Kicking cats

I speak Spanish pretty well, so I don't have as many stories of amusingly awkward language mishaps as most volunteers. However, even 13+ years of studying doesn't make me immune to the occasional misunderstanding, as evidenced by a recent incident with the verb pegar.

Pegar most commonly means "to hit," or various actions along that same line: strike, kick, beat, etc. So when my host dad came down to dinner the other night talking about how he'd just pegar-ed our cat, I was a little surprised - why would Javi hit the cat? Granted, the cat is no favorite of mine, but it did hunt down a previously live rat that was running around our house last week, and I couldn't think of any serious breach of decorum that would warrant a kick from my host dad. Brow furrowed in confusion, I tuned in and out of the conversation for a minute, but continued to hear Javi mentioning pegar-ing the cat. Puzzled, I shrugged and chalked it up to something I missed - I didn't want ask questions and run the risk of opening what might've been an uncomfortable family discussion about the ethics of hitting one's pets.

After dinner, we were walking back upstairs when Javi asked me if I wanted to see the cat. I balked for a second - does it have a visible bruise from where he kicked it?? - but realized I had to say yes and see for myself what sort of state the family feline was in. So I followed him across the patio, where he proudly presented me the cat:

"Ohhhhhh, this cat!" Looking at this life-size ceramic replica, my mental dictionary all-of-a-sudden decided to kick in and remind me that pegar can also mean "to glue." Turns out one of the live cats was climbing around the living room and shattered her statuary counterpart, so Javi helpfully pegar-ed it back together. Whoops! :)

Seeing statistics

It's one thing to read a statistic, and another to meet someone whose life embodies it. For instance, I know from national census data that 66% of Cajabamba's population lives in poverty, and that fully half that number remain in conditions of extreme poverty. Those numbers make me sad, but on a level that's somewhat removed from reality. But today I was fighting back tears as I listened to a woman tell me, through the story of her life, what those numbers really mean.

One of my socias from the Center for Violence Against Women was leading a workshop, and the introductory activity asked each participant to write down the dreams they had for their lives when they were young. First I helped several of the women write down their responses: about a quarter of them couldn't functionally read or write, and another's eyes were so bad that she couldn't see the words in front of her. Then it was time to share. Each response was moving: to be a professional, to have strong faith, to be a good mother. When Paola's turn arrived, she held the paper with her written response tightly, but did not look at the words she couldn't read. Her voice trembled and her eyes glistened with tears as she said: "my dream was to go to school, to learn and get an education, but my parents were poor so they couldn't afford to send me." Those missed opportunities are what poverty truly means; a thirty year-old woman whose biggest regret is missing the elementary school education that many of us take as a given.

What hit me hard as I watched Paola talk was not just the raw pain she clearly still felt, but learning that she manages to be the amazingly strong woman she is despite that still-present hurt and despite her lack of initial opportunity. She is a leader in her community, volunteering to teach women neighbors to speak out against gender-based violence. She also runs her household, works to cultivate her family's farm, and is raising her young children. Her own parents weren't able to send her to school, but she smiled with pride as she told us that her sons sí estudian - they are studying.

Danzas típicas

Sometimes it's hard to explain the U.S. to Peruvians. For example, one of my students asked me, "why don't you eat cuy there?" I thought about that for a few seconds, and the best answer I could come up with was: "I don't know... people have them as pets, and eating them just isn't something we do." Not particularly logical. But the hardest questions have to do with our cultural traditions: What are America's typical dishes? What are America's traditional dances and music?

When first asked these questions, usually by children, my automatic reaction was to say, "oh, of course!" and start naming off some favorite U.S. foods: hamburgers, pizza, sushi... oh wait, pizza is Italian and sushi's from Japan. Shoot. Ummm, hamburgers? Then you start thinking about typical dances and things get even worse: square-dancing? But only in the south. Foxtrot? I (and likely the majority of my generation) don't even know what that looks like. As for traditional music, we've got a rich musical history that gave birth to jazz, grunge, rap, and a host of other styles, as well as some folk tunes that we think of as classic American, but only the latter comes close to uniting the music tastes of the entire nation.

In contrast, any Peruvian six year-old can roll of a loooong list of platos típicos, and can also name and perform traditional dances (with accompanying musical and clothing styles) from all of Peru's major regions. While America is a country united by our diversity of immigrant backgrounds and by intangible concepts like liberty and justice for all, Peru's national identity stems from more tangible cultural traditions like food and music. While Americans are taught the preamble to the Constitution and the story of the founding fathers, Peruvian schoolchildren learn each region's native dance - and with this fiesta-happy country's many holidays, there are ample opportunities for performances!

Marinera from the northern coast

Kashua from the southern mountains

Wititi from Arequipa

Huayno from Cajamarca

The privilege of greatness

I've been reading some of David Sedaris' short stories recently, and came across this quote from his book Me Talk Pretty One Day: "Every day we're told that we live in the greatest country on earth. And it's always stated as an undeniable fact: Leos were born between July 23 and August 22, fitted queen-size sheets measure sixty by eighty inches, and America is the greatest country on earth."

This observation struck a chord with me, because I think it's fairly accurate: the U.S.' superpower status makes it easy for us to believe we've got it made. Our national rhetoric is filled with ideas like freedom, manifest destiny, equal opportunity for all, and sixteen varieties of peanut butter on one supermarket shelf - what more could a citizen want? Singing the praises of one's homeland is not a concept unique to America - just like every other country, we've got our patriotic songs, salutes to the flag, and national holidays to celebrate important historical events. But the key difference is that our place of importance on the world stage endows our "greatest country" claims with a tint of legitimate plausibility, which, in my opinion, can sometimes go to our heads.

My friend Lindsay's town helped her celebrate 4th of July with a castillo (firework tower) of cross-country friendship

Being born a U.S. citizen automatically gives an individual certain advantages on a global scale: we grow up as native speakers of English, the language of the world economy; we can travel to (almost) any other country we choose by paying the occasional visa fee; our country has a strong voice in all the major bodies of international governance. Imagine life from a Peruvian perspective: speaking fluent Spanish but struggling to learn English from untrained teachers in order to work for any large or international company; waiting months or years for a tourist visa to the States that requires application interviews and proof of things like economic viability; knowing that their country is on the "developing" rather than the "developed" end of the international power spectrum. It's a totally different perspective, but the difference is often only noticed by those on the short end of the stick; as Americans we never have to face life on the other side, so the majority of us live in ignorance of the true extent of our privilege. While we should of course appreciate these advantages, we should more importantly recognize that we have no more intrinsic right to them than do citizens of any other country. By luck of the draw, we were born in a powerful country and others were not, but we are all human beings.

I think the claim that America (or any other nation for that matter) is the greatest country on earth is absurd. It's a pretty awesome place, no doubt about it, but so many people-places-customs-histories-foods-politics-environments-laws-cultures-languages-borders go into making a single country that it'd be a tricky business to somehow rank them. "Greatest" also implies something that others should emulate, and I don't think anyone wants to see a worldwide that's all one country - where would we travel then?

Shine those shoes

As I was walking across the Cajamarca plaza the other day on my way home from the coast, I was waved down by one of the park's numerous shoe-shiners. He asked, "Señorita, may I shine your shoes?" I automatically shook my head: "no, gracias" - shoe-shining, in my mind, falls decidedly into the category of unnecessary expenses. The shoe-shine man then very pointedly looked down at my dull-and-dusty, ragged-around-the-edges, supposed-to-be-my-nice-pair-of-shoes black flats, then looked back up at me, eyebrows raised in a clear "are you sure about that?" attitude, and shrugged his shoulders - he could see I was a lost cause. My shoe self-assurance weakening a bit under the disapproving eyes of the shoe-shiner, I paused to glance down and consider the state of my footwear. The man was probably right - those shoes had seen much better days. But it's not like they had holes (yet) or were smeared with mud, so I concluded they were in an acceptable state and did not warrant any extra soles spent on shining.

All the same, the encounter made me reflect a bit: in training, Peace Corps staff told us time and again that appearance and formality were important aspects of Peru's professional world. They even specifically mentioned footwear: no flip-flops ever, and make sure your shoes are clean. I of course do comply with these norms when I'm working in site - my flats aren't really that ragged - but my run-in with the shoe-shine man was a reminder that the Peruvians and I might still have slightly different standards for how well-shod our heels should be.

Race recap

On Sunday, I fulfilled a longtime personal goal: run a half-marathon. Check that one off the life list!

Crossing the finish line (photo courtesy of #1 marathon supporter Brad)

I ran the Pacasmayo half-marathon, which takes place in and around a small beach town on Peru's northern coast. The race, now in its sixth year, was started by a Peace Corps volunteer to promote tourism and economic development in the community. Despite the fact that that volunteer is now long gone, the municipality still organizes the annual marathon - an inspiring example of a truly sustainable PC project. Anyway, due to the race's links to Peace Corps, and the fact that lots of us gringos like to run, the race continues to attract a good number of PCV participants each year.

PCV runners the morning of the race - ready for the 5k, 10k, half-, and full marathon

We all got up bright and early on race day to make sure we were ready to run: eating some breakfast, drinking lots of water, taping blistered feet, listening to some pre-race jams, and, in some cases, taking anti-diarrhea medicine in the hopes of making it through the race (the standard Peace Corps "Peru belly" won't take the day off just because you're trying to run a marathon). At 7:00 we headed down to the starting area, and kept ourselves busy until start time with some warm-ups and photo-shoots.

Pacasmayo 19ers: Ali, me, Kaeli, Nydelis, and Brad

Gia and Zach are excited to run!

The race itself was hard. You'd think that an oceanside marathon would be one of the flattest courses you can find, but you could not be more wrong. Apparently Pacasmayo is supposed to be one of the most difficult races in South America, because it's pure hills! The only part that's semi-flat is the last three miles, but those are on a sand-and-rock pathway that's apt to turn your ankle at every step. Not ideal, but I made it! One nice aspect of the course was getting to pass back through the starting area (a.k.a. cheering section) ten miles in - all the volunteers who'd already finished their 5 and 10k races were there waiting to cheer us on, which was a great energy booster.

10 miles down, 3 miles to go

My legs were definitely tired from all the steep climbs, but I still crossed the finish line in a little under two hours and fourteen minutes. I was exhausted and sore, but feeling great to have accomplished my goal.

PCV half-marathoners: me, Kaeli, Rachel, and Amanda

With the race under our belts, we spent the rest of the weekend relaxing and enjoying Pacasmayo's picturesque boardwalk and beach - not a bad way to celebrate 4th of July!

One last cultural side note about running in Peru: here the word "maratón" does not necessarily mean the international standard marathon of 26.2 miles. I learned this the hard way over the past couple weeks, when I'd tell Peruvians that I was going to Pacasmayo to run a "medio-maratón" and be met with slightly confused smiles. Apparently Peruvians use maratón as a synonym for any length of running race, so it's important to specify which distance of "marathon" you are running. My eventual qualifier of a 21k maratón always got a wide-eyed "oooohh" of awe that I would possibly be running that far - this particular intercultural divide was definitely a little self-esteem booster :)

Why are you running?

This weekend I'm off to run the Pacasmayo half-marathon down on the coast - 12 weeks of training is (hopefully) about to pay off. My morning runs through town and the surrounding campo are something the Cajabambans have yet to get used to; even a year later, me jogging by still inspires the same amount of stares, whistles, shouts, and whispered comments as it did on day one. I know that the cajabambinos occasionally run - there are road races during town fiestas - but I think the difference is they don't consistently train or run for exercise, so my habits remain a mystery to them.

Yesterday I was out for a quick three-miler before Sunday's race when I ran by a group of elementary schoolers heading to a nearby soccer field. About five of them, full of the energy that characterizes small boys, started to run alongside me while peppering me with questions: Where are you from? Why are you running? How far are you going? Why are you running so far? Laughing, I explained to them that I was training for a marathon so I had to try and run long distances. One boy considered my proposed route, then told me he'd much rather go via bicycle, since that would be much faster and not hurt his feet so much.

While chuckling about my new friend's wisdom on the advantages of biking, I realized that his group's comments and questions probably mirrored what the rest of the townspeople are thinking when they see me run by. If the rest of the cajabambinos had as few inhibitions and as much energy as those eight year-olds, maybe I'd get more questions and less stares.

A llama love affair

The New York Times ran an article yesterday entitled, "The Llama Is In," reporting that the popularity of llamas as pets in the United States has grown so much that there are now 115,000 of these Andean transplants living on American soil. But aside from that and a few other hard facts, the article could really be better described as a 1,700-word ode to llamas, chock-full of quotes such as, "I can't envision life without llamas." Various American llama owners described their pets as "dogs" (they are your friend), "potato chips" (it's hard to stop at just a few), or "walking lawn ornaments" (no explanation needed). Others told how "framed photos of their pet llamas hang over the fireplace alongside photos of their grandchildren."

Peru, one of the original homes of these fluffy camelids, is estimated to have somewhere between 300,000 and 3,000,000 llamas - clearly there's an opportunity here for a more accurate llama census. However, I'm willing to bet that you will not find a single picture of a pet llama framed over a Peruvian fireplace. While Americans and Peruvians appear to gain some of the same benefits from their llamas (high-fiber fur, natural fertilizer, weight-carrying), the Peruvians seem to focus much more on the practical side. In contrast, according to the article, it is not uncommon for U.S. llama owners to shampoo and groom their pets before proudly presenting them at a llama show (similar to a dog show). In Peru there are town agricultural fairs that include contests for the best cows, pigs, llamas, etc., but there's a difference: no Peruvian buys or raises a llama with the sole purpose of showing off how pretty it is. Top prize at the town fair is just a nice bonus to add onto all the other value the llama brings the farmer's household.

I would love to translate that article for a Peruvian campesino, if only to watch confusion spread over his face as his sturdy pack animals are lauded for their "huge, beguiling eyes" and ability to "steal your heart." It's fascinating how our two cultures can reap so many of the same advantages from the llama - we're all agreed they can make one of the coziest sweaters in town - while still approaching them from two such contrasting perspectives.

Alpacas (the llama's close cousins) grazing on the Peruvian altiplano

Waiting out the rain

Rainy season was supposed to have ended in April, but it's July and the water gods seem to still not have gotten that memo. While most days are now full of sunshine, Cajabamba still gets hit once or twice a week with the quick and fierce afternoon downpours that characterize the rainy months. After a deceptively bright and sunny morning, clouds will begin to loom over the eastern mountains, and soon enough the rain is upon us. My favorite place to be when one of these torrents starts is at my desk, where, from a cozy and non-wet vantage point, I can look out my window and marvel at the weather's sheer force.

View from a rainy afternoon

This picture does not do the rains any sort of justice - you can barely even see any drops. The reality is unlike anything I've ever experienced: quarter-sized drops of water (or, not uncommonly, hail) pounding on the tile and tin roof at freight-train volume, so dense that you can hardly see across the patio. The speed with which the downpour suddenly begins and ends makes the force even more remarkable - within five minutes a normal street scene becomes a literal river of water flowing downhill, while more floods down off the roofs.

Where I'm from, the rain is a constant drizzly companion that might warrant a rain jacket, but rarely an umbrella, and would never interrupt any true Seattleite's afternoon plans. The monsoon-like nature of Cajabamba's rains make that impossible here: if it's raining, the cajabambinos settle in wherever they are and wait it out. They know the storm won't last more than an hour, and with the flexibility of the hora peruana, why get wet? I've had meetings in the campo postponed or cancelled when a big rain starts, and I've had students roll into class forty-five minutes late because they were waiting for the rain to stop. Imagine a Seattle high schooler arriving tardy with the excuse of "it was raining." S/he'd be laughed all the way into detention! This capacity of weather to interrupt serious plans initially required a significant shift in expectations for me. But, like most other cultural adjustments, you get used to it, and now I just enjoy watching the rain fall from the comfort of my room.

Chicken feet

People in the U.S. do not eat chicken feet. I'm not sure why, but for some reason our culture places poultry claws in the "things not suitable for human consumption" category. This is not the case in Peru, where chicken feet are seen as a very useable and edible part of the bird. Consequently, they're found in all manner of culinary contexts: floating in soups, sitting on the butcher's counter ready for raw sale, and lined up on grills or in frying pans just waiting to be cooked into deliciousness. And why not? Waste not, want not, right?

Chicken foot soup