I sought out being alone today.
The family was separating out to different chacras to work, I was invited to tend to the cows, but I needed to prepare my teacher and municipality talks just in case I need to do them this week. So I explained that I had to work and declined.
During my extended yoga session this morning, due to yesterday’s chacra work, I was interrupted by a little niece that is staying with us. With a huge smile on her face I think I disappointed her when I didn’t return the excitement to see her. I had to come out of a challenging pose to open the door for her! The poor sweet thing wanted to read another book with me. How, could I say no?
I had about 100 copies of 4 different books donated to me by a Limenean family. I kept four to use on my own, and the rest are set aside to give away to parents when they come to my workshops.
She kicked off her shoes just like the last time she visited and climbed onto my bed to make herself comfortable. She is 5 and can’t count to 20. I am about 99% positive that she has never been read to, and she just eats up any attention I give her. And I love her. Her chubby cheeks, how her eyes almost disappear when she smiles so big, how she takes great care to turn the pages of the book even more gently than I taught her to.
The morning yoga and reading session set off my day with a nice skip, even though I hardly left my seat and finished the first couple months of teacher lectures.
The very first lecture is on child brain development and memory. A base for them to build their teaching methods off of.
The second on the importance of language/speaking and nurturance for the developing brain.
It felt SO good to be talking about the brain all day, even if it was just to a computer.
March 25, 2011
19 Marzo 2011
What an exhausting day.
We rose around 7 to greet family members that had come into town to help with today’s potato harvest. Then, they all played 20 questions with me over tea and bread.
The hike to the chacra was up the canyon, so we all arrived tired and decided to eat lunch immediately. The fire was made and a potato alpaca broth was served.
The offerings to pachamama-Mother Earth were made (basically pouring food and drink on the ground while saying words of appreciation and aspiration- my host dad encouraged me to ask for a baby boy, ha, I said I need a man first), and we began planting.
Being the bull guide has become my job. I think it tends to go to the oldest son, but as we don’t have any brothers that live with us, and I love the crap out of those bulls, the job has fallen to me naturally. So, I am in front of the two bulls that are attached to the plow directing them on keeping the line straight and turning them around at the end of the line (which often involves my entire body weight pulling their horns or pushing their butts every 10 minutes for about 5 hours). And any time I think that I am getting tired I just look at my host father who is directing the 50lb plow. The man’s shoulders are to be desired by any football player. I have to say, between the four of us (2 bulls, host dad, myself) we have come to read each other pretty well and sweep through the field quickly with little or no hitches.
Well, the husband of my host mother’s daughter who lives in Arequipa City offered to give my host dad a break and run the plow. When my host father was showing him how to manage the plow, and when I realized I had never heard the man speak in quechua I realized this was going to be an adventure. He was learning, but refused to admit so. He was not strong enough and his work was sloppy, tiring our bulls quickly due to bad alignment and leaving the edges of each row unplowed leaving usable land, unused (apparently that is a pet peeve of mine…). All of that was fine, until… he told me to stop the bulls before the end of the line (my job as guide to decide, very culturally disrespectful), I told him we need to finish the row yet (knowing very well that he was not going to respond well to probably the first woman in his life ever trumping him, I knew I was picking a fight at that point), then he responds,
-“whow, look at the gringa teaching ME how to farm, shit!”
Even that I could have been bothered by, but shrugged off in a few minutes. But then, the women laughed awkwardly. The thing is, I could see in their eyes that they knew I was right, and there was guilt in the laugh and they looked at my eyes to make sure I was OK, but they laughed so they would’t make the man uncomfortable. AHHHHHH.
What makes it even worse, was the man was flirting with me mercilessly right in front of his wife the entire day.
I can’t stand latino men, and you women, mothers, sisters, and wives carry some of the blame. Stand up to them, damn it. Demand the respect you deserve.
I found myself talking to my American foremothers the rest of the afternoon. My lips sealed, my eyes to the ground, stopping short of each row, “thank you for giving me a place to go home to where I don’t have to feel like this. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for risking yourselves so that I can have a partner to come home to that not only loves, but respects me as an equal.”
When Don Juan, my host father, returned to the field he laughed and gracefully insisted on taking over the plow again.
The fume spouting from my ears calmed, but there wasn’t an ounce of me that wanted to go to the town party tonight. With the way that man had treated me all day, with how he has made me feel like a toy to be played with and bossed around, the last thing I wanted to do was go dance Huatiti with a hundred drunk latino men. But, my family so wanted me to celebrate carnival with them in the plaza. I decided to go with my host parents for a little bit, then come home way before bedtime.
The tradition for carnival is pretty darn cool. Yeah, they dance huattiti like always, but they do it around a tree that has a bunch of gifts tied in it. Then they chop the tree down and everyone jumps on it to get the blankets, toys, pots, etc. I thought the tree would be about the size of a Christmas tree and the “chopping” would be a figurative act. Yeah, no. it is a gigantic, full size eucalyptus (2 stories?). They dug a hole in the ground and stuck it in there sturdily. The most brilliant part is while the entire town is dancing in circles closely around the tree, they hand dancers a shot of strong alcohol then an axe, and they take a swing. The images of an axe in a head or the tree toppling onto a kid wouldn’t leave my head. But, it was a pretty darn cool spectacle that one would NEVER see in western, prevent-anything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong society. It was when the head of the axe started sliding off the end of it’s rod that I just had to laugh.
But, what did I spend the evening doing other than dancing with every hand that pulled me into the circle (age 5-60)? Running from foam spray. The teenage “thing” for carnival here is to spray your friends (or the girl you like) with foam spray. It took me straight back to football games in high school watching the girls pretend to stroll in one direction to get a little closer to the guys they like and pretend to not want to be sprayed by the guy they like. These boys would never spray a teacher or their parents. But, when one little guy tested my reaction with the tiniest of sprays on my arm and I took the foam and smothered it in his face it became a free-for-all for all my students. My hair, my face, my scarf, my jacket, my hat, my face again, it was all covered. I had SO much fun. Defiantly the oldest individual playing the foam game and not drinking, but SUCH a blast. And the kids felt so mischievous to get me, and the parents thought it was just the funniest thing in the world when I snuck up behind their kid and covered their hair and face in foam.
I retired to the curb with my host niece and we painted each other’s faces with foam until she fell asleep in my lap and my host dad took her in his arms as we headed home.
I am pooped. G’night.
We rose around 7 to greet family members that had come into town to help with today’s potato harvest. Then, they all played 20 questions with me over tea and bread.
The hike to the chacra was up the canyon, so we all arrived tired and decided to eat lunch immediately. The fire was made and a potato alpaca broth was served.
The offerings to pachamama-Mother Earth were made (basically pouring food and drink on the ground while saying words of appreciation and aspiration- my host dad encouraged me to ask for a baby boy, ha, I said I need a man first), and we began planting.
Being the bull guide has become my job. I think it tends to go to the oldest son, but as we don’t have any brothers that live with us, and I love the crap out of those bulls, the job has fallen to me naturally. So, I am in front of the two bulls that are attached to the plow directing them on keeping the line straight and turning them around at the end of the line (which often involves my entire body weight pulling their horns or pushing their butts every 10 minutes for about 5 hours). And any time I think that I am getting tired I just look at my host father who is directing the 50lb plow. The man’s shoulders are to be desired by any football player. I have to say, between the four of us (2 bulls, host dad, myself) we have come to read each other pretty well and sweep through the field quickly with little or no hitches.
Well, the husband of my host mother’s daughter who lives in Arequipa City offered to give my host dad a break and run the plow. When my host father was showing him how to manage the plow, and when I realized I had never heard the man speak in quechua I realized this was going to be an adventure. He was learning, but refused to admit so. He was not strong enough and his work was sloppy, tiring our bulls quickly due to bad alignment and leaving the edges of each row unplowed leaving usable land, unused (apparently that is a pet peeve of mine…). All of that was fine, until… he told me to stop the bulls before the end of the line (my job as guide to decide, very culturally disrespectful), I told him we need to finish the row yet (knowing very well that he was not going to respond well to probably the first woman in his life ever trumping him, I knew I was picking a fight at that point), then he responds,
-“whow, look at the gringa teaching ME how to farm, shit!”
Even that I could have been bothered by, but shrugged off in a few minutes. But then, the women laughed awkwardly. The thing is, I could see in their eyes that they knew I was right, and there was guilt in the laugh and they looked at my eyes to make sure I was OK, but they laughed so they would’t make the man uncomfortable. AHHHHHH.
What makes it even worse, was the man was flirting with me mercilessly right in front of his wife the entire day.
I can’t stand latino men, and you women, mothers, sisters, and wives carry some of the blame. Stand up to them, damn it. Demand the respect you deserve.
I found myself talking to my American foremothers the rest of the afternoon. My lips sealed, my eyes to the ground, stopping short of each row, “thank you for giving me a place to go home to where I don’t have to feel like this. Thank you for fighting for me. Thank you for risking yourselves so that I can have a partner to come home to that not only loves, but respects me as an equal.”
When Don Juan, my host father, returned to the field he laughed and gracefully insisted on taking over the plow again.
The fume spouting from my ears calmed, but there wasn’t an ounce of me that wanted to go to the town party tonight. With the way that man had treated me all day, with how he has made me feel like a toy to be played with and bossed around, the last thing I wanted to do was go dance Huatiti with a hundred drunk latino men. But, my family so wanted me to celebrate carnival with them in the plaza. I decided to go with my host parents for a little bit, then come home way before bedtime.
The tradition for carnival is pretty darn cool. Yeah, they dance huattiti like always, but they do it around a tree that has a bunch of gifts tied in it. Then they chop the tree down and everyone jumps on it to get the blankets, toys, pots, etc. I thought the tree would be about the size of a Christmas tree and the “chopping” would be a figurative act. Yeah, no. it is a gigantic, full size eucalyptus (2 stories?). They dug a hole in the ground and stuck it in there sturdily. The most brilliant part is while the entire town is dancing in circles closely around the tree, they hand dancers a shot of strong alcohol then an axe, and they take a swing. The images of an axe in a head or the tree toppling onto a kid wouldn’t leave my head. But, it was a pretty darn cool spectacle that one would NEVER see in western, prevent-anything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong society. It was when the head of the axe started sliding off the end of it’s rod that I just had to laugh.
But, what did I spend the evening doing other than dancing with every hand that pulled me into the circle (age 5-60)? Running from foam spray. The teenage “thing” for carnival here is to spray your friends (or the girl you like) with foam spray. It took me straight back to football games in high school watching the girls pretend to stroll in one direction to get a little closer to the guys they like and pretend to not want to be sprayed by the guy they like. These boys would never spray a teacher or their parents. But, when one little guy tested my reaction with the tiniest of sprays on my arm and I took the foam and smothered it in his face it became a free-for-all for all my students. My hair, my face, my scarf, my jacket, my hat, my face again, it was all covered. I had SO much fun. Defiantly the oldest individual playing the foam game and not drinking, but SUCH a blast. And the kids felt so mischievous to get me, and the parents thought it was just the funniest thing in the world when I snuck up behind their kid and covered their hair and face in foam.
I retired to the curb with my host niece and we painted each other’s faces with foam until she fell asleep in my lap and my host dad took her in his arms as we headed home.
I am pooped. G’night.
18 Marzo 2011
Today I spent the day doing laundry (for the life of me I cannot get my whites, white).
Then, I spent the entire afternoon trying to fix the family’s standing water problem. A problem that I did fix, but it wasn’t too pretty in the end and I think the family was a little confused why I did it in the first place. So, we have two faucets in the house, one next to the toilet, and another in the courtyard as our primary source. There is no drain, so the water just fills the dirt and then settles. This wouldn’t be an issue if our front door wasn’t downhill from the faucet. So, your “welcome home” is a sloppy muddy mess. I decided to make a little irrigation tunnel that would funnel the water by the flowers and out the side of the door. Like I said, it worked in the end, but it really isn’t pretty. But, hey, my shoes are!
I think the family actually missed my cooking more than anything while I was at PDM. They were kind of feigning noodles. So, I went to the store to get tomatoes and alpaca leg to make us some spaghetti (and when I say alpaca leg, that is what I mean, I got the knee and joint this time). There are a series of children always playing in the street on my way to the tiny shop. Today, only one was there, about 3, alone, and wailing. When I walked by I saw that her grandfather was at a loss on how to make her stop crying and was seated just inside his front door with very worried eyes. He appears to be about 70 or 80 years old.
-“allianchu kashanki. Su mamai?” : “how are you? Where is her mom?”
-something in quecha I didn’t catch, then, “chacra”: In the field”
probably the first “conversation” I have had in quechua… but then I had to fall back on Spanish. I offered to walk her to the store with me. Immediately her tears stopped. Her wide, swollen eyes couldn’t soak up enough of that strange white girl that always walks by. The weird white girl card is always in my back pocket ready to be played. Lordy, children make me feel good.
So, dinner: spaghetti in alpaca marinara with fresh made cow milk cheese grated on top. All of it was a new flavor to me, and it was a big hit. That and me running from the fire to my gas stove and back over and over was also a big hit.
I think more than anything else, at this point in my service, I entertain the citizens of Madrigal.
Then, I spent the entire afternoon trying to fix the family’s standing water problem. A problem that I did fix, but it wasn’t too pretty in the end and I think the family was a little confused why I did it in the first place. So, we have two faucets in the house, one next to the toilet, and another in the courtyard as our primary source. There is no drain, so the water just fills the dirt and then settles. This wouldn’t be an issue if our front door wasn’t downhill from the faucet. So, your “welcome home” is a sloppy muddy mess. I decided to make a little irrigation tunnel that would funnel the water by the flowers and out the side of the door. Like I said, it worked in the end, but it really isn’t pretty. But, hey, my shoes are!
I think the family actually missed my cooking more than anything while I was at PDM. They were kind of feigning noodles. So, I went to the store to get tomatoes and alpaca leg to make us some spaghetti (and when I say alpaca leg, that is what I mean, I got the knee and joint this time). There are a series of children always playing in the street on my way to the tiny shop. Today, only one was there, about 3, alone, and wailing. When I walked by I saw that her grandfather was at a loss on how to make her stop crying and was seated just inside his front door with very worried eyes. He appears to be about 70 or 80 years old.
-“allianchu kashanki. Su mamai?” : “how are you? Where is her mom?”
-something in quecha I didn’t catch, then, “chacra”: In the field”
probably the first “conversation” I have had in quechua… but then I had to fall back on Spanish. I offered to walk her to the store with me. Immediately her tears stopped. Her wide, swollen eyes couldn’t soak up enough of that strange white girl that always walks by. The weird white girl card is always in my back pocket ready to be played. Lordy, children make me feel good.
So, dinner: spaghetti in alpaca marinara with fresh made cow milk cheese grated on top. All of it was a new flavor to me, and it was a big hit. That and me running from the fire to my gas stove and back over and over was also a big hit.
I think more than anything else, at this point in my service, I entertain the citizens of Madrigal.
17 Marzo 2011
I love Madrigal.
Seriously, I couldn’t be happier with my lifestyle and work here.
Let us just have a run down of today’s day:
I woke up when I felt like it, regardless of what the rooster and donkeys had to say.
I rolled out of my sleeping bag and the cool air breathed freshness onto my cheeks. The family was either at school or in the chacras-fields, so the “house” was mine.
Solitude. Silence. Yoga. Meditation. Then Portland Stmptown drip coffee. Only birds and Madeline Peyroux were singin to me.
I checked on my young garden of tomatoes and green beans, then the herb garden. I added some healthy compost and the happy worms popped out just long enough to say hello before my chickens started eating them.
I decided it was time to keep the outside, outside and I swept up the top layer of my dirt floor and bleached the underneath. It is funny how different healthy dirt is from unhealthy dirt. Healthy dirt: in the garden. Unhealthy dirt: on the floor in my room. I have killed the **it out of that dirt to keep me healthy. Haha.
Avocado, tomato, lime, and rice for lunch (a funny Peruvian dish I have come to love when I just don’t feel like cookin). Then, to the fields. Milk and feed the cow. Carry the milk back to the house and disinfect it. I managed to allow the boiling milk to run over and completely microbize part of my clean dirt floor all over again. Oh well.
To the corn field. Exactly 2 ears per family member picked and piled in my llukya (square fabric we use like a backpack). By the time the corn was boiled and cheese was cut the kids were knocking on my door for homework help. I made us all tea and we cuddled up on my bed side.
The Sun set and sent the chilliness back to us as the rain began to sing on the tin roof.
Who could ask for anything better?
Seriously, I couldn’t be happier with my lifestyle and work here.
Let us just have a run down of today’s day:
I woke up when I felt like it, regardless of what the rooster and donkeys had to say.
I rolled out of my sleeping bag and the cool air breathed freshness onto my cheeks. The family was either at school or in the chacras-fields, so the “house” was mine.
Solitude. Silence. Yoga. Meditation. Then Portland Stmptown drip coffee. Only birds and Madeline Peyroux were singin to me.
I checked on my young garden of tomatoes and green beans, then the herb garden. I added some healthy compost and the happy worms popped out just long enough to say hello before my chickens started eating them.
I decided it was time to keep the outside, outside and I swept up the top layer of my dirt floor and bleached the underneath. It is funny how different healthy dirt is from unhealthy dirt. Healthy dirt: in the garden. Unhealthy dirt: on the floor in my room. I have killed the **it out of that dirt to keep me healthy. Haha.
Avocado, tomato, lime, and rice for lunch (a funny Peruvian dish I have come to love when I just don’t feel like cookin). Then, to the fields. Milk and feed the cow. Carry the milk back to the house and disinfect it. I managed to allow the boiling milk to run over and completely microbize part of my clean dirt floor all over again. Oh well.
To the corn field. Exactly 2 ears per family member picked and piled in my llukya (square fabric we use like a backpack). By the time the corn was boiled and cheese was cut the kids were knocking on my door for homework help. I made us all tea and we cuddled up on my bed side.
The Sun set and sent the chilliness back to us as the rain began to sing on the tin roof.
Who could ask for anything better?
16 Marzo 2011
Ok, so a new Chiles just opened up in Arequipa City. I thought, why not hit up their $7 lunch special of chicken tacos.
The hand me a to-go box with a small to-go sauce. Assuming it was mayonnaise, as usual Peruvian tradition would offer, I ignored it.
Once I finished my tacos and switched to the steamed veggies I switched out for rice I noticed black specs in the mayo. Curiosity made me smell it. RANCH DRESSING! A godsend. And to think, I almost treated it like blasted mayonnaise! The poor, sweet, loving, delicious sauce, I was so unappreciative!
This centimeter deep to-go cup just made my month.
The hand me a to-go box with a small to-go sauce. Assuming it was mayonnaise, as usual Peruvian tradition would offer, I ignored it.
Once I finished my tacos and switched to the steamed veggies I switched out for rice I noticed black specs in the mayo. Curiosity made me smell it. RANCH DRESSING! A godsend. And to think, I almost treated it like blasted mayonnaise! The poor, sweet, loving, delicious sauce, I was so unappreciative!
This centimeter deep to-go cup just made my month.
March 15, 2011
14 Marzo 2011 take two
It is funny how certain places in the world just feel good to you. Sometimes it was chosen, like your childhood house or where you had your first date with your first love. Other times the world chooses them for you and they are slightly less picturesque: A certain surprisingly large rock you lunched on during a long hike; A small, dimly-lit shop at the back of an artisan market; a rode you drove down regularly with a specific destination in mind but somehow that road's curbs burn in your mind more than where you were going; a block corner you end up at in a new town when you were lost but had not a fear in your soul; A tree.
The spiritual me wants to believe that these special places have some magnetic quality that pulled you there and will draw you back again. but, the psychologist in me begs to differ. she thinks these are just places where you had a strong feeling of happiness or realization. the truth is, i feel both. These small spots on our earth are what i identify as my home.
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