Word of warning. This
is not the most coherent thing I have ever written.
The past couple of months have been slightly difficult ones
for me. I joined the Peace Corps for a
variety of reasons—I knew I wasn’t ready to continue on to grad school, but
didn’t want to join my fellow grads in trying to find a job in the US. I wanted adventure. I wanted to travel. I wanted to work doing something that would
have impact, however small. I knew from
the experiences of my family members who had been in the Peace Corps that in
many ways serving in the Peace Corps changed the Volunteer more than it changed
the community the Volunteer was serving in.
I was, and to a certain extent, am prepared to accept that reality. But as my sex ed classes are wrapping up, I’m
discovering that several of my kids still can’t define birth control, can’t
tell me what HIV and AIDS stand for, and forget some key steps in how to use a
condom (Always, always pinch the tip!).
I’m moving forward with my project of house visits to mothers with young
children, and as I get to know the women and they grow more comfortable around
me the visits are growing immensely more pleasurable to do. But I have little to no support from my
health post. This is in part my fault,
because I no longer reach out and ask for the support. I’m just too used to have them make promises
they don’t keep. So I very much feel
like I’m flying solo. And some of the
problems I face with these mothers feel a bit unsurmountable. What do I tell a woman whose son has chronic
malnutrition? I teach her about foods
and dishes with greater nutrition, more vitamins, more protein, etc. But what about when her son has been sick for
the last two weeks and has no appetite?
When she lives an hour hike away from the nearest store selling fresh
vegetables and meat (and I use the word fresh lightly)? Sometimes I feel woefully unqualified to be advising
these women. Sometimes I’m certain that
a key bit of information has been lost in translation. After all, her first language is Quechua and
mine is English. We’re trying to meet in
the middle with Spanish.
I have now been in Peru for over 14 months. I have another year to finish my service the
way I want it to end. A year sometimes
feels like a lifetime and other times it feels like no time at all. How do I want to finish my service? Do I want to focus my energy on working with
individuals, or with trying to start something sustainable? Can I even use the word sustainable without
simultaneously wanting to laugh out loud?
I don’t ever want to feel like I’m staying here out of sheer stubbornness. That’s not fair to me, my family, my host
family, my community, or to Peace Corps.
And that’s not what I’m doing yet.
I’m writing this all and sharing this all with you, because I want to be
honest about what this experience has been for me. I complain a lot. I miss a lot of things in the United
States. But one of the things that
drives my complaining and unhappiness is the fact that Peru is a very unique
country. The vast majority of the people
live in poverty. But it has a HUGE
tourism industry that means that you can visit Peru without ever seeing that
poverty. It has so many first world amenities
available in the bigger cities—amenities that include hot showers, Starbucks,
Papa John’s, high-speed internet.
Volunteers here see that it is possible for comfort and efficiency and
stability to be achieved. But corruption,
greed, and classism keep it from reaching the communities where we live. And that is a hard thing to see day in and
day out.
I’m rambling a bit.
Perhaps in the coming months I will be better able to compose my
thoughts. But this is all a sort of
preface for the next story I want to share.
My town’s Patron Saint Fiesta was in mid-October. The fiesta lasted about a week and mainly
consisted of people dancing through the streets in traditional costumes. One night, they were dancing right outside my
house. I stood on the balcony with my
family, watching as the Arpahuancas danced.
They took a drinking break after a little bit and as they passed the bottle around, drinking in the uniquely Peruvian drinking circle, I wondered why they were doing it. Why they still pulled on these old costumes, why people walked with them through the streets as they danced the same steps hour after hour. And I realized right then, that I was very much an outsider watching this. These were not my traditions. I didn’t feel the same connection to them that I assume everyone else around me did. And that’s okay, because I have my own traditions that fill me with joy, my own traditions that I practice every year simply because they are comfort to me, because they are part of my culture.
But then I started to worry if these traditions will
last. If I visit Huantar thirty years
from now, will there still be men and women who know the steps? Is it any of my business how their traditions
change? I know that I am causing little
ripples by being here. I’m not the first
person to do so. I’m the fourth Peace Corps
Volunteer to live in this site, and there have been Italian missionaries for
years before that. But what exactly am I
doing here? Am I here, living so far
from home because I want to feel this differentness? This foreignness, this exoticness? Is
that fair, is that right? Why am I doing
house visits and teaching these classes?
Why am I showing movies that show a reality no here will probably ever experience? How can I ever let myself feel at home when I
know that I’m going to leave? The
obstetra (midwife/obstetrician) in Huantar told me that she was really close
with the volunteer before me, like sisters, or so she felt. Then the obstetra transferred to another town
to work, and the friendship changed—it stopped.
And that made her sad. She felt
like it hadn’t been an equal relationship, it had been a friendship perhaps of
convenience. That is what I felt
weighing down on me as I watched the dancers drink, laugh, and talk in
Quechua. That I, without even realizing
it, am making promises that I can’t keep.
The Arpahauncas started to dance again. And as they moved around in a circle, to the
sounds of tubas and accordians, pulling women from the crowd in to dance with
them, I did not feel any wash of certainty fall over me. I just watched them for a little bit
longer. Watched until I had seen
enough.
Besos.
No comments:
Post a Comment