Aftermath of the big hairy black thing

I woke up Tuesday morning and in preparing to go down to the latrine for my morning visit, I spent about five minutes shaking my rain boots and jumping all over them before I was willing to put them on my feet.  How terrible would that be?  You put on a shoe and your toes hit something giant and hard and hairy.  ALSDJFOAWIHGASDLJ  I panic just thinking about it. 

After my latrine visit, I went running in and out of my room for my kindle.  I sent an email to my mom, telling her that I had encountered a giant tarantula in my room and didn’t think I would ever feel comfortable in there again.  I have never liked spiders, but my mom always made me feel a bit like an idiot for being afraid of them.  The rest of that family too actually, we’re not allowed to be afraid of nature.  I always felt like I disappointed my mom when I showed fear of spiders.  Turns out, mom hates them too.  A lot.  I never knew that.  She emailed back full of empathy and admitted she’s afraid of them too.  That made me feel way better, especially because the disappointment I always thought she felt towards me was actually, she said, mostly embarrassment that she was afraid too, and that she’d passed that to me somehow.  Less ashamed of myself, I sent out to make my room mine again.

I got a broom, beat the death out of my folded clothes on the blanket on the floor, and then proceeded to pick up each piece of clothing with the end of the broom,  carry it out of my room to a table, beat it to death before I would touch it, then I folded it and placed it on a bench.  I did this with every piece of clothing and everything under my bed.  I went through my whole room, swept it and poked at it, until it was empty.  Then I put everything back in a less-tarantula friendly way.  My clothes are now folded into piles on a bench in my room, and I have designed, with measurements, shelves that I am going to pay my host dad to make me. 

I spent the rest of the night preparing presentations on Herpes and AIDS to give the next day. 

Strung Out

Monday was a disaster.  I went to English class, and had spent Sunday night planning a fun class with plenty of games to learn different parts of clothing.  Right from the get-go I knew something was off.  The kids weren't focusing at all.  I tried to teach them a game and they literally just wouldn't move.  The game was to have them all sitting in a circle with one person in the middle.  The person in the middle needs to say an item of clothing and a color, like "black shoes", which is what Hames came up with after I waited ten minutes for someone to volunteer to stand in the middle.  At that point, all the people with black shoes have to jump up and find a different seat.  The last person standing without a chair goes next.  When Hames said "black shoes", I clarified what it was for everyone who didn't know, and no one moved.  I even pointed out which kids needed to get up and run and no one would do it.  No one would look at me, and no one would move.  I waited and no one moved.  I told them to get up and go back to their seats. At this point it had been about 40 minutes without them cooperating.  I told them we didn't have to play games, and they could copy the vocabulary words over to learn them instead of playing games.  A bunch of them just sat there, didn't take out their notebooks or write.  I had to insist, multiple times to many kids, that they had to follow my instructions, and if they could complete the copying, then we could try playing a game again.

I stopped the kids before they finished because I felt bad. They promised me they would participate for the rest of class, and we went outside to play a game.  I tried to play their fruit game but they didn't want to and complained about it.  We did the two teams game instead, and I would call a piece of clothing and a color and they had to run to the chair in the middle of the court if they were wearing it.  However, they hadn't made any effort to learn the vocabulary that morning, and no one knew when to run, and there were about four kids who just refused to play.  I had too many girls on one team, and they were dressed similarly, so I needed to break them up.  I asked Mishel to join the other team, and she said, with no explanation, "No." I asked her again to go and she just shook her head.  I asked her again. Nothing.  I told her she needed to give me a reason if she wouldn't participate. She didn't say anything.  I told her she could sit inside until we were done playing the game.  She just looked at me.  I told her again.  She just looked at me.  I told her one more time, a little bit more seriously, and she finally went inside.  We tried to play a little more, but they hadn't learned anything earlier in the day like they usually do.  It was less vocabulary than usual and I was frustrated.  I brought everyone back inside.

I had drawn a monster with different colored clothes and different numbers of body parts and they had to describe it to me to practice the number, color, clothing, and body part vocabulary.  Two kids sort of participated.  At the end, I told them each person was going to describe a detail about the monster and then we were all going to draw it.  Everyone started complaining to me, "Nooooooo, Teacheeeeer."  At this point I was so frustrated, we were making no progress, and had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with them that I told them they could leave.  The worst part about it, is that these kids don't have to come and I don't have to teach them.  So when it is miserable for me because they don't want to learn, I can't rationalize continuing class if it is just going to make me angry and be unproductive for them.  I told them class was over for the day and they could leave.  They asked, "to our houses?".  It was an hour early.  I told them they didn't want to participate and that I was not obligated to teach them, so we would end for the day and hopefully, when they come back Wednesday, they will be prepared to learn and to participate.  I was pretty upset.

I started teaching English just to get to know the kids and give myself something to do.  At this point, it seemed to be a bit counter-productive, and I still had three classes left.  I think the fact that I don't usually play the overly authoritative role at the front of the classroom, and they don't spend the class simply copying things off a board, but actually learning through interaction and games, makes it hard for them to remember that I deserve the same respect that they give their teachers.  I don't usually punish them, and they call me "Teacher" instead of "Profesora".  Yes, it is the same word, but it doesn't condition them the same way, I don't think.  The educational system here is focused on conforming, on training the students to obey authority and do exactly as they are told down to the last detail.  The education is about adhering to formalities and learning how to make straight lines on a paper and have clear penmanship, not to learn to reason and think critically.  I’m not like any teacher they’ve ever had.  I let them play and engaged and I don’t give them meaningless tasks.  Learning feels more like play for them than they’ve ever experienced and I think that makes it hard for them to remember I’m not another kid and they are not having playtime.

I went to the health post for a while afterwards and hung out, trying to make some progress on my planning for training health promoters.  I went home a bit early to work on my letters to my old High School teacher's Spanish classes through the World Wide Schools program.  I got home and was working in my bed, when I got up to straighten up my room a bit.  I picked up my shorts, which were right near my surge protector box, and jumped back, barely stifling a scream at the sight of a GIANT TARANTULA the size of my hand with thick legs and pincers.  I've seen dogs smaller than that thing.  I went running out the door to find Celina.

“Um, there’s a, a tarantula.” Was all I managed at first.

Celina stiffened and immediately asked, “where?”

“…In my room.”

She turned right in the door, headed towards my room.  I reluctantly followed her.  On her way in, she picked up one of my flip flops.  She asked me to show her where the tarantula was, which meant that I had to go back into my room.  I was not happy.  When I tip toed into my room, it wasn’t where I had left it and the skin on my back and neck prickled. 

“it was near that box…” I sort of whined at Celina.  I took a step to the left and saw it again.

“It’s right there!” I pointed and then ran out of the room, out the door, and stood outside trying not to think too hard about what it looked like.  I heard a couple of smacks from my bedroom, glanced the door opening, and saw my flip flop come down on a large black shape on the floor, which made a revolting thud/squish sound, and didn’t move again.  Celina went out the other door and got a piece of wood to shovel the dead tarantula out the door.  When I walked back into the room, there was a large wet spot on the floor and the bottom of my flip flop.  I tried not to gag.  I also couldn’t bring myself to go back in my room.  What if he had friends?  So I sat by the kitchen on a bench, with a terrified look on my face,  unable to stop thinking about that giant hairy spider.  Celina would walk by me and just laugh at my facial expression.  A couple times she snuck up on me and yelled “BOO”, then burst into hysterics.  I tried to smile, but I think it came out more like a grimace.  I felt like I was going to cry, hyperventalate, or throw up…for like three hours.  I called my friend, Kate, who looked up Tarantulas online to try and make me feel better.  Things like: “they only bite if they are scared.”  Didn’t help much.  I couldn’t eat anything at dinner, and my host mom thought it was a good idea to tell me that Tarantulas are bad luck because they are never seen around here.  I had seen two that week.  One in my classroom, and one in my bedroom.  WHY WERE THEY FOLLOWING ME?  My host mom said she thought it was because I had been storing my clothes folded on a blanket on the floor because I had no where else to put them.  I had little doubt at that point that I have aracnaphobia.  I’ll tell you one thing, I think after that, it’s warranted.  In fact, anyone who is not aracnaphobic after seeing a tarantula must be crazy. 

My friend Sylvia called me and talked to me about other things while I hyperventilated thinking about going back in my room.  I finally managed to run in there, quickly search my bed, and jump in it.  We talked for three hours about lots of other things just to keep my mind of spiders.  I then turned on Harry Potter as a kind of comfort, so when I finally went to bed I was exhausted.  However, I stupidly put in the one Harry Potter movie chalk full of giant spiders.  When I realized that, I turned it off, put in music, and tried to focus on the music until I fell asleep.  

A lil bit of Progress

Woke up Saturday morning, made myself some oatmeal, packed up my backpack, and headed down to the health post.  Natalia and I had decided to try and get a bunch of surveys done.  I surveyed one of the store owners, and then we got a bunch of women who had dropped off their milk at the cheese house to come down to the health post.  Before we headed back, the President of the RONDA for Iraca Central walked by and yelled to Natalia that his daughter had a fever and he needed someone to see her.  I was so excited!  I had been hoping to meet this guy for ages.  The RONDA is basically the town council, and he’s the President.  It’s incredibly important that I create a working relationship with them, because if done right, they could be a great resource and support for me, and I’m undoubtedly going to need their help executing projects.  Natalia and I headed back to the health post, and while Natalia saw to another patient before him, I chatted with him about my work, what I was doing here and hoped to do, and also that I wanted to speak with the authorities in the community to introduce myself and to begin working together.  He seemed like a really nice guy, though that doesn’t mean that things won’t go sour for a lot of reasons.  He could be completely unaccountable, he could be really lazy, or he could suddenly decide to hit on me and make our work relationship impossible.  So, my new way of approaching situations like this is to not get to excited about potential, be a bit pessimistic, and then, hopefully, be pleasantly surprised. 

He told me that the ronderos, or authorities in town, get together on the 15^th every month at 9pm.  I asked if I could come.  He was very welcoming.  It is an incredible opportunity to introduce myself and get to know the authorities in town, establish myself as a professional, begin a working relationship, and check something off my to-do list.  I have heard from Barbara that they are all worthless when it comes to helping out, but I’ve always been someone that gives a million chances for others to prove themselves.  I’m excited about working with them, and hope the meeting goes well.  It will be well outside my comfort zone but it’s important and I’ve got to do it. 

I ended up getting 8 encuestas (surveys) done, and only have 4 left before I’m finished and have met my goal and my boss, Emilia’s, goal for me.  Really excited about that because I have to have my community diagnostic done by the end of the month before Dahlia comes. 

Walked home in the pouring rain and got ready to do one of my ab videos.  I put on the shorts I usually wear, and then left my computer to charge for a minute while I checked my email outside on my Kindle.  What I didn’t realize was that one of my students, and Mishel’s cousin, Hames, was at my house.  Usually no one walks by where I sit to check my email, and I hadn’t thought about the little shorts I was wearing.  When Hames said hello to me, I felt like he’d just seen me in my underwear.  He kept looking at my legs and I sat there, frozen, trying to decide what to do.  I finally got up and went into my room to put pants on.  I will never leave my room in those shorts again. 

Tried to do my ab video but I’m still so sore from the last time I decided to wait another day.  I made myself some hot cocoa with the packets my mom sent, 3/4 a cup of hot water, and some evaporated milk (their regular milk is disgusting, expensive, and goes bad if it isn’t refrigerated).  It was actually pretty good! 

Curled up in my bed and got to writing blog updates to put up tomorrow when I’m in town.  

By Candlelight

I had a slow morning, but went into the health post and spent a large chunk of time reading a book on how to train health promoters, and taking notes so that I can teach the health promoter trainer in Cabracancha, how to train her health promoters, and also make sure I do a good job training them myself.  Elly, the lady from Cabracancha, had called me back that morning at 7:30.  Six times.  I had not picked up.  However, she left a message in response to my calls about when we were going to get together to prepare the next health promoter training session.  She had not answered my calls for about a week, and her message said she wasn’t even in town.  She didn’t say when she’d be getting back, nor did she reschedule.  I was sort of irritated because we had picked this weekend to work on it because I will be traveling next weekend.  Still haven’t managed to get a hold of her again. 

Came home, worked out, entered survey data onto my Excel sheets, and then our power went out.  It has been a while since our power went out, and I usually kind of like it for an evening.  It’s not ideal, but I like eating dinner with everyone by candlelight.  There is something sort of magical about sitting around a table and everyone’s faces glowing from the candle in the center of the table.  It feels homier.  Lucky for me, by the time dinner was over and I had located the flashlight in my room (my headlamp batteries died and I can’t seem to find the batteries I need, nor can I open the headlamp to replace the batteries), the lights came back on.  I watched a couple episodes of Mad Men and then went to bed.  

The Day I Met Mr. Plaid-can't-take-a-hint

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.  

Sunshine!!

Wednesday morning was one of those routine mornings, got up, and checked my email on my Kindle.  I got a really great update email from a friend of mine doing TFA in Texas, who is probably the most naturally gifted teacher I’ve ever met, and reading about how he is handling the difficulties with students was absolutely inspiring.  I’ve been having some issues with my kids, but it is nothing compared to what he goes through on a daily basis, and yet he is always capable of finding the motivations behind negative behavior and discovering what he can do to best support those students.  His ability to always find the best in students was an inspiration I desperately needed. 

I packed up my bag, and then realized that I needed to get to class quickly because it was almost 10.  I threw a drinkable peach yogurt into my bag, a Clementine, an apple, and a little package of peanut butter and ran out the door, but stepped slowly and carefully down my muddy death trap of a hill.  Mishel decided again today, without giving any reason at all, that she wasn’t going to come to my class.  I hate it when she does that.  Maybe I hate it because it means she either doesn’t enjoy my class, or something is happening with the other students that I’m oblivious to, which doesn’t usually happen in my classes in the US.

On my way to class, I was walking by two women and one of them paused a couple steps past me and asked if she could ask me a question.  I said of course.  She asked about my English class and if she could send her kids.  I told her we only have a couple classes left but she is welcome to send her kids.  I always am halfway delighted and halfway annoyed by this.  I’m excited that people are starting to get to know me and know what I’m up to.  I’m pleased they want to send their kids to learn from me, but sort of annoyed that they waited until we were almost done with class to figure out I was having them and send their kids.  Playing catch up is not my favorite game.

My kids, waiting at the door

One of my favorite parts of my English class is when I turn the corner and walk down the steps to the bottom level of the school where my class is.  I always find a big group of students waiting on the stairs on the other side or lined up against the wall.  As soon as they see me they all start shouting “Good Morning, Teacher!” which warms my heart like nothing else.  “Good Morning” I always call back with a giant smile on my face.  When I get about 20 yards closer, they repeat their greetings and I repeat mine over again.   When I get close to the door they all crowd together around me and I’m waist deep in children.  There are two doors I have to unlock, on the outside there is a door of bars, which is easy to unlock, but I need to open slowly so as not to bend the fingers that have laced their way around the crisscrosses.  When the first door is open, the wave of little kids pushes in again, pressing against the next door, waiting to burst through.  The pressure on the door actually inhibits me opening it, so every class I have to tell them not to push on the door.  I finally get it open and they all go racing for their seats.  I think that moment, before we even enter my class, is often my favorite part of class.

We spent Wednesday learning vegetables.  I had them write down the vegetables in their notebooks, then I had them practice the names in English using some really terrible pictures I had drawn of the various vegetables.  After that we played their fruit game, but with vegetables.  Gladis was refusing to participate again.  My first instinct was to be annoyed by this, but then I remembered my friend’s email, so I told her if she wasn’t going to participate, I at least needed to know why.  I waited a long time for a response, and when I finally got one, she said that Hames (It’s James, but pronounced “Ham”, like you’re a super stuck up British person, think “haum”, and then “es” is more like “ace”…Haumace…) said he didn’t want her to play.  When I looked at Hames and he denied that he hadn’t done it, it was written all over his face that he had.  I told Gladis that Hames said that because she always wins the fruit game, and told her to beat him again.  She decided to join in then…and she did beat him. 

I noticed later, when we were drawing our vegetables in different boxes to practice numbers and listening comprehension, that Gladis had her entire body covering her paper, which she usually does whenever we draw things.  I have always known there was a bit of a shyness issue with the girls in my class, but I started to realize how significant the confidence issue was.  All the times my kids have said “no” to me, or abstained from participating, it’s always the girls.  It’s pretty clear to me that the behavior in my class is really gender divided.  The boys drive me crazy sometimes because they are too loud and out of control sometimes, but they always participate, for the most part.  The girls, however, it’s like pulling teeth sometimes to get them to participate.  Most of them are so unsure of themselves, never want anyone to see their drawings, and with the exception of Gladis sometimes, barely talk above a whisper when I make them speak English.  Their lack of participation and occasional refusal to do what I say are what drives me crazy about my girls.  It’s a confidence issue.  It makes me so sad.  Gladis learns the English faster than just about anyone in my class but doesn’t have the confidence to call out answers.  When she does, which is rarely, I make an effort to praise her by name and make eye contact with her.  I think she needs some positive reinforcement.  The worst part about the lack of confidence, and seeing it so young in these girls, is that it’s going to significantly hold them back.  People around here say that boys and girls are equal, but if the girls are pushed into a shy, self-conscious corner and the boys are expected to be boisterous and loud, who is going to learn more in the end?

We played Bingo to review their numbers again.  I was thrilled to see how much they have improved.  The only problem, was that one of the girls, a second grader, didn’t know her numbers in Spanish.  The way I do it is to pull a number out of the bag, say it in Spanish, and then they have to tell me what it is in English.  Then I write it on the board.  This little girl could see the number, and hear it in Spanish, and she couldn’t find it on her board.  She kept asking the boys where the number was on her board, numbers as simple as 8 or 6.  José, or Ismani, (he goes by both), was sort of helping her, but at one point got frustrated and yelled “No!” and then slapped her in the face.  He didn’t slap her hard, it was with the same force that you jokingly tap a friend, but I saw it.  I yelled out to him that was not ok and gave him the scary “teacher glare”, while his other boy friends laughed.  I told them to stop laughing, that it wasn’t funny.  Liz, the little girl, wasn’t hurt at all, but I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t do anything else about it.  I think I was just completely stunned that it had just happened that I didn’t know what to do.  I have no doubt at all that I would have handled that differently in the States, but I’m mortified about how I handled it in that class. 

We played the two lines game outside that I made up from an old soccer game I can’t remember the name of.  They love that game.  Some girls from town came and sat to watch the game.  A woman was cleaning up around the school and asked if she could send her kids to me also.  I was equally delighted and annoyed, and told her she was welcome to send her kids.  I currently don’t have enough chairs for the kids that come, so I’m actually kind of hoping that maybe she won’t send her kids.

I told the kids class was over, and they begged to play the game for another half hour.  I gave them five minutes.  At the end of class, all the students lined up at the door for their piece of candy.  Gladis took her time packing up her things, and was the last to the door.  I let her pick what flavor she wanted of fruit candy.  She picked Grape.  I went back inside, packed up my things, and when I came out, Gladis was waiting for me.  She looked shy for a second and then handed me a bag of their version of popcorn, the name of which has currently escaped me. I think it’s called Canchita, or something, but imagine popcorn seeds, significantly enlarged and chewable with salt on it.  It was really sweet of her.  She asked if I was walking to the health post again, and I said yes.  She told me she had to get her bottle but she’d be right there.  She ran up the stairs and over to the “Cheese house” as I call it to pick up a bottle full of whey that I think they give to their pigs.  I walked up the other side of the school building and waited for her on the road.  She came running up the side of the hill.  Liz, the little girl bought herself some snacks at the store and then asked me if I was walking to the post.  I said yes, but that I was waiting for Gladis.  We waited together.  Gladis stopped at the store and bought a couple of things.  She came running over and we headed down the hill.  We chatted about her older brother and that she was planning on heading into Chota soon to visit him.  She handed me an alfahor she had bought and I thanked her.  Alfahores in Argentina are DELICIOUS.  Alfahores in Perú are not.  You know how sometimes in the States you get excited about a baked cookie or blond brownie you bought from a grocery store that’s wrapped in plastic wrap, and then you bite into it, and there is nothing sweet about it?  It’s like eating crumbly wheat bread.  Alfahores in Perú are like two pieces of that with a clearer version of paper maché mixed with too much sugar in the middle.  They are bad.  I didn’t eat it.  When I said goodbye to her at the gate to the health post, she handed me another one.  I thanked her sincerely and told her I’d see her Monday.  Our little routine made me feel wonderful, like I had made a space for myself in someone else’s life here in Perú.

I headed back home from the health post a little bit later in a great mood.  The sun was out for the first time in a while (that always makes my day).  Instead of racing the rain back to my house, I turned my usual hike into a nice little stroll, enjoying the view and the warmth on my face.  I ran into the health promoter and chatted with her for a little while.  I bought myself a coke at one of the little stores, and continued my stroll.  I saw a bunch of kids playing in the brook and thought how lovely it will be when we have continuous days of sunshine to go down there and dip my feet.  I passed by some guys who I had said hello to that morning.  They had spent the day putting up a fence around the fields across from my house.  They were sitting in the shade under some tall bushes and I stopped to chat with them about their progress.  They were almost done.  I made the hike up to my house and sat on the bench outside for a little while.  I put on a tank top to maximize my skin to sun exposure and decided it was a good day to wash my hair.  As always, I washed my hair in the sink we have outside, and then grabbed my kindle and my coke and went to sit in the little chair on the top of our hill. 

I was warmed by the thought that Iraca will be a wonderful place to live when the rain stops and we just have sunshine.  It’s already beautiful but I feel like I live in a swamp sometimes because it’s always pouring and I can’t leave my house without knee tall rainboots on.  So I got excited about when the rain finally stops.  Six months out of the year it rains here.  I tried not to think too much about that. 

My friend, Silvia, called me.  She lives in Tumbes on the beach and sometimes I find it hard to not be super jealous.  She gets to swim in the ocean on a regular basis.  She asked how I was because I hadn’t been feeling too thrilled the last time we had talked, and I got to tell her that I was going great!  Sunshine really is all it takes for me these days.  We had a fun time chatting for a while, she was apparently upset she had lost some large and ridiculously fabulous hat….which she called me back about an hour later to tell me she had found. 

I had emailed my boss the day before to ask her for Carlos, the tech guy’s, phone number or email address because my phone has been incapable of calling numbers that don’t have RPMs.  RPMs are numbers that start with * or #, and you have to pay a little extra to have one, but you can call anyone else with one for free.  All the Peace Corps volunteers have them, which in the end saves us a lot of money, BUT, not all the people I work with, including my host Mom, have RPMs, so I can’t ever call them back.  Emilia called me to tell me it had been fixed, I just needed to turn off my phone and turn it back on again.  I did so, and it didn’t work.  I tried again.  Didn’t work.  I should probably mention that Carlos has a reputation of not being helpful at all.  I called Emilia back to tell her it didn’t work and she was like, “Oh, are you so happy your phone works now?”  I felt really bad answering her with a, “well…actually…it still doesn’t.”  She told me she’d get Carlos to call me.  So Carlos called me and we chatted and then he hung up to call the Movistar company. When he called me back to tell me it should be fixed, he asked me to call a non-RPM number, and BE SURE to call him back either way.  He sounded sort of scared, or nervous, and I’m guessing that is because Emilia has a reputation of getting things DONE.  That woman knows how to strong-arm better than anyone apparently.  I’m pretty sure she freaked Carlos out. 

MAGIC – my phone finally worked.  It was like Christmas.  I didn’t have to feel like a horrible person for not calling people back.  I could actually be accountable and professional.  It was good news.

Wednesday was a good day.  

Fruits and Ancianos

English class – we were learning fruits.  I had them write the vocabulary down.  Then we played a bunch of games.  They had taught me a game they love the week before, where one kid sits on a stool and they have been assigned a fruit, the “runner” guesses what fruit they are, and when they say the right one, the kid on the stool takes off running and has to try to get back to the seat before they get caught.  We played the same game, but with English words for fruits.  After that, we practiced numbers and fruits.  I had divided up paper into number labeled boxes.  I would tell them, in English, which fruit to draw in which box.  After that, I took them back outside and divided them into two teams.  I gave each kid on each team a name of a fruit and then I would call a name and the two people from either team would have to run to the chair in the middle.  The first to sit wins, and the loser joins the other team.  I was pretty happy that they really loved that game. 

I spent some time hanging out at the health post, discovered that they make the little personal drinkable yogurts in Lucuma flavor.  I can’t tell you how excited I was about that discovery.  I drink a peach yogurt almost every day, and they’re starting to get dull.  The health workers asked me if I would be willing to help give charlas, or chats, to everyone over 60 in the community.  They had apparently planned a meeting day every month with that demographic and wanted me to help.  The first subject was going to be diet changes to help cure hypertension.  I was happy to have another opportunity to contribute to health promotion in the computer, but then I started thinking about how difficult those charlas are going to be.  The problems with malnutrition that the younger generation has right now, were about twenty times worse for the older generation, and education was even less of a priority.  I’ve attempted to do a couple encuestas with some older people and I wanted to give up about three questions in.  For many of them, malnutrition and lack of education have made it nearly impossible for them to pay attention or retain new information.  Not to mention my less than perfect Spanish must sound like I’m speaking to them underwater.  I’m a little worried about it, but I know I won’t be alone so I’m hoping that the health post workers will help me out.

At dinner, I realized that Celina might have high blood pressure.  She’d been complaining of headaches, dizziness, and chest pain.  I didn’t know what to say before, but after thinking about hypertension for the charla I have to give, it clicked.  I encouraged her to go to the health post.  

List of Things I Try Not to Notice During Dinner

Picking out earwax with the handle of a spoon and wiping it on hand, pantleg, or sometimes the blanket that goes over the bench we sit on. 

Audible chewing and swallowing that makes me feel like I’m swimming around in their mouths

Opening of mouth to allow chunks of food they don’t want to swallow to fall to the floor, and then continuing to eat.

Cat who sits about 4 inches away from me on the bench and meows into my face while I eat.

Hoards of flies collecting on the table, plates of food, the filthy rag in the middle of the table everyone shares for a napkin but is also used to wipe the table and dry dishes.

My host dad (no joke) snot rocketing onto the floor in the middle of dinner.

A note about snot-rocketing.  It seems to be 100% normal to do in public.  For example, I was walking into town today and I passed a guy sitting outside a store.  As always, I greeted him and asked how he was.  He didn’t say anything.  When I looked closer, I realized he had just snot rocketed and had a gigantic clump of nasty hanging out his nose and he was waiting for it to disconnect from his face and fall to the ground.  


Charmed, I’m sure.