From the mouths of babes

Data collection for my youth survey is, at long last, complete. Now comes the daunting task of coding and analyzing all 317 responses - Excel, SPSS and I are going to be spending some quality time together in the coming weeks.

My first task has been sorting through and categorizing all the responses to the open-ended questions about personal goals and problems facing Cajabamba's youth. Here's a sample of the most amusing goals, from the perspective of Cajabambans aged 11-29:
--Own an airplane.
--Live in peace and harmony.
--Be recognized worldwide (this one also wants to work in TV).
--Have a lot of people working for me.
--Be involved in a lot of good activities.
--Discover something that hasn't been invented yet.
--Make people stop holding so many strikes/protests.
--Be happy.*

*This one is my favorite, but only ONE of the 317 kids surveyed put this as a goal!

Although these gems are what keep me going through otherwise tedious data-work, in reality most of the respondents put more serious goals related to work, education, family, and helping their community. Should be interesting to eventually see the full results.

Small-town life

I'm no stranger to small-town life - at home on MI, a trip to the grocery store pretty much guarantees you'll see someone you know. However, Cajabamba is a town with less than half that population, so the small-town feeling is much more noticeably present. Even I, the new-in-town gringa who doesn't know that many people (relative to those who've spent their lives here), cannot leave my house without running into some acquaintance. And, since this is Peru, every friend I encounter means a pleasant little saludo, some niceties, and a talk about what we're up to.

Sometimes this guaranteed run-in is extremely useful, such as when I happen to find a socio that never answers his phone strolling towards me in the plaza - score! Other times it's less fortunate, mostly as it concerns my running habits. I have seen exactly one other person running in Cajabamba, ever. This means that not only am I the (almost) only gringa in town, but I am also the (almost) only crazy person that goes running. And as route options are, to put it kindly, limited, all the shop owners along the main entrance road to town see me run by pretty much every day. It has now happened multiple times that someone I meet for the first time has said, "oh, I've seen you running!" Since me running at 8,700+ feet of altitude closely resembles a person dying a slow, sweaty death, this is not a comment I am pleased to hear. But alas, such is small-town life.

Small-town living also means that I usually say buenos días even to people I don't know. It's just the polite and normal thing to do. In the town center, where there's more people around, sometimes the stranger-greeting isn't necessary - you learn to read people's faces to see whether or not they're expecting a "buenas" from you as you approach each other on the sidewalk. But in the campo, I greet 100% of passersby - if you're the only two people in sight on a dirt road, it'd be quite rude to pretend you don't see them.

What prompted this blog entry though is the thing that really made me notice the difference between living in Cajabamba and living in say, Washington, DC. Here, when I walk around I look at people's faces. In DC, I'd be scoping out buildings, storefronts, and random people with some characteristic of interest - only occasionally faces. Why? Because when you walk around a big city, it's unlikely you're going to run into someone you know, so you don't always have to pay attention to who's walking towards you. When I first arrived in Cajabamba, my bigger-city habits in this respect got me into a couple embarrassing/amusing situations where I should have seen an acquaintance coming, but was busy looking at the juice shop. So I've learned to be a little more present when I'm out and about, and I keep my eye out for all the potential conversations and "buenas tardes" coming my way.

Tour de Cajabamba

Last Friday, my Peace Corps-issued bike arrived in Cajabamba, hooray! So, on Sunday morning, my sporty red bike and I went out on a little tour de Cajabamba. Unfortunately the tour was a bit on the short side, as you can only ride about 2 miles outside the city before you hit a long and sleep downward slope - not a hill I felt like climbing back up. So, the excursion's destination point was the mirador (lookout point) along the entrance road to Cajabamba, where a larger-than-life statue of the virgen greets all visitors driving by.

I made sure to go in the morning, before the onset of the daily afternoon rainstorms, so that I could enjoy the sweeping view of the valley from the mirador. You can see the farmland (getting greener every day as more and more rain pours down), the river at the bottom of the valley, and the mountains of the neighboring district. Not too shabby!

H2O conundrums

If I ever encounter one of Cajabamba's potentially non-existant water authorities, I am going to ask them a very serious question: how can the water at my house be cut off when there is SO MUCH water falling from the sky every day?? Seriously. Rainy season and water cut-offs cannot logically be allowed to exist in the same Cajabamban universe, so what is the deal here?

Although I have approximately from last Sunday until the end of April (a.k.a. the duration of the rainy season) to figure out this puzzling paradox, I remain unconfident that the mystery will ever be solved. A girl can only hope... collecting water in a bucket just doesn't bring the same deep-down satisfaction as watching said water emerge from the faucet when you try to turn it on.

In other agua-related news, my ability to extract water from our kitchen has recently been severely diminished. Here in Peru, I have to boil all the water that I drink to avoid getting sick - those of you who have witnessed me toting around my blue nalgene bottle at all times will know that I drink a lot of water on a daily basis, so coordinating a sufficient supply of boiled-then-cooled water is a bit of a struggle, even on a good day.

However, the good days are a thing of the past, due to a series of unfortunate events this week. First, our speedy electric water-boiler broke. There was talk of getting it fixed, but so far its bubbling presence is still absent and sorely missed. Second, due to the non-functioning status of the boiler, I learned that our teapot's handle is broken and only attached at one end, so when a certain volunteer tries to pour scalding water out of the teapot and into her cooling bucket, the teapot is apt to abruptly swivel and give liquid burns to whatever lies in its path. Thus far I have managed to outwit the crafty kettle, so its only burn victims have been some unlucky vegetables, but our relationship remains very tense. This clearly-past-its-prime piece of kitchenware is also shedding its interior metal coating in flakes, contaminating my supposedly clean boiled water supply. Excellent. Third, for as long as I've lived here, our kitchen sink has required a wrench to turn on and off. About a month ago I stopped asking myself, "why don't we just buy another sink handle and attach it?", and just accepted the wrench as a normal part of life. But of course, now the sink doesn't even turn on with the help of the wrench - you turn and turn it, and nothing happens. Consequently the kitchen's main water source is now the laundry sink out on the patio - note this gives the teapot five extra yards of potential handle-swiveling distance in which to spill water everywhere.

Despite these hydration station setbacks, I am still surviving. In fact, I am quite content, in the greater scheme of things. I'm sure that eventually we will have a sink that turns on (though probably still with a wrench), that we will continue to talk vaguely of fixing or replacing the water boiler for months, and that I will soon be an expert at wielding the off-kilter tea kettle (since I know it won't be leaving anytime soon). Because that's pretty much what Peace Corps is about: you encounter challenges, you adapt, and you carry on. And you have fun laughing about it along the way :)

Royal turkeys

Today on the way back from a training with the milk-producers' association in a nearby town, I spotted a peacock ambling about a farmyard near Cajabamba. Until today I was unaware that I have the privilege to cohabitate my town with such majestic birds - in Spanish, you have no choice but to acknowledge their regal airs, because peacocks are called pavos reales, a.k.a. royal turkeys. I think the peacocks definitely won the translation lottery here.

Fiesta week

Last week marked Cajabamba's annual fiesta patronal, a 10-day continuous party during which nobody works, parades and fireworks are to be expected at any time of day, and the townfolk put their party hats on and dance 'til the wee hours of the morning. The fiesta is ostensibly to honor the town's patron saint, the Virgen del Rosario, but the spirit of the week is really to have fun and celebrate the community with friends and family.

At least once per day, every single day of the fiesta, there was a parade of some sort - sometimes honoring the virgin, sometimes representing different associations, sometimes representing the various outlying communities, but always involving marching bands and traditional dances:

The virgin herself, being carried through the streets of Cajabamba on parade.

An important part of the fiesta is the dancing diablos (devils), a tradition unique to Cajabamba - the diablos have even been declared a national cultural treasure. Every afternoon the diablos and their accompanying marching bands would make their circuit of the plaza, dancing tirelessly all the while, with the grand finale on the steps of the church:

Fireworks are also a key component of the fiesta. While each night there are a few U.S.-style fireworks (i.e. you shoot them into the air and they explode far above everyone's heads), Peruvians like to get a little more creative - and crazy - with their pyrotechnics. Any small child has the right to light off rocket-style fireworks at any hour during the fiesta, and they seem to particularly enjoy doing so at 6am. There are fireworks called vacas locas (crazy cows), where some crazy person puts a cow-shaped fire-shooting contraption over their head, lights it, and runs into and around the crowd shooting sparks in all directions. The best of the fireworks, however, are the castillos (castles): multiple-story towers made of bamboo rods and rigged with successive explosions of light and flame:

During the nights of fireworks (which are shot off at close range to both people and trees right in the middle of the plaza), everyone in town just hangs out in the plaza, drinking beers, dancing in the streets, reconnecting with friends and neighbors, and taking in the festivities.

Monday through Wednesday the daytime fiesta hours were dedicated to the agricultural and artisan fair, where every association in the district of Cajabamba had a booth to show what they've been up to and to sell some products. There were also food stands aplenty, and competitions for the best of every kind of farm animal - yes, we crowned a "King Guinea Pig" - and for those most skilled in shearing, spinning, etc.:

Cajabamba also hosted a two-night national marinera competition, highlighting one of Peru's traditional dances with participants ranging in age from three to seventy:

Lastly, and certainly my least favorite, came the bullfights. I had never attended a live fight, and although I knew I wasn't going to enjoy it, it was a cultural tradition I wanted to experience at least once in my life. Plus my host mom pretty much thinks bullfights are the best thing since sliced bread, so it would've been difficult to refuse her invitation. So, I went. While I'm still glad I did, I was severely uncomfortable throughout the event and will not be repeating the experience. I respect that bullfighting is an important cultural tradition in many countries, but I have now confirmed that it's just not my personal cup of tea.

And there you have it: a very abbreviated wrap-up of what a Cajabamban party looks like. The fiesta was definitely a lot of fun, but 10 days of celebrating has made me happy to find myself back into regular work mode this week.

"I get by with a little help...

... from my friends." Brad, me, Jackie, and Chris after a delicious brunch in Cajamarca - could not be more grateful that I get to share my two years with these three:

#hostdadgems

Tonight at dinner, Lourdes, my host mom, was trying to convince Javi that it was imperative he go to mass to represent the family, since the mass was dedicated to one of their cousins and Lourdes was unable to attend. Javi is not much of a church-going fellow, and it was also pouring rain outside, so mass was not exactly on his desired agenda for the evening. Thus his response: "don't worry Lourdes, mi alma va a asistir" (my soul will attend).

The rest of us found that quite clever, but apparently it wasn't an argument-winner, since half an hour later Javi and his poncho were heading out the door to church.

The arrival of Sherman

Friday not only marked the start of Cajabamba's 10-day-long fiesta patronal, but was also Jessica's birthday - double cause for celebration! With the help of both Peruvian and volunteer friends, we made it a night to remember.

The birthday reina and Katy's adorable puppy Max.

The day's first big event came in the form of a birthday gift from Edwin: Sherman the bunny. 

While the original plan for the night was to have a bonfire, before making our way to the plaza for the music and fireworks of the fiesta, a heavy downpour from about 4:00 to 9:00pm necessitated a plan B. So we had some pollo a la brasa delivered for dinner, turned on some tunes, and settled in to wait out the rain. We played some improvised four-square, danced to some huayno and danza kuduro, and found some fun props.

Ciro and Edwin :)

As the evening wore on, three of the CEFOP students arrived in bow ties, coerced by Edwin and company to act as birthday bartenders. They definitely upped the elegance factor, and made some delicious pisco sours, Cuba libres, and the colorful "Machu Picchu:"

No Peruvian birthday gathering is complete without some palabras (speeches), and Elí was happy to oblige:

After singing happy birthday in both English and Spanish, we headed into town to join the even bigger party getting underway in the streets of the plaza - more to come soon about the fiesta!

Cajabamba and Cauday sitemates: José, Katy, Jess, and me.

From bake to no-bake

Unfortunately for those of us who love to make and eat baked goods, ovens - at least American-style ovens - are not very common in Peru. Exhibit A: at my house, there are two oven options: 1) an enormous wood-burning clay oven (i.e., a contraption I could never use alone), or 2) a small, round, slightly George Forman-esque, one (undetermined) temperature, plug-into-the-wall electric "oven" that sits on the floor. 

A couple weeks into being at site, I was craving some carrot bread. So I figured, why not try out the electric spaceship oven? There are worse ways to fill a Sunday afternoon than failing at baking carrot bread. The experiment started out with a warning sign of what was to come: my host brother had to re-do the oven's wiring, because when I plugged it in the connection started smoking... not so good. But he was able to fix it, so I plowed ahead anyway. The batter-making phase was full of positive omens: all the ingredients for carrot bread can indeed be found in Cajabamba, and despite some substitutions (e.g., semi-brown sugar instead of white) the dough was still tasty. 

I filled up the bread pan, stuck it in the "oven" and hoped for the best. Sadly, the best did not occur. When I checked the bread after 40 minutes, I found a loaf heavily charred across the top, but still liquid across the bottom. Slightly bummed, I ate the slim middle layer of appropriately cooked bread, and tried to take comfort in the knowledge that I could try again someday in the big wood-burning oven.

As a consequence of this baking misadventure, my next foray into cooking dessert did not involve an oven. Unsurprisingly this second project thus ended much more happily. A cookbook put together by former Peru PCVs had a recipe for "no-bake cookies," so I decided to try them out as a birthday treat for sitemate Jessica. Basically you melt a mixture of butter, sugar, vanilla, evaporated milk, chocolate, peanut butter, and oatmeal in a saucepan, then make cookie shapes and put them in the fridge to cool and harden. Ahh, delicious simplicity :)

Cajabamba's claim to fame

José Sabogal is Peru's most famous painter to-date, and as he was born in Cajabamba, he represents a pretty big claim to fame for this little sierra town. Sabogal was known as the leader of the indigenista artistic movement in Peru, using his paintings to show the beauty and reality of life in the country's rural campo.

Sabogal is sufficiently important that there are still streets named after him in both Cajabamba and Cajamarca, even long after his death in 1956. Thus I was quite surprised when, at a meeting of the Chamber of Commerce last night, I met an older gentleman who introduced himself as José Sabogal. The long-past death of the famous artist did not stop me from exclaiming to my new friend: "like the painter!" He gave me a kindly look that said "I get this all the time," and informed me that, claro, José Sabogal was his great-uncle. So it seems that 50+ years later, Cajabamba can still call itself the home of José Sabogal - maybe this will help us get some more tourists? :)