It's Christmas Night in Huantar

Boy, have I done you guys a disservice.  Christmas Eve, by family took me to the plaza for the Christmas celebrations.  I was under the impression that it was just going to be a bunch of townspeople hanging out in the plaza de armas (town sqaure)—hardly a photo-rific opportunity.  So I left my camera back in my room (though I took my waterbottle with me.  It’s my signature accessory after all) and we set off for the plaza.  Lord almighty do I wish I had brought my camera. 

Turns out Christmas Eve in Huantar is all about church.  Peruvian Catholic midnight mass is not that different from Chicagoan Episcopalian midnight mass.  The Gospel is read, songs are sung (including one in Quechua!), and communion is taken.  Par for the course.

But then the Christmas Pageant began.  Two of the high schoolers, a boy and a girl, were dressed up as angels and they walked up the aisle singing a carol.  Thirty some little kids filled the aisle behind them.  There were also two guys with furry face masks, apparently representing the viejos (why old men have forehead beards was not explained to me), as well as a real live baby lamb. For this portion imagine your average pageant—proud parents, indecipherable speeches, forgotten exits and entrances.  Until that is, the negritos made their entrance.

The negritos are the teenage boys in blackface.  That’s right, you heard me.  Perhaps you’ve noticed from this blog that political correctness is not an all-consuming concern with Peruvians.  Never has that been so evident as this night.  Pair by pair, the ten negritos made their way up the aisle, doing a little shoulder shimmy-wobble.  Their whole heads were covered in a balck mask, and they were wearing traditional sotumes.  Once they reached the priest seated at the front of the church, they briefly adored the baby Jesus doll nad then began to violently jog backwards, shaking and shimmying and occasionally throwing themselves into the pew to try to kiss one of the abuelitas.  One abuelita straight up slapped one of the boys. After twenty minutes of this, four girls, dressed in white dresses and draped in white veils, slowly hip shimmied their way up the aisle.  Their return up the aisle was far calmer and restrained.  After this the whole church filed outside to watch a negrito-virgin dance that culminated in AN EPIC SWORD BATTLE BETWEEN THE GUY-ANGEL AND A GUY DRESSED UP AS THE DEVIL.  That’s right, the devil and an angel dueled on Christmas Eve. 

I so desperately wish I could show you pictures.  Maybe next year.  But rest easy knowing that in the end, the angel won, Christmas was saved, and Tiny Tim will one day walk.

Besos!

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND FELIZ NAVIDAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey everyone! It is the Christmas season, one of my absolute most favorite times of the year.  The lights, the music, the snow, the vacation, man I just can't get enough of it.  It’s also the one time of the year that I manage to see the majority of my family and friends in Chicago and Green Bay—even if only for a few days.  This year however, as I am sure you are all aware, I am in Perú, unable to do this.  While I have a whole new set of Christmas activities in store (Secret Santa with the health post staff, Christmas dinner with the Ancash Peace Corps Volunteers, and sleeping in Christmas morning, to hell with cultural norms!) I wanted to give a shout out to everyone this holiday season.

This video was made for my best friend Shaina—we promised to do a monthly video exchange and here is my first contribution, a mere three months late!  Hope you all enjoy!

Merry Christmas From Peru!

Besos!

Thoughts, Moments, and Pictures

I am a deep sleeper.  My college roommate Andrea can attest to this as she once had to wake me up, as I was sleeping through the fire alarm.  But it turns out that there are two things here in Huantar that are sure to wake me up.  One of which I am grateful for, the other not so much.

1) Sudden onset diarrhea.  You wake up, not sure why.  You’re slightly groggy, but like Miss Clavel from Madeline you know that something is not right.  Oh! Oh, you know what it is now.  It’s your large intestine.  It making sounds and movements that can’t mean anything good.  In this moment I felt like a parent with a small infant in the other room.  Yes, you would rather be asleep, yes it’s cold outside of the covers and stumbling through the dark to another room is no picnic.  But not getting up and stumbling to that other room is going to bring a whole another world of consequences that are INFINITELY less appealing.

2)  Fireworks that set off car alarms.  Insult on top of injury.  Who is awake at 4 am? Why are they setting off fireworks?  How are they not drunk enough to set them all off at once, instead of staggering them every half hour? Drink more! Pass out already!

Pictures of my Host Sister's Promotion from Inicial [Kindergarten]

Nicol receiving her Snow White-themed diploma

Nicol as she waltzes with another of her kindergarten graduates.  Kindergarten promotion is like a mini-wedding.

Nicol dancing with her father, Franklin

Nicol dancing with her mother, Melly

Lesslye and Melly

The clown (payaso) leading a conga line

Me about to try cuy (guinea pig) for the first time.  Notice me wearing a white shirt and not a fleece--I'm all gussied up

Nicol and fam with her two graduation cakes

Sometimes I wonder, why am I here?  The staff at the health post is well-trained and there are plenty of them.  There are already seven Community Health Agents in my districts.  Teen pregnancy is relatively low, and a surprising number of people can explain what diabetes is.  But then, sometimes, a little boy will go to the bathroom and come back with his hands outstretched to me, asking if I want some perfume.  I will panic, because what the hell is on his hands.  It will turn out to be soap, but he doesn’t know that it is soap, meant to wash the germs and residue off of his hands.  In that moment I think, well at least one person here is going to benefit from my talks on hand-washing.

The View from My Secret Eucalyptus Grove

One day I walked into the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and then realized that there was a chicken in the shower next to me, and that she was as surprised and displeased to see me as I was to see her.

Building the Christmas Nativity at my Health Post

From left to right: Me, Abigail [a nurse tech], Giselle [Lidia's daughter], Hilda, a tech's, daughter [name unknown], Lidia [a nurse tech], Nora [the obstetriz], and Andrea, [the doctor]

The Completed Nativity

I’ve seen it twice now, a cultural difference that I truly don’t understand.  After slaughtering a cuy, one occasionally finds a cuy fetus during the disembowelment.  My reaction to this—sad, yes, but let’s properly dispose of the body, perhaps feed it to a cat or pig.  The Peruvian reaction—let’s give it to the nearest child to hold as if it were still alive.  I walked up to breakfast to see my host sister holding a dead baby cuy in a rag stroking its head and saying how cute it was.  No.  No, it’s a dead rat and you should throw it away now please.

Text to another Volunteer: “Remind me to never leave my site with people from my site if I ever want to get back to my site.”

The five-second rule does not exist in Perú

This one’s for you Dad.  May PDX one day see the light.

Although my town of Huantar has running water (Praise the Lord), the water is not yet potable.  Everyone has to boil their water before using it.  The next improvement would be water treatment, which means that fluoridation of the water is a long ways away.  How then do the young children of Huantar receive fluoridation treatments, considering that the nearest dentist is about an hour away, and that’s assuming perfect traveling conditions (Ha.)?

Observe:

On fluoridation days the entire health post turns out to the elementary school to distribute fluoridation treatments, which consistent of generic teeth molds, disinfected with 96% alcohol, that are stuffed with cotton, upon which the pink gel-like fluoride is smeared on.  The kids hold them in their mouths, which quickly become overcome with drool, until it’s time to take them out, at which point an epic hacking, coughing, and spitting contest begins around the trashcan.

Did you know that it is perfectly acceptable to spit on the floor in Perú? Seriously, spit away, no one will bat an eye.  And that is why the five second rule does not exist in Perú.

With the help of several eight- and nine-year-olds I was able to capture the events of the day.

Besos!

I see Pig-Killer and Pig-Killer sees me.

After a delicious dinner of lomo saltado, and a hearty discussion of cancer, America’s foreign relations with Cuba, and the connection between US drug abuse and Mexican narcoterroismo (I think about 65% was understood by both sides), I stood out on the porch with my host mom, just looking at the stars.  There was a fiesta going on in the Plaza de Armas, something about the Virgen de Guadalupe, and I was kind of dreading the idea of going.  Yes, it would be a wonderful opportunity to show how well I was integrating into the community, but did I really want to hang out with a bunch of drunk Peruvians as they spoke in Quechua, at times undoubtedly about me, and danced to music whose beat I have yet to truly identify (I’ve been assured that there is one)?  That’d be a no.  Baby steps guys, baby steps.

Instead, I excitedly told her about my green laser that can point to the stars (unfamiliar with this? Go to your local astronomy whatever [aka OMSI] to find out more) and ran down to my room to get it.  I pointed out Orion’s belt and to where Taurus could be found on a less cloudy night. I brought out my constellation guide that shows the placement of stars in the Southern Hemisphere month by month, and I was geeking out in a way that felt good.  My host dad joined in as I explained that during March I should be able to see the Big Dipper, aka the best constellation ever. Once I finished, he asked me if I was familiar with the star Kuchipistqa.  Umm, no, definitely not, in fact could you repeat what you just said about five more times so I can butcher it as I try to pronounce it. 

Kuchipistqa is also known as the planet Venus, and can be translated from Quechua to mean Pig-Killer.  Why, you wonder, is Venus called Pig-Killer in Quechua? I counter with why is a planet named after the Roman Goddess for love?  Moving on, the reason is that Venus is seen in the madrugada, or early hours, which is when the Quechua people of Ancash kill their pigs. 

See Venus? That means its pig killing time.

I loved the conversation tonight.  My Spanish was mediocre, but one of the things my host family is best at is listening to me speak in broken Spanish.  They listen patiently, they respond, they initiate conversations, and they make me feel like every day I am slightly more coherent and interesting.  My host sister and I are currently watching Chocolat together, in English.  Apparently having me translate a movie’s dialogue into Spanish is a great way to spend the afternoon. 

So to conclude I give you the new and improved lyrics to the lullaby “I See the Moon”

I see pig-killer and pig-killer sees me

Pig-killer sees somebody I want to see

So God bless pig-killer and God bless me

And God bless somebody I want to see.

How to Get to Huaraz

Step one: Spray the entirety of your room with a flea-killing spray.  Begin to hack up your lungs despite the jauntily tied hankerchief around your mouth.  Power through because DAMMIT THERE WILL BE NO MORE FLEAS IN YOUR BED WHEN YOU RETURN SO HELP YOU GOD. Place everything you have worn during Fleamaggedon in a stuff sack to be laundered and dried in a real heat-killing dryer when you get to Huaraz. 

Step two: Walk through town with said stuff sack slung across your shoulders the way a sheep is always slung across the shepherd’s shoulders in a Nativity (how poignant is that reference?  Happy Holidays everyone!) Feel like a real Huantarina as you ignore the car driving down the mountain and start walking down the campesina way—on foot.

Step three: Fall in love with your hiking boots after you don’t slide to your death and don’t twist your ankle.  Notice a dead and bloated donkey in the chakra as you walk by.  Wonder what the protocol for dead donkeys is, but figure that the most you can really do is poke it with a stick and realize that is a TERRIBLE idea.  Remember that it definitely didn’t take you this long to walk down last time.

Step four: Finally get to the bottom of your hill.  Have a nice conversation with a Peruvian.

“I hope there is a seat for you, the bus is usually full.”

Oh, well, I hope there is too.

“Did you vote for Obama?” 

Hells yes I did—I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, it was Obama or the Green Party. 

“John Kerry is number two, yes?”

No, Joe Biden is, but don’t worry, that’s an easy mistake to make. 

“Do you like Peruvian movies?”

Well, actually I haven’t seen one yet. 

“Don’t worry, you shouldn’t.  They all suck.”

Good to know.

Step five: Have bus arrive.  Realize the Peruvian is psychic because there are no seats available.  Explain to the bus driver that your friends are already on the bus and you have to get to a meeting in Huaraz, so por favor.  Milk the gringa thing for all its worth.

Step six: Realize that standing on unpaved roads is a non-option.  Share half a seat with the two other Peace Corps Volunteers and have the seat belt buckle ride up into your butt in a way that is so far comfortable.  Be assured that a seat will open up after the bus passes through Chavin—a mere thirty minutes.

Step seven: Chavin is not a mere thirty minutes.  It is an ass-busting two hours.

Step eight: Sit next to a Peruvian in the very back of the bus who is familiar with Peace Corps.  Discuss food and weather differences between the US and Peru for the next two hours. Become convinced that you speak Spanish fluently.  Realize that food and weather is hardly biochemistry and political science.  Stamp that ego back on down.

Step nine: Finally pass through the tunnel—the sign that paved roads are in your future, only to be stopped by a truck carting a trailer that is stalled out on a curve and has managed to occupy every possible inch of lane on the road.  Try to call someone to commiserate.  Find out there is no service and accept that you are in the middle of the Andes, no one has service, and there is no place within walking distance that has service.  Watch an ambulance with flashing lights get stuck, but decide that no emergency would be going in the direction away from Huaraz.  False alarm. You hope.

Step ten: Gather that the truck has run out of gas.  Become seriously concerned whether anyone plans to do anything to remedy this.  Internally slap yourself for thinking that none of the hundred plus people stuck on either side of the truck will realize that someone has to donate some gas to the stalled truck.  Feel like applauding when you see someone with a gas tank and someone with a hose walking towards the truck.

Step eleven: After another half an hour, wonder how long it takes to put gas in a truck.

Step twelve: Hear a rumble in the distance.  Could it be? Can it be? It is, the truck is moving.  Watch the truck driver’s smug grin as he chugs up the hill.  Have your suspicion of him deliberately blocking traffic in order to get some gas confirmed by bus gossip.  Bastard.

Step thirteen: Put in your headphones and listen to James Taylor the rest of the way.  You’re only three hours behind schedule and you’ve seen fire and you’ve seen rain.

Step fourteen: Arrive in Huaraz.  Drop off your bags.  Experience a furniture transportation miracle. Get a beer and a burger.  Take your first shower in twelve days.  Sign contentedly and go to sleep. 

Five days ago, I snuck into a cemetery (Written Dec. 3rd, 2013)

Can’t believe I didn’t think it was noteworthy to write then, because how exciting is that last sentence? I wandered over to the health post on Friday afternoon only to discover that Friday afternoon is also known as no one is in the health post on Friday afternoons.  Only the tech Lydia and her adorable daughter Giselle (see the pictures of Peruvian children in the previous post for reference) were there.  After we exchanged pleasantries, Lydia said that she was on her way to collect pasto (grass) and would I like to come.  Just so we’re all clear, when anyone invites me to do something, anything, to pass the time in Huantar, my answer leans towards, “Yes please, thank God.”

So we closed up the health post, Lydia assured me that she had the cell phone in case there was an emergency (Ha), and we started to walk towards pasto.  We walked past the locked entrance to the cemetery and began to stroll along the adobe wall until we came to a section that was lower than the rest, slightly more worn in places, almost as if there were steps carved into the side.  Surely we weren’t going to…yes, yes we were going to break into a cemetery.

Under the gaze of some Quechua abuelas (did they approve, did they disapprove, no one will ever know) Lydia, Giselle, and I clambered over the wall and into the graveyard. 

As a sidenote, I actually really enjoy graveyards, especially, if anyone’s curious, Lakeview Cemetery in Cleveland, OH.  I went there in the spring of 2013 and golly did I have a blast, dead people in Cleveland have impeccable taste in gravestones.  Though I have to wonder if all presidential tombs are always so ostentatious.  Back to the more recent past— for a half hour or so I helped Lydia and Giselle pull up grass, clover, flowers, and other plants that cuyes (guinea pigs) like to eat.  Apparently they like soft plants.

It was a whole other view of Huantar that I hadn’t yet seen.  Tall windblown pines along one edge, grass free of animal feces as the dogs hadn’t yet learned to climb the wall, new views of snow-capped peaks in the distance, and the quiet that always seems to accompany graves.  Maybe one day I’ll buck up the courage to sneak in there on my own, and I’ll find a secret corner to read and write letters in.  Also, if anyone would care to research if there are any curse-like effects from pulling up grass in cemeteries and let me know, I would be much obliged.

Besos.

Enjoy some Peruvian cemetery shots:

The mountain to the East, bare rock shooting out of the valley floor

Snow-capped peaks in the distance

The nurse tech, Lidia, and her daughter Giselle

Dead rat found in a cemetery.  I found it...poetic?

Mountains on the road to Chavin

Pine trees and Peruvians long dead