September 14

Note to English-speaking readers: until now my blog has been only in English, something that I did solely out of a lack of Spanish skills. I’m still learning Spanish, but from now on my blog will contain an English entry first and the Spanish version below.

One of Becca’s favorite activities had always been looking back exactly one year into her life and considering how much things had changed. This was something she’d enjoyed since early high school, using journals, hand-written notes, and later emails, blogs, and smart phones to track past-Becca. September 14th for most people was just another day, but on this day Becca looked into her past and saw something pretty darn cool.

From this point forward when Becca looked back a year, she wouldn’t see the US, she would see her lovely new home of Peru.

One year previous: September 14, 2012, Becca had woken up at 4 AM in a hotel in Washington DC, packed up her things and wandered into the lobby where 55 other Peace Corps Trainees were waiting. They boarded buses, made there way to the airport and spent hours going through baggage, customs, and any other checks you could possibly imagine. Becca ate breakfast in the airport while chatting with her future site-mate and pal, Lily and then boarded a plan to Miami. In Miami the group waited a bit more and then boarded a plane to Lima, Peru where they landed that evening.

It had been an entire year.

It felt like 40 years.

It felt like a week and a half.

Funny what time does to a person.

Happy September 14th!

Una nota para mis amigos que hablan castellano: hasta ahora, my blog estaba solo por inglés. Esta es por una falta de idioma para mi, pero ahora intentaré a escribir cada blog primero en inglés y abajo en castellano. Mi blog es por tercera persona, sobre una chica que se llama Becca (yo). Disculpa mis errores y disfruta mi blog.

Una de sus actividades favoritas de Becca siempre ha estado para ver exactamente un año en el pasado y como cambiaron las cosas. Desde secundaria, ella disfrutó esta, utilizando diarios, correos, emails, blogs, y smart phones para seguir su vida. Para muchas personas el 14 de setiembre solo es un día normal, pero cuando Becca miraba a un año anterior, ella mira algo bien chevere.

Desde ahora, cuando Becca mira un año anterior, no mira los Estados Unidos, mira su tierra nueva, Perú.

Un año anterior: 14 de setiembre 2012, Becca se despertó a las 4 AM en un hotel de Washington DC, hizo las bolsas, y caminó al vestíbulo en donde fueron 55 otros aspirantes de Cuerpo de Paz. En buses, se pasaban al aeropuerto para hacer todos los cheques del gobierno. Becca desayunó en el aeropuerto con su compañera, Lily, y entraba el avión a Miami. En Miami el grupo esperaba mas y entraban otro avión a Lima, Perú en donde se terminaban su viaje en la noche.

Todo un año se pasó.

Se sintió como 40 años.

Se sintió como una semana.

Oye, como pasa el tiempo.

¡Feliz 14 de setiembre!

A Bit About Peru: Parties

In an email to a friend in the states, Becca realized she needed to explain a couple of things about her life in Peru and so began a series of informative pieces about Becca’s life in Peru.

She wrote:

A Bit About Peru: Parties

From what I gather, there are two primary types of parties, the first being a formal engagement to celebrate a community-wide event or holiday, and the second to celebrate a more personal event like a birthday, funeral, or marriage.

The Stages of a Typical Formal Party in Cruz del Medano:

1.  Everyone gathers in the party area but nothing really happens until 30-60 minutes after the official start time. Note that gathering means there is a decorated tent with chairs arranged in a U-shape in the front for the "VIPs" such as the mayor, heads of various offices, police, teachers, and other authorities. Everyone else gathers in a crowd facing the VIP section.

2.   When the party starts there is an announcer on a huge sound system (we're talking 30-40 speakers) who announces the event, the purpose, all of the VIPs and profusely thanks God and all the saints for everything under the sun. Often there's a short prayer.

3.   Singing of the National anthem.

4.   At a minimum 5 people make long speeches thanking God and all the saints.

5.   The speaker makes another long speech thanking God and all the saints as drinks are passed out and there's a toast

6.   Food is served first to the VIPs and then to everyone else. Everyone who receives food is expected to dig in but it is acceptable to bring a bag and take your food home with you.

7.   Beer bottles are handed out and drinking circles* begin. Then comes the other alcohol drinks; chicha (fermented corn drink) and sometimes pisco, whiskey, and jonki (grain alcohol). Everyone drinks. [At this point and after, it's acceptable to duck out and go home]

8.   Dancing and a general good time

Note that the whole process if you stay for 1-2 dances takes about 2-3 hours but can last for days.

A typical non-formal party will include many similar aspects but in a less formal manner (shocker):

The Stages of a Typical Non-Formal Party in Cruz del Medano:

1.  Everyone gathers in the party area (a large, decorated tent set up in the street in front of the house) and things slowly get started. Rather than a VIP section, there is usually a table for the person being celebrated and their family near a large table for decorations and the cakes that people take photos in front of.

2.  Sometimes there is an announcer or entertainer and sometimes there isn’t, either way there is a sound system equal in sheer force to that of a formal party.

3.  The music starts early but people usually don’t start dancing for quite a while, leaving a lot of time to sit around the outside of the tent and stare at each other.

4.  Food is served first to the family and close friends and then to everyone else. Everyone who receives food is expected to dig in but it is acceptable to bring a bag and take your food home with you.

5.  Beer bottles are handed out and drinking circles* begin. Sometimes there is also chicha, whiskey, or jonki. Everyone drinks.

6.   At a minimum the guest of honor and their family will make speeches thanking God and all the saints. At some parties there are speeches long into the night, at others there are very few.

7.   Dancing and a general good time

* Drinking Circle: A large bottle of beer is passed around a circle of typically 5-6 men, though women are sometimes included. There is one glass. The process is you pour yourself a glass, offer the bottle to the next person who accepts and holds it while you drink (chug) your glass which you then shake out and hand off to the bottle holder, they repeat the action. From what I can tell, drinking circles go on forever, I think there is a drinking circle from 1968 still happening on my street.

***This is clearly only the perspective of one volunteer in one area of Peru, Becca doesn’t claim to know everything, or even anything really...

My Toenails Aren’t Growing (And Other Concerns)

One evening after a far-too-long long day,

I stretched out on my bed to drift away,

Then looked down at my feet,

A strange thought I did meet,

My nails haven’t changed since last May...

Surely the polish had started to chip,

But all sign of growth had taken a dip,

When I glanced at my fingers,

Where polish yet lingers,

I found the same thing on those tips.

For that matter where did these bumps come from,

And my ears have developed a permanent hum,

My knee hurts when I hike,

My shoulders when I bike,

And my tailbone’s now permanently numb.

Some days there’s a quick sprint to the bathroom,

On others I long for the need for that zoom,

When with other PCVs*

It’s topics like these,

Make me wonder if I’ll ever find a groom.

In the mornings I wake with a sore throat and back,

I think that I’m shrinking from the calcium I lack,

Do I have a parasite,

I think that I might,

The cure will surely be watching TV on my mac.

All of my hair is turning grey or falling out,

I have six new moles from cancer no doubt,

Host mom says it’s the cold,

Or that my coffee’s too bold,

Oh and I’m sure I’m developing gout.

It’s crazy though, each day I’m sure that I’m dying,

But if I said I’d like to go home, I’d be lying,

Toenail growth or no,

Toilets as friend or foe,

When I leave here I know I’ll be crying.

*Peace Corps Volunteers

Higado

It was no secret that Becca had had a rough start to her Peace Corps service, or perhaps it was to some, either way, times had been less than desirable in those early months. But a strange sort of shift had started within her that she couldn’t have seen coming. 

The day that she did finally notice it left her in a brilliant mixture or glee and total shock. Sitting at lunch with two friends, Monica and Gina, during vacation, Becca ordered a menu which consisted of soup, a main course and a drink. As they chit-chatted, the truth came out.

“I really like this place and it’s so sunny, I feel like I never---,” Monica began.

“Score!” Becca exclaimed staring into her soup. Sifting through with her spoon for a moment, she revealed a small, smooth, brownish blob. “I got higado*! I love higado!” She plopped it in her mouth and grinned wildly as she chewed.

“Becca...” Monica began, but stopped short, running out of whatever thought she’d had as she watched Becca, still enjoying her soup while bopping about to the loud peruvian music playing in the street.

“Oh sorry, I cut you off, what were you saying?” Becca said innocently.

“Are you dancing?” Monica asked, still confused.

“How can you not dance to this music? It’s so catchy, I love this song,”

“Becca...” Monica began again. “Who are you right now?”

Becca paused for a moment and looked at her grinning friend and found herself confused for a moment as well. In a matter of months the girl who never danced and would have blanched at the thought of higado was...well, this...? “I have no idea, I’ll keep you posted,” she answered and finished her soup.

*Higado = Liver

Frazzle Dazzle

She felt it coming on slowly, crawling under her skin and scratching at her senses every day until she could no longer deny it. Her slightly lumpy bed had become the ultimate destroyer of comfort and rest, power outages turned from daily distraction to grand ruiner of work, slight aches and pains transformed to debilitating diseases and undeniable ailments, delayed home-skype dates ate away at her sanity. There would be no more denying it: it was time for a vacation.

Luckily, the final days of July brought a long awaited return to Ancash where Becca would trek, explore, and generally laugh her face right off with her two amazing friends, Gia and Michelle. As the final days passed, she tried to finish strong. She presented her project plan to the schools and formed a committee to move forward her teen health promotors project and she visited the houses of the moms in her healthy homes project, which lucky for her meant some seriously cute kids. And nothing helps a frazzled mind more than adorable children:

Except of course....a vacation.

Progress

            Becca sat at her desk and glancing at the time found that it was already nearly noon. She wondered absently where the morning had gone but really more importantly, what the bejeezus had just happened. She was exhausted and honestly working on what was going to be a spectacular headache but underneath all of that was this beautiful feeling of accomplishment.

            She had her very first committee meeting for her Healthy Homes project. People showed up, were interested, stayed the whole time, and had a discussion about the possible problems and good points of the project. Granted only four people saw her presentation but eventually more came and eventually they talked.

            She would have to have another meeting to present to more authorities but she found that once she had some of these people on board, she had help with getting more. They had shown genuine interest, they’d told her her ideas were not only valuable but crucial, they’d laughed at her jokes.

            It took nearly seven months and a site-mate, but dan it if things weren’t coming together. Now it was just a year of constant work for the project plus all of the same things for her second and third projects. No big. She took a breath and reveled in a moment of progress.

Obligatory Site-Mate Post (Or: I wish I knew how to quit you)

It had been a rough six months. Actually calling it rough was sort of like calling the Cold War a brief misunderstanding. She’d felt so many emotions in such a short stretch she wasn’t certain even the highest trained psychiatrist would have been able to keep up. And finally, just when she’d hit a breaking point, just when everything was too stagnant, just when she was ready to bail on everything and fly home (if nothing else so she’d finally get to see Star Trek in English), it all shifted. Though, she’d already explained that part.

After a couple of weeks, Becca was still overwhelmed but overall pretty darn happy. She was organizing projects to teach rural mothers about nutrition and early childhood stimulation, to create and manage groups of youth sexual health promoters, to work with a group of 10-11 year old girls playing volleyball and talking about girls empowerment, to organize a monthly conference for English teachers in her district...yeah she had some work ahead of her. Things were looking up.

What she hadn’t accounted for was that her site-mate, Lily, might not be having the same experience. It was too easy to forget that people are different, they react different, they’ve been through different experiences, and they want different things. Lily’s call that Friday afternoon was a surprise but it really shouldn’t have been. She’d been offered a job, an amazing opportunity in the United States and she’d taken it. Becca knew right away that this was best for everyone; Lily hadn’t been happy, she hadn’t been able to do the work she wanted to do and that wasn’t fair, she needed to do what was best for her. In turn, Lily’s departure would mean an easier time for Becca in the community as well. But even though logic said it was all perfect, Becca felt that familiar goodbye feeling in the pit of her stomach.

This wasn’t like high school graduation where she’d never said a big goodbye so it felt like the end of the world - Becca had been through her share of goodbyes. That didn’t make it easy. She got to spend a couple of days with Lily and then wished her well that Sunday afternoon as Lily left for Lima where she would catch a plane back to the US.

When Becca returned to site that Sunday night it felt different but still the world kept spinning.

Teach

Soy Profesora.

It had become a stock answer for Becca when people asked when her career was. Though it was technically a lie (she didn’t hold a certification), the more classes she taught, the more lessons she planned, the more joking moments she shared with a class full of nervous and excited teenagers, the more she felt like she was a teacher. So maybe it wasn’t a lie or maybe it was, she only knew two things for sure: 1) It was a heck of a lot easier than explaining for degree, schooling choices and experience, and; 2) She liked it when everyone in town started calling her profesora.

La Princesa de Agua

It was a day like any other; the sun so hot you’d think you were an egg in a frying pan, with a lunch of equal temperature. Bu ton this day, Becca learned a crucial lesson: if the sun doesn’t getcha, your 15 your sister will.

Looking back on it all later, she remembered those first seconds in a slow motion parody of the pain they brought: the smiles turning to screams, the hysterical laughter, those first few droplets of water hanging in the air like tiny astronauts. And that was how the war started; the great water war of ’13.

With just a passing flick of dishwater, they were off. Sandra turned to Becca with a cup full of water, giggling madly and they both ran into the house. Thanks to a mother who wouldn’t stand a wet floor, both girls walked away unscathed and un-soaked, at least for that day. 

The next day as Becca returned home for lunch in the heat of the day, Sandra reminded her that payback is indeed unpleasant. As she stepped into the brick, roof-less room, she didn’t have a second though. She never saw the bucket coming from over the wall. When she opened the door seconds later it was to the laughter of her sisters as she stood sopping wet and holding up a soaked roll of toilet paper. In a flash, Becca dove for a pitcher of water and threw it on Sandra who was having trouble deciding between laughter and screams. Lucky for Becca, the northern sun dries out volunteers in mere minutes so she arrived at the health post an hour later completely dry. 

That night Becca’s host mom pulled her into the kitchen, speaking in hushed whispered,

“Hija, tienes que mojarse la Sandra,” she said, her mouth was fixed in a serious line but her eyes flashed with a dangerous sense of mischief. (You have to throw water on Sandra)

“Pero cuando, mami? Y como?” she replied quickly, casting a glance at the doorway. (But when, mom? How?)

“Mañana, cuando estas saliendo a Lima, voy a ayudarte, hijita,” she grinned a knowing grin and winked before leaving the room. (Tomorrow, when you’re leaving for Lima, I’m going to help you.)

The next morning Becca would be leaving for a week-long training in Lima. The next morning she would carry out her mother’s plan. The next morning spelled revenge. Or so she thought.

She awoke early with dreams of payback dancing in her head as she packed her bags and ate breakfast. She worked at the post for a few hours before returning to a quiet house. As she entered the front room where she first spotted a full pitcher on the table and then made eye contact with her mother who mouthed “ahora, hijita” (now) and nodded toward the water. But Becca learned a lesson that day, just a little too late: it is not what you see, but what you fail to see that wins a war.

What Becca didn’t see was her family unusually congregrated in the hallway. When Becca didn’t see was Sandra standing behin a curtain in the hallway. What Becca didn’t see was the time Sandra had spent poking holes in the cap of a water bottle to create a makeshift squirt gun. 

It all happened in too fast and too slow. Sandra sprung from behind the curtain, grinning wildly. She aimed and fired before Becca could even think to lunge for the pitcher on the table. In an instant she was hit, wheeling backwards screaming, “¡Nooooooo!”

A moment passed and in Sandra’s triumphant laughter, Becca found the strength to grab the pitcher. This time Sandra was hit. And if only the war had ended there...but alas, the fighting wore on until few stood dry.

It felt like hours later, the soaked floor was littered with pitchers, cups, and bottles, discarded in the fray. Both girls stood soaked and giggling, worn out from a collision of adrenaline and the heat of midday. 

Twenty minutes later when they’d both dried out a bit and Becca was leaving for Lima, each of her family members hugged her goodbye, saying kind words so mixed with laughter and worry that they could have made her heart explode with love. 

“Chao, hijita, a dios,” (Bye, with God) her mother said seriously and as Becca turned to leave, Sandra chimed in.

“¡A dios de agua!” (With the god of water!)

Un-Posed Facebook Statuses

Becca didn't regularly update facebook anymore and statuses were generally a thing of the past. This was largely because of her lack of consistent internet but as she considered the statuses that had run through her head as possibilities, she thought perhaps internet wasn't the only reason...

What's on Your Mind, Becca?

If you're not sweating, I'm mad at you

If you're cold, I'm mad at you

If you don't have sand in your teeth, I'm mad at you

If you aren't eating rice, I'm mad at you

If you understand everything people around you say, I'm mad at you

If you don't wake up with confusing bug bites, I'm mad at you

If you're a rooster and don't know that 11 pm is not sunrise, I'm mad at you

If you're a donkey, I'm mad at you

If you sleep under a blanket, I'm mad at you

If you're a pig...I'm so so sorry....

It had been a rough month...

What´s Your Name?

            “I’m going to speak in English and Spanish today. I’m going to...speak...in English...and...Spanish...today,” Becca said the words slowly and precisely, trying not to laugh at the panicked expressions staring back at her. She explained twice more in English and then broke down each word with the Spanish translation.

            In the day of English Teaching training they’d had, the point had been brought up that language classes should always be taught in the language, but that that was extremely difficult and possibly not realistic. However, Becca had had an amazing Spanish teacher in the beginning of her training, Pilar. Pilar had never once broken into English to explain anything, she’d painstakingly explained and reexplained, used hand motions and generally done everything possible to pound Spanish into her brain. So standing in front of a bewildered class of eleven to fifteen year olds, she pushed forward in what she thought of as 80% English (she wasn’t as good as Pilar, but she’d try to get close).

            Whenever she got frustrated or they got frustrated or it was just too hot or the day was too long, Becca had one thought: What would Pilar do? Of course, this usually meant dancing around, yelling, singing, or miming but hey, those kids were going to learn English.

Oh no, Chancho!

        

    Something was making the worse noise Becca had possibly ever heard, something loud. Something was screaming in horrible bursts of terror.

            These were Becca’s first thoughts as she awoke on that Friday morning. As she swam into consciousness she recognized the sound; one of the pigs was pissed. Wait, no, not pissed, scared. She checked her watch, 6:03 am, too early for scared pigs. She rolled over and tried to ignore the sound but the pig just got louder and louder until Becca was certain it was actually inside her room.

            And then the sounds swiftly changed; screaming, screaming, gurgling, gurgling, nothing. Her early morning world was silent again but she found herself laying wide eyed on her bed unable to drift back into peaceful slumber.

On a completely unrelated note...

            Chancho* was served late that night at her Aunt’s birthday party, Becca could only stare at it in the bowl blankly. Luckily, the night was mostly consumed with dancing, drinking and making faces at her niece, Grace. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

            Like most really important events, Becca was informed during lunch that there was going to be a party that evening and she had to attend. That night, her sister grabbed her arm and pulled her outside without explanation. When they reached the door of her aunt’s house, Mireli whispered excitedly,

            “Mariachi,” she pointed down the street and sure enough a Mariachi band was walking toward them; two guitars, two trumpets, and a female singer all dressed in black and gold. As they started playing their first song, Becca found herself grinning wildly. Somehow, this music that she’d at least heard a few times in her life, felt so good, felt so...familiar. She laughed softly to herself at the fact that Mexican music felt like home.

            They played for an hour and then the food was served. Becca avoided dinner by playing with her niece who bounced back and forth between being her best friend and crying when she got too close. This was a typical dance they did. When Grace’s love ran out, Becca’s aunt insisted that they drink whiskey and jonki in celebration of her birthday; a proposal no one could say no to. After some imbibing, Becca’s Uncle Alex asked her to dance, and then another uncle, and then her aunt, and then another aunt until she finally had to sneak away and find a seat.

            One of her cousins offered her beer and feeling just fine, she drank a glass. At this, Becca’s host mom who had been watching decided it was time to go and pulled her outside.

            “I’m worried about you, hijita, that was a lot of beer, you should go sleep now,” she said. Becca looked at her watch; 11 pm and she’d danced, drank, and said her thank yous and happy birthdays. She smiled, hugged her mom and went upstairs. It was hours before the music stopped and at least three episodes of How I Met Your Mother before Becca slept but the next morning, she found that she wasn’t woken until eight.

*Pig

(Pictures: aunts and cousins. the famous sobrina Grace, mariachi!)

New Years (or: doll burning 101)

Becca’s New Years was...well, it was weird. Much in the same manner as Christmas Eve, Becca waited around most of the evening while everyone drifted in and out of sleep (including her). By 11, she’d had it and went off to the park where there was some kind of show.

When she arrived, Lily and some of their local friends were waiting, she greeted them all.

“You didn’t miss much, I can’t understand the woman at all and they just made fun of me for being the only gringa in the crowd. Welcome to the party!” Lily said with a big fake smile.

Becca looked to the stage and saw a man and woman dancing and drinking beer, however she quickly realized the woman was in fact a man in a dress and wig. He was indeed talking in a voice that Becca couldn’t understand at all. Feeling a little confused, Becca turned to their friend Karina who quickly explained.

“El es el año viejo y a las doce el va a morir por que el año viejo ha terminado,” she said. (He is the old year and at midnight he’s going to die because the old year has ended.)

“Y ella?” Becca asked. (And her?)

“Su esposa, estan hablando que ella esta ebarazada pero es una broma,” Karina said. (His wife, they’re saying that she’s pregnant, but it’s a joke).

“Por que?” (Why?)

Karina shrugged and laughed a little before turning back to the show. The “couple” danced around a few more times.

“They said that the old man was going to run away with me because I’m a gringa,” Lily added.

“Well of course,” Becca agreed. 

“Hola Rebecca!” startled, Becca turned to see her thirteen year old cousin, Alex grinning at her.

“Hola, que haces aqui?” she grinned back. (What’re you doing here?)

He didn’t answer, instead put his hand in his pocket and, his grin extending even further than she thought possible, he pulled it out showing her a hand full of small fireworks. He tossed one toward the stage and it went off with a loud crack startling several people. He grinned again and waved a quick wave,

“Chao,” he said and ran off.

Just before midnight, they all parted ways and headed home, agreeing to meet up later at the concert in the park. When Becca arrived home, her mom was passing out grapes, to be eaten for good luck, her dad was finishing dressing up the life-sized doll he had made for the family, and her sisters were preparing the silly string and spray snow. And as the clock struck 12 (or the cell phone blinked 12 as the case may be), the grapes were eaten, the doll was set aflame in the street, and silly string and fake snow flew through the air.

“Feliz Año,” he sister said and hugged her tightly. She was followed by Becca’s other sister, her brother, her mom, her dad, her aunt, her uncle, her cousin, her other cousin, her neighbors...and so on.

Becca gazed down the street, now littered with color and burning dolls and wondered just what the year might bring her.

Stirring

Becca felt a stirring inside her, something was happening in there. For the first time in a long time though, this stirring did not trigger a call to the Peace Corps doctors or a sprinting sort of dance to the latrine. This was different, this wasn’t an illness but a slow cure. Things were changing.

This was after all, part of why she had joined the Peace Corps, why she had left behind family, friends, opportunities, and running water to live in the desert and misunderstand 75% of what is said. It wasn’t all of it, but change was a part of the reason. She wanted a growing up experience, a lesson in humbleness, a chance to appreciate the smallest things (like a loving hug from her two year old niece who mostly just screams, cries, and hits people - usually Becca). It was all well and good, the growing and the changing, except for one thing. She’d somehow forgotten that change is no easy process; that all of those gears and cranks inside her, constantly shifting around and transforming was going to hurt a little. It simply couldn’t be avoided.

She’d been told a million times that this experience wouldn’t always be fun, and in fact sometimes it would seem downright unbearable. There would be times when she sat in her room and cried, feeling like she simply wouldn’t survive two years of it and times when she would be frustrated, angry, and exhausted to a point of near madness. But every last bit of it, every second of pain, tears, excitement, happiness, hope, and change was important. Important in ways she understood and a lot more she didn’t yet, but eventually would.

For now, Becca sat back and tried to keep in mind that two years was a long time, plenty of time to let the gear grind until she came out the other side.

Morose

            Becca was feeling morose and perhaps a bit deflated. Maybe it was the holidays, or the lack of snow, or maybe it was receiving communication from some one at home she wasn’t yet quite ready to talk to, or the heat, or the language barrier, or illness that had persistently ravaged her digestive system for over a week. The Peace Corps doctors had a theory that with all of the factors of daily life in the campo, it was nearly impossible to figure out what exactly made you sick. Becca was beginning to think that applied to her mental health as well.

            She could already feel herself burning out hard; feeling that she couldn’t get anything accomplished, that she’d never learn Spanish, that she wasn’t going to be a good volunteer. How could this all be hitting her during month four...when she still had 23 more to go? Rationally, she knew it was likely normal, that nothing she was feeling was new, but the rational part of her was tired.

            She resigned herself to creating a new work plan, talking to more people, finally running in the mornings, talking to other volunteers, and remembering that time is all relative. It wasn’t a total fix but it was going to have to work. And in those moments when she really struggled she remembered the words of another volunteer; that everything passes in a few days, if you’re sad for a few days, wait, it’ll get better. She believed it would.

Ode to My Stomach Bug

To my dearest stomach bug,

I hope you’re feeling oh so smug,

I still don’t know what brought you here,

But I can’t wait until you disappear,

My darling stomach bug

You came upon a weekend eve,

Now a week gone, you will not leave,

And so I try every kind of pill,

To see my luck and hopefully kill,

My darling stomach bug

I’d heard about you long before,

In stories of volunteer lore,

But not until you came to me,

Did I understand you, horribly

My darling stomach bug

Fever, fatigue, a whole lot more,

With me you had to start this war,

And so I feel like a useless zombie,

Mainly when I’m on a combi,

My darling stomach bug

I tried the cipro to kill you off,

But after three days I heard you scoff,

“The fever and fatigue, it might be dead,

But I’ll never leave your aching head,

Love,

Your stomach bug”

And so you stayed true to your word,

And left me without a solid turd,

As I sit at dinner trying not to puke,

It’s you, my friend, I would rebuke,

My darling stomach bug

But just you wait, oh stomach friend,

Tomorrow it will all come to an end,

Because I’m planning to place a call,

Doctor Jorge will solve it all,

My darling stomach bug

Las Mayas!

On the morning of the end of the world, Becca awoke to a house without electricity, only she didn’t realize it. She awoke to a house without water, but didn’t realize that one either. It was well into breakfast before anyone mentioned these things. Her father told her matter-of-factly that both had been out since nine the previous night. Becca laughed at herself for failing to notice either resource was absent from the house as she spent the morning washing her clothes in buckets of stored water.

            Conversation the entire morning centered on the impending doom of the day, December 21, 2012. For weeks people had been asking her if she believed it and she always laughed. She thought of explaining the leap year argument but always opted for a joke instead which was typically well received. She wondered if things might be different if the prediction was Incan and not Mayan...though they probably wouldn’t be.

            At breakfast her host mom turned to her,

            “Rebecita, es el ultimo dia del mundo, no?” she asked. (Rebecita, it’s the last day of the world, no?). Becca turned to her without skipping a beat,

            “No, mami, solo es el electricidad, no te preoculpes,” she grinned and they all chuckled. (No, mom, it’s just the electricity, don’t worry).

            At the end of breakfast, Sandra, Becca’s sister, caught a serious case of the giggles and nearly spit her apple juice all over the entire family. This set the rest of them off except Becca’s host mom who looked at Sandra, straight faced and told them all that it was the last day of Sandra being sane if nothing else.

            The rest of the day, besides being hotter than the inside of a feverish cow, went along as usual. The power and water eventually returned. At the end of dinner, they all sat watching news coverage of what was now being called “the beginning of a new era” rather than the end of the world. Suddenly a loud crashing and banging started above their heads and they all turned to the ceiling.

            “Las Mayas!” Becca’s sister, Mireli cried in feigned terror and they all laughed.

            “Solo gallinas,” her other sister whispered seeing Becca’s confusion. Thank goodness chickens didn’t bring the end of the world and neither did the Mayans, two years cut short of this hilarity would be tragic.

Broken Bread

There are few things in the world worse than being sick, and not just kind of sick, but “actually concerned about having to confront the grim reaper about staying on the planet” sick. It was on a lovely, sunny Sunday afternoon that Becca was harshly reminded of this and learned of new things: one of those things in the world that’s worse is being that level of sick in a foreign country on an outing with your sisters and not being about to explain it to anyone effectively.

Saturday night ended with stomach cramps but Becca ignored them thinking they’d pass, Sunday brought worsening pain, headache, and eventually fever and complete deliriousness. And so she told the doctor over the phone what was happening and he prescribed her medicine which he said would make her nauseous but farther from death, though Becca wasn’t entirely sure what he said for certain because the human brain doesn’t do well over 102 degrees.

This was how Becca’s week began. On Sunday, her body broke.

And on Monday, her watch broke.

What Am I Doing Here?

Sitting in the back room of the health post amongst the old exam tables, desks, and stacks of folders, Becca thought about her life decisions. Every morning she awoke with the same thought: wha, where am I? Oh Peru, right, ok. I need to brush my teeth. I live in Peru. Cool. It’s almost time for breakfast, I need to get downstairs. I live in Peru. What the hell did I do? Who decides to move to Peru? Two years.

But as she descended the stairs each morning or her new home, having changed into her scrub top, jeans, and hiking boots and was greeted by her host mom, Estefa, those wonderings began to evaporate. The questions weren’t answered so much as simply forgotten as she carried on living her life. 

“Hijita, toma tu leche,” he mom told her, handing her a large mug of fresh, warm milk that had been mixed with bananas. “Hace frio, necesitas tomar tu leche, no quieres un resfrio,” she said and she watched Becca down the drink. (*difficult to translate term of endearment,* drink your milk. It’s cold, you need to drink your milk, you don’t want a cold.)

Becca had considered explaining that it wasn’t all that cold and that she wouldn’t get sick from not drinking milk in the morning, but given that she’d gotten sick the day she arrived, on a day she hadn’t had milk in the morning, she decided not to argue. Host mother knows best.

She had a quick meal of bread, eggs, and “coffee” (Peruvians in the north like their coffee weak and sweet, Becca referred to it often as brown sugar-water) and then walked back to the kitchen and thanked her mom. 

“Voy a la posta pero voy a regresar a las doce y media para almuerzo,” she told her mom. (I’m going to the [health] post but I’m coming back at 12:30 for lunch.)

Her mom reached up and put an arm around her, hugging her close, “Ya, te quiero, mi hija, te quiero mucho,” she said. (Ya, I love you, my daughter, I love you a lot.)

As she rocked back and forth in an old wheelchair in the health post much later, waiting for her coworkers to arrive, she grinned. Who’s thoughts are rational when they first wake up? These two years were going to be good.

Despedidas

In the 10 weeks since she’d walked into their home, wide-eyed and practically unable to communicate, MamaGloria, Lucho, and Felipe had given Becca more than she could say. She couldn’t say that they’d even been strangers when she arrived. Perhaps it was their kindness or patience, maybe their eagerness to make her feel at home (or that one time that didn’t laugh too hard when she locked herself in the bathroom), but no, they had never been strangers. They’d been her family from the very beginning.

And so when the final week of training came and her visit to Lambayeque was finished, she was both excited to see her family again and dreading the following goodbyes. Her final week had also been changed around in order for more training time so she didn’t get to live with her family the last week.

On Wednesday, she visited them so that she could spend a little time with them and pack her things. Being gone for so long, the house felt strange, like maybe it wasn’t hers anymore. She greeted MamaGloria, had a quick chat and then went to her room to pack up her things. After about an hour, she returned to the living room where MamaGloria was ironing. They both smiled.

“Quieres cafe y un pansito Rebecita?” she asked. (Would you like coffee and bread, Rebecita?)

They sat for the remainder of her time there, just over three hours, and talked about everything they could think to talk about. As she felt the tears forming in her eyes, Becca reminded herself that she would see her family again. Though it wouldn’t be quite like this again.

Just after six, Lucho entered the dining room and told them that the taxi was out front. They helped her with her bags and MamaGloria packed her a bottle of water and an orange. She hugged both parents, who she’d see at the going away party the following day and then Felipe, who she had to say a real goodbye to. Her wished her luck and told her she’d do great. They took a few pictures and then she jumped in the cab, waving and trying not to cry. 

On Thursday, the group returned to their training center for a Dia de Accion de Gracias (Thanksgiving) lunch with the staff and then a Host Family party in the afternoon. The entire afternoon was a blur of kind words, good food, hilarious commentary, and awful goodbyes. Becca sat with her parents and they all laughed through a talent show and chatted to each other, trying to ignore the impending goodbye. 

In the end, it was pretty quick, hardly painless, but at least quick. Knowing they Lucho would be attending the Swearing In Ceremony the following day, she focused on saying goodbye to MamaGloria, a woman who had been a mom and a friend to her for almost two months. The woman who had packed her amazing decorated lunches, who had taught her how to properly hand wash her clothes, and who had taken the time every night to talk with her, help her with homework, and watch whatever was on discovery. 

MamaGloria hugged her, kissed her, and told her a lot of wonderful things. They both had tears in their eyes but smiles on their faces as Becca watched her host parents walk out of the center. In a lot of ways it was like ripping off a bandaid; it was quick, for one, but there was also a delay. There’s always that delay, that couple of seconds where you don’t yet feel the pain, just a strange kind of shock. 

On Friday, the entire Peru 20 group traveled to Lima with all of their luggage, checked in to two hostels, stored their bags, and went to the residence of the US Ambassador for the official swearing in ceremony. They entered in a line, greeting program directors, language facilitators, fellow volunteers, and finally took their seats in the front of a long room, closest to the podium. Becca turned around to inspect the audience and immediately found Lucho, sitting in his suit, hands folded. She caught his eye and they both smiled and waved.

The ceremony was a blur of recognitions, speeches, and good thoughts. Afterward, the group took photos with their program departments, and as a whole with the Ambassador. And after that their was time to talk, time to spend with family, time to say goodbye. Becca stood with Lucho for a long time, talking about little things, talking just to talk. Friends came by and said their goodbyes, everyone ate delicious, tiny foods served on big silver trays.

Becca felt a stroke of panic when host families started filing out, knowing it was time to say the last goodbye. She was thinking it was kind of silly, all of these goodbyes, knowing that they would see each other again in a few months when she came back for a few days of In-Service Training. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that it would simply never be like this again, never so perfect. That thought mingled with the feeling that she didn’t really know how to say thank you to her perfect family. She had imagined that the language barrier would be her main issue, but it turned out to be a lack of words in any language. Sometimes the words don’t exist and there is no long speech to give to tell them thank you.

And so Becca hugged her host dad and he kissed her on the cheek. When they pulled back, they were both crying. 

“Gracias,” Lucho said and Becca peeped the same in reply. She had a feeling that was all that could really be said, as she watched him walk out the door.