Kassel Decides to be an English Teacher. Otherwise known as Adventures in Miscommunication, the Importance of Following Through, and How to Take a Chill Pill.

The Peace Corps encourages us to participate in “Vacaciones Utiles,” a Peruvian program that translates to “Useful Vacations.”  Everyone in my town thought that me teaching English during this time was a FABULOUS idea, so I did my due diligence.  I submitted official solicitudes to the municipality, the head of Social Programs, and to the Director of the high school, whose classroom I hoped to use.  One by one they were all approved.  I managed to get a set of keys to the high school the day before New Year’s, and I set out to celebrate knowing that I was well set to start planning my classes and preparing my classroom after the 2^nd.

Wrong.

Those keys I mentioned?  Not for the front gate to the high school.  The only key I need in fact, is to the front gate, and yet that is the one key that I do not have.  Does the principal answer his cell phone when I call to ask for his help?  No.  No he does not.  As I walk back to my house, feeling slightly lost and bewildered, I run into Señor Feliciano, the gatekeeper to the high school during the regular school year.  I show him the keys and he tells me that they are for the auditorium.  Oh, well, if I ever get into the front gate it turns out I can open the auditorium.  Woop-de-Doo.  He walks off and I arrive at home where I promptly complain to my host mother.  Oh, she says, Señor Feliciano should have a key to the front gate, he looks after the school.  Is she talking about the same Señor Feliciano that I talked to just moments ago? Yes, yes she is. Oh, but that place he was walking off to?  According to his wife, that place is his chakra, no she’s not sure when he’ll be back.  Alrighty then, I will be visiting your house tomorrow morning.  P.S. Tomorrow morning is the 5^th, and I’ve already announced over the town loudspeaker that classes will be starting in the high school on the 6^th.  F me.

Enter tomorrow morning—I go to Señor Feliciano’s house, where lo and behold, he is not at.  He has gone to the chakra (always, always the damn chakra), because it rained last night for the first time in over a week and everyone is super excited and visiting their chakras. Great.  Guess I’ll come back at dinnertime and hope this somehow works out.

I head back to my room to start planning my English classes.  Do I know where I will be teaching?  Nope.  Do I know how many kids will be coming? Nope, because I totally glossed over the whole “sign-up” part of summer classes.  Cool.  I can definitely make learning how to say “My name is…” last for an hour.  As I am busy pitying myself, (which turns into anger-pitying because are my problems really that terrible? No, they’re not.) someone starts to bang at the front gate.  I usually ignore door-banging, but at one point I swear I hear English words.  ENGLISH?!?! Maybe it is for me.  I’m like a puppy scrambling for the door. 

The guy at the door is definitely not speaking English and leaves as soon as I explain that none of my family is home at the moment.  As he turns away, who do I see walking by but Señor Feliciano! Never have I been gladder to open my door.  I rush out and explain my dilemma.  Is there any way he can lend me his key?

--Ah, gringa, estoy en vacaciones, no estoy trabajando.  Trans: Oh, white girl, I’m on vacation, I’m not working. 

Oh, I say as my heart sinks. 

--Pero, la Señora Elena está trabajando en la biblioteca cada día de las ocho hasta el uno.  Trans: But, Mrs. Elena is working in the library everyday from eight to one.  

Every day you say? As in today?

--No, gringa, hoy es domingo.  Pero mañana a las ocho ella va estar.  Cada día el portón está abierto. Trans: No, white girl, today is Sunday.  But tomorrow at eight she will be there.  The gate is open every day.

So I can get inside the high school at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, a half hour before my class is supposed to start in order to clean and organize the classroom?  Well, Señor, that is technically better than nothing. 

So here I am, waiting for Monday (aka tomorrow) to come.  I’ve set up a possible back-up plan with the health post, where, if the high school doesn’t pan out, I can use the second story of the health post.  There are no chairs, tables, or chalk/whiteboards in this space.  But given that the rain has decided to return, I will settle for a roof.  I’m slightly kicking myself for not pushing Señor Feliciano a little harder on the lending me his key question.  Because while he may be on vacation, does that mean his key is too?  If he’s on vacation doesn’t that just mean that he has no need for the key?  All these points I could have brought up.  Damn you Spanish for slowing my brain down. 

But while by my standards this feels ridiculous and frustrating, the truth is, everything is probably going to work itself out.  And if it doesn’t, well, I think we’ll all live. 

And yes, by writing this, I am procrastinating from planning my classes that start, oh right, tomorrow.

Besos!

(Update: It all worked out.) 

My what an elaborate tunnel system you have (Visiting the UNESCO World Heritage Site at Chavin de Huantar)

In terms of ruins, Machu Picchu tends to dominant the Peruvian ruin scene.  That said, the Chavin ruins, a mere hour away from me, are probably considered ruin destination No. 2. Enjoy some tantalizing photos of them.

The last head-nail left at the Chavin site.  The rest have been excavated and can be found at the official museum (which oddly enough was partly sponsored by the Japanese government)

The upper-ground portion of the Chavin ruins.  Lovely, but the real treasure lies below...

In the elaborate tunnel system!

Which is well-lighted in places, though not in all, which can result in... 

forehead injuries that hopefully a Health Peace Corps Volunteer can help you with.

Besos!

The Cinnamon Challenge (December 30th, 2013)

Have any of you heard of the Cinnamon Challenge?  It goes like this: I bet you can’t swallow a tablespoon of pure cinnamon. Some people hear that and say, “Yeah, you’re probably right, but I guess we’ll never know because I’m not going to try.”  Others hear that and say, “Wanna bet?”  Guess which one bored Peace Corps Volunteers say? 

I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

That’s Michelle and Daniel starting us off.  We only have two spoons so I will soon be taking Daniel’s spoon and filling it with my own cinnamon.

This is me choking on the cinnamon

That’s Daniel and Michelle wondering if it’s funny or if I’m dying

That’s me alive with no regrets

That’s Daniel giving in and spitting it out

Turns out you can swallow a tablespoon of cinnamon, because Michelle did it!

Turns out I can’t though.

And please, try this at home.  I’m curious.

Besos!

Showering in Site

Well guys, I finally did it.  After climbing up my mountain (see the last blog post) a shower was deemed necessary by all parties (aka me).

I come home ready to strip immediately and simply throw myself into the shower only to find the bathroom….occupied.  By someone in the shower.  After nearly a month of wondering if the shower was even used, the one time I am in a desperate need to shower, it’s taken.  What?!

I pace in my room a bit, wishing desperately to be free of my own sweat.  I’ll skip over the (seemingly) endless waiting and get to the important part—glacially cold water bursting from the showerhead.  Easily the shortest shower of my life.  I resolved to wimp up and go for a heated bucket shower the next time round.

THE NEXT TIME ROUND

Heated bucket showers are the best thing in the world.  For a few brief minutes you entire body is warm, free of the rain, wind, and cold that tends to plague the elements as soon as I decide to shower. 

Moral of the story:  I will probably not go 12 days without showering again.

Besos!

I Climbed My Mountain (a la Sound of Music—except not really because I literally did and the Mother Superior was being metaphorical)

From the main highway up to my little ole town of Huantar there is a 200 meter gain in altitude.  In some ways, like at sea level, this is nothing, but in other ways, ways like lung capacity, this little ole altitude gain is a force needed to be reckoned with—and after about a month in site I decided that by golly, I was going to reckon.

Walking down the hill is about 40 minutes of relative ease.  Yes, your knees occasionally ask if so much continuous down is truly necessary, but down in the key word there.  Gravity is working in your favor, and every step downward brings the slightest increase in oxygen saturation.  As it turns out, walking up does the exact opposite.  Your knees are fine, but your thighs are cursing you to kingdom come and your lungs are so busy sucking up the available oxygen to deliver to your cursing thighs that they can’t be bothered to respond.

As a coping mechanism, I divided and named the various segments of my walk as a way to measure my distance.

Part 1: The road

            The road is easy.  It’s incline is reduced so that thirty-year-old cars with treadles tires can drive up without stalling.  You walk along thinking, this ain’t so bad.  You’re right.  It’s not…yet.

Part 2: The swamp

            You leave the road briefly to cut the distance off of a switchback.  You delicately hop, skip, and leap across the less-swampy bits to reach the lightly marked goat trail.  You start to go up and it hits you, you’re climbing up.  But this portion is relatively short and before you know it you’re back on the road—but just to cross it so that you can come to

Part 3: Mordor

            Black stones and rocks mark this barren landscape.  There are few clumps of grass to reduce the chance of your boot slipping and yet you know there is nowhere to go but up.  The ring must be destroyed after all.

Part 4: The part you always forget

            Mordor thankfully is short (don’t Frodo and Sam wish they could have said that [last LOTR reference I promise, maybe]) and soon you’re back to the road only to remember that damn, you forgot about this part. It has the subsections of “False sense of security flat part” and “I think the road is just around this corner, oh wait no its not.”  Once you get through this bit you reach the road for the last time until Huantar proper.  You pause here.  Casually you glance downward, not looking to see if a car is coming up, of course not, you don’t actually want a ride, this is good exercise, this is character-building, this is FUN, but just to stretch your back.  In the back of your mind though you know.  This is your last chance.  You take one more step and there’s only one way up to Huantar—on your own two feet.

Part 5: The long part

            This part is long (shocking).  The first bit is steep and you pass such memorable points as “that place I saw a dead, bloated donkey,” “that place I got stabbed in the armpit with a thistle,” and “that part where I regret my decision to walk up.”  Before long though you reach The Straight and Narrow.  It is a long portion that is straight and narrow (I know that my naming abilities are simply astounding you all).  It’s kind of awful though because there are no curves in the path so that you can wistfully imagine it will be easier just around the corner.

            After the straight and narrow, you come to The Slides.  Steep and rocky, you will inevitably slide down them a little bit.  And in one of the great mysteries of the world, there is always one more segment than you remember.

            Finally you come the top of the portion of The Slides, and it blissfully, mercifully “flat” (in comparison).  Even better, the wall of the cemetery is within site.  Home is so close you can almost taste it.

            You pass the field that reminds you of a painting of Russian peasants working a field, you walk briefly under the shade of tall eucalyptus trees, you pick up a stone to deter a barking dog, you push yourself, huffing and puffing, up the final steps up the last hill, you ignore the women pointing at you and your red, sweating, stinking body, and at long last are walking the paved streets of Huantar. 

I was too busy trying to breathe properly to take pictures of this particular hike, but enjoy some shots from other, less arduous climbs

Besos!

On Christmas Day I hiked out to a tree that dominates the skyline and taunted me for weeks.  Finally I walked out to it and here she is!

Going where no gringa has gone before

Looking out over Huantar

Some of the desert foliage of my region

More desert foliage

Looking out over Huantar

My new tree hiking goal

O. M. G.

I finally got to Season 3 of Scandal.  It’s mind-crack.  I mean this shit is RIDICULOUS.  And yet, I want so much more.  There’s no way it’s going to be able to sustain this level of entertainment.  I’m going to need to start watching in larger and larger binge-marathons, until finally, even 24 solid hours of Scandal won’t be enough.  I’ll need something more.  I’ll need Real Housewives of Somewhere.

Be concerned.  Be warned. This could happen to anyone.  

How to make Pachamanca en Tierra (Christmas Eve at the Health Post)

There is no dish more Peruvian, especially Sierra Perú, than pachamanca en tierra.  Normally eaten in May for Mother’s Day, the health post staff decided to make it for the Christmas Eve celebration.  Here is how it is made:

1)      Build an igloo-like house of stones (my sincerest apologies for not having photos of this part.  I suppose we’ll all just have to wait for May) and burn firewood inside for approximately 5-7 hours, or until the stones are red hot.

2)      Slowly take apart the stone house using anything but your hands.  Eventually it will capsize upon itself, at which point you work to create an approximately one layer thick bottom base of red hot stones.

3)      Pour papas (potatoes) and camotes (sweet potatoes) onto the first layer. Cover the potatoes and camotes with more stones and rocks and proceed to place the paper-wrapped meat (chicken, pig, cuy, or rabbit) atop this layer.

 4)      Layer by layer, stone by stone, put on the humitas (sweet tamales), the habas (lima beans), and the choclo (corn).  Cover the towering mound with tarps, then pasto (grass), and finally dirt.  Cover it thoroughly so that no smoke can be seen escaping.

5)      Wait an hour to an hour and a half.  Run around merrily if under the age of six. 

Slowly begin to deconstruct the mountain of rock-cooked food, eating as you excavate each layer.  I highly recommend the camotes and humitas.  The pig’s not bad either.

There’s a couple other key steps involving seasoning the meat that I was not a witness to and hence cannot explain.  It’s fairly essential though, so if you do plan to use the above instructions to make your own pachamanca, I recommend not doing that and instead looking up an actual recipe.

Besos!