Images of Huancavelica

Disclaimer: I realize the formatting on this entry is a little strange.  I spent entirely too long trying to fix it to no avail, so this will have to do.

Before I leave this quaint, unique Andean town that will forever be a part of me, I would like to share with you a few lasting images from my time here. Even in difficult times, even when we are hurting both physically and emotionally, I believe it is important to see the beauty that surrounds us.

To find the beauty in our imperfect lives we sometimes have to look hard, but we rarely have to look very far.

Resting before a beautiful backdrop near the Andean village of Mosoqcancha

Two troublemaking boys make faces during a workshop in Hvca put on by the Red Uniendo Manos

A woman in Mosoqcancha, a town near Huancavelica, leaves to help harvest her family's crops

A close-knit family in the Andean village of Mosoqcancha

Celebrating the lives of loved ones at the cemetery for Día de los Muertos

My family – Haydé and Joel with their four children, Fiorella, Marcos, Mirella, and José

A sweet boy waits as his mother attends an artisan's workshop

A rooftop backed by the Andes Mountains

A grandmother picks up her granddaughter from a children's center to feed the poorest children of Hvca

A woman in traditional mountain clothing listens to a presentation on reforestation in Mosoqcancha

Alongside the road, a horse grazes in the Andean village of Mosoqcancha

The sun sets on another day in Huancavelica

Stuffed llamas made by artisans of Hvca for the children at Albergue, a children's center to feed poor children of Hvca

A woman prays over her husband's grave with flowers and lit candles on Día de los Muertos

One of the many colorful doors of Huancavelica

A colorful mural on a wall in Huancavelica calls for Peace

Goodbye, Farewell

Firstly, I would like to apologize for the lack of recent updates. Secondly, I would like to apologize in advance for the brevity of this update. Although this will be brief, I want to fill you in, at least in part, on what is going on in my life and why I have been derelict in my blogging duties. As my sister points out every time we chat, Inquiring minds want to know, Sarah dear – so if you are an inquiring mind and want to know, here you are.

It is difficult to know exactly what to say, or how to say it sensitively and diplomatically, but I want to share with you honestly.

I have made the very difficult decision to change placements. Yes, that means I will be leaving my host family whom I have grown to love, Huancavelica, and the Andes Mountains. The past few months have not been easy for me but I have done my best to share with you the most beautiful and uplifting and educational aspects, which are ample and precious to me, of my time here.

Some of the things I have not shared with you have been my unending and unchanging frustrations with my job – which I will not go in to unless you ask me privately – and, most importantly, my virtually constant health issues. In the past few months I have probably lost roughly twenty pounds (gaining a good number of them back over our Thanksgiving retreat in Lima), and although I am happy with this change, I am not happy with the way it has come about. Again, for your sake I will not go into details or the YAV bowel-movement identification system, but being constantly physically sick has also taken an emotional toll on me, as those with whom I have regularly been communicating know all too well. Therefore, primarily due to health issues, I have decided to be proactive and make a change.

Working with Debbie, our site coordinator, we are looking for a new placement for me in Peru – preferably somewhere warmer, dryer, and at a lower altitude. Although I am eager to make this change for the better, it has been a very painful and complicated decision making process. Yes, my time has been difficult for many reasons. Yes, I have been sick and unhappy. But I have also grown to love this place in a special way. So, before I leave the Andes for a new adventure in a new part of the country, I want to leave you with the things I will miss most about Huancavelica, the most beautiful Andean town there is.

Huancavelica, An Andean Town

I will miss the mountains. I am unbelievably lucky to have spent the first twenty-two years of my life in the comforting, gentle Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee, but I am equally lucky to have spent the past three months of my life in the harsh, spectacular, forbidding, and gravity-defying beauty of the Peruvian Andes Mountains. Here is a place where people have adapted their lives to the land, not the other way around.

I will miss the crazy woman next door. On the first floor of maybe every other house in Huancavelica is a mini, family-run store that sells anything from homemade bread to small sodas to fruit and candy. Next door to my family’s home is one such tienda run by a large, boisterous, 73-year-old woman who sits on her stoop in vibrant skirts. Every day, without fail, she shouts “MAMA GRINGA!” at the top of her lungs as I walk by her door. I admit, it made me a little uncomfortable at first, but I decided to stop one day and talk with her. She and I have since become fast friends, even though she continues to ask “MAMA GRINGA, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” when I stop each day for a hug and a Sublime chocolate.

Local artisan women

I will miss the traditional mountain dress. Walking through the city, roughly one out of every four women is wearing the beautiful, colorful, traditional dress of the mountains – black, string-less shoes, warm knitted leggings up to their knees, triply layered knee-length skirts of yellows and pinks and blues and reds that would not match to the unimaginative North American eye, triply layered sweaters of even more impossibly bright and bold colors, and long black double braids cascading down their backs from under broad-rimmed hats. Although it may sound silly, living here has given me a new appreciation of color and how colors can be unexpectedly harmonious.

I will miss my family. In three short months I have come to love my Peruvian family, especially the four beautiful kids. Just last night, four-year-old José sprinted into my arms after coming home from school, shouting “Te quiero, Tía! Te quiero!” while planting kiss after sloppy kiss on my cheek. Leaving those kids will, by far, be the hardest thing about leaving Huancavelica.

Cathedral

Disclaimer: This post has made me realize that I think (and write) parenthetically. Also, FYI – I didn’t take my camera on the waterfall-climb.

2009-2010 Peru YAVs - Alissa, Joe, Ginna, Me, Anna, and Sarah Baja

Prayers of the People

(This is a recording of the YAVs singing Prayers of the People during retreat.  Mostly included for other YAVs around the world – most people’s favorite song at Orientation.  We sang this with words we ourselves contributed so the song could be a prayer for the others in our group and those we are serving with in Peru.)

Two weekends ago, the YAVs (Joe, Ginna, Anna, Sarah Baja, Alissa, and me) met in Huanuco, Peru for our first retreat, an event that was exciting for many reasons. Not only was it an opportunity for me to see my fellow YAVs for the first time in a month, but it was also a chance for me to see a different (warmer!) part of the country. And the YAV Program footed the bill!

The Young Adult Volunteer Program is a multi-faceted program. In addition to a year of actively living and working with people of a different (and usually less economically advantaged) culture, an important part of being a YAV is active introspection and spritual discernment. Now, while I’m still unsure of what exactly I am discerning – what exactly it is I am searching for – I love the discernment process. Maybe it’s because I have discovered that I actually like spending time with myself. Maybe it’s because it would be nearly impossible to digest what I’m witnessing and experiencing without some intentional reflection. Maybe it’s because I sometimes wind up napping, and I love naps.

Whatever the reason, I find that I am growing, not just in a “wow, I’m beginning to understand a world outside of the United States” way (although that’s big), but I find that I am growing into myself. I am becoming painfully aware of faults and insecurities and needs in myself that I have, until now, successfully overlooked (thank you friends who have helped me in this painful process, listening and loving). But I am also becoming more aware of my gifts, learning to embrace my quirks and talents (thank you friends who have helped me in this exciting process, listening and loving). Recognizing I am by no means perfect, I am becoming more myself every day. I’m becoming a person I love, hangups and all. Seems like a pretty positive side effect of the discernment process, if you ask me.

To talk about the actual, YAV-sanctioned discernment process, however, I must end my tangential back-pat and get back to the Huanuco retreat. Meeting at an organic farm in Huanuco, a beautiful city close to the jungle with perfect weather and bugs that will eat you alive, provided an opportunity for Debbie (our site coordinator), her husband Harry, and all of the YAVs to meet in a safe and English-speaking space to reflect, complain, and/or celebrate together. Each day (there were only four) consisted of delicious meals (remember, it was an organic farm), bible study, reflection time, and occasionally activities away from the farm. It was a relaxed time in which we were surrounded by others who shared our struggles and our victories, however small they might be.

Friday (our tourist day, if you will, and we certainly did) began at 5:00 am when we sluggishly boarded a convi (effectively a van-taxi) for our trip to la selva – the rainforest. While we had been told that we would be spending the day climbing waterfalls, I don’t think it really sunk in that we would be climbing waterfalls in the Amazon Rainforest, partly because we all fell into a dramamine-induced sleep during the four hour ride (during which I was again reminded of the Teacup ride at Dollywood) on the way to our destination. When we arrived, while availing ourselves of the (loosely-termed) facilities and eating a hasty (but delicious) breakfast, we took in our surroundings. How could we not?

The air was crisp and moist against my skin. It felt electric with life. I could hear the sounds of the forest – not animals, necessarily, but that beautiful, rich, living and breathing sound of a vibrant forest that envelops you and kisses your skin and vibrates aganist your closed eyelids. That subtle yet commanding sound that piques all of your senses and makes you listen more closely – to what, you’re not sure. As we began walking toward our first waterfall, away from the road and into the forest, I smelled a richness in the air. A thick, delicious, and almost sweet smell of rotting wood, graciously yielding to the birth and growth of a new generation – young but strong trees countering, or perhaps complimenting, the smell of decay with a clean scent of vitality.

After a short but beautiful walk, we veered off the marked trail and began making our way to the stream below. We gathered on slippery rocks at the base of our first ascent, a small fall of water but a waterfall nonetheless, and waited, shivering, as Juan, his wife Nancy, and Guillermo set up the “equipment.” I use quotes because Camp John Knox director Bri Payne would never recognize our setup as safe and it certainly wouldn’t be approved by ACA.

After suiting up Joe in his harness for the first ascent, the rest of us watched and waited, listening to the forest, in the pool of water while he climbed. He lived. I was second, and as I waded farther into the pool, the cold water climbing my body and causing me to breathe sharply, it struck me as odd and almost comical that I was about to climb a waterfall in the Amazon Rainforest in the heart of Peru. Are you kidding me? Was this really me, Sarah Terpstra, about to do this? Was I dreaming, or living someone else’s life? Pardon my french, but I felt like a complete badass. As the water reached my neck and I reached for the blue rope to help pull myself up, I realized that I would brag about this experience for the rest of my life. It might be my new conversation opener with new friends. “Hi, my name is Sarah Terpstra, and I’ve climbed waterfalls in the Amazon Rainforest. And you are?” Consider yourselves warned.

When I got to the top of the falls, I was surprised by how easy it had been. The water had washed away the majority of moss from the rocks, and, using a blue rope to help pull myself up and relying on the pull at my harness, I had found ample purchase for my feet on the rocks. At the top, I looked over at Juan to smile in victory when I realized that he had been pulling the white rope attached to my harness with nothing but his hands. He had no harness on himself and had just been pulling me up, hand over hand. The former camp counselor in me screamed “This is not safe!  Get on belay!” and the Peruvian YAV in me said “Oh well. Welcome to safety in Peru.” No one died, so I guess it was safe enough.

We continued up the stream, climbing waterfall after waterfall and soaking in God’s natural beauty. To save time, we climbed a few of the easier falls without harnesses and many times we were simply hopping from rock to rock. There were moments when, looking at my feet as I jumped to the next rock, I was back in the Smoky Mountains, rock-hopping with my cousin Matt. Then I would stop, look up and around me and realize where I was. The forest was resplendent in its beauty, complete and virtually unadulterated, save for us, intruders trying to understand and appreciate its gifts.

I could try to explain to you how I could almost taste the vibrant green of the forest on my tongue. I could try to explain to you how the sound of running water and breathing trees filled my head and rested behind my eyes. I could try to explain to you the electric vibration I felt against my skin and how natural and perfect the forest seemed. I could try, but no words can capture that sort of dynamic, living beauty. God’s cathedral.

All I can say is that I felt such peace, such grace. The beauty was tangible and sustaining.

God must be well-pleased.

La Vida Peruana

While musing over possible topics of my next entry, it occurred to me (or was pointed out to me, if you want to be technical) that I haven’t really described what my life is like here. Yes, I have told you about funny nicknames, bloody decapitations, and toilet practices here in Peru, but I have not really provided a clear understanding of what my life is actually like. I’m here for a year (actually now about 9 ½ months…time is flying!), so in order for you to be able to truly commiserate or celebrate with me, I will try to describe for you mi vida Peruana – my Peruvian life.

Work

Since it is tricky and confusing, I’ll start by describing life with ATIYPAQ, the organization with which I am working this year. For starters, ATIYPAQ is a Quechua (the ancient Inca language still spoken by the people of the mountain) word that roughly translates to Empowerment. The main focus of ATIYPAQ, a non-governmental organization, is to work with local communities – very small and unbelievably impoverished farming communities of the Andes Mountains – to develop and improve quality of life. This includes an emphasis on the sustainable development of farming practices and equitable trade for the farmers.

But none of that is the tricky or confusing part.

It gets tricky and confusing when I try to figure out my role in this hectic and not-so-well oiled machine. Multiple factors complicate the situation. First of all, not only have I been sick and missing work occasionally, I am not yet fluent in the language; the vocabulary with which I am trying to get acquainted is scientific and technical – I had enough trouble with my science classes in English! This barrier makes it very difficult to be integrated (or to integrate myself) in pre-existing projects, at least initially.

A view of the city of Huancavelica

Another difficulty I am encountering is actually at the opposite end of the spectrum. I am an American with a degree in Chemical Physics. While this may sound impressive, my professors (hello Drs Gibson, Turner, and Miller!) can attest to the fact that this doesn’t necessarily mean I actually know science. Yes, I passed my classes and graduated on time and even enjoyed Physical Chemistry (believe it), even though I admit I slacked a little bit. In Peru, however, I am being introduced as a “specialist” of Chemistry and Physics. I am a specialist of neither Chemistry nor Physics – maybe procrastination. This title is, to say the least, intimidating. To a certain extent, probably partly because I am American, I am even sometimes assumed to be more of a scientific authority than the ATIYPAQ engineers here who have been working with these issues for years. It is frustrating and truthfully almost infuriating that I am assumed to be a greater authority when I know that I have much more to learn from them than they do from me. I find myself wanting to remind the office that just last year I was a student – napping, gossiping, drinking beer (yes, Mom), and “studying” in Cades Cove with my camera.

That said, my specific role in ATIYPAQ will most likely consist of educating local children about environmental issues and working with the engineers on the projects in el campo, the countryside. These include projects ranging from the production of dairy products to the care of farm animals to the development and installation of dry toilets (actually what I’m most interested in, insert potty humor here). None of which I am a “specialist” or “expert” on, thank you very much. For now, it feels that the most I can offer is my willingness to learn. Wish me luck.

Home

Probably my greatest blessing in Peru, in addition to family and friends who are supporting me with love and encouragement from home, is my Peruvian family. I have truly and completely grown to love them and depend on them. They are beautiful. In a future entry, I will paint you a picture of them – their likes, dislikes, gifts, quirks, annoyances – so you can get to know them better, but for now I will simply provide a general description of what it is like to live with a wonderful and gracious family in the poorest province of Peru.

Our Peruvian Fridge

Every morning, Hayde (my host mom) wakes up at about 5:30 to begin cooking. Since Hayde works at ATIYPAQ as well and is frequently in el campo during the day, she prepares enough food in the morning for the rest of the day. While I’ll go into greater detail about Peruvian food later, suffice it to say that the food is very rich in carbs and starches and we typically eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch, which is the largest meal of the day. After joining the family for a radio-noisy breakfast around the too-small table (usually with Hayde eating standing up, going back and forth to the stove), I wash the dishes (which took a lot of convincing) while the children get ready for school. While getting ready for work, I usually hear Joel (my host dad) fussing at the kids, calling them “little mice” and telling them to hurry.

At about 8:40, I leave the house (sometimes with Hayde, usually by myself) for my twenty minute walk to the office. Walking primarily on dirt roads, I wave at the next door neighbor who shouts “Mama gringa!” every day when I leave our house. And every day I am stared at by each person I pass. I must brag, though – the other day I saw my first person walk into a wall because they were gawking at me; karma’s a bitch. Anyway, on my walk, I pass through the small park of San Cristobal, the neighborhood in which I am living. There are children playing or rushing to school, and occasionally I can hear a pickup panpipe band playing under “El Sombrero,” a covered gazebo in the park. I then walk down the 49 stone steps into the city, the houses getting nicer and more colorful as I descend. I pass no less than twenty stray, mangy dogs. Sometimes they bark, sometimes they chase, usually they ignore.

I arrive at the office at 9:05 am and am often the first person there. Peru operates on a different understanding of time – if you arrive within fifteen minutes of an appointed time, you are on time. I stay at work until 1pm, usually trying to figure out what I need to be learning, sometimes going on a trip to el campo, and always wishing my Spanish was better. At 1pm, the office closes for two hours to allow everyone to go home for lunch and I walk thirty minutes back to the house, ignoring dogs and stares and wannabe boyfriends named Fernando. That’s a story for another day.

A Relative's Rooftop

After a two hour lunch break and about four more hours of trying to figure out how I can be useful at work, I head home at around 5:45. I am always the first person to leave, but it isn’t safe for me, a gringa, to walk home in the dark. Initially I wanted to stay late like everyone else, and maybe I will eventually, but for now the number of shouts and people trying to walk with me and touch me and ask me for money has convinced me that I need to travel when it is light outside.

The four kids – Fiorella, Marcos, Mirella, and Jose – are all at home when I arrive and usually greet me by jumping on me, trying to climb the Tall Aunt and touch the lightbulb on the ceiling. I climb up to the kitchen, kids in tow, and sit down at the table for dinner. Dinner each night consists of maybe one piece of bread, butter on good days, and a cup of tea or hot cocoa. The kids shout details of their day to me, shoving bread in my hands, drinking their tea and complaining about each other before screaming “Buenas noches, Tia!” and rushing downstairs to watch cartoons as they fall asleep. They are usually in bed by 6:30 or 7:00 pm.

After the kids are in bed, I usually sit down to my computer to read or write or catch up on emails. Yes, we have internet in the house. No, there is not a shower and the six family members share a bedroom, but we have internet. I would be lying if I said this was not a great blessing. About 7:30, Joel returns home, shouting a hello to his “little mice” before teasing me about my Peruvian boyfriends. Apparently Sarah-Terpstra-Teasing is not a phenomenon particular only to the United States but transcends language barriers and international boundaries. I threaten Joel that he better watch out – I’m planning great comebacks for when my Spanish improves. It’s strange, insults seem to lose their sting when you have to ask what “jerk” is in Spanish. What is “third derivative” in Spanish?

By the time Hayde returns home from the office, anywhere between 9:00 and 10:30, the rest of the family is zonked and I am usually reading in bed. She greets me through my door and collapses in bed only to wake up a few hours later and begin it all again.

First Kill

Disclaimer: I planned on writing more about Peruvian food in general but I have found there is simply too much to say, so for now I write only about one particular experience – killing a rooster for lunch. I will describe Peruvian food in greater detail later because believe me, you want to know. Also, I have a new nickname. At my brother-in-law Jake’s suggestion, I will henceforth answer only to Godzilla Barbie.

My First Kill (kind of):

Aside from my undercover days as 007 on my friend Melissa’s PlayStation, I had never killed a living thing until this past Sunday when I helped kill a rooster for lunch. I suppose technically I didn’t really help kill the rooster, unless you count standing five feet away holding my camera helping, but I participated nonetheless.

Although I had been prepped (by my host mother repeatedly drawing a finger across her neck) for about a week that we would be killing a rooster from the back yard, I really had no idea what to expect. Would there be much blood? Would it really run around after we cut off the head? Do roosters have breasts, too? I was nervous, of course, and excited, all mixed with a healthy dose of guilt for actually looking forward to such a morbid event.

Before

When I was called up to the roof on Sunday, I found Joel, my host dad, holding a beautiful orange and red and brown rooster cradled in his arms like a baby. He was stroking it, speaking to it softly in a low and soothing voice. I was struck by the gentleness with which he held and caressed the rooster, and when he saw me standing there, he smiled a sad sort of smile that didn’t touch his eyes. I was struck by an unexpected set of emotions, but I wasn’t sad, exactly. I was closer to my food than I had ever been – seeing it alive, touching it, moments before it was killed for my sustenance. I felt a strange gratefulness. A strange and unexpected humility.

A few minutes later, Hayde, my host mom, came onto the roof with a pink bucket and a knife with a wooden handle I had heard being sharpened in the kitchen. Hayde and Joel traded their items, Hayde sitting on a small wooden stool with the rooster in her arms and Joel squatting at her side, reaching over the pink bucket for the rooster’s head with one hand while holding the knife in the other. Before Joel drew the knife across the outstretched neck, I was vaguely aware of 9-year-old Marcos, watching from the other side of the roof, saying just softly enough, “Don’t kill my rooster, don’t kill my rooster.”

After

After the rooster was killed (I will spare you the details of the actual act), which took much less time than I would have expected, Hayde and Joel wasted no time. After rinsing out the blood and placing the rooster in the pink bucket, Joel poured nearly-boiling water over its body, causing many of the feathers to lift and float away. I then helped Hayde pluck the feathers from the still-warm body, leaving the rooster almost humiliatingly naked.

After rinsing the naked rooster in the house, I then watched as Hayde deftly opened its body and removed its innards, showing me various organs so I could learn what their names are in Spanish and which ones are tastiest – something I imagine will come in handy when threatening little Jose to behave. Hayde then effortlessly cut up the rooster’s body, placed the cuts of meat in a large pot and began moving about the kitchen, preparing the rest of the meal.

The entire process took roughly twenty minutes. Lunch was delicious.

Full Disclosure

I write this next blog entry with full disclosure. You will get the full (or mostly full, as we both don’t want me to post a dissertation) Peru experience as I can relate it to you – the good, the bad, the smelly, the tasty, the difficult.

Full disclosure: this is my ninth day without a shower. Yes, disgusting. Believe me, any grimaces or crinkled noses you are making right now I have been making for the past week. Now, although some of you may know that I used to (jokingly, of course) see how long I could go without showering when I was a counselor at Camp John Knox, this is not the same. To understand the not-showering, it is first important to know that I have been sick for the past week or so. Very sick, in fact. You probably laughed or shook your head upon reading that I ate a homemade popsicle from the street last Sunday. Well, it was a bad decision. All you need to know is that Monday, I stayed home – I will spare you the details. Then on Tuesday, I became quite sick with a throat thing. Again, I will spare you the details (and the photos I took to document the condition of my throat. Yes, I am a photographer and a scientist!). All you need to know is that I stayed home the rest of the week and even considered traveling to Lima (a nine hour bus ride) to see a doctor.

To understand the not-showering, it is also important to know that they have a saying in Huancavelica: no one ever died from being dirty (implied: but people have died from being sick and wet and cold). I haven’t had the energy to talk about deaths from lack of sanitation – partly because I know that such an argument doesn’t really count in my case of nine days without shampooed hair. Regardless, I have not been allowed to shower for the past nine days because I have been sick. Dirty and sick – a miserable combination.

(Happy side note – being sick with altitude sickness and throat issues is the best diet plan one could ever hope for. And it’s free!)

Full disclosure: I have many new nicknames, some flattering, some not. Let me know which is your favorite and we’ll see if we can make it stick when I come home.

Tia Alta = Tall Aunt (I am very tall here)

Tia Godzilla

Gringa Alta = Tall White Girl (Not very creative, if you ask me.)

Blanca Nieve = Snow White (The sister of my host dad thought I could be Snow White for Halloween and collect enough kids from the neighborhood to be my seven dwarves)

Tia Barbie = Aunt Barbie (My host dad thought this was clever when I couldn’t eat. He told me I would return to the states a Barbie. Flattering until you realize you’re actually being called Barbie)

Tia Godzilla = Aunt Godzilla (I am very tall here, and apparently very scary with large teeth and bad skin.)

Full disclosure: I have smoked my first Peruvian cigarette. One of my first nights here in Huancavelica, my stomach and head were bothering me a little, most likely from the altitude – I had been having trouble eating and was feeling generally miserable. That evening, probably frustrated with my apparent distaste for her food, my host mom Hayde tells me to go to my room and wait for her there. She walks in a few minutes later with a lit cigarette in her hand, looks at me with inflated cheeks, and begins blowing smoke around my room. Onto my clothes, into my suitcase, onto my pillow, into the corners of my room. She continues taking drags on the cigarette then looks at me, cigarette in one hand, and says “Take off your scarf.” Not knowing what else to do, I take off my scarf. She leans forward, pulls open my shirt and blows smoke down the front of my shirt. She does this a few more times, alternating between the front of my shirt, back of my shirt, and chullo that I am wearing. She then sits down on the bed and holds the cigarette out to me. “Finish it,” she says. I say “New things every day…” and take the cigarette from her. As I am finishing the cigarette, she tells me that they believe in natural remedies and that I should be feeling better soon as the cigarette is made partly from coca leaves (used in cocaine). Although (to make it more interesting and dramatic) I’d like to pretend that my stomach felt better and I was high as a kite, truthfully I really didn’t feel any different. Both a good thing and admittedly a little disappointing. But who knows, maybe you don’t feel it til the second time…? Come to think of it, my stomach is bothering me just a tad…

Just kidding, Mom.

Sheep brains on a spoon.

Full disclosure: I ate soup with a sheep’s head in it. Yes, the whole head. Floating, in the pot. Since this was while I was sick and could only eat broth, I was blissfully unaware of the head until much later in the meal when 9-year-old Marco said “I don’t want to eat the eye.” At first I thought it must have just been a linguistic misunderstanding (that is always my first and usually most accurate assumption). It wasn’t. He clunked something heavy down on the table and I realize it is part of a skull. The part of a skull with an eyeball still in it. The first thing I do after jumping in shock, of course, is rush downstairs for my camera. Getting a kick out of my trigger-happy nature, one of the girls tentatively holds out her spoon and says “…and the brain?” Oh, of course. The brain. If there is an eyeball in the soup, of course there would be some brain, as well. Thankfully, my throat illness kept me from trying the …tastier parts of the meal, but I do intend to steel myself for such an adventure in the future. A little brain never hurt anybody, right?

Market

Disclaimer: For the ease of the reader, I have separated this entry into separate paragraphs. I wrote it initially, however, without breaks because that is how I experienced it. A great stream of consciousness and sensation.

Yesterday I went to the market with the two older kids, Fiorella and Marco.  It was spectacular and exhausting and overwhelming and stimulating.

The three of us walk from our house down 49 steps (yes I counted – on the way back up on day when I was panting for breath…) and many steep inclines to get into the city.  Through the city flows the river Ichu, not very large and very polluted.  Passing over a swaying footbridge, Fiorella, Marco and I push our way into a mass of people on the main street.

Both sides of the street are flanked by colorful tents – reds, oranges, yellows, blues – selling shoes, shoes and more shoes.  Each tent has a different variety of shoes.  As we walk along the street, the people get thicker and the wares change from shoes to jackets and sweaters and scarves.  I can’t see the river for the tents and people.  Both sides of the street, people reaching out and touching me, bumping into me, trying to get the gringa’s attention to sell her sweaters, hats, shoes, and even propane tanks.  As we continue, the merchandise changes to general household items, such as laundry detergent, spoons, toys, curling irons.  A few random tents are selling whole pigs.  Or parts of pigs.  Already killed and cooked and actually smelling delicious.

We continue.

There is a vendor selling what look like colorful bird eggs.  He cooks them in the street, peels them, and sells them to people.  I wonder how many he sells.  Farther along we begin to see vendors here and there, mixed in with the household supplies, selling fruit.  The most colorful fruit you could imagine.  There are reds and yellows and oranges and purples and greens and combinations of them all.  My mouth starts watering as we walk. I can smell the pungent aroma of ripening fruit mixed with cooked and dressed meat mixed with cleaning supplies mixed with throngs of people.  Suddenly, the street turns into nothing but fruits and vegetables and people shouting prices back and forth.

It’s all I can do to follow the little head of Fiorella, bobbing in and out of the people like a small animal familiar with nooks and crannies that I can’t even see.

We stop at a tent made from a bright blue tarp and wooden stakes and the woman looks at Fiorella saying, “Mama, what do you want?”  Everyone is called Mama or Papa as a term of endearment, no matter their age.  We buy green avocados, yellow celery, red apples, golden bananas, maroon grapes, purple onions and continue on.  I am overwhelmed by the smells and colors and people, so many people.  As though obeying some invisible partition, we pass immediately into a section so pungent it is shocking.  To my right, vendors are selling fish.  Large fish sitting there, in the open sun.  To my left, plucked and decapitated chickens are hanging upside down by their wrinkled legs.  We veer left.

“Mama, what do you want?”

We buy half a chicken and turn around to make our way back through the pungent fish and crisp vegetables and colorful fruit and the pushing people and the household supplies.  Before we can make it to the shoes and sweaters, we take a left and start over a rock bridge, back over the River Ichu.  We stop at a little boy and buy three green Popsicles from a cooler.  Not wrapped, probably homemade.  Today I realize probably not my best decision, but when Fiorella looks at me with her beautiful brown eyes, holds a dripping frozen delight out to me and says, “These are my favorite,” what else can I do?  I eat the green Popsicle, carrying the bag laden with fresh food over my right shoulder, and we make our way back home.  I am exhausted, exhilarated, and, unknown to me, soon to have a bellyache from Fiorella’s treat.

Good day.

REAL applejuice.

Invisible Luxuries

In the United States, we lead blessed lives. We lead such blessed lives, in fact, that we are not even aware of how blessed we really are. It is not until we leave the comforts and conveniences of home that we begin to realize that those things which we take for granted are really luxuries – invisible luxuries of which we are completely unaware. This will (hopefully) be installment #1 of a list of luxuries that I will (ambitiously) continue to supplement throughout the year. The following list of luxuries large and small, serious and funny, is an attempt to help you recognize and appreciate those things which are so often taken for granted.

Conversation

Many of you who know me probably have some (hopefully) endearing words you use to describe me. I have been called boisterous, ebullient, loud, and ever-delightful to name a few appropriate ones. To many I am known simply (and accurately) as a talker. On the Myers-Briggs personality scale, I am about as strong of an ENFP as you can get, which means that I need to (and will, without fail) discuss my thoughts and feelings with any fool who pauses long enough for me to get started. You may or may not be surprised to learn that it is very difficult to be a talker in a second language. While my Spanish is not terrible and continues to improve (I think), I cannot express myself. I cannot express any complex ideas, concepts, or emotions beyond “my head hurts,” or “yes, I like your soup.” The simple act of intelligent and reciprocal conversation may be one of the things I am suffering the most without.

The bathroom shared by the family.

Toilet Seats

Chances are you have never thought of a toilet seat as a luxury. In fact, you probably haven’t given much thought to toilet seats at all, save for when an annoying family member leaves the seat up. In Peru, however – or at least in Huancavelica – it is a rare experience to find a toilet with a toilet seat. And believe me, when you are at 12,000 ft, trying to stay warm in frigid temperatures, and suffering from bowel issues, a toilet seat would be an absolute luxury.

Toilet Paper

I was recently mocked by a friend who found a roll of toilet paper in my backpack. My defense (a valid one) was that I was a Seasonal Park Ranger for the Cumberland Trail and must always be prepared. Yes, you may point out that I worked in the office and had ample access to indoor plumbing, but you never know when you might find yourself on an unexpected hike and needing to avail yourself the natural facilities or start a difficult fire. Here in Peru, however, one must always have toilet paper on hand. No public or even semi-private bathroom (including the bathroom in our office) will provide toilet paper. My personal roll of toilet paper has certainly come in handy. Who’s laughing now?

Anonymity

I am a white, 22-year-old, upper middle-class, well-educated woman. I would be lying if I claimed to be anything but. In the United States, I am not unusual – in fact I am part of the status-quo. If I take my personal laptop with me to drink a deliciously expensive coffee at Starbucks, I blend in. If I go to Kroger to buy processed foods from everywhere but Tennessee, I blend in. If I go to Wal-Mart or to a restaurant or for a walk…if I go anywhere, really, I blend in. I am anonymous. Never would I have imagined such anonymity to be a blessing, a luxury. In Huancavelica, I am not anonymous. I may be, in fact, the only white person in the city. I am stared at, talked about, and called to wherever I go. Children pull each others arms, eagerly whispering “Mira! Una gringa!” It is exhausting. I miss already the luxury of having the anonymous freedom to go, do, and be.

My family's kitchen

Personal Space

One of the most selfish luxuries I have realized I am missing is that of personal space. I have begun to realize that, in many ways, personal space is a North American luxury – one we are addicted to. We all have our own “personal bubble” (which expands radially to include personal bedrooms and vehicles and, sometimes, other people) that we often guard fiercely against intruders. Don’t touch me unless I touch you. In Peru, every person is greeted with a single besito, small kiss, on the cheek. It is embarrassing to admit that this is a difficult adjustment for me, opening myself for (what I consider) an intimate greeting with people I have never met. Additionally, my bedroom here is smaller than my family’s laundry room. As a result, I am learning how to redefine the boundaries of my personal space and how to recharge my batteries in the family room with three-year-old José sitting on my lap, belly-laughing at the TV.

Hot Water

After taking my second cold (and by cold I mean frigid) and first lukewarm (and by lukewarm I mean cold) shower in the Andes Mountains, I have one request. Recognize and appreciate every drop of hot water you use. Whether you are washing the dishes, taking a shower, washing your face or clothes, remember this – hot water is a luxury that many in the world simply go without and many in the States simply can’t live without.

Impressions

Firstly, I apologize to those of you who have been waiting with bated breath for the frequent blog entries that I may or may not have ambitiously promised. If you truly know me, however, you are probably unsurprised by the fact that I have already fallen behind my once-a-week goal. Ah, predictable, thinks my father.

Although I have only completed roughly 3.2% (rounded with appropriate significant figures) of my time here, I have already accumulated enough stories and observations and thoughts to fill more blog entries than anyone would care to read, myself included. Before getting too carried away describing those smaller stories that are, of course, interesting and informative, I’ll begin by saying that I have arrived at my final, year-long placement in Huancavelica, Peru.

My host mom Hayde and host nieces and nephew, Maribella, Marcos, and Fiorella. Missing are Dad Joel and 3 year old Jose.

Monday night I had a brief stay in Huancayo (11,000 ft) with fellow Young Adult Volunteer Anna. We took a lovely walk through the market the next morning before I was retrieved by my host mom Hayde (pronounced “eye-day”), my host dad Joel (“Joe-el”), and my three-year-old host brother Jose. After a four-hour, sweltering bus ride that reminded my stomach of the Teacup ride at Dollywood, we arrived in the beautiful town of Huancavelica (12,000 ft).

Let me share with you a few initial impressions of Huancavelica and my living arrangements here:

My host family is very loving and gracious, welcoming me into their home as “Aunt Sarah.” I am already affectionately known to the four kids as the Spanish equivalent of “Auntie, auntie!”

By North American standards, my host family is very poor. I am humbled beyond belief that they have opened their home to me, providing me with a private (albeit incredibly small and electricity-less) bedroom while the two parents and four children share a bedroom. Yes, six people in one bedroom and me with my own. What a confusing set of emotions.

My host family has no showers. If I am to shower (which I may soon learn to simply live without, sorry to anyone who was attached to clean Sarah), it will be in their next-door neighbor’s house.

Sunset in the Andes Mountains on the busride to Huancavelica

My walk to work every day will probably rival the most beautiful views many of you have ever seen. On all sides are mountains. Mountains beyond mountains. There is no end to them, and there is no end to their beauty. There is simply no comparison.

I am stared at. A lot. Not only am I very white (thanks, Dad, for your Dutch and German heritage), but I am very tall. My “nephew” Marcos started calling me “Tia alta” (“Tall Aunt”) today. I have been warned that the staring will not stop. I may be the only gringa in all of Huancavelica. What a strange adventure.

I am homesick. I have a confession – although I have always considered myself “worldly,” I have never lived anywhere but East Tennessee. Leaving my beautiful home of the sweet Smoky Mountains for a year in a poor, beautiful foreign country where I don’t really speak the language is hard. Very hard.

I don’t really speak the language. All that “practice” you get with a Spanish minor isn’t worth squat when people are speaking a mile a minute and expect responses other than “si,” a nod, and a smile. Apparently, smiling and nodding doesn’t constitute real conversation. I’ve got a long way to go.

Finally, I am beginning to discover what it means to have roles reversed. As well-educated and wealthy North Americans, we are used to not needing anyone. We are an individualistic society that is all too often seen as the benefactor (or dictator as the case may be) in international relationships. Here, I am the ignoramus. I am the one needing help, patience, care. These people, some of whom often see the United States as all-powerful and almost god-like, are helping me, some silly, ignorant and helpless North American.

Although I would lie if I said I was not struggling greatly with this adjustment, physically, mentally and emotionally, I have learned that I need to be patient with myself. Coming from a culture in which every deadline is urgent, every need a fault, I have begun to realize that I have to slow down and embrace my struggles.

I write this on my second day in Huancavelica, and just this morning I was angry with myself for not speaking Spanish better. I was angry with myself for feeling out of place, for not having already adapted to the culture or the altitude. When I realized how irrational and arrogant this anger was, I began to relax. I am still stressed and homesick (and sick-sick), of course. But I am allowing myself time to sleep, to write, to breathe more slowly, more deeply.

I never realized how nice breathing deeply can be.

Arrival

Disclaimer:  This entry was actually posted on September 4, not August 8 as one would be led to believe.

Hello Friends!

For any of you who have visited this site hoping for essays on my experience thus far, I apologize for being derelict in updating my blog.  I was proud of myself for picking the title (the hardest part) and didn’t realize that I was then expected to update!

I arrived safely in Lima, Peru this past Monday, August 31 for my year as a PC(USA) Young Adult Volunteer (YAV) and have been steadily adapting to my Peruvian life over the past three days.  During our two week in-country orientation, my fellow YAVs (Anna from Alaska, Joe from Washington, Sarah “Baja” (short Sarah) from Oklahoma, Ginna from Virginia, and Alissa from Texas) and I have been staying with the gracious Barrera family, eating their food, playing with their month old puppy, and monopolizing their internet.

My Spanish is not terrible as I am understanding nearly 90% of what I hear and I have been feeling fairly confident — at least until someone expects me to actively participate in a conversation.  No one told me I was expected to talk back… in Spanish.  Overall, though, I believe communication will be vastly improved at the end of two or three weeks.  Fingers (and toes) are crossed.

Despite the wealth of sights, smells, tastes, views, people, thoughts and reflections I am itching to write about, this will be a short entry — the YAVs will be bonding over yellow fever shots at the Santa Rosa hospital bright and early tomorrow morning, assuming we survive another day in a Lima taxi.

I will write more soon.  Keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I am keeping each of you in mine.

God is good.