Choclo, Salsa, and the Money Dance (Weekends)

(Pic: Top, The Inka market in Pisac. Bottom, Julia and Me with our choclo. Yum.)

January 24, 2009...

Weekends here are so good. I get a nice sleep-in, lots of good reading time and, of course, more Cusco. Last weekend began with Cusco. Friday night dancing at a salsa club (discotec) in Plaza de Armas. Saturdays seem to be for catching up with yourself. Resting, walking about in an exhausted haze, taking more pictures of everything. Every street, every shop, every fountain, every vista. Sunday I rode the bus to Pisac with Julia for the Inka market (which is listed in my Lonely Planet guide book as one of the top 10 things to do in Peru, and Lonely Planet is supposed to be the best...thank you Amanda!) I went nuts. I spent about 120 soles, which is only about 40 bucks, but it felt like alot. I won´t describe to you what I bought, because some of the things may or may not be gifts, but trust me when I say the temptation to buy everything in sight was atrocious. It was a shopaholic´s dream; a labrynth of fabrics and colors and precious stones and metals and figurines and strange-but-awesome hats. And on the outside are vendors with all kinds of fruits and vegetables...spices, meats, fish, choclo with cheese (choclo is giant, monster, mutant corn and the best thing about it, besides the taste, is that it doesn´t get stuck in your teeth).

You do the money dance with every vendor: They start at 40 soles, you offer 15, they laugh at you but come down to 35, you chuckle and shake your head and say 20, they release a frustrated little sigh (you´re winning now, but you knew you were going to) and say 30, to which you reply again with 20 (no más) and they say no way, so you turn to leave (with a hidden grin because this is the moment of victory...), but they come after you and say fine. 22. It´s a deal. After several instances of the money dance, Julia and I bought choclo from a vendor and sat in a cafe and ate. We had planned to meet up with the rest of the bunch at three at Ulrike´s Café for her famous cheesecake (also denoted in Lonely Planet, it´s that good), and watch movies on the television upstairs until eight (there are some places with a television and massive stock of dvd´s, and you´re free to sit in them and watch movies while you eat). Time to head back to Urubamba because 8:30 is about the time that the buses stop running.

...Another week of classes, with quiz night (every Wednesday at this great local café/restaurant called The Muse) and Anke´s despedida (she left Saturday)....

This weekend was even better. Friday night Sophia and I rode out to Cusco together, met up with Anke for dinner and headed to Izakaya for salsa dancing, and for her to meet up with her Peruvian boyfriend, Charlie. Charlie is a salsa instructor (that´s how she met him) and Charlie has friends. Jon, Giovani, Rayme, and Carlos. Throughout the night, I always had a dance partner and it was the best thing ever because these guys are straight out of Dirting Dancing Havana Nights. They twirl you around the floor and all you have to do is focus on your two-step. This gets complicated though, when they start speaking into your ear; trying to hear them in the first place, then to understand them, then to construct your reply all the while your mind is simultaneously attempting to send signals to your feet...one and two, three and four...

We were out dancing until 5:00am, conversing in Spanish, dancing salsa, having laughs and make-shift English lessons. They were so nice and fun, and they invited us back for next weekend. So I´ve made Peruvian friends! It´s such a thrill to know that the next time I walk into Izakaya, I´ll greet them and they´ll greet me and the fun will resume.

The next morning was rough. Asleep at five, up by nine, out of the hostel by ten (check-out time). I had planned to go to Pisac again, this time to see the ruins there. That´ll have to be another weekend. I was just too exhausted. After the bus ride back to Urubamba, I spent the rest of the day sleeping and reading. Sunday was nice, had a picnic with my family for lunch and then met up with Sophia at The Muse. We drank their giant mango drink and played Set and watched various locals and tourists go in and out.

Weekends here are so good.

A Day in the Life

(Pic: Top, My bedroom. Bottom, Me teaching.)

Your alarm goes off at 6:00 or 6:20 depending on whether you´re showering that day. You put on your iPod (and thank goodness you brought it...music is that perfect little piece of home when you need it) to play Soul Puppet or Ingrid Michaelson or John Mayer, and brush your teeth using a bottle of water. Swipe your face clean with one of the cleansing towelettes you brought. Throw on a dingy pair of jeans--it´s about time to do laundry--a t-shirt, your fleece, sneakers, check the 4-by-4 inch mirror to make sure your bed-head isn´t shockingly horrendous, grab your bag stocked with survival necessities plus the day´s lesson materials, and head to breakfast. Carla has prepared scrambled eggs, and there´s always bread with butter, and coffee--the coffee here is amazing.

You have a brief conversation with her, but still can´t kick the frustrating feeling that you´re stuck in some foreign film, devoid of much-needed subtitles. What´s the conflict? What are these characters deeply like? How do they find their resolution? Someday you´ll look back, and you´ll know. But for now, you finish your breakfast, express sincere gratitude, and walk five blocks to the Projects Abroad office where you meet up with three other volunteers and hop into Edgar´s cab. His son isn´t sleeping in the trunk today, but the seats are soaked with water...hm...the windows must have been left down during last night´s downpour.

You don´t mind the one-hour drive because it´s good thinking time and good picture time. You always rest your camera in your lap, prepared to snap a shot of the ever-changing landscape. Of the perfect patchwork in the quilted sea of hills, rolling off into lazy grayness. It´s different everyday and the beauty astounds you. Unfathomable how the weather can entirely change the look of the same vast plot of land. It all depends on the way the sun filters through the clouds, sporadically illuminating patches of green, or the way the cloud cover hangs low in the air, casting a diffused light over it all. Bright sunbeams pour down on the Andes, and their snow caps, a glowing beacon between land and sky, invite you for the hike of your life; but when a canopy of clouds hangs around them, swirling in close, all you can see are the jutting, jagged peaks, and they warn you to stay away, to stick to the road and the green grass. Everyday is like you´re someplace new and no photograph can do it justice. You marvel. You wish you could print pictures from your memory; or that you could look around and breath it all in and never exhale.

When you arrive at the school, you briefly greet the other volunteers who´ve traveled from towns besides Urubamba, then make your way into class, scheduled to begin at 8:30. Today you´re teaching them about hobbies, to like and to dislike, and reviewing the human body vocab. You teach them Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes and then sing it all together, choreography included. Everyone loves it and it´s so fun, it´s hard to stop laughing. After the half-hour break, from 10:30 to 11:00, the class breaks up into groups and you sit with your section of six (there are 18 in your class), talking about hobbies, which inevitably leads into other conversation. But it doens´t matter--they´re learning English and you´re learning Spanish.

Class is out at half past twelve. All the volunteers walk together to the usual cafe, enjoy a coffee and some lunch for an hour. Then you all walk over to the Cusco Projets Abroad office, which is a cute, miniature Harry Potteresque house with violet dining room walls. You and Monty and Julia prepare the lesson for the next day, which can take anywhere from one to two hours. By four o´clock you´re about ready to head back to Urubamba. Somehow, it´s always five by the time you´ve reached the bus terminal.

You´re home by seven and starving. Generally, you eat dinner with Alejandra and Camila in the pizzeria because Carla is in the kitchen rolling dough for the next order and Marco is still at work. It´s hawaiian pizza tonight. The hawaiian pizza here is like none other, with pineapple that tastes like it´s just been cut open, big fresh chunks in every slice. Again, you express sincere gratitude before heading upstairs to the apartment.

Tonight you have enough energy to spend half an hour drawing with Camila and french-braiding her hair. Then, you journal, read a chapter of Luke, and hit the lights by ten. Tomorrow will be much the same, and yet entirely new.

Roulette

(Pic: Remnants of the strike.)

Will the water run? Will it be warm if it does or will I shiver through another freezing cold shower? (Odds are the latter). Will it rain in ten minutes or will the sun keep shining, making it unnecessary to don my plastic poncho? Will I survive the cab ride to work today? (I always wonder, but it seems Señor Dale Earnhardt Resurrected--actually, our taxi driver´s name is Edgar--manages to manuever out of our near-head-on collision every time). Will I get a seat on the two-hour bus ride home? (Front to back, floor to ceiling, the buses are always packed). Will there be toilet paper in this bathroom? (Public bathrooms almost never have toilet paper...you learn to carry it in your purse at all times, right next to your hand sanitizer...in case the water´s not running).
Contrary to how it may sound, I am not complaining. I am revelling in the adventure. Though I tremble miserably through every cold shower, I can´t help but smirk to myself at the wonderfulness of being here and find gratitude in remembering that some people don´t even have showers. Sometimes, when I´m already lathered and the water pressure has composed itself in likeness to an aquatic strobe light, I don´t mind the glacial temperature...as long as there is another spurt lasting enough to wash the soap off. Oh, but when it´s a hot one, strobing or not, I celebrate beneath the scrumptious, steaming glory.
I absolutely love the sporadic downpours of rain. It feels like I´m trekking through some undiscovered place, despite the hundreds of other people milling about with umbrellas. It leaves the ground shiny and slick, to draw a beautiful reflected image in the cobblestone streets, of the tall, old buildings standing over us. A Friday, after searcing through Cusco for a place to sleep, when my hair and clothes were all wet and I was out of breath and prickling with goosebumps from the cold, it somehow made the hostel into a home; that much warmer, that much safer, that much more welcoming, when I collapsed on my one-night-only bed and sighed...at last.
Taxis are fun and terrifying. First of all, there are no backseat passenger safetybelts. Edgar tends to drive very fast and often passes on a blind curve along the single-lane road to Cusco. When there´s a car coming on the other side, which there often is, I can see the three other volunteers, from the corner of my eye, each bracing themselves for the blow. Just like me. All of our hands clench into fists, knees lock, eyes widen with a thrill of slightly amused fright (slightly amused because this is a daily occurence and we´ve learned by now that Edgar isn´t going to crash--the other reactionary stuff is automatic). Once we´ve swerved safely back into the right lane, we all breathe a sigh of relief and giggle together at our brush with death. The day after the strike was the most frightening. (The people here put on transportation protests to get the government to listen to them. They fill the roads with giant rocks and flaming tree branches, and if you try to pass, they throw stones at your car. This time, they´re protesting against the privitization of water, which will make water healthier and more widely accessible, but expensive. The farmers don´t want to have to pay.) No one travels when there´s a strike like this, so we couldn´t go to work that day. But the remnants of the strike, the day after, were horrendous. It would take ten men to move a boulder that size! Edgar wove in and out of those boulders like a professional, into the left lane, toward the oncoming cars and buses. It was a Mario Kart raceway, with all the triumph of dodging those pesky spikes and banana peels, and coming out, not only in first place, but alive in the end. Another time, Edgar brought his son with him. We were all wondering where the kid would go, since us four volunteers fill up the passenger seating. The trunk. Edgar put his kid in the trunk. Granted, it´s a hatchback, so there was plenty of air to breath. Apparently this is quite common, and Edgar has had a few other trunk passengers since then. I always wonder if they get a discount on their fare.
I actually prefer the buses. Though they take twice as long, I find them less scary, less nausea-inducing. I saw an old lady hock a loogie into one of the window curtains (note to self...never sit beside the windows.) I check my ticket, seat number 19. The aisle. Perfect. I sit next to a hefty woman. The aisle fills up and the man standing at my side is facing away from me, but sort of leaning into my shoulder. I´m sandwiched in between the plump lady and some man´s bum. It was a well-cushioned ride, that one.
Will I get sick if I eat this? (I´m practically a professional now at ignoring stomach aches.) Will I get taken advantage of for being a dear-in-headlights foreigner? (I´ve been taken. Generally just overcharged for bus fare.) Will I get a fake sol back in the change for my 10? (I´m pretty sure I can tell a fake one from a real one now, and take great pleasure in telling the vendor...da me un otro, por favor, este es falso).

Los Voluntarios

(Pic: Top, Plaza de Armas last night. Bottom, Some of us volunteers out and about in Cusco.)

January 18, 2009...
So, there´s Michelle and Anke both from Holland; Sophia from Sweden; Monty, Dulcie, and Katherine all from England; Julia from Scotland; Michael from Pennsylvania; Emily from Bermuda; Chad from Georgia; Sebastian and Jovana both from Australia; Talina from L.A.; and Morgan from Chicago. (This is a combination of teaching, care, and medicine volunteers.) Everyone seems really cool so far. We´ve all been getting along great, mostly getting to know each other this past week while at the Cusco Projects Abroad office, preparing our teaching lessons for the following day. There´s already a ton of banter and joking and giving each other a hard time. Especially about nationality. I´ve noticed alot of patriotism thickening the air. Makes things funny and interesting. I love that these people I´m becoming friends with are from all over the world and I´m not only learning about Peruvian culture, but about their´s as well. Lessons have been going amazingly well. I´ve been paired with Sophia and Katherine to teach the advanced English group. I was a bit bummed that I was placed in this class because it means I use absolutely no Spanish for the majority of the day. (This just in: as of Friday evening I was able to finagle my way into the basic English group. So I´ll be joining that class, with Julia and Monty, as of Monday. And I´ll be forced to use pretty much all Spanish. Yay!) But they are wonderful people, our student English teachers. Our first lesson was on the past tense, with some games and interactive exercises to go along. Friday, Sophia and I printed off the lyrics to ¨We are the Champions¨ by Queen and passed them out to the class. We read through them, reviewed the use of past, present, and future tense, and any metaphorical phrasing. And then, with my ipod and speakers assisting, we all sang it together. It was so fun, belting out that song with the student teachers! And they loved it!

After class ended on Friday and we finished preparing our Monday lessons, we ventured into the main part of Cusco, through the pouring rain, to find a hostel for the night. We needed to accomodate about twelve people and most hostels were booked up. But once we finally arranged our sleeping accomodations, we headed out to eat pizza and dance Salsa at a club in Plaza de Armas! It was awesome! We´d had a Salsa lesson Wednesday night, which I´m sure helped. These lessons and Friday night Salsa outings continue weekly, I´ve heard. So, I´m hoping I´ll come back home una bailarina de Salsa increíble!

Life in Urubamba

(Pic: Candle from the mystery fiesta.)

january 11, 2009 ...
I take it as no coincidence that I´ve been placed in a house with young daughters. Several years ago, on my first of two missions trips to Mexico, I met and bonded with two girls, close in age to Alejandra and Camila. Since then I have always known that an environment most conducive to me learning Spanish would include children. The girls are fascinated with the ipod and speakers I brought. They helped me unpack my bag while listening to Joshua Radin and then the Supremes. They love going through my stuff, which makes for good vocabulary lessons, both ways . When they come across something for which I do not know the Spanish word, I ask ¿como se dice? and they answer. Maquillaje. They then proceeded to apply my maquillaje, and then Camila applied maquillaje to Señor Reginald (whom she carries everywhere with us and has named Lucito).
We went to church today. They are a Catholic family and Alejandra told me she believes in Jesus. The church looks ancient and beautiful. It is high and narrow with a tall, open door to welcome you onto its dusty tile floor. A stone bowl of holy water is at your left when you enter, and then rows of creaky wooden benches sit to each side as you approach the altar; adorned with so many flowers and and a ceramic sculpture, slightly abstract, breathtaking, of outstretched Jesus at the center. Church was packed. Half the congregation was standing. After that we went to a fiesta at Marco´s mother´s house--One thing I have learned is that family here stays here. Both Carla and Marco´s parents live in Urubamba, along with all of their six combined siblings--for his brother´s children. I asked what the party was for...¿cumpleaños? No. I didn´t understand the answer and I still don´t know why so many were gathered together with beer and wine and an amazing meal and new toys for the children (it was like Christmas!). I only know two things.
1) I was given a small candle, encased in wood, with a piece of paper affixed to it, reading ¨Recuerdo de la Misa en Honor al Niño de Praga¨ and then it read the names of the parents and their children.
2) A woman approached Carla and thanked her earnestly for coming. Then they embraced for a long time. When they let go, both had tears in their eyes.
This leads me to a thought that I´ve been trying to push out of my mind: My paperwork from Projects Abroad told me that Marco and Carla have four daughters. The ten-year-old, Maria, is missing from the picture. I have not seen or met her. Perhaps the program made a mistake in the paperwork. Maybe there are only three. I hope so. No one has spoken of Maria, and I´m afraid to ask.
On a lighter note, I had my first random conversation tonight! With a man and woman who run one of the internet cafes. I paid him the one sol (equivalent to 30 cents) I owed him for the hour and he began asking me where I was from, what I´m doing here, etc. I talked to them for probably twenty minutes. Angelo and Laura. They were so nice. He complemented my Spanish, and I really needed that encouragement. I left the internet cafe with a wide smile on my face. It was another small step, though it felt like a big deal, and I walked home proud of myself. It´s been weird these past couple days, having no one to speak English with. I feel like a mute with a migraine; unable to say so much that I wish I could, and in constant concentration, focusing on the Spanish words that seem to be flying around at warp speed. But Angelo and Laura reminded me...one day at a time. I know I´ll get there eventually.

¡Here I Am!

(Pic: Top, Part of the drive to Urubamba. Bottom: The street I live on, also the main street in Urubamba. That peach and blue wall to the right is my home.)

January 10, 2009...

I have successfullly arrived in Cusco! After about 22 hours of traveling (that includes layover time) I was met at the airport by a woman from the staff named Cliona and driven around the main square of Cusco for a little tour. Cusco is stunning and I cannot wait to get back and have a more thorough look around! After that, we drove the 50 mile stretch of winding mountain road to Urubamba, where I am living. All along the road are green pastures, spotted with stone shacks, llamas, cows, donkeys, and sheep, and alot of corn! The green stretches on and on until it meets the incredible span of dark gray Andean mountain peaks. Beautiful! It took about an hour to reach Urubamba via taxi. I thought, initially, because I was placed in central Cusco, that I would be living there. But that is not the case. Urubamba is a tiny town set in a tiny valley with streets that, on occasion, transform into shallow rivers since it´s the rainy season. It is so charming here. Every edge of the town is met by the foothill of a mountain, so that everywhere you look are tall green hills close enough it seems you could reach out and touch them. There are vendors all along the roads, selling bebidas or herbs or ropas. Displaced dogs wander all over the streets, but they are so cute and docile, almost like they´re just people, too, sitting in doorways or strolling allong the way. Urubamba has three beautiful little plazas, with gardens full of flowers, and I can already see myself sitting on one of the benches there, reading a book on a warm day. My family is amazing. I can tell I´ll be so sad to leave them. Carla and Marco (my parents) are very warm and welcoming and their little girls are beautiful and so sweet. Little angels. They have already adopted me as their own, especially Camila, the six year old. She sat next to me and held onto my arm while we watched High School Musical in Spanish. Then, Alejandra (the eleven year old) and Camila showed me around town. The two year old, Marcela, is a doll. She was jumping on me and tickling me and pulling on the collar of my shirt and saying ¨tetas!¨ lol...that was really funny. Marco´s pottery is gorgeous (I´m going to ask him to make me a bowl or mug as a souvenir) and their pizzeria below their apartment is the cutest place! You wold not believe! So, my placement starts monday...they will take us volunteers in a taxi each day to and from the school we are placed at. I´m super excited to meet the teachers I´ll be teaching and to start getting to know the other volunteers! (I haven´t met any of them yet.) More to come...

Nearly There

January 9, 2009...
Sitting in the airport at gate 9, ready to board my final flight to Cusco. I have another couple hours to wait. It´s amazing, the 180 degree difference from the way I felt upon waking this morning. I was so sick with nervousness that I threw up in the airport parking lot. I was trembling, terrified at the thought that I won´t return to my familiar warm bed for several months. Frightened realizing how the language barrier might magnify my loneliness. I even thought to myself, as my mom helped me unload my luggage from the trunk, that I´d already never felt so alone in my life. I don´t know why such fear came over me. But now, 22 hours later, I feel a transcendant peace...loneliness can´t touch me. God is with me on this journey, which became manifest right after I puked; when that hazy, disorienting veil of nausea was lifted. God´s peace has enveloped me. I have become more and more aware, surer and surer, that he is next to me. Even now. Not because of any miraculous occurence but simply because, as I looked around at the Lima airport, bustling with international travelers and spanish-speaking strangers, I didn´t feel alone at all. I couldn´t. I could only smile to myself with insurmountable gratitude for the company I keep. I´m referring to God, of course...but also, a little stuffed bear that Vic gave me just before I left. He is a gray panda about 6 inches tall. He has scriffy-scruffy fur and wears a knitted sweater of forest green with navy and wine trim. It becomes him quite well. I´ve decided to name him Señor Reginald Wellington. I love that one of his ears is noticably larger than the other.
I put Señor Reginald back in my bag and began contemplating other things. Things that, I guess one contemplates during a 6 hour layover from midnight to 6am...I have this gray bag that I take everywhere. It´s my favorite. One of those things that´s worth every penny you spent on it because you use it into the ground. (¿Does that make sense or is it just really late...early?) Anyway, most times my gray bag acts as an oversized purse, weighted only by my wallet, keys, and cell phone, chapstick always, and maybe a pack of gum. And other times, like during traveling times, it is heavily burdened. Weighted with the usual and then some, it acts as a miniature, makshift rucksack. I´ve filled it with 3 books, a spanish-english dictionary, travel documents, a bottle of water, a camera, and some other necessities. As I was standing in line to board my plane, I could feel the heavily weighted straps slung over my shoulder. I looked down at my bag with a pout and offered it a mental apology. And that´s when I began to admire it. I realized that, sure, it´s easier and lighter when it has to carry less stuff. But it´s those really burdensome times, when it´s got lots weighing it down, that challenges the bag and tests its strength, resulting in character. Its pleather fabric is beginning to rip at the hems and tear off in small patches, and little white threads are fraying from the seams. It still carries all my stuff, every day, but now it´s got character. That´s what makes it my favorite, I think. If it never had to carry the heavy stuff, it wouldn´t be unique and special. It would be just like every other bag of its kind.