Killin' Time in Chiclayo

Woke up the next morning to meet a Cajamarca volunteer who was also stranded in Chiclayo.  She lives somewhere between Chota and Chiclayo.  I discovered her existence when morning number two in Chiclayo, I went to the room a couple of my friends were staying in and discovered tech exchange frenzy.  Turns out all the new stuff was from Courtney, who promptly made her appearance with a head of super long wet hair and a comb.  She had apparently just watched a video on the internet on how to cut and layer your hair yourself.  I immediately thought of my friend Annie Pope, who is a complete beast at that and felt a small pang at the rush of memories I have under the Annie Pope file in my head. 

Courtney asked if any of us have scissors, and I lent her the ones I used to cut a bunch of people’s hair at the end of training.  She walked out in the hallway and just hacked it off.  I couldn’t help laughing at the sheer nonchalance of the whole thing.  It was super crooked, and she just started cutting at it.  I told her I could make it straight if she wanted, but she was having a fine time all on her own.  We spent the rest of the morning watching strange things on TV and tech-exchanging. 

Still with no idea when we were supposed to leave, we made a trip to the mall for some last minute stuff.  I continued to fret over my lack of elected color scheme.  I wanted to run with a sage green, salmon pink, and yellow to be bright, happy, but also soothing.  The problem was, those colors pretty much don’t exist in Perú, and I’d have a hard time making that happen.  So while I stressed about that, we wandered around the mall looking for things.  We discovered a store that is the Peruvian equivalent to Pier 1, and we were all so excited.  My excitement soon vanished with the sheer persistence of the store’s employees.  If I picked up something to show my friends, someone would appear out of nowhere with a basket and tell me they would hold it at the front for me.  They kept popping out of the bedding section with carts and baskets and other products.  I didn’t know how many times I was going to have to say, “NO GRACIAS!” or “We’re just looking!”  In the States I avoid employees like the plague unless I have a specific question because they make me feel so awkward, and sometimes I just don’t know what I’m looking for, and I usually don’t want to buy the more expensive version of what I’m holding.  They have NOTHING on this store’s employees.  There was a giant cluster of them trying to hard to get involved.  As a general rule, Peruvians don’t really take “NO” for an answer.  Persistence…it must be genetic. 

After that little adventure, we wandered around a bit more and then went to see Breaking Dawn at the movie theater.  It cost $2.50, so we got a giant popcorn and some drinks.  We laughed pretty much the whole way through the movie.  There are some REALLY ridiculous scenes in that movie.  Nonetheless, it felt good to forget the waiting and anxiety and laugh our way through an American movie in English.  We found out that we were leaving for sure for Chota that night, so we headed back to the hostel and waited to be picked up by the regional coordinator of Piura.  We drank the rest of our Gato wine on the roof with Courtney then went out to our Last Supper for about the tenth time, where I had a Pisco Sour (classic Peruvian beverage).  About halfway through my way too strong Pisco Sour, I realized in about two hours I was going to want to take a Dramamine.  I had been getting so ridiculously car sick everywhere I went in Perú that I knew I needed to take that Dramamine.  However, I was scared about mixing the two after a scary purchase of Midol in the States.  I had gone to Walmart to buy myself some Midol before I left the States for Perú, and the cashier decided it was a good time to tell me her cousin had taken Midol, then drank hard liquor, went into a coma and died.  That’s a hard tidbit to forget. 

I decided to play it safe and texted the Peace Corps doctors’ number.  To put this in context, we are all on an intimate level with the Peace Corps doctors, and they all have a really great sense of humor and are used to being asked stupid questions.  They also, conveniently, have a Peace Corps Medical Officer phone that we are allowed to call at any hour.  It was only 7p.m. when I texted and asked if I would be safe taking Dramamine if I had been drinking, I got a text back that said, “Probably not the best, besides, the alcohol will help put you to sleep J” Knowing my motion sickness tendencies, I asked if I stopped drinking and waited an hour if it would be ok.  I got the go ahead so I quickly downed my Pisco with a shiver and grimace and started my watch timer.  

Lima Fun and "Getting Peru-ed"

Turns out my move to Cajamarca was going to be a little later than I thought, and the five Super Caja Chicas (the five of us going to living Cajamarca – we earned the nickname during field-based training) were stuck in limbo between our training adventure and our service adventure.  Limbo at this point was a small room in Hostel Amigos in Miraflores with five beds and far too much luggage crammed into it. We had said goodbye to all our friends, who in various shifts pertaining to their future geographic locations, had piled all their crap into cabs and headed off to various bus stations.  Saying goodbye, again, was brutal.

We’d been in Lima for two days, and had enjoyed every moment of it – hitting up Downtown, the local gay club, for the sake of our gay guy friends and it’s close proximity (we females hadn’t anticipated the number of lesbians that would also be there and I ended playing body guard against some very persistent Peruvian ladies for more than a few people); 3 a.m. McDonalds because there is nothing more delicious than 3 a.m. McDonalds in a foreign country (I hate McDonalds in the States); Starbucks Frappaccinos (I wanted a pumpkin spice latte like it was the Cup of Salvation but they don’t have them here); skyping, because we had good internet and my friend let me use her account to actually call people’s phones from my computer (SO EXCITING!); and excessive amounts of time shopping in the local Inca Market, which is where you go to get a bunch of awesome artisan touristy things (I bought alpaca slippers and socks to provide foot-happiness despite my future cement-floored bedroom, and a green alpaca sweater with a hood that is too small and has llamas all over it.)  It’s not much, but I was sincerely stressed out about the potential color scheme of my future room, which prevented me from buying a lot of stuff.  That sentence is really wordy, but it’s how I talk…so I guess that’s fine.  I will inevitably be going back to Lima, and when I do I will buy lots of happy things. 

After two nights and three full days, we finally got in a couple of cabs with our piles of crap and I fake called Alonso, the assistant to our Assistant Peace Corps Director (APCD).  What does that mean?  I picked up my phone, pretended to call Alonso, “told him” the license plate numbers for both cabs, where we where going, and when he should expect us to arrive.  I always feel super stupid doing it because I have to do it in Spanish and I’m bad at it, plus I’m not talking to anyone, but I do it so our driver can hear, and that way we will hopefully not be robbed, beaten up, raped, or worse…if there is anything worse.  It’s a good preventative technique and for whatever reason, among the Caja Chicas, I’m always the one who ends up doing it. 

Happy to report, we made it safely to the Cruz del Sur bus station, waited a bit, then boarded our bus to Chiclayo, Piura.  We usually take a 15 hour bus ride to Cajamarca City in Cajamarca, then take four hours worth of combis (tiny little van/bus things with no leg room) to the regional city by our sites, and then I take a half hour mototaxi ride up a mountain to my site (mototaxi = glorified go cart).  However, all of our travel plans had been screwed up because there was a strike going on in Cajamarca against a mine called Newmount, which is a gold mining company from Colorado that has been draining glacial lakes and replacing them with reservoirs.  People here are really pissed off because they are worried the mining companies are going to completely deplete their water source, and because a mining truck got in an accident and spilled ridiculous amounts of mercury all over the place.  I’m pretty sure people died…  The strike is being led by the President of the department of Cajamarca (department in Perú=State in US).  Part of the strike also has to do with presidential politics.  The newly elected President of Perú promised during his campaign to help the underdog, especially in issues with foreign investment.  I think the President of Cajamarca is trying to see what the President of Perú is made of, since he has allowed the mining companies to start a new project.  Cajamarqueñas are calling for a complete change.  You can start to get the idea of the conflict.  Well, I am not allowed to voice an opinion about any of this, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to guess who I sympathize with. 

Anyway, point being, we could not take our usual route through Cajamarca city, and instead rerouted to Chiclayo, which meant driving straight up the coast for 10 hours overnight.  Going straight to Cajamarca City would be a diagonal route to our sites from Lima.  Going to Chiclayo and then to Chota (a big town/TINY city an hour walk from my future house) was going the right angle route.  Straight up to Chiclayo and then dead East to Chota.  Bus ride was relatively uneventful.  I downed some Dramamine and fell asleep right after dinner.  

These buses have bathrooms, but you’re only allowed to pee in them, and I’m always so afraid I’m going to need the bathroom for more than it is equipped.  The five Caja Chicas have discussed the use of a “poop sac” as a crisis tactic, but those buses do switch backs and I’m really not sure I’m that skilled.  We’ve also discussed throwing it out the window that is always left open in the bathroom.  I had to be the voice of reason and suggest they just tie the bag tightly and put it in the trashcan.  They didn’t think that idea was as fun until I asked how they’d feel if they were on a sidewalk and got hit in the face with a fast moving bag of feces.  That put it in perspective.  Because I am hoping to avoid use of said “poop sac” and accompanying dilemma of “to throw or not to throw”, I usually down Dramamine before dinner and hope I pass out before my body decides it wants to make space.  Worked like a charm, although my effort was almost null and void when the steward guy was going to wake me up to play bingo…luckily my friend was sitting behind me and caught him before he poked me awake.  That’s a Peruvian issue though, zero respect for sleep. 

Ten hours and a dire need for a poop-friendly toilet later, we pulled into Chiclayo at 5 a.m..  When the head of Peace Corps security, Enrique, arrived to pick us up, we found out that all the roads to Chota were blocked and closed because of the strike.  So, we hung out in Chiclayo, in Hostel Amigos, with absolutely no idea how long it would be before we actually got to go to our sites.  We call this "Getting Peru-ed".  This applies to many a situation, and is often used in tandem with "I just got Peace-Corps-ed".  Waiting for an unknown length of time in the wrong place far from your destination due to another strike in Cajamarca was a perfect example of "getting peru-ed". 

I tried to make the most of it, but struggled a bit on the first day. I did a lot of sleeping, and freaking out.  Anxiously waiting to get to site, coupled with a heavy case of PMS, was turning me into an absolute psycho and I had a less than pretty freak out on skype to my mother.  That heavy weight was still trapped in my chest, only now it was accompanied by the chaotic fluttering of panic. PMS plus preexisting anxiety is like a shut down of all forms of transportation that go anywhere other than the capital city of Worst Case Scenario. 

Next day, after wandering around, taking a deliciously hot shower, and eating a terrible dinner of whatever Peruvian’s interpret to be Asian food, I did whatever an of-age PMSing American female would do, I walked to the nearest tienda (read: hole in the wall) that sold alcohol and bought myself some boxed red Gato wine for a grand total of $3.70.  Compared to all the other wine they have around here, boxed Gato might as well have been a vintage merlot.

We went back to the hostel and up onto the roof where we found some of our Environment Peace Corps friends who were heading to their sites that night.  We also happened to encounter two handsome Canadians drinking beer.  Turns out these guys were Canadian biologists who decided to ride their motorcycles from Canada to the southern tip of South America and had made it to Perú in about a month.  We Peace Corps Volunteers, a little starved for home, started interrogating them about which states they had been through in the US, each person irrationally desperate to hear if these guys had ridden through their home state.  We all hung out for a while chatting, and I think the most clutch statement made all night was when one of the Canadians stated in a slightly weirded out, slightly admiring tone, “You guys sure know a lot about parasites…”  We all laughed pretty hard at that.  I think we freaked them out a bit...especially when we told them they could get parasites from walking barefoot in the sand...

That evening on the roof put me to ease a little bit, because it reminded me that I’m on an adventure, meeting random and interesting people, and it’s supposed to be fun.  I love those kinds of moments, chilling on a hostel roof and running into some guys doing a Canadian rendition of Motorcycle Diaries.  Wish I had something really exciting to report from that encounter, but there was merely some much needed flirting (almost all the guys in my training class were gay), and I gave one of the guys a pair of extra, and crappy, headphones I had taken from my bus ride to Chiclayo because his had broken.  He kept telling me how sweet I was, and that was enough for me. :)

Goodbyes and New Beginnings...again

            As I washed my dinner plate in the sink, I wondered how I was going to say goodbye.  It was too cruel that I had said goodbye to my family and friends, and my whole life in the States, only to have to build everything anew and say goodbye again.  I was so comfortable with my Lima host family; I knew I could make it if I lived with them for two years.  I had found a way to be myself, to be happy, and I was so scared to start it all over again in the mountains of Perú. 

            My host mom sat at the table with her hands clasped, unable to make eye contact with me.

            “Voy a usar el baño…” I blurted out and hastily made for the bathroom.  I had a heavy weight in my chest, the kind of hollow weight that with enough breaths seems to squeeze up the back of my throat and burn behind my eyes until tears run down my face.  But I didn’t feel the burning, or the thickness in my throat; it was trapped under my rib cage.  I didn’t know if it was fear for where I was going, or sorrow for what I was leaving behind, but I was surprised that I, notoriously weepy at goodbyes, felt no tears coming.  Had I just said too many at this point? Or was it just too much to feel right now? 

            I walked back into the big room, home to dining room table, computer table, TV area, and kitchen, to find my host mom in the exact same position at the table.  I looked at Sheyla and we both looked at Mamá. 

            “Necesito salir, Mamá.” I said softly, my cab was probably already waiting for me down the hill.  My host mom turned her eyes to me but still couldn’t look me in the face.

“Ya, hija.” She said, quickly looking away from me as a tear ran down her cheek.

“Ya, vamos.” Said Sheyla hastily, jumping up from her chair and running around the table towards the door.  “Puedo ayudarte.”

 I wanted to thank my host mom, I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, but felt my tongue tied with too small a Spanish vocabulary.  Sheyla also was trying to hustle me out the door, and felt like I should follow her, like she knew how my host mom would prefer me to leave.  But it didn’t seem right to leave without saying anything so I left Sheyla anxiously standing in the doorway and went to my host mom. 

She took my head in her hands and hugged me close, tears pouring down her face.  She told me I was a beautiful and good daughter, she was proud of me, that I had to visit and call, that she was going to miss me, and that she loved me very much.  I said what I could, that I would visit and call, I would miss her too, I was thankful for all she had given me, and that I loved her too.  She gave me a kiss on the cheek and let me go. 

“Nos vemos, Mamá.” We’ll see each other. I said to her, and followed Sheyla out the door.  In the dark outside, I felt the heat in my throat and a few tears fell between blinks.  It was just a small piece of the boulder resting inside my chest; I guess I was only biting off as much as I could chew. 

             Sheyla helped me carry my bags down around the corner to where the cab waited.  We loaded my stuff into the back and waited for Lauralee and Alli to come down the hill.  Once we all had jammed our hiking packs and giant duffle bags into the way back, I turned back to Sheyla.  She had started to cry.  I opened my arms and she squeezed me tight, mumbling into my shirt as I bent to rest my cheek on her head.  When she finally let go, she turned and walked quickly away.  I heaved a heavy sigh and got into the taxi.  As we drove out of Chacrasana, I tried to cover up my regret at leaving the best host family ever and my absolute terror for what was coming, with excitement for my last night out in Lima with my friends.