The one day ascent from Lima to my site assignment, Madrigal, left me with altitude sickness. Dizzy, nauseous, and convinced my skull was imploding I tried all the herbal remedies the townsfolk had to offer in order to keep myself functional.
No local coworkers/counterparts showed up at the urban hub to meet me or attend a scheduled PC meeting, so one of the PC staff took me by taxi into Colca Canyon's winding, unpaved road (yup, there is just one). The municipality that requested a PC volunteer was locked. The local health posts was locked, and no one was home at the family's house where I was to be hosted. As we turned away from the last door we could knock on feeling defeated and out of ideas a tired elderly man with his sheep and donkey shuttled by quickly. He seemed disappointed we recognized him to be my host father as he lead the livestock through the front door we had just turned away from. With slight agitation and every ounce of politeness he could muster he showed me into my 'room'. Four crumbling cement walls, a roof speckled with holes, and dirt floors greeted me at first with utter amazement but a hard smack on the nose swiftly followed. While I marveled at the simplicity of their lifestyle the challenge of living there with them for the next two years of my life refused to be overlooked. But, with a smile in my eyes and ambition in my heart my stride did not waver in the presence of this generous, tired, hardworking Peruvian man. I offered with heartfelt sincerity to clean the decades worth of child's toys and homework pages up that formed a small mountain in the room.
Through the door and up the wall is strung a single chord dangling a bulb awkwardly. With no window, this bulb is my only light source.
I was supposed to sleep there for the night, but the room was obviously not livable yet. The next two years of life there did not carry as much weight in my mind as the thought of the setting sun pulling warmth away with it. That leaves me; having nowhere to sleep and rest my head for this, my first evening at site.
My new house mother had been injured in a bus accident weeks ago and still remains in the hospital recovering. Her continued presence out of the house could explain the complete lack of cleanliness in the compound. My sweet house father apologized and explained that he would be ready to receive me in 2 days. Between his garbed Quechua and my rough spanish the conversation birthed awkwardly painful moments. I can only hope my eyes were not obviously wide when he showed me the doorless bathroon, or the communal wall-less shower that consisted of a hose like spicket and a bucket.
The kitchen is made of a pile of bricks around burning logs, and some bricks piled to make stools. Guinea pigs and rabbits scurry under food shelves while a teenage hen hitches a ride on my house tour via my father's head.
After agreeing to return when he is more ready, we leave to hunt down a councilwoman. We found her, and after 20 minutes of meeting I knew she was praying with all her might that I wouldn't notice the drunkeness of the other municipality member who entered her office. A room in the municipality was offered to me for the evening to sleep. Resembling a hotel room with an unfinished shower and no hot water, I was greatful.
Naturally, in the bed that evening I found myself questioning everything. I felt like I had just been slapped around.
Bucket loads of questions were flowing through my mind. Can I? How and I do it best? What is it I should do? Who are the people of this town? Do they really want me here? Will they teach me? Will they take care of me? How have I put myself in such a position of helplessness?
Battered and worn I tried to escape into electronically pumped music in my ears, but fear of the noises outside kept one headphone resting on the pillow and one ear alert.
I did not sleep well.
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