit with all the women who are on the left, while the men are together all on the right.  I follow everyone's lead by standing when they stand, sit when they sit, raise their arms to the heavens when they do, and clap when they clap.  Since I don't know the words to the songs, I refrain from singing.  I refrain from a few other things that people around are doing such as breast-feeding, falling asleep, or crying hysterically and yelling "Glory to God!"  After two hours of this, everyone is moaning and wailing.  The crying is so fierce that people are heaving and hyperventilating all around me.

The remainder of the service is devoted to a sermon about holy matrimony.  Finally!  Let's get to the wedding!  The pastor spoke of men and women, husband and wife.  He went into a lengthy biological discussion contrasting the two.  He talks of sperm production, testicles, touching, and foreplay, how women are not sexual objects and need to be treated with respect.  This goes on and on in surprisingly graphic scientific detail.  It is obvious that this pastor is not from around here.  In fact, he is from Lima, hired for the day.  This ends and the couples are called up front to be married.  When I get up to take pictures of my host parents at the altar, I see my sitemate, Callie, in the back.  I walk over and ask how long she'd been here.  When she says about an hour, I ask if she saw the wailing church-goers.  She said, "Oh, yes."  The looks we exchange explain to each other, without words, just how weird our lives are.

By then, the group of visiting missionaries have arrived.  They are invited to my house for the wedding feast.  We watch the newlyweds get baptized in the freezing glacial water of the irrigation ditch, then settle in for mystery food.  Lunch begins with...chicken soup.  Phew.  The main course is potatoes, white rice, and mutton.

Guess they only serve heads and intestines for breakfast.

Birthday Weekend, for Me & America!! Jul 6, 2009

I hope everyone had a spectacular 4th of July weekend.  Thanks to those of you who sent birthday money.  Every little bit helps!  In January, I signed up for my first marathon.  I thought it would be not only a memorable way to spend my 29th birthday, but also something amazing to participate in during my Peace Corps service.

I also thought I'd have plenty of time to train.  What I did NOT take into consideration was the high altitude, the uneven terrain, the knee-breaking downhills which translate to killer uphills, the lack of nutrition in my diet, the onslaught of intestinal problems, the yellow-mucus flu I can't shake, the sports injuries without the aid of my local running store (there are no Fleet Feet's anywhere around), and spraining my ankle in May.  That was the last time I ran.  Two months ago.  I hadn't gotten in the long runs that are critical in training for a marathon, since the mileage increases week by week.  In essence, I had cut out the entire second half of training...the more important half.  I had given up on the idea of the marathon, but still wanted to attend so I could support the other runners.  Right before I left for the coast, I ran into someone who asked me how my training was going.  I said non-existent.  I wouldn't be running the marathon.  He said I should just try because I can.  He was in a bicycle accident a while back and is trying to regain the full use of his body.  Okay, so try because I "can"?  I laughed because at that point 3 days before the marathon, I couldn't run 1 mile without stopping. Let alone 26.2 miles.  (42 kilometers)

I celebrated my birthday on Friday July 3rd with some friends.  Perhaps there was too much "celebration" involved, but what did it matter if I wasn't going to run?  Saturday I arrived in Pacasmayo and saw tons of other PC volunteers.  Talking with three guys who were also signed up for the whole marathon, they claimed they were unable to properly train as well.  Then I figured that even if it took me 9 hours of walking & jogging, I could eventually finish.  Technically.  We made bets amongst the four of us.  Who would finish first, who would vomit, who would cry, and who would be pulled off the course for medical attention. 

We sat through the race meeting, learning about the course terrain and aid stations.  Then I heard horrible news.  Course closes at 2:30pm.  That meant 6 hour cut-off.  Fear set in, and I wanted to add "First to be swept off the course for not finishing in time" to our runner's bet. At least I was feeling like I'd win for first to vomit.  I have never felt so scared.  This race was in the middle of the desert, with less than 40 marathoners.  I pictured me and the sand.  Nothing more.

Sunday arrives and my stomach is churning.  We eat breakfast, get ready, and assemble at the race start.  I see so many friends preparing for the 5k, 10k, or 21k.  Yet there I was, only female amongst 3 male friends about to attempt 42 kilometers.  What had I gotten myself into?

The race starts and within 20 minutes I am running alone.  I can't keep up even though the coastal air is thick and the temperature cool.  At each aid station, I am happy to see familiar faces handing out water and food.  I was actually having fun!  My iPod was blasting and I was taking it easy.  Whenever a video camera was filming, I did something silly.  "Marathons can be fun!" is what I was portraying.

Then I hit kilometer 11.  So early in the race, yet I was thinking my legs couldn't go on.  I passed all my friends who had finished their short races, and realized I still had 5 hours to go.  Why was I doing this to myself?  Running alone with wind and sand stinging me, when I could be chilling at the beach with my friends?  Yet I was still having fun.  Everyone was clapping and cheering as I shuffled by.  I couldn't help but smile.  Maybe I was a little insane at that point too.

At the half-marathon mark, the turn-around point, I finally saw some other runners coming back on the return leg.  I hadn't seen other runners in hours!  I kept going.  And going.  And going.  Almost 6 hours since I started, I was heading towards the finish line, holding hands with one of my best friends, Tyler, and yelling simultaneously, "ANCA$H IS BETTER!!" 

Without training, I finished ahead of other runners, and under the cut-off time.  Thanks to Tyler for keeping me going.  During the race, and during the last 10 months in Peru.  His presence will be missed, but we know there are bigger and better things for him in the states.  Thanks for your videos, your friendship, and the positive light you shone on everyone.  This one's dedicated to Tyler Brown.

Christmas in July : Jun 21, 2009

Greetings from Peru.  I'm still here!

Life has been very tranquilo here these last six months.  That means relaxing & tranquil.  Without the use of a laptop since March, I have been happily catching up on reading while I would have been spending my free time watching movies or tv series.  I've been on several hikes since the rainy season has ended, and now my clothes dry quickly on the clothesline outside!  Last month I worked with my village's Tourist Association in their annual trail clean-up.  I invited other volunteers to help pick up trash on a stretch of the Santa Cruz trek, one of the most popular treks in the Cordillera Blanca.  And I live at the trailhead!

The video had some issues uploading, but thanks to Tyler for editing yet another fabulous video of us hard at work (play).

Tylers peace of peru blog: The Santa Cruz Adventure one

The stars at night are incredible and I spend a long time just staring up at them when I'm brushing my teeth in the patio before bed.  The night sky is so clear that the Milky Way is very prominent.  It has been difficult to find constellations because even the small stars are bright, not to mention that I'm in the Southern Hemisphere and don't recognize anything (even with the aid of my star chart.)

A morning at the beach before a 3-day conference. My best bros, Callie & James.

I'm looking forward to a few upcoming trips.  I'll be celebrating my birthday on the beach at a marathon started by another Peace Corps volunteer.  I originally signed up so I could support a Peace Corps event, but it has been nearly impossible to train for the race.  The high altitude, the diet of potatoes and white rice, and several bouts of intestinal issues have been challenging.  Did I mention I rolled my ankle on a hike a couple months ago?  Silly me. 

Another exciting adventure will be at the end of July when we are planning a trip to the Amazon jungle.  Since most volunteers settle into their work schedule by the second year, I've decided to get some trips out of the way this first year while I'm not dedicated to a set schedule and projects yet.

A new development is the visit of my dear friends EJ and Linh in November.  EJ and I worked at Fleet Feet Sports together for several years, and we had been dreaming about visiting Macchu Picchu from the start of our friendship.  Little did we know that years later, I'd find myself placed in Peru.  How the universe works in wonderful ways!!

Lastly, the most anticipated travel plans are not to a jungle, beach, mountains, nor ancient civilization, but rather to the barren tundra of...
the United States.

Despite my original plans to stick out the 27 months without a visit home, I found last Christmas to be terribly lonely and not at all festive.  Being here living with another family from another culture has provided me with a deep appreciation for the quirks and comfort of my own family.  So, I booked my flight for Michigan/Pennsylvania for next Christmas and New Year's!!  This trip has had me day-dreaming about what I'm going to eat, who I'm going to see, and what kind of festive holiday decorations my mom's house will be decked out in.  I can't wait!

Unexpected surprise: April 21, 2009

I woke up when the first light of day shone through the glass panes on my bedroom door. Without even looking at my watch, I knew it must be around 6am.  Too early.  I have nothing to do today.  My only plan is to attempt to re-run the route I botched yesterday.  I had run 3 miles out, then felt like I was getting heat stroke.  With the rainy season coming to an end, the days get incredibly hot.  I walked the entire 3 miles back to my house.  Since I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the only plan I had today, I went back to bed.  I figured the longer I sleep, the shorter the day will be. 

*Three hours later, I find myself standing in a large field, facing a 2000 pound bull while trying to grab its nostrils with metal pinchers designed specifically for the job. 

After I had decided to go back to sleep, I awoke several hours later to a knock on my door.  I was startled since my host family always let me sleep in.  I groped around for my glasses and stumbled to the door.  My host dad tells me there are Evangelical veterinarians from the United States in the next town where the other PC volunteer lives.  What?  He tells me they need a translator.  I’m so confused, but since confusion is my natural state here, I go with it.  I get dressed and we walk up to the next town.  My friend is on vacation, so I arrive in her town not knowing what to expect.

The scene I happen upon is comical.  There are a bunch of gringos wrestling with farm animals while their quechuan owners yank on the ropes in an attempt to control their livestock.  As it turns out, I had understood my host dad perfectly.  There were indeed a group of Evangelicals administering de-worming medicine to a plethora of animals.  Within a few minutes, they have welcomed me to their cause.  They are just so incredibly nice, funny, & English-speaking, that I ask if I can tag along.  They seemed just as pleased as I was to have me there.  They didn’t need a translator after all, because they brought three with them.  However, I continually make the mistake of talking Spanish to the Americans.  They are all from Macon, Georgia and travel 3 or 4 times every year to preach the word of Christ.  They have been coming to my village for the past 7 years.

In the next town, the pastor hands me a pair of metal pliers that look like medieval salad tongs.  I had asked if I could help in any way, maybe carry a bottle of medicine or something along those lines.  He says, “You’ve got the next bull.”  Alright.  I recall that Animal Science was my undergrad degree, but that seemed like lifetimes ago.  I’m excited to get my hands dirty again. 

I approach a panting bull with a rope tied around its horns.  In the states, there would be elaborate metal chutes to contain the beast.  But not here; we’re in the countryside 10,000 feet up a mountain in the Andes.  Five men are wrestling to get the bull’s head in a position where I can reach its nostrils without it mauling me.  I go in…pinch!  I squeeze that metal contraption with all my might while the vet runs in with the de-wormer.  Awesome!  People are coming from everywhere with their pigs, cows, bulls, sheep, and donkeys to receive their free de-wormer.  We’ve got a line of bulls ready to fight, and I’m pinching one after the other in adrenaline-filled bliss.

When we’re done, I took a moment to enjoy the countryside around me.  I had no idea my day would bring me face to face with raging bulls and a group of fantastic people doing amazing work.   Every day is a surprise, and I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

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Dear Carter, David, Julie, Amelia, Will, JB, MJ, and Hector,

I want to give a huge thanks to all of you, the amazing people I was able to assist in these two days.  It was truly a blessing to have you arrive and welcome me into your mission and hearts.  I can't wait to see those of you who will be returning in July, and hopefully several more times during the remainder of my service in Cashapampa.