Felicidad es un color

I painted my room last week (Dad, those brushes were a lifesaver!).  It went from being cement grey to sweetart orange.  It looked misleadingly innocent and quiet as a small little color swatch, and then blew up into quite the zesty fiesta when it was covering my walls.  It is definitely a happy color, and I can`t help grin every time I look at it, but I bet it would drive anyone else crazy.  But hey, if you are going to paint a room an obnoxiously bright color, this is the country to do it in.  That is one part of the culture here that I love.  They have a real appreciation for color in this part of the world.  I know people in the US enjoy color as well, but they tend to stick to the more respectable colors, the neutral beiges and light tans, and then throw in a bright accent color on decorative pillows to show how fun and spontaneous they are.  But here, we`re a little more flamboyant than that.  We embrace the entire rainbow, not just the faded versions of its colors.  I painted my room the color of orange that only a hyperactive 4-year-old would appreciate in the US, and yet my host mom took one look at it and declared that we would paint the front of the house the same color. 

This, my friends, is just one of many examples on why I get along so well with my family.  We think in the same color scheme.

 

Sushi and Soap Opera Stars

The day both began and ended well.  I am staying at a friend’s house in Lima, and he had just come back from the US, where he was kind enough to pick me up a box of strawberry poptarts.  So after a hot shower and some time on the internet, I went to the office to use their toaster (you don’t see many of those in Peru, so you have to take advantage of them when you do).  After I devoured that tasty treat, I made a Starbucks run and bumped into some other friends that I hadn’t seen in ages.  We chatted for awhile over steaming cups of goodness, before heading over to the fair.  I spent some time selling products, then went to browse through the paintings.  I found one I really liked and convinced him to save it for me until the next day.  Then I went back to selling until 7, when it was time to meet up with some friends and get some sushi.  That’s right, I said sushi.  A new sushi place had opened up in Lima and had an all-you-can-eat-until-11 deal going.  By the time we asked for the check, I am pretty sure they were cursing the entire family tree of whoever it was who had come up with the idea.  Hours later, I am still wondering at the wisdom of it as I try to digest the mountain of sushi that was shoveled down my throat. 

After dinner, we met up with another old volunteer who has come back to start up a business, and a guy walked by that I instantly recognized as an actor on one of the soap operas that my family watches.  We stopped him to see if I was right, and when it turned out I was, we got a picture with him and chatted with him for a second.  He was very cool and down to earth, which made me feel a little better about myself.  I mean, it is bad enough to admit aloud that you have watched these soap operas, but to have watched them so often that you recognize the actors is even worse.  Still, he was a cool guy and it was kind of fun to meet a celebrity.  All in all, I would have to say that it was a good day.

 

13 months

Haircuts are a much simpler process here in Peru.  There are no hairstylist schools, no need to make appointments in the salons, not really even a need to speak the same language as the person about to attack your head.  Here, all you have to do is walk into the salon with 15 soles (about $5) in your pocket and you will soon leave with much less hair than you came with.  Until today, I had stubbornly put off getting my haircut for 13 months for what I thought were very valid reasons.  Mainly, the examples of the haircuts I had seen on everyone in the streets, many of which had left me wondering if they had done it on purpose or if their hairdresser was cross-eyed and/or drunk.  But along with the hair horrors on the streets were the horror stories that other volunteers would share, often with smiles that barely concealed the tears.  However, I knew I couldn’t put it off forever and so today I steeled my spine and exposed my hair to the gleaming scissors of a Peruvian stylist. 

When we first arrived at our sites, one of the current volunteers recommended a certain hair salon, so that is where I went.  Now, understand that my Spanish is getting pretty good, but if you throw me into a new situation I am most likely going to fumble around a bit.  I just haven’t needed to learn the Spanish phrase for “Just a trim” or “layered around the face” and stuff like that.  And then, when I went in and asked about a hair cut, they told me that the water on that block was off, so I would need to go home, wash my hair, and then come back with it wet.  Luckily, the hostal was only a few blocks away, so I was able to go soak my hair and return in a fairly short amount of time.  And then came the confusion of describing how I wanted my hair cut.  It was eventually agreed that he would only take off the ends of my hair (when literally translated) and through gestures and pointing at pictures I was able to get across the idea of layers beginning below my chin. 

So then, all that was left was for me to sit back and let him do the rest of the work.  It was at this point that I began to question the wisdom of letting a complete stranger get this close to my head with a sharp object.  I mean, no one else is allowed anywhere near us with gleaming metal tools without years of medical training, so why are we willing to let someone we barely know (admit it, how often do you hang out with your hairstylist outside of the salon) aim scissors at our heads?  I tried taking deep breaths… relax… but with each snip of the scissors I could feel my body tensing up.  The “trim” idea was completely forgotten by the time the third inch of hair fell to the floor.  By the fourth inch my efforts to relax had been completely replaced by my efforts to not dissolve into tears. 

The end result, while shorter than I was wanting, really wasn’t that bad.  I’ve got layers and the split-ends are gone, so I guess I accomplished what I set out to do.  However, it also emphasized the fact that my hair is a whole lot thinner than my pre-Peru look.  For reasons that have yet to be determined, it is quite common for female volunteers to experience hair loss during their two years.  My theory is that it is my body’s way of protesting the less comfortable surroundings.  Force it to switch to a straw mattress and parasite invasions and it will respond by angrily releasing the hair from its follicles.  I just hope that it doesn’t hold a grudge for too long after I return…

 

Pacasmayo

June 6, 2008, will go down in history as the first inaugural Pacasmayo marathon, which was organized by a couple of Peace Corps volunteers.  It was a great success, thanks in part to the lack of marathon in Lima this year and the impressive amount of Peace Corps volunteers who showed up to run in the event.  The beginning of the path was beautiful, following along the edge of a cliff and giving you an excellent view of the shore as the waves crashed into the sand.  There was even a lighthouse along the way, which added to the peacefulness of the place.  At least, for me it was peaceful, because I was only running a 5K.  And boy was I glad that I wasn’t running any more than that. 

It turns out I am a complete pansy.  I mean, I have suspected that for some time what with how easily I bruise and how completely anti-exercise I have always been, but I never confirmed my suspicions until recently.  After only 5 kilometers (about 3 miles), the blisters on my heels were bleeding onto my shoes and the blisters on the soles of my feet had gotten about the size of quarters.  Between that and how sore I was, I spent days hobbling around like I had been severely beaten about the legs.  In all seriousness, the people running the marathon finished in better shape than I did.  Not kidding, those people are my heroes.  I ran 5 kilometers, they ran over 40.  That, in my world, is called insanity.  The volunteer who won the men’s division ran the full marathon in 4 hours.  Four hours.  True, he kind of cheated by training at some outrageous elevation before running the marathon at sea level.  But that too is crazy.  At the elevation he lives at, I would have trouble breathing while sitting in a chair, forget running any sizable distance. 

So while I didn’t win any major awards at this event, I was inspired to start exercising again and I suppose that is one of the goals of events like these.  However, the only running I am looking to do involves chasing a soccer ball.  But I guess that’s a start.

 

Live from Peru

I suppose everyone has that one thing that they follow on a daily basis.  For some people, it is the stock market or the daily news.  For others, it’s the tabloids or American Idol.  For me, it’s the ant colony that lives beneath the sink in my bathroom.  Or, to be more specific, they live within the tape that has been wrapped around the pipe where it meets the wall.  Don’t ask me why I am fascinated by this seemingly normal factor of Peruvian living, because there really isn’t anything unusual about this ant colony.  Ants, and bugs in general, are definitely not abnormal here.  But I find myself drawn to this miniature drama just as much as I have been drawn to any tv program.  I remember odd bits of trivia about Life in the Porcelain Shadow (which is what it would be called if I were to make a documentary) like a Trekkie would know about episodes of Star Trek. 

Pause for just a second, a friend of the Phantom just arrived.  I am sitting by the freezer (gotta keep the laptop plugged in until the last possible second) and the little guy sauntered on out to say hello.  These critters have absolutely no fear of the gringa, as if they know that I have a soft spot for cute little furry animals.  He just sat there and gave his whiskers a good washing, at least until my host mom came into the room, at which point he bolted under the freezer.  They know that she has no problem stomping their lights out.  Anyway, back to what I was saying…

For example, I remember the week that the colony relocated from the corner of the wall to the pipe.  That was quite a process.  Now, no sources have come forward to confirm the exact reasons for the move, but my guess is that the location was just too damp for the queen ant’s rheumatism (the shower is on the other side of the wall) so they switched to a drier climate.  Most of the time, the colony is fairly peaceful, with only a minimum of traffic coming and going.  Tonight though, the colony was in an uproar.  A beetle had been foolish enough to disturb the peace and was paying the consequences.  I found myself staying for a while in the bathroom to watch as the ants heaved the doomed beetle to and fro.  I’m not sure why they kept carrying him back and forth across the pipe.  Maybe it was an ancient ritual demanded by their gods, perhaps they were celebrating their victory over their much larger foe by parading him around for all to see, or maybe they were trying to decide which side of the drain had more storage room.  Who knows? 

Now, before you all send in some large men with straight jackets, let me just say that spending a few minutes watching ants work can’t really be all that worse that spending hours watching American Idol or Survivor or something like that (although it might be more accurate to compare it to watching a Spanish soap opera while providing the narration in English since ants don’t actually express themselves out loud).    A little less commonplace, maybe, but it’s not really all that bad.  Wait to send in the psychiatrists until I start giving them names. 

 

Who you gonna call?

Before I relate last night’s events, I would like to first send out a huge THANK YOU to Garrett and Amanda.  Thanks to them, I now have a laptop and I know it is worth a lot more than the amount I am paying for it.  Even though I have only been in sight a few days, it has already been amazingly helpful (that catalog is coming along so much more quickly now that I can work on it in the evenings). 

In fact, I was using the laptop when the event occurred.  You see, I have an electrical outlet in my room, but if I plug in anything other than my fan, I get electrocuted.  So, I was using it in the living room, where I can safely plug it in without the risk of a major shock.  I was sitting at the dining room table, editing some product photos.  Everyone else had already gone to sleep, and I must admit I was a little bit on edge.  It’s just that, well… sometimes I think this house is haunted.  There are just so many noises that you don’t expect to hear at night.  Dogs are always going nuts for absolutely no reason.  There are bumps that you would swear are footsteps.  Things fall off of cupboards without anyone touching them.   It sounds like someone is scratching at the wall beside you, above you, behind you, but if you turn to look – no one is there. 

So I was sitting at the table, trying to convince myself that the noises were all in my head.  That there was no one there… but I was wrong.  There was someone there.  As I sat working at the table, a body fell from the ceiling into the chair beside me.  As soon as it landed, I shot out of my chair, my hand trying to stifle the exclamation as it left my mouth.  It was the body of… a rat.  Now, I had heard of rats falling from the ceiling onto the beds of volunteers as they slept, but I had not heard of one joining a volunteer at the dinner table.  Also, I should say that rat seems to be too strong of a term.  When I say rat, I think of fur-covered evil that attacks innocent people who have gotten lost in a sewer, and this guy looked more like the Phantom’s (who is tiny) slightly larger country cousin. 

For a moment, we both were frozen in place, staring at each other until the shock of what had just happened wore off.  Then he began to devise a way from the chair to the floor, and I ran to my room.  Not for safety, mind you, but for my camera.  It turns out that the Phantom’s country kinsmen is not quite as quick, and I was able to snatch a few photos before he finally fell off the chair (once again, I wondered if there was a chicha leak somewhere) and lumbered off into another room. 

But at least I can stop wondering if my house is inhabited by some Incan spirit that gets its kicks from freaking me out.  The next time I hear some scratching or something falls from a shelf in the hall in the middle of the night, I’ll know it is just Bubba and his buddies out there bumping into things. 

Hmmmmm…….. you know……..  I’m not real sure if that’s an improvement.  Either way, it makes it a little harder to close your eyes at night.  I wonder if there is any way to lock my mosquito net.  Next time someone flies somewhere, take a look at the sky mall magazine for me.  If anyone is going to have a lockable mosquito net, it is them.  They have all kinds of goodies like that. 

 

 

A side of me you´ve never seen before

Like most of my stories, this one starts off in the bathroom, in what I hoped would be a one-time visit.  You feel these attacks coming on, and normally you can prepare for them.  This, luckily, was one of those times.  I gritted my teeth through the warning signals firing through my intestines as I finished up the project I was working on at the table, grabbed the latest Newsweek, and slid the plywood door over the doorway to the bathroom (which is our version of closing the door).  The build up – both mentally and intestinally – to that moment is always an anxious time, but the feeling of relief when it is all over is even more acute.  I say this so that you will have an adequate idea of my state of mind as I slide back the plywood door with the intent of leaving the bathroom.  I am relaxed, relieved in every sense of the word, and completely unprepared for what was about to happen as I began to take my first step forward out of the bathroom.  And then…

Right in front of me, blocking my exit, is the biggest tarantula I have ever seen.  For that first second, neither one of us moves.  Me, because I am in shock and also trapped.  Him, because he can see the fear in my eyes and therefore knows he owns the land he stands on.  Then my brain kicks on, and I throw my magazine down in front of him to try to scare him off.  But no, he merely backs up a few paces, practically yawning as he does it.  At this point, I remember that no matter how big a spider he is, I am a human being and therefore still a lot bigger than him.  Keeping this in mind, I make a frantic leap over him before the girly shriek echoing in my brain can make its way out of my mouth.

Success!!  I am out of the bathroom and able to run away.  Which I do, but only in order to grab my camera.  I run back, ready to take my picture from a safe distance and then retreat once again, when I realize that I need to put another object next to the spider in order to convey the size of this monster.  Unthinkingly, I take the closest thing at hand, which happens to be my cell phone, place it on the ground, and nudge it towards the beast with one foot while preparing to flee at the first sign of attack.  But he just stands there, calm and still, until…

The flash goes off, at which point he kind of twitches as if to shrug off the bright light, but of course I am racing into the other room, the long withheld shriek announcing my retreat.  When I am safe in the other room, I realize with despair that my phone, my most vital link with the outside world, is now trapped at the feet of the fiend.  I could not abandon it, but I also knew that I was not going to rescue it on my own.  Without any pretense of courage, I run to the other side of the house in search of my host brothers, cousins, or even a random neighbor who might be passing by.  All I ask is that he is male and willing to fight this dragon for me.  But they had all disappeared, as men tend to do in moments of crisis, to play soccer. 

However Ceci, my host sister, comes to my rescue.  This woman has nerves of steel and an aim that can´t fail.  With practiced ease, she quickly smashes a broom on top of my eight-legged terror. The noise that it makes on impact is indescribable.  It was wet and yet crunchy and left me feeling nauseous.  After knocking its lights out, she calmly sweeps it into the dust pan.  By this point, my squeals have brought in one of the neighborhood boys, whose grins of delight at my horror I was doing my best to ignore, and he happily informed us that the tarantula was still moving.  This announcement was immediately followed by more exclamations on my part, along with the sage advice that we should probably burn it.  Yes, I was that scared of it.  I was already having images of a mangled, monsterous spider crawling its way towards me with revenge gleaming in its many eyes.  I wanted to make sure I would never stumble into its path again.  And so that is exactly what we did.  We mashed it to a pulp, doused it in lighter fluid, and torched it.  Now, I realize that this may seem a little extreme, but remember that tarantulas here are actually poisonous and so I could have been saving the lives of many small children. 

And then, not twenty minutes later when I am still jumping out of my seat every time a cricket sprang across the room, the power went out.  Let me just tell you, the last thing you want to encounter after you have just realized that you are sharing the same roof as spiders the size of your face, is pitch black darkness.  I did my best to appear calm, but I don´t think anyone bought it.  I think it was the way I jumped at every bug that gave me away.  But just so you all know that I didn´t make this up, I did get a good picture before I ran away.  So if you need visual proof, just let me know and I´ll send it to you.  But trust me, it was HUGE.

 

 

The Craziness that is Carnival

After a brief trip to the mountainous town of Cajamarca, I am back in the heat again.  How exactly do I describe the complete insanity that is Carnival?  I guess I´ll start at the beginning…
We left our home in the desert at 7:00 p.m. on Thursday and stepped into the cool mountain air at 5:00 a.m. Friday morning.  Our friends at the hotel greeted us in true Carnival fashion – they pelted us with water balloons.  Despite the fact that it was obnoxiously early and freezing cold, we did not get upset.  On the contrary, we joined them on the balcony to wait for the rest of our group to show up so that we could pay them the same courtesy.  Friday morning held the illusion of calm.  We were able to grab some breakfast and explore the city while staying relatively dry.  But as the sun climbed higher, the amount of dry spaces on my clothes sunk.  Still, I had managed to stay relatively dry until… a shop owner (that´s right, I said owner.  Not their kids, not a teenager, but a full grown adult) dashed out of his door and dropped a whole bucket of water onto my head.  From that point until the sun had set, there was nothing dry about me. 
 
Let me explain the rules of Carnival in Cajamarca.  Boys attack girls and girls attack boys.  You don´t get people wet after dark (it´s too cold), and the only day paint is allowed is Saturday.  And, well, that´s about it for rules.  Taxis, houses, cars, children, adults, the mayor, everyone and everything is fair game.  At first, this seems a bit unfair because those boys throw hard.  However, it turns out that us girls can be just as viscious with our weapons of mass saturation.  As soon as we realized that we would get no mercy, we stopped giving it.  For example, in a water fight back home, the point is to get someone wet.  So after one or two balloons, you would stop.  Not here.  Here, you throw water balloons, buckets of water, and shoot water guns at someone until they are out of range.  So if they´re not running, they´re gonna get soaked.  We learned this fairly quick, and took to running through the streets.  Going for coffee?  Run.  Going to buy more balloons?  Run.  Going to visit the ruins?  Run.  And that is just Friday.
 
Saturday is where all the pictures came from.  If Friday is the warm-up, Saturday is the championship.  That is the day that you add paint to your arsenals.  I won´t describe the whole day, just my favorite battle.  There were volunteers from all 4 Peace Corps groups currently in the country.  For this battle, we had about 30 people roaming the street in a group.  It was early in the day, so most of the war paint we had applied to terrorize other groups was still fresh, as were our supplies of water balloons and paint.  As we turned a corner, we spotted another large group headed our way.  Like pros, we got ready for the fight that was about to begin.  The guys in the back prepared to send a few long-range balloons with our oversized balloon launcher (you know, like those huge sling-shots they use to sling tshirts into the crowds at sports events).  The rest of us made sure our ammo was handy – balloons in one hand, paint covering the other.  The other group had a drummer (not kidding), and as we got closer the beat got louder, closer.  Then the first balloon was launched from behind, and both groups charged.  Kid you not, it was as if we were re-enacting a battle from Braveheart.  Both groups ran headlong and crashed into each other.  I launched myself into the crowd.  Throwing balloons until I was close enough touch people, at which point I switched to my paint and began covering everyone near me in blue.  By the time I found myself on the other side, I had handed out more punishment than I had received, and was going back for more.  Me and another volunteer began double-teaming the guys with buckets of paint/water.  I would present myself as a target while he would sneak up from behind and grab the bucket.  It was brilliant strategy that consistently threw them off. 
 
There are many more stories, such as one of the volunteers getting hit by a car, but I´ll have to continue on another post. 
 
To be continued…

 

Payback

One of the ideas they stress here in Peace Corps is integrating with our communities.  Seeing things from their point of view.  Living like they live.  Doing what they do.  Yesterday, we decided that to truly integrate, we should join in on the Carnival activities.  To accomplish this, we bought water balloons.  Many, many water balloons.  Suddenly, we completely understood why none of the windows had screens on them.  Anyone walking on the street below the window of our third-story hotel room was fair game.  Well, not anyone.  We decided not to harrass older people or anyone with small children.  Motorcycles were also out, because we were afraid they might wreck.  But everyone else was in immediate peril.  We quickly discovered that if you hit the wall of the building immediately beside the target, you could achieve the highest level of spb (soaking per balloon).  We also discovered that it works best if girls throw balloons at guys and guys throw balloons at girls.  Guys, looking furious when they first look up, break into a grin when they find a bunch of gringas waving at them from the window. 

The problem with throwing balloons from a window, however, is that you have to wait for the people to come to you.  This presents you with a very limited amount of targets.  To remedy this, we began bringing water balloons with us whenever we hopped into a taxi.  The taxi drivers love it, and even join in by pointing out possible targets.  At one point, a balloon that was meant to go out the window instead hit the frame of the window and exploded inside the taxi.  This didn´t even ruffle the driver.  He simply handed a rag to the backseat to soak up the damage. 

 There are some days when I truly love this country.

 

Never-ending fun

While eating lunch in a park with Jah and Elena I discovered something: Carnival has begun in Piura.  Its arrival was announced by the many water balloons that the neighborhood kids had brought to the park.  I have yet to discover the historical and religious significance of Carnival.  So far, it seems like a child´s solution to the heat - lots and lots of water.  We were amused by the kids and their ammo, but not amused enough to let them throw the balloons at us.  The question was asked about why it was culturally acceptable for a complete stranger to throw a water balloon at you.  I countered with, why not?  This is a consistently hot climate.  Why should little kids be the only ones to take advantage of the heat?  At what age do we stop enjoying things like water fights?  I think I would be more than happy if daily life included the possibility of a water fight.  And it turns out that it was a good thing I felt that way.

 On the way home that evening, I was sitting in a moto-taxi, minding my own business.  For those of you that haven´t had the joy of traveling via moto, let me describe them.  They are basically the combination of the front half of a motorcycle and the back half of a golf cart.  They have a roof and doors, but not much else.  Especially when it is hot, the upper part of the moto is open because this lets you enjoying the wind rushing by as you travel.  Which is exactly what I was doing when it happened. 

On the side of the road there was a teenage girl with a bucket of water.  At first, I didn´t think much of it because people are always outside soaking the dust in front of their houses.  However, the water in this bucket was not intended for the dust.  In the spirit of Carnival, this girl was dousing the passing moto-taxis with generous amounts of water.  By the time I realized my peril, it was too late.  I was completely soaked.  Shirt, pants, hair – all of it was dripping wet.  After a quick check to make sure the contents of my bag had made it through, I laughed.  It really was the perfect set up.  There is absolutely no where to hide in the back of a moto, and her aim was impeccable. 

 And for the first time that day, I was definitely not hot.