Sniffing Cheese and Dodging Fireworks

Just when I think my life absolutely CANNOT get any more outlandish… San Miguel’s Town Festival comes waltzing in to tear that theory to pieces. As I try to begin this blog-post, I find myself at a loss for words (yeah I know, it is no common occurrence for this girl). It’s not that I have nothing to say; it is in fact the exact opposite. Every night for the past two weeks, I have gone to bed thinking, “that was the weirdest day of my life.” But how do I put the pen to the paper and make you all understand it all? For lack of a better idea, I guess I’ll just start from the beginning. Here, in chronological order, is a break-down of just one of most bizarre things that has happened each day (although many of these events continued to occur every single day of the festival):

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 25th: The Professors and students from the Institute where I teach (heretofore referred to as “my friends”) invited me to go watch a band that was playing in the Square that night. “A band in the square on a Monday night?” I asked my friends. Silly gringa! There’s a band in the square every night during the festival. “Oh, okay. Sure.” What the heck, I figured it would last until 11, 11:30 tops. I was right, in some respect, as the marching band finished playing at about 11 pm. They only stopped, however, because the real band was starting to play. The entire town, myself included, danced the rest of the night away (and every night following). Suffice it say, this is when I realized that I had sorely underestimated this little festival of ours. At least 2-3 times per day I have been asked if the United States has parties like this. My initial reaction has been to give a resounding “Heck No,” but then I remembered New Year’s Eve… and St. Patrick’s Day. So imagine combining the night-time debauchery of New Year’s Eve with the day-time nonsense of St. Patrick’s Day… then do it every day for two weeks. Voilá! Such is this “little” festival of ours.

Here I am with my friends in the Plaza:

Showing off my mad dancing skills:

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd: I awoke at 6 am to a live marching band and fireworks right outside of my house. In my half-sleep state, I tried to ignore it, thinking they would move on. After thirty minutes or so, even my semi-conscious self realized that the band was steadfast. So I finally went on my porch to see what the fuss was about. Bad Decision #1 of many... My host mom saw that I was awake and coerced me into coming on the street with her to watch. “Just put on some shoes!” she said. Okay mom. I threw some tennis shoes on, but remained in my pajamas, as I figured we'd stay at the house and watch them pass. Wrong! We followed them, along with half of the town, around the streets of San Miguel for over an hour. Every three blocks or so, the band would stop and everyone would dance. I, of course, had to dance with every single person in my town. Again, still in my pjs. Then we all went to the Kindergarten (band included) and feasted on sheep-head soup. All of this went down by 9 am. Afterward, my family and I returned home and ate our breakfast as if nothing had happened.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd: Sports Night. This was to commence at 9 pm SHARP, so I went with my family and friends at about 10. Of course, it had not yet started. At about 11 it all got going, and the people of San Miguel were treated to three hours of soccer, volleyball and basketball tournaments. The soccer and volleyball games were rather impressive; the basketball game was rather humorous. They also had the kids from the Elementary School showing off a gymnastics display. Equally entertaining. The best part, however, was the prize for the soccer tournament. Much to my delight, the winning team went home with a live sheep. We don’t bother with silly trophies around here, no sir.

First prize being accepted on behalf of the Mayor (in the sombrero) from the winning town:

Some 10 year-olds enjoying some soccer and booze:

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 24th: Vaca Loca (or “crazy cow” in English): A townsperson that runs around with a large basket-like structure, in the shape of cow, on his/her head. This is the “vaca” part. The “loca” part: the basket is covered with sparklers and fireworks, which creates a fire-ball that spreads out for a good 10 feet in diameter. The object of the game is for the crazy cow to envelop as many people as possible in the fire ball. In Spanish, the saying “Safety First” does not translate. I will have to admit, however, that it is one of the funniest things to watch Peruvians shrieking in delight as they try not to be set ablaze by that crazy cow.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25th: Not to be outdone by the Vaca Loca is the Castillo. The Castillo is a huge tower of fireworks that is set off concurrently in various colors and designs. The “fun” part is that everyone packs around so closely that sparks and shrapnel go flying into the crowd; some nights they even set up “arms” of the castillos that stretched down into the streets. Each street in the town is responsible for one night of castillos, so they all try to compete for the honor of having the most elaborate show. If you can ensure that someone takes a bottle rocket to the eye, you’re probably going to win. All-in-all, they are rather impressive, and it makes me feel fortunate to have been placed amidst the laid-back mountain folk, as I’m told Castillos have been banned in many parts of Peru. I didn’t actually think that anything was ever banned in Peru (especially after seeing every corner Pharmacy selling highly-addictive prescription drugs over the counter), but I guess Castillos skirted the crazy line a little too closely and got the axe from those uptight city boys. Everyone here was delighted when I told them that fireworks were legal in my state, and they are encouraging me to start my own Castillo company when I return. “You’d make a fortune!” they say. Hmmmmm, something tells me that even good ol’ rebellious South Carolina would find this a little extreme. I know this is difficult to envision, so I’ve included some photos for your viewing (and envying!) pleasure.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 26th: Today the proud farmers and casual livestock-enthusiasts came out of the woodworks to showcase their finest cows, sheep and… cuy! That’s right; Saturday was the big livestock competition, and apparently guinea pigs are included in this category nowadays. You could smell the excitement in the air (not to mention a whole lot of excrement), as the competitors filed in. The town even hired an expert to come in from the city to judge the entrants. He did a lot of poking and prodding, even making the owners take their cows and sheep for a little spin, before announcing the winners before an anxious assembly. It reminded me a lot of the Westminster Dog Show, if you could substitute Boykins with Brahmas and German Shepherds with Guinea Pigs…

Examining a fine-looking flock:

In case you're wondering, the one on the right took top honors:


My BFF Manuelita won a prize for one of her cows (I got to present the award to her):

Some good eatin':

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27th: This had to have been one of the longest, and more ridiculous, days of my life. As part of the festival, there was a Fair for local goods Saturday through Monday. My artisan group participated, as well as my Lactation Institute and my mom (she sews clothes). So all weekend I was racing around to the three booths, trying to help out wherever I could. As if this weren’t enough, I was asked to be part of the judging panel for the competitions, which took place Sunday. The competitions included: Cheeses, Yogurts, Typical Foods of the Region, Woven Goods and Crocheted Goods. They didn’t even seem to mind that I have no qualifications whatsoever in any of these subjects. So my day consisted of sniffing cheeses, nibbling on fried cuy, scrutinizing the details of crocheted blankets, and faking my most pensive expression as I ranked them all. The funniest part was discussing the criteria with the other judges. “Well, Cheese #2 had the most complex texture, though the flavor of the wooden casing in Cheese #5 was rather impressive…” Many thanks to my Volunteer friend Alex for making the trek to San Miguel and capturing the day on film (we were supposed to be models in the Fashion Show, but our judging duties interfered).

Updating the Resume with "Cheese Connoisseur":

Learning the process for yogurt fermentation:


Announcing top honors to the crowd:

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28th: Monday morning I again arose at 6 am to the sound of the marching band (I swear there had to have been 20 marching bands in my town throughout the Festival… you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a trumpet). This time, I would be joining them. Today was the big parade through town… even bigger than the other two I had already marched in. I got to march not once, but twice this time! I marched with the Institute first… then we celebrated the long march with a few drinks. I then raced back to the start-line to march with the Group for Disabled People. We too celebrated the completion of the parade with a few drinks. I think you can gather how the rest of the day and night went for me…

Finishing up marching with group #1:

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29th: Tuesday was a struggle. By this time, I felt like I’d been hit by a milk truck. Or perhaps I should say “Canazo Truck.” For those of you interested, I’ll tell you “off the record” what Canazo is later… Regardless, I had to attend an all-day ceremony to mark the Grand Re-opening of the town’s Coliseum (it was supposed to be completed for Sport’s Night last Wednesday… but hey, this is Peru). This ceremony, of course, included a marching band, a Cumbia band and local folk dancers. No event in San Miguel is complete without this tri-fecta of ostentatious entertainment. It ended with the selection of next year’s Fiesta committee. Talk about ostentatious… wowzers. This somewhat-simple act of nominating a candidate and putting it to vote would be completed in a matter of minutes in the United States. Here, every nomination had to include a 10-15 minute fervent plea from the nominator on why this person would make the absolute BEST Secretary as opposed to anybody else. This would inevitably lead to zealous clapping, hissing and/or fists shaking in the air. The voting was even more passionate, but not nearly as much so as when the winners were announced. The band would play, and the winner would come to the stage to make a long-winded and often tearful speech. I am not kidding you when I say that one particular speech began like this, “I would like to thank God, and my husband, for without them, I would not be here in San Miguel to accept this great honor.” This woman had won the title of Treasurer. You just can’t make this stuff up.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30th: Wednesday was opening day for the town Bull Fights. I didn’t even know the town had a Bull Ring. I was expecting some dinky little show with a few under-fed cows prancing about, but I was in for quite a shock. First of all, it started on time. Excuse me? Nothing here has ever started within 45 minutes of the expected departure time. Second, there were professional-looking matadors and six massive bulls. Apparently, Peru takes bullfighting rather seriously. If it weren’t for the presence of that darned marching band, I would’ve thought I’d left San Miguel altogether.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1st: By Thursday, many of the activities were winding down, thank heavens. It was not, thank heavens again, without its odd and hilarious moment. At Mass that night, we were all treated to a very special and solemn Passion Play, involving the crucifixion of Christ. There was a man dressed up as Jesus… carrying the cross, wearing the crown of thorn, etc. This is not the unexpected part… that came with the appearance of the Rodeo Clown. Yes, that’s right, the Rodeo Clown. I was unaware, previously, that they were around in the Biblical times. Apparently I was wrong. I couldn’t actually figure out what part he played, but my mom told me that he represented the stupidity of mankind. God bless you Latin America.

Jesus, Rodeo Clown:

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2nd: Friday, I was told, there would be another Bull Fight, but the bulls are not killed in this one. I was slightly confused by this paradox… but comet to find out, this event is closer to a Rodeo than to a Bull Fight. The same Rodeo Clown that was present at Mass the night before made a resurgence, along with some friends: Superman, Aunt Jamima and a midget. Peruvians love slap-stick comedy, and this certainly scratched their itch. The kooky characters ran around in circles with four baby bulls, until finally a bout of unexpected rain forced the ridiculous display to end. I couldn’t think of a more ideal ending to the madness that was San Miguel’s Town Festival 2009.

The random mix of randoms:

And now, I rest. Although, people are already beginning to talk anxiously of the Carnaval Festivities, which gear up in February. I can only imagine what's in store...

Thank you Fiesta, I had a blast!

Breaking rules, breaking hearts

Three weeks into site, and I’ve already broken my one and only rule. I told myself that I would not turn down any requests from people in my town for at least a month; I planned on being open to every new experience and opportunity, no holds bar. From my newly acquired familiarity with things, however, I now advise against this plan of attack. Trust me; it can get out of hand, especially in this town, where everybody wants a piece of the gringa. I have accepted appeals to sit on just about every committee formed by just about every organization in this town, from the “Municipality Council Town-Planning through the Year 2021 Committee,” to the “San Miguel Festival Planning Committee.” Although they can be rip-your-hair-out frustrating sometimes, I rather enjoy most meetings here. Once you understand the basics:

1. The meeting will begin 1 to 2 hours after the scheduled time. No ifs, ands or buts about it.

2. No matter how late the meeting begins, people will continue to enter for another hour. In the U.S., one would try to arrive without making a scene. Here, oh no. One must “saludar,” or greet, every person in the room with a hand-shake or a kiss. The Mayor himself is the worst culprit of this cultural-annoyance.

3. Cell phones will go off; people will answer them. It is not unusual for the person giving the meeting to do so as well.

4. Snacks are an absolute must. This is my favorite rule of the bunch, naturally. I have yet to attend a meeting, no matter how official or casual, where I did not receive a pack of crackers/cookies and a cup of Inca Kola (the beverage of choice here… I would equate it to adding 12 tablespoons of sugar to Mountain Dew. Delicious!).

I’m not really sure why I’m invited to participate in all of these meetings; I really haven’t added much to the conversations. I do my fair share of smiling and nodding in agreement, but other than that, it’s hard to add much when I still know nearly nothing about the town itself. When it comes down to it, I think my presence is their present… makes the meeting seem more important, heaven knows why.

Speaking of heaven, my presence was also summonsed by God himself (okay, okay not God… but the Catholic Church), to participate in Mass this week. Again, they are all fully aware that I am not Catholic, yet I had the specific privilege of reading the Apostle Paul’s letter to Timothy 3: 14-16 in front of the devout masses of San Miguel. Palabra de Dios… I was rather nervous about it, but I ran into a Nun at the hardware store the next day, and she complimented me on my excellent performance. I’m just racking up karma points left and right! Obviously, this was something I agreed to before officially severing ties with my rule.

The proverbial final straw, however, came when I was asked to be the “Queen” in the upcoming town festival. Being Peruvian in nationality, this festival is no small fry. It is two weeks of planned activities, including parades, ceremonies, bands, bull fights, etc. etc. etc. The Queen takes on a pageant-esque role, complete with crown, scepter and lots of makeup. She will also have to compete with Queens from all of the surrounding towns to be the Queen Bee, or something like that. It was here that I was forced to decline, as genteelly as possible, for the first time. Although following my rule lead to some memorable experiences, I’m happy to retire it. I still plan on accepting most invitations, but sometimes it’s nice to be the spectator, instead of the spectacle.

Now, instead of boring you all with more verse, I'll let my photo-journalism skills (ha!) do the talking for awhile, and show you a little bit of San Miguel, lately:

The car to/from Cajamarca... last time we piled 11 people in here and three sacks of cuyes

The parade from Friday... this is when I still thought I would be a spectator.

After I was pulled into the parade... I marched through town, snuggled up between the Middle-School class and the brass band.

Even better than the bullhorn car... a bullhorn wheelchair

That's my grandma in the center, watching me march in the parade.

Our newest editions to the family

Still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed... doesn't know what he's in for

Our cemetery in town is kinda creepy

Every deceased gets a mini-shrine... like I said... creepy!

My first class in hand-washing clothes... grandma was quite pleased with my progress

Success! Though the ducks had to look at my skivvies for two days

How San Miguel travels...

Market Day!

Gotta bring my pig to market...

And my cow ( however unwillingly)...

and my sheep.

My favorite part of Market Day: The Livestock Auction...

There are cows ALL over town...

even in the playground.

Lots of fruit being sold...

and the freshest chickens...

or perhaps these are the freshest chickens.

Me and My Latrine

Phew. That’s all I can say about getting through the monstrous Week One of being alllllll byyyyy myyyyseeeellllllffffff. Truth be told, it was not quite as bad as I anticipated. I will admit, however, that I was a big fat chicken about leaving my friends in Cajamarca and heading off to San Miguel alone. Did I put it off until the last feasible moment? Bet your biscuit I did. To add insult to injury, I found out that my host family wasn’t even in town; they had gone to Lima for blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah (that’s approximately what I understood from my first phone conversation with my host mom, who speaks really, really quickly). So I wasn’t 100% sure what to expect upon arrival, but fortunately my host mom is the over-protective type and had arranged for babysitters to care for her gringita (little whitey, roughly translated). Her brother, sister-in-law and two nieces thus moved into the house with me for a few days. They were very kind, and Uncle Tio, as I call him, even carried my ridiculous amount of luggage up to my hay loft for me. Sorry for the hernia Uncle Tio! As I unpacked my things, the boom was dropped on me, so to speak. It finally hit me that I would be living here. In this room. In Peru. For two years. At first, I had nowhere that I have to be… ever. It might sound gleefully liberating to my fellow Americans, those of us who are used to complete and total structure, but it is actually quite frightening. These thoughts made me just want to curl up under my mound of llama-fur blankets and not come out for my first week. San Miguel, however, had a different idea in mind for me and my time. She and her people scooped me up and made me feel like just one of the townsfolk, except of course for the fact that the language barrier makes me really, really awkward. So here’s a recap of what I’ve done, what I’ve seen and what I’ve learned in these first days of Volunteer-living:

1. I made some friends. In this new circle of friends, I would consider my closest confidants to be a 19 year-old girl, Manuelita (though she’s very mature for her age) and a middle-aged ex-nun, Annita. Obviously I get different things out of each friendship, but they’re both lovely in their own right. Manuelita teaches me all the latest and greatest Peruvian tunes, and I go to Catholic Mass with Annita. Though she knows full well I’m not Catholic, Annita even scored me an invitation to the Priest’s Birthday party. I’m pretty sure you cannot get better than that in a Latin-American country.

2. My dirt floor has lost its initial rustic allure. The snag came in the form of my 3 year-old cousin popping a squat in my room before I could stop her. I realized immediately that there’s no real way to clean up dirt. If I pour water on the puddle, it just turns into mud. Not sure how to remedy that quite yet.

3. I have a latrine. Latrine, as I’ve come to learn, is just a fancy word to describe a hole dug into the earth. No light, no seat. Nada. This is also where I take my bucket-bath, which requires me to balance on a little piece of wood on top of the hole, while hunching over so that the entire town cannot watch the process (the wall comes up to mid-navel). Fun times. Supposedly we have a real bathroom, but it has been out of commission since I moved in. They say it will be fixed “very, very soon,” which in Peruvian time means, “maybe sometime possibly.”

4. I made some money at a cock-fight. The sport is incredibly popular here, and legal, in case you’re wondering, so I’m surprised this was my first time attending. There was a festival in a neighboring town, and I went with some of my new friends here (not the nun). Another Volunteer, Alex, lives in town nearby, so I met up with her as well, and we went to the cock-fight together. Her entire host family was there, and the kids had even taken off school to attend. The scene was straight out of a movie; it was all I could ask for and more. First of all, we were the only females in attendance. There was some serious testosterone flowing in that room, as drunk, passionate Peruvian men scrutinized each other’s cocks. People were arguing, money was changing hands and I wished I had five more pairs of eyes to take it all in. With the help of Alex’s host-dad, I placed a bet on a nice-looking cock and ended up doubling my money. I would’ve stayed all day, but a brawl broke out (as one would only expect), forcing us to high-tail it out of there. Guess some ballsy man insulted another man’s cock. Oh no you didn’t…

5. I’ve taught some classes. The Lactation Institute asked that I teach Computer and English classes, to which I agreed on all counts. This has somehow snowballed into a total of seven classes per week, at 2 hours a pop. Add in preparation time, and I have stayed incredibly busy. I enjoy the classes, though, so I plan on continuing. Some of the students have had computer experience, so we’re working on Microsoft Office systems, Word, Excel, Powerpoint, etc. Others, however, have never typed on a keyboard before. It is frustrating, to say the least, but rewarding at the same time. The English class is just plain hilarious. Their favorite activity thus far has been learning the lyrics to songs. This week was, “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” as we’ve been learning days of the week, months and seasons. It has taken some practice, but I think they would make ole Stevie proud.

6. I’ve played some sports. Football (soccer), namely. As if massacring their language wasn’t enough, I’m also doing a number on their beloved sport. I know that I’m pretty terrible at soccer, but it doesn’t help that everybody here is really, really good. I thought they were going to take my Peruvian Visa back after my first attempt, but people keep inviting me to play again and again. My only retribution has come in the form of basketball, which I have dominated in. Not that I’m overly talented at basketball either, but 95% of the people here have never played before. Just like English class, this is the only time when I don’t feel like the weird gringa. I’ve also been invited to join a women’s volleyball team. We played for a couple of hours the other day, until some men literally forced us off the court so they could play soccer. Priorities.

7. I have eaten lots and lots of cuy. This may be due to the fact that I showed somebody here the video of me killing one a few weeks back. Word travels quickly in this little town, I suppose, because I’m now getting offers left and right to eat cuy with people. On a similar note, one of the cuyes in my kitchen just had her litter; they’re the cutest creatures I’ve ever seen. One of the babies escaped the other day, and my family was horrified (can they really be surprised when the kitchen door is always open to the great outdoors, and the cuyes don’t live in cages??). Regardless, we spent an hour searching for the “crazy little cuy,” as they kept calling him. Yeah, he’s crazy alright. Crazy like a fox. I can just picture him hopping the first boat to North America, where he’ll live out a life of luxury in someone’s living room.

8. I refuse to turn down any invitation for the first month. Thus, I have been given three welcome parties, been coerced into making five impromptu speeches (Peruvians LOVE speeches, so long as one begins and ends the speech by thanking every single person in the room for their attention) and have eaten at least seven meals a day with various community members.

So after this whirlwind week of mine, I’m exhausted. And really, really full. Thank you San Miguel!

So, I know what you're all thinking... stop talking already, and show us some pictures. So here goes:

This is the entrance/exit to my hayloft

My cousin, moments before peeing on my floor

My latrine

Kimbo

Where men can be men

My winning cock on the left

Drinking some yogurt after English Class

Welcome Party #1: Making pizza from scratch

Some of them had never had pizza before... very fun

Enjoying the fruits of our labor

The Pizza Party turned into an impromptu dance-off

Love Letter to Yanacoto

How quickly it comes and how quickly it goes. This past week, I shook off the Yanacoto dust and trekked it up to the lovely hills of Cajamarca, this time with a one-way ticket. Adios training, hello rest of my life! While I have been eagerly awaiting this time, it is certainly bittersweet to close this chapter of my Peace Corps paperback. To pay her the respect she deserves, I’ve decided to make a verbal shrine to all the things I will miss about my lovely town of Yanacoto.

THE GOOD.

My Rockin’ Family. We’ve had some times, that’s for sure. The highlights for me include:

Hanging out with my adorable siblings. Their favorite pastime was coming into my room and taking inventory of my belongings. Marcos liked to rearrange my shoes, and Jennifer liked to open and close my “singing card” over and over again (she can now sing “I Say A Little Prayer For You” in perfect English). But most of all, they liked to look at the album of pictures that I brought along from home. We went over the names of every person in every photo at least six times per day. They would then give each other quizzes as a check-for-learning activity. It always made me chuckle when I would be sitting at my desk reading, and I heard the voices of four little Peruvians saying things like, “No Nicolas, Caroline isn’t blonde, she has curly hair. Duh!”

Sharing American deliciousness. Peruvians, for the most part, love sweets/anything sugary. You can find cookies, candies and general snackage being sold every ten feet, even the most remote areas. In fact, my family was horrified that I didn’t put sugar in my coffee. Every morning they would expectantly set a cup of sugar in front of my cup and stare at me with great anticipation, only to have their hopes dashed again and again. Then we would talk about my strange habit for a good fifteen minutes or so, as they each dumped five heaping spoonfuls of sugar into their pre-sweetened cocoa. So I decided to take advantage of their saccharine fixation by teaching them the art of s’more-making. Needless to say, it was a huge hit with the fam. My parents were so excited about the new treat that they didn’t even seem to mind when Marcos got marshmallow stuck in his hair. Success!

Being the official photographer at my parent’s wedding. After nearly 15 years together, Dad decided to make an honest woman of Mom. Kidding… sort of. In Peru, weddings are expensive, so most people have what they call “civil marriages.” Which means, from I’ve gathered, that the couple agrees to live together in cohabitation and call each other pet-names. Sort of like common law in the States, but less official. So the ‘rents decided it was high time to make things right between their Union and the Man Upstairs. Mom borrowed a beautiful white dress (I tried to suggest otherwise due to the whole “you have four kids thing,” but I couldn’t think of the word for ‘ecru’ in Spanish…), and we all trucked it down to the church on a Saturday morning. As it turns out, there were nine couples getting married at the same time. Apparently the Lord offers a buy-in-bulk discount.

THE BAD

Rowdy neighbors. On one side of my house lived a lady who insisted on shrieking at the top of her lungs from the hours of 4 am through 2 am. I’m not sure why she screeched or to whom she was making this awful noise, but I know one thing for sure: she always did it at the highest decibel known to man. On the other side of my house lived a family who insisted on rocking out to bad soft rock music from the 80’s. “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” and “I Thought I Loved You, But I Lied” were two constant favorites. In addition, I also had a little store next door where all of Yanacoto’s finest did their stoop-drinking. For those of you unfamiliar with the art form, stoop-drinking is just that: you buy beer from the store and sit on the steps outside to drink it. Sundays were a big day for stoop-drinking, and the men would get rather loud and obnoxious by 10 am. Though it always annoyed me, a few of us finally broke down one night and did a little stoop-drinking of our own. I guess if you can’t beat ‘em… join ‘em.

The bullhorn car. My biggest regret upon leaving the 'Coto was that I couldn't get a picture of the bullhorn car. I believe I mentioned it in an earlier blog post, but at 5 in the morning a car would drive around making announcements over a bullhorn, which was strapped to the roof with an old rope. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I really learned the purpose of this broadcast-mobile… they are hired by the municipality to call out people who haven’t paid their electricity or water bill. So if you try to screw the system, the system humiliates you in front of your neighbors. Ouch!

The combis. Oh, the joy that is riding a Combi! My life will have such a void without my daily trips on this pleasure-mobile. In reality, I do not hate the combis nearly as much as some others, but not a day goes by when I don’t think: A. We are about to crash head-on with a car/bus/wall/mountain, and/or B. There are so many bodies on this thing that I cannot tell which body parts are mine and which belong to my fellow passengers. R.I.P. Combi… you will be missed.

THE UGLY

The food. I love my family dearly, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that we see eye to eye on every detail. Food, namely, has been the biggest source of disparity. Don’t get me wrong, I know that the Peace Corps is about culture exchange, and nothing is more cultural than food. Hence I eat it all, and I do it with a big fat smile on my face. In retrospect, I am not sure that this was the best strategy. The more I ate crazy foods and pretended to enjoy them, the crazier my food array became. This last week has proven to be the pinnacle, as my family is trying to bid me farewell by serving all of their favorite “delicacies.” I can judge which foods I hate the most by how many times I have to swallow whole without chewing. The winner’s circle for this week includes, drum roll please…

#4: Anticuchos. This is grilled animal heart in shish-kabob form. These are a really popular street food here, you’ll see them everywhere. The aren’t so bad if they are beef, but my family went the chicken route. Bad idea. I believe they did so because we had these on the same day as my number one pick, which I’ll get to in a moment.
#3: Cau Cau. This is cow stomach. Yep, the most vulgar of the internal organs, save maybe the intestines (getting to that one in a moment as well), the stomach tastes about how it sounds. This meal required me to ask for seconds of my rice/potato mountain, solely for the purpose of hiding the stomach pieces in between.
#2: I kind of gave it away back there, but chicken intestines wins the honor of first runner-up. I’ve been served these a few times, but I only recently found out what it was. It is served cut up in a soup, along with a soggy popcorn-like creature. I thought it was squid. The discovery made things so much worse on a physiological level.
#1: Sangrecita. Those of you who speak Spanish may already have guessed what this is. For everyone else, let me enlighten you. Sangrecita is animal blood, in this case chicken, fried up in big fat chunks. That’s right, fried blood. Yummy! To make matters worse, this was my breakfast Sunday morning, just a few hours after getting in from an all-nighter. No rice/potato mountain to save me this time! As always, I grinned and bore it as any good Peace Corps Volunteer would.

Well, there it is: the good, the bad and the ugly. But in the end, it was all really, really good.

Cuyes get the last laugh…

Well hello there my dear friends, family and random blog-addicts! I have just returned from my first visit to San Miguel this past week, and it was a terrific time indeed… and at least slightly less awkward than anticipated. First of all, it is visually stunning, surrounded by mountains and green pastures galore. To quote my good friend Siobhan, it is “Sound of Music pretty, minus the Nazis.” In addition, it has some damn-fine dairy products; I frequented one particular ice-cream joint three times within a 24-hour span. So with Julie Andrews-worthy views and all the cheese you can eat, you might ask, “why is this place not crawling with tourists?” Transportation, my friends, transportation. I believe every one of my posts thus far has mentioned public transport in some way, shape or form, as it is: A. Incredibly important to daily life here, and B. Really, ridiculously screwed up. I have to submit to our Safety Officer a description of how to get to my town in case of emergency (as well as a place nearby where a helicopter could land in the event that that is needed, which I’m secretly hoping for), so I thought I’d share with you the details:

Leg 1. Bus from Lima to Cajamarca: 17-19 hours. This is actually the best part of the trip for me, as the reclining seats are comfy, and my childish nature allows me to sleep for 90% of the trip. Also they’ll play your movies on the TV system if you ask nicely.
Leg 2. Find a car that will drive you from Cajamarca to San Miguel: This can take hours, as you have to wait for the driver to find enough passengers to make the drive worthwhile. The minimum is five, the maximum is eight-ish, I believe, though it could be more if there isn’t luggage in the trunk. On my first ride, we were pulled over by the police on two occasions for having excess passengers. Fortunately the driver was the second-cousin-once-removed of the first policeman and had fixed the second policeman’s leaky radiator last year, so we were able to continue on our trek (though out of respect, one of the passengers hopped out of the car each time and walked up a few blocks, where we picked him back up “out of sight” of the police).
Leg 3: Once you have secured driver and passengers, the final phase commences. The first hour of this trip is on a paved road, but the next two to three hours are a doozy. Let’s just say it involves potholes big enough to swallow a llama and some seriously sharp curves. Oh, it may also involve the sketchy bridge from my previous post, but don’t worry, they fixed it. And by fixing, I mean they threw a mound of dirt over the top. We drove across it on my way back from San Miguel without incident. I’m not going to lie, I was sort of disappointed not to get stranded on it like my friends. I’ll suffer just about anything if it makes for a funny story. But anyhow, now you’ve made it to San Miguel; best case scenario: 21 hours of travel and only four large men sitting on top of you. I honestly cannot wait for visitors!


A few pictures San Miguel in all her glory:

This is the main plaza in the town, as well as the (only) church. The church is made of Adobe, which is essentially compacted mud. The majority of the buildings in this region are made of Adobe.










This is actually the view from my house; my only visible neighbors are seven pigs, twelve sheep and a cornucopia of cows.





Speaking of my house, I was a tad nervous about seeing it. Upon arriving in Cajamarca on Monday morning, the nine of us that will be living in that department met with our Regional Coordinator. He went one-by-one, describing our families and homes. I was last, of course. After talking about really nice houses with tile floors and cable TV, he came to me and stopped dead in his tracks. The description went something like this, “Well, Kim… your family has a BIG heart. They are a bit on the poor side… but they have BIG hearts. The house is humble, and you may want to change after a few months… but gosh that family has a BIG heart!” Hmmmmm… interesting. To make a long story short, I met the family and fell instantly in love. They really do have big hearts, in all honestly. Within the first ten minutes of meeting, I received no less than twenty-two hugs. My mom, Madi, cannot decide what she enjoys more: hugging or laughing. These two actions fought it out for the majority of my visit. My little brother, Jonatan, is fifteen and has down syndrome. He cannot speak very well, but he can make motions to express himself quite well. He is incredibly caring and loveable, just like his mommy. As if this wasn’t great enough, I am also graced with the presence of my 81 year-old grandma, Elvia. She is equally delightful; very energetic and bubbly. She tells people in town that I am her granddaughter, not bothering to explain the whole Peace Corps/American thing. This garners quite the befuddled look, but good ol’ Elvia doesn’t think a thing of it.


This is in our yard, where we have a cornfield and garden (complete with avocado tree… I couldn’t be more excited if it were a tree of pure gold). After lunch, we sit out in the cornfield and chat for a few hours. Every twenty minutes or so, we see a car pass by on the main road into town. Mom points each of them out to me and gets rather excited, often leading to a fit of laughter.

My new house can be described as very “Peace Corps,” perhaps even pushing the envelope to be called “National Geographic.” The walls are Adobe, and the floors are Mother Nature’s finest dirt. The kitchen consists of a fire pit and stone covering used for a stove/oven. There is nowhere for the smoke to escape, so the walls and ceiling are covered in soot. I’m in desperate need of a health volunteer to teach me how to fix this, before I come home with the black-lung. The highlight, however, is that there is a colony of cuyes living in the kitchen, and I do not mean in cages. I counted at least 25 of them, and they scatter about as they please. During meals, they run over my feet and nibble at my toes; I just know they are getting revenge for my killing one of their own a few weeks back.

A few more pics to enjoy:








A few of my new siblings











I brought tomatoes for a salad one day. Mom peeled them up and let the peels drop on the floor for the cuyes to enjoy as well!











My room is on the second-floor, though I have to climb two ladders to get up there… sort of a hay-loft, if you will. The room is very large and spacious, though also dirt-floored. I do have a balcony off of my room with some incredible views; I’ll definitely be investing in a hammock once I can afford one. Pics of my room (second floor) and staircase:






















Though they may be humble, I could not be more pleased with my house and family. I truly believe that this experience is about living as the locals live, and this is much more than what many Peruvians have. I look forward to many months of conversation, and of course hugs, in this new home of mine.

So a little more about the work that I will most likely be doing over the next two years (though we’ve been warned that ultimately many projects fail, while new ones may arrive)…

1. Artisan association: I will be working with a group of women who make woven goods, such as scarves, pashminas, table-cloths and other similar items. This type of weaving (and in particular, the design) is exclusive to the region of Cajamarca. The group has been formalized association for over ten years now, and may be ready for exportation soon. They are definitely ready for some serious marketing initiatives, so that should be fun. I have seen some of their work, and it is incredible; it would definitely sell in the States and other more “demanding” countries. To see more, take a look at their website: http://www.sabinevess.nl/miguel.html (Step One: Fix their website!!).

Also, they gave me a cake to welcome me to town. Boo-yeah!














2. Lactation Institute: There is a local Institute (sort of the equivalent to a technical school in the U.S) that focuses on teaching students how to make and sell dairy-related products, including cheese and yogurt. One of the “lactation specialists,” as I like to call him, is my community partner, so I should be working quite a bit here. Not to mention it is right next-door to my house. They have already scheduled “Learning Computer Skills with Kim” classes for the week that I arrive… yikes! They also want me to eventually teach a business course to the students, and maybe help them in the sales strategy for their products. I think I am most excited about this particular project, as it combines two of my favorite things: teaching and cheese. I cannot wait to dazzle you all with my dairy-product-making abilities in the near future! In addition, one of their cows had a baby while I was there, and they named her Kimberly. Which means I get to watch my little namesake grow into a lovely young lady during the next two years. I’ll be sure to post lots of proud-auntie pictures for everyone to enjoy.

3. Group for the Disabled: My host-mom is actually a part of this group, which aims to help disabled youth in the community. As mentioned, my little brother has down syndrome, but right now there is no school, facility or specialists to help him. I also met two other families with disabled children, one of which is 18 years-old, but he has to go to the Elementary School with his little sister. It is pretty sad, but the group is incredibly motivated in obtaining government and NGO-grants. I believe I’ll be helping them most with their group organization and searching for more funding opportunities. The leader of the group is another of my community partners, and he is wild and fun. He gave me not one, but two tours of the town, introducing me to at least 90% of its inhabitants. Also, his name is George. Not Jorge, but George. And yes, he is from the Jungle (one of the three regions of Peru). I’m sure he and everyone else has heard the joke a million times, but when I mentioned that he is George of the Jungle, everyone laughed hysterically for a good five minutes. “Wow, the gringa has a sense of humor!” I think they love me already…

So now I’m enjoying the last few moments of living in Lima, with my host family, and close to my Peru 13 buds. Next Friday I officially swear in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The last 9.5 weeks have FLOWN by, which I’m sure the next two years are sure to do as well. I look forward to the challenges and gratifications to come, as well as sharing them with you.
Chao!