Thursday morning, after sleeping very little, I got up to go into town. Celina said she was going too so I waited for her. I find it so funny that she always gets really dressed up to go into town. She spends a while getting her hair wet and pinning up, she always puts on some kind of suit outfit, wearing what should be the jacket to match the skirt as a shirt. She wears a pencil skirt of the same fabric as her shirt, loafer shoes that aren’t boots, and gold earrings that look a bit like costume jewelry. Usually she’ll wear a giant sweater, some kind of skirt or fleece pants, big rain boots, and a navy blue hat that says “Unicorn” on it in yellow letters over her rather disheveled hair. She makes Mishel look all fancy too. You’d think she was going to a job interview, not to walk an hour down a mountain to go buy some chickens, stuff them in a sack, and then hike back up the mountain. It makes me laugh, but also makes me think about how small their world is, and that makes me sad. Granted, Chota has sort of become the metropolis of my dreams also because they have hot water and food that is not soup or rice or potatoes, but for the people in my town, they rarely get any farther away. I think part of it is that there is a stigma about “campo people”, and they want to look like they belong in Chota. They don’t want to appear “campo”.
Celina was taking forever to get ready, and by the grace of God, there was actually a moto at the bottom of the hill. I was torn between waiting for her and running down the hill into that moto, because chances were, we were going to have to walk all the way to Chota if we didn’t catch this moto. I called Celina and she told me to just go, but by the time I got to the bottom of the hill the moto had left. I decided to walk towards the school where you can sometimes find motos. There were two waiting, but both said they weren’t leaving yet. One guy said he just didn’t want to take me and drove off. Apparently he wasn’t taking anyone. The other said he was waiting for more people, but then drove off without a word. Luckily, he stopped at the school and waited for more people so I walked after him. I called Celina and told her to hurry. A couple more people showed up, including Celina and Mishel. We all piled into the moto, all five of us. The two others who got in with us were the woman and one of the sons that were drunk on Christmas morning when I rode down to town. They were both dressed up too. The woman in her pencil skirt, freshly wetted and combed hair, and a button down tshirt with each button bedazzled in a costume jewelry “crystal”. Most of the women here wear button down shirts, but so many of them are absolutely busting out of their shirts so that while they are standing or sitting, you can see bit pockets of their flesh or bras through the tugging between buttons. I was sitting across from the woman, and could see far too much all the way down her front. Her son had freshly combed hair, khaki pants and a button down tshirt that was too big for him. I was wearing a tshirt and a pair of jeans rolled up at the bottom.
We got into town and I headed for Serpost to check the mail. I got three letters! One from my brother and my sister in law, one from my Peace Corps friend, Silvia, who lives in Tumbes, and one from Mom for Valentine’s day. I mailed two letters and then did a couple errands and headed to Anitas. Spent the day eating delicious food, and sending emails out to my bosses and people at home.
When I headed out, I stopped by a store to buy myself a piece of chocolate. When I walked into the store, some random guy in a black and white plaid shirt asked me if I was American. I said I was. He started talking to me about a girl named Annie who was a volunteer a few years ago in a neighboring town. I told him we were from the same agency but I didn’t know her. The guy asked where I lived and I told him I lived in Iraca, he lives in Lajas apparently. I told him there was another volunteer who lives there, (my friend, Chelsey). I paid for my things and said goodbye to the shop owner and the guy. Plaid-chatty-Kathy proceeded to follow me out. I was headed to the paradero to go home, and was hoping that this guy would go away. He kept making small talk, but he was talking so fast I didn’t really know what he was saying. I got so caught up in trying to understand, that when he asked if I was single, I said yes…then immediately regretted it. Most people ask that question out of harmless curiosity - I’m a bit of a freak for not having a boyfriend, much less a husband and children by age 22. There aren’t really the same rude boundaries here as exist in the States. Following my stupid admission, Plaid-creepy-stalker-man asked how old I was. I said 22, thinking that he must be in his forties, and that maybe he would think I’m too young and leave me alone. I asked him how old he was to emphasize my point – 36. I think he was lying. This was followed by, “You’re American, I’m Peruvian. We’re both single…”
I didn’t say anything.
My previous skepticism with Peruvian men was just completely validated.
How did we get from point A to point B? How did I miss that transition? Or was there just not one?
I kept walking, without talking or responding to Plaid-preys-on-women-too-young-for-him, and he kept following. I got to the paradero and walked up to a group of mototaxi drivers. Unfortunately, the first guy I addressed was out-of-his-mind drunk and leered at me with unfocused eyes and no balance. Good. This was going splendidly. A woman was standing nearby and asked where I was going. I said Iraca. She was too. It’s always easier to get home when there are multiple people going the same place, you don’t have to wait as long. Plaid-inappropriate-question-man was standing next to me, following me while I tried to find someone to take me home. He asked me what my name was and I told him because I figured he couldn’t say it, much less remember it. I was trying to find a ride while he asked me when I came into town. I told him it’s random. Plaid-Mr.-Persistence asked me to meet him Sunday. I said no. He asked me for my phone number. I said no. I thought he would get the picture. Apparently not.
The woman came back over and told me one of the mototaxi guys said he would take us but wanted to charge us both a lot, and me extra because I weigh so much. Sometimes, I really just want to slap those guys who have the nerve to be such complete jerks. I called him a “malcríado”, not to his face, but out loud. It means “poorly raised”, which we usually use to describe badly behaving animals but applies to people also. The woman laughed. I still wanted to slap the guy, and Plaid-could-be-my-father, who was really not getting a hint. He then wandered off, and I was glad to be rid of him. The woman asked me who he was, I said I didn’t know but he wouldn’t leave me alone. She looked like she didn’t believe me and walked across the street to chat with another woman.
I stood, waiting. Turns out plaid-stalker-can’t-take-a-hint, was actually wandering around trying to find a ride for me, which I appreciated since it is hard, but did not overwhelm my disappointment that I hadn’t actually gotten rid of him. At this point, I called my friend so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. She told me to put him on the phone with her and she’d straighten him out. I thought that was brilliant, until I realized that he would be holding my cell phone when my friend told him off. Plaid-trying-to-sing-a-national-favorite kept calling me America and Beautiful and I was mortified. I felt like a stupid tourist and everyone was staring at me. I finally found a guy who was taking his truck up the mountain and I jumped in. Plaid-stalker-can’t-remember-my-name finally walked away looking a little defeated and I heaved a giant sigh of relief.
I got up the hill and hung out in my room for a while, ate dinner, worked on my community diagnostic, and went to bed.
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