At around 5am today I woke up to the sounds of drunks
outside my door. “Damn it, is there a fiesta this weekend?” I think as I roll
over.
They start singing and I can’t sleep. The Sun is just coming
up. “Why are they outside my door?” I recognize
each voice, Doña Juana, Elvis’ father and mother. They sing for hours. I really
want to go to the bathroom and get some water to make tea but my cowardice
keeps me behind a closed door.
8am, they are still singing. I know that the minute the gringa
walks out of her room she will become the center of attention. I attempted to
wait for the perfect moment (not knowing what that will be) but my bladder
trumps and I open the door slowly. Elvis dad is actually sitting on my
doorstep, so there will be no sneaking involved. They are there because next to
the oven Gray and I built is a stove for the large pots. They are cooking
chicha. That is why they chose my doorstep this morning. I blatantly ignore
them calling me and walk straight to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and fill up
the kettle. I wanted to finish my laundry today, but I forsee this as another
day in hiding. I don’t mind. I have studying to do for my English teacher
certification, and I am in the middle of a good book.
On my way back into my room Doña Juana grabs my hand and
they all start talking at me in unison in an uncomprehendable Spanish/quechua.
Politely I say, “I am sorry, but I don’t understand when you speak to me in
quechua.” A lie. Doña Juana is saying something about her husband coming home
and her being drunk and who will tend to the cows. I assume an attempted guilt
trip to get me to go take care of the animals today. Elvis father is saying
something bout kissing me to which I have planted myself at Doña Juana’s side
“Manang”-No I state firmly three times with a finger in the air. Elvis’ mother
hands me a shot and I use this to free my hand from doña juana’s firm grasp. I
respectfully take a sip and toss a majority of the alcohol to the ground for
pachamama. Claudia starts rattling away in quechua about how she won’t invite
me to a shot if I don’t drink it and I proclaim, “ I don’t understand when you
talk to me in quechua.” as I squeeze past her husband back into my room and
shut the door ignoring them calling my name.
I make my tea and put in my headphones while I read. Around
10am the tea wants to come out the
other end. I take out my
headphones and hear no singing. Maybe they left.
I very slowly open my door as to not call any attention to
myself and elvis’ father is passed out across my doorstep. I step over him and
this wakes him up, I don’t flinch and head straight for the toilet.
“Claudia….. Claudia!” he barks
“Huh?!” she grunts
“My pants”
no answer
“My pants, did you wash them?”
is the conversation I hear from the bathroom.
When I cam headed straight back to my room Elvis’ father is
half crawling like a snake towards his wife who is, in fact, washing his pants.
I go straight back into my room and shut my door. Is it bad
that I kind of like the excuse that I should spend the day reading and studying
in bed?
How many of my students have to deal with such behavior,
can’t escape it because they share a room, and have to go tend to the animals
for their parents’? all of them? Half of them? A quarter? There is no way to
know.
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