Robyn in Peru

Final Blog

2011-02-03T15:30:00.000-08:00

Hey y'all.

So ... I got home on Thanksgiving Day, and I'm sorry to admit that I've neglected wrapping up my story. Perhaps it was because I wasn't quite ready to see it close. Or maybe it was sheer exhaustion -- who knows. But I owe some closure at the very least to those who have checked back in with me and followed my adventure in Peru.

Below is the last e-mail I sent after I'd been home for a few weeks. It was the first time that I allowed myself to pause and reflect on what had just happened.

I'm now a full month into my first semester at Tulane University's School of Public Health and Tropical Medicine, where I'm studying for my masters degree in health education and communication. Every day I'm finding my experience in Peru more applicable to my courses, and I'm starting to realize how much my service in PC has shaped me as an adult and chilled me out as a person. New Orleans is an entirely different challenge. But many would say it's not too far from the Peruvian truth, and I look forward to finding that out.

Anyway, thank you for following me when you have. Please feel free to look me up if you're ever in the Big Easy.

Cuídate mucho. Take Care.
-Robyn

12/20/11

I'm sitting at my parents' dining room table. There's two feet of
accumulated snow outside the window, and the windchill is supposed to be -14
today. I couldn't feel further from the hot, dusty, Peruvian town I once
called home.

I've had a month to adjust back to the U.S. I arrived Thanksgiving Day,
where I went straight from the airport to a house full of relatives and
delicious food. It was my first real Thanksgiving in three years, and I ate
my weight in my uncle's venison jerky and mashed potatoes with white gravy.

The whole thing was surreal. It was like I had pressed pause on the remote,
left to go out for an errand, and pressed play again. Little had changed,
like I had never left. And yet, a lot is different. People got married, had
babies, a new president was elected and sworn-in. The country is not the
same as when I left it two years ago.

Even so, as far as culture shock goes, I think I have gotten off easy. No
panic attacks in the grocery store over which cereal to choose. No long
nights curled up in my bed, weeping. Mostly it has been quiet reflection, a
gratefulness that I had the opportunity, and a sadness that it is now behind
me.

Some culture shock has not escaped me, however:

Tap water is amazing. Did you know how awesome it is to have 1. running water ALL DAY and 2. water that is already clean?! You don't have to do anything with it. You don't have to sit and wait for it to boil, and then subsequently cool. You don't have to put it in a plastic bottle and have it sit on your roof for six hours under a hot sun. You don't have to filter it or add chlorine. It's READY MADE. How COOL is that?
Our politicians are absolutely crazy. I have no idea what is going on with our government, and I'm wondering if anyone really does. There's so much fighting and rhetoric and loudly voiced opinions with questionable foundation on both sides. And oh, hey -- Sarah Palin has a TV show now? When did that happen??
And what's with everyone always being on their phones? It's a wonder ERs aren't full of people who have run into walls, fallen into manholes or gotten into wrecks because they wouldn't look up from that little touchscreen.
Also, how did animal hats, pantsless outfits and these "snuggies" become trendy?
I suppose I could also go on a diatribe about the small shocks of watching
America at its height of consumerism. I won't though. We know how fortunate
we are ... And while I imagine it is always good to have a wake-up call, I
won't preach. We are a nation of wanters, takers and buyers. But we also
give. And although Christmas is a time of greed, I saw a lot of compassion
and giving this year, despite hard economic times. And that's something.

In a few days I will be on a plane to New Orleans, where my low-key
transition period will come to a screeching halt, and I'll start my next
adventure at Tulane University's School of Public Health. There, I will get
my masters in Health Education and Communication -- a good way to combine my
journalism and Peace Corps experiences. My life is already packed into two
medium-sized suitcases and a single carry-on. I'm ready to go.

When we were closing our service, a friend asked me this question: What
would I do if I were to wake up on the plane from Miami to Lima to discover
that the past two years had been only a dream?

My initial thought was panic.

It had been two years, two months and 12 days since I left the U.S. to live
in Peru. During that time my feelings flew across the board. I hated Peace
Corps, loved it, lamented it, relished it.

The past six months were some of the greatest of my life. I met some
incredible people, saw amazing things, and I had never felt more at home in
my work. I left Peru with a red, splotchy face and a lot of tears. It was
intense and at times overwhelming, and while I'm grateful to have done it, I
don't know if I'd really want to rewind and do it all a second time. At
least not yet anyway.

Thank you to all who sent me care packages and notes of encouragement. They
kept me smiling when I needed to and reminded me of what great people were
waiting for me back home. Please keep in touch, and if you're ever in New
Orleans, please let me know.

Un fuerte abrazo.

Cuídense mucho (take care),

-Robyn

Sorry ...

2010-09-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

... to be THAT person, but with 2 months left to finish everything up, I've been a little too busy to write. ... Sorry.

Feel free to check out these pictures I posted on Facebook.

Hasta pronto ...

The Harvest

2010-08-23T20:19:00.001-07:00

A milestone, everyone. Our garden now has enough real-live plants to actual make food from it. We made the ceviche with the cilantro we picked. And the spinach salad I made for myself was perhaps the most delicious thing I have ever made ... maybe because I spent two months growing it ...

Ceviche, the traditional dish of my region, is made with raw fish chopped up and bathed in lime juice and salt, with onions and cilantro.

I washed and cut up the Spinach, then added carrots and tomatoes, with a splash of lime and salt and pepper al gusto.

Several awesome things

2010-08-20T05:31:00.000-07:00

Exciting Thing (ET) 1: I have a cat now. She loves me. And my life is so much better because she's in it. I don't even care (yet) that she has fleas.

ET 2: We're doing sessions with men now, and we're getting a lot done. Last night we gave a talk to a sports club in a nearby village, this afternoon we gave a session with the banana exportation workers, and tomorrow night I'm giving one to a mototaxi committee. My MRA (wooden Male Reproductive Apparatus) is coming in handy! (Best five soles I've ever spent.)

ET 3: The carrots in my garden are almost ready to eat!

ET 4: Engineer for the latrines project is coming tomorrow to start the whole They're-Really-Going-To-Get-Latrines thing.

ET 5: My teens are in the midst of doing their community activities. I got to go shopping for beads today for the Message Jewelry their going to make, Saturday we are rehearsing the movie that they are going to be filming very soon, and next week we are walking out to a very rural school to give a Sex Talk.

ET 6: The new health post doctor just approved a space for us to use specifically as a center for health promotion. Which is kind of a big deal because the last doctor (recently promoted to the head of the entire Dept. of Health in Tumbes) wouldn't let us use any spaces because he needed them as unnecessary closets and for future "residents" who would eventually come to live there. Por fin! A doctor who sees the benefit of having health promotion put before people hanging their laundry on the second floor of the health post!

... That last one might have been a little bitter.

:-) At any rate. Lots of exciting things are happening. I'll post more photos when I can!

Quinceñera

2010-08-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

Last night, my host sister, Keysi, turned 15.

Turning 15 is a big deal in Latin American culture. It signifies the entering into womanhood and is usually accompanied by 15 damas, 15 cakes and a really big party.

True to her style though, Keysi decided not to make a huge deal of it. Opting instead to invite family and only a few close friends, with the family computer serving as the DJ. She had three simple cakes -- just enough to feed those present. Her best friend, Patricia, stepped in as her godmother. And she put on a fluffy pink dress just long enough to pose for pictures before changing right back into her jeans and tank top.

I stood mostly in the wings, watching my little host sister flash her cheesy popstar grin and tilt her head slightly to the right for the camera the way she always does. I couldn't believe that just two years before, she'd been this tiny middle schooler in my youth group. Now here she was, wearing lipstick and dancing with her father to the quinceñera waltz.

So grown up.

I stood next to my host mom, Norma, as she gave the traditional toast. And I took the camera from my host brother Samir so he could take his turn to dance with his big sister. I posed for pictures with Keysi behind the cake, and nearly teared up when I saw her coming down the stairs in her beautiful pink dress.

Sparkling. Vibrant. Confident and poised.

Up until that moment, every birthday, wedding, baptism I celebrated here in Peru reminded me of all the ones I was missing back home. But as I stood watching Keysi ... my Keysi ... I realized that this might be the last birthday I ever celebrate with her.

And suddenly, I felt ashamed. How could I have ever considered coming here ... sharing my life with these people, and letting them share theirs with me ... a sacrifice?

The Evil Eye

2010-08-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, I have been rather ... well ... cranky. Easily angered. Bitter. Basically a terrible human being. And all the things that normally make me feel better – venting, exercise, chocolate – weren't working. This, of course, made me even more frustrated ... and more cranky ... and a worse person. It didn't take long for people to notice, and I was soon offered a possible cause for my situation.

The Evil Eye.

Now before I go on. I have to say that I do not believe in The Evil Eye. I believe in science and fact checking and Western medicine. But there are a lot of things that seem crazy but I have faith in anyway, so when someone suggested that El Mal Ojo was afoot, I tried to keep an open mind.

For those unaware, The Evil Eye works something like this. A person or animal shoots a glare at another person or animal, causing them to feel crappy, fall ill or die.

In fact, just last week, a 42-year-old man died suddenly in his home. A few days before, an owl (yes, an owl) had flown into his abdomen, wounding him. He went to the hospital, was given a once over and sent home with some antibiotics. His daughter claims that he was perfectly fine, and then *poof!* he keels over without so much as a word. Most people in my town attribute his death to The Evil Eye given to him by the owl. They accept this as fact; any other explanation would be preposterous. And it makes sense, when you think about it. There aren't many things that would make an apparently healthy 42-year-old man keel over on the spot.

Anyway, I approached the topic with my host mom, Norma. I had a hunch that if, indeed, I was the receiver of The Evil Eye, it was probably given to me by the cat we kind of, sort of abducted to solve our growing rat problem a couple days prior. The one we borrowed against his will and tied to a post in our back yard.

My host mom nodded thoughtfully and suggested a "cleansing ritual" that she would do with her children when they were really young and colicky. She would pass a newspaper over their bodies, breathing a prayer as she did it, and then burn the newspaper. The newspaper would absorb the bad energy, and the ashes, she said, would reveal its source. She told me that the ritual typically is only done on Tuesdays and Fridays. As this was a Wednesday, she wasn't sure if it would work, but she said she'd give it a try.

We went to my room, where she passed the newspaper over me. The paper tickled the soles of my feet, and I started giggling. I checked my host mom's expression to see if my laughing fit had made the entire act void, but she didn't seem to mind.

It didn't take long – a minute, max. And then we went outside to burn the paper. We stood there silently watching the newsprint turn to ash, when suddenly –

"Robyn," she asked. "Do you see the rat?"

I had been looking for the shape of a cat, but lo and behold, there it was. The ashes made the unmistakable form of a rat. Stringy tail and all.

Of course!

For the past few months, the rats have been trying to take over my room. A few days before, I caught one stealing a whole wheat bun from my shelf. We had a good long stare before I clapped my hands and waved my arms to scare it off.

As the realization dawned on me that that rodent had perhaps given me The Evil Eye, I was furious. How DARE that little jerk curse me when he was trying to steal MY wheat bun?

Before I could say anything, Norma guided me back to my room and splashed holy water against all of my walls and doors.

Maybe it was because of the ritual. Maybe it was just the placebo effect, or the nurturing of my host mom. But soon the feelings subsided. The wind came and picked up the ashes, and I felt better. For the first time in days I felt light and happy.

Coincidentally, the cat got loose shortly after, and I brought over another from my former host family's house. Her name is Chilimasa, and she's cuddly and playful. She pushes her face against the mosquito net when I'm about to go to sleep and hangs upside down from the rungs of my chairs while I'm working.

Oh, and she loves to eat rats.

Delicious Veggie-filled Recipes I Make with my Host Family

2010-08-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

Veggie Pizza
My host family, counterparts and friends in site all love this recipe.

Ingredients:

3 cups flour
1 cup hot water
1 tsp salt
1 tsp oil
Tomatoes
Green Peppers
Onions
Spinach (... and really any other vegetable you'd like to throw on there)
Cheese
Pepper
Oregano

To Prepare:
Several hours before you even start to get hungry, mix the flour and salt in a bowl (I also like to throw in some oregano) and gradually add the hot water. When you have more or less a good dough, punch a hole in the center, and add the oil. Work the dough well so it is good and soft, and leave it sit for a few hours. Then separate the dough into three balls, and roll it out (with a rolling pin, wine bottle, or work it out with your fingers) so that it is even and more or less the shape of the pan you will use. Pre-bake the crust for a little while until it is no longer raw.

Chop the tomatoes and lay them out to cover the crust. Then add all the other chopped vegetables and top it off with cheese. Add salt, pepper and oregano to your liking.

And then bake until the cheese is melted. If you're using a bubble oven, expect every pizza to take ~45 minutes to bake.

Veggie Burgers
I just recently tried these with my host family, and they really liked them -- especially with BBQ sauce.

Ingredients:

Lentils (soaked, cooked, mashed and completely drained of liquid)
Carrots (shredded)
Onions (diced)
Green peppers (diced)
Egg (beaten)
Bread crumbs

To Prepare:
Mix the veggies in with the mashed-up lentils. Add the bread crumbs and egg whites. With your hands, scoop up the picture and make little patties.

Fry the patties in a little bit of oil, and then place them on a plate covered with a layer or two of paper towels to soak up the excess grease. Add some salt and pepper, and stick it in a bun. The whole process should take you under an hour, and it's a great activity for kids.

Note: Once in the pan, the egg should help hold the patty together. But if the mixture is too liquidy (because of the lentils or veggies), they will break apart in the pan. Try adding more bread crumbs or a little flour.

For extra delicious veggie burgers, add some cheese and stick some spinach and tomatoes in the bun. My host sister tried it with some BBQ sauce and mayo and loved it.

Chachapoyas

2010-07-26T17:12:00.000-07:00

Chachapoyas is a small city in the high jungle of Northern Peru. To get there, you take a questionable bus on a neglected road through the frigid Andes. During the rainy season, the route is impassable, and bandits lurk sometimes among the bends to catch an unsuspecting bus full of tourists. To reach Chachapoyas, one must be willing to take some risks.

But man, oh man, is it worth the risk.

We arrive in the city of Chachapoyas at an ungodly hour. Tired, freezing, underslept, and a little disoriented, we find our way to our hotel with just enough time to drop off our bags and splash some bitterly cold water on our faces, before we head to the Plaza Mayor to find tours to the ruins of Kuelap and Gocta Falls. Despite our lack of sleep, we are excited to get moving. We only have two days here, and we want to make it count.

Kuelap

The mountains surrounding Chachapoyas are bare, but green. Clouds linger just above the peaks, casting shadows onto the grasses and over the adobe homes. The Kuelap ruins are two hours away, along a bumpy dirt road through switchbacks and hamlets.

I remember when I first got to Peru, I had this sense of wonder and awe at this country's beauty. But my two years of living here have left me desensitized, and I stare at the beautiful scenery with only mild enthusiasm.

We arrive to the entrance and hike the two kilometers to get to the 4th-century fortress. Our guide is a local, born in the hills outside the ruins. Outside the tall, stone wall, a lady with us wearing high-heeled boots complains to him about the pace of the group.

"You must go at the pace of everybody!" she castigates him.

"I'll go at a pace that is normal," he replies slightly flustered and calls for us all to pay attention.

Not much is known about Kuelap. It takes 2 minutes to realize everything he is explaining is speculation. Archeologists only recently have started investigating, and so they can only conjecture.

That rounded upside-down cone-shaped building? It could have been for food storage, our guide explains. Or as a prison ... But then they found remains of young girls, who could have been human sacrifices, which would mean it's a sacred temple ... And oh, and by the way, it kind of also acts as a sun-dial.

I don't mind. I tune out midway through the tour and make up my own stories. I imagine little kids running around, chasing animals. What kind of animals would they have had up here? I wonder.

Our guide mentions that the fortress was never overtaken by force, but the Incas did succeed in conquering it. How, then? we ask. Did they surrender?

No, the guide explains. When the people inside refused to give into them, the Incas waited and watched. They realized that their food and water source was outside the fortress' walls and must be brought in. So they surrounded the building and prevented anyone from entering with supplies.

They starved them into submission.

I picture this ... families huddled together in their circular homes. Children tugging at their mothers' skirts for a scrap of food. Men hanging their heads in defeat as they gave into the Incas to save their lives ...

We stop for a moment on the edge, and our guide points out into the hills.

"That red house down there," he says. "I was born there." That is the home of his grandparents, he explains. He now lives next door.

We sit there for a while, looking out into the hills. You can see the small squiggly line of the road we came in on. Green mountains stretched out like a sleeping giant. Llamas graze below, most likely brought there for the tourists. But we are the only group inside the fortress.

I have heard that Kuelap is the next Machu Picchu. And I'm sure it could be. The ruins themselves are expansive, spreading out over 60,000 square meters. The view surrounding them is beautiful and vast. Perhaps with more excavation, more knowledge of what has been here, more tourists will come. And it will become bustling and commercial like its Cuzco counterpart.

For now though, it's quiet. The empty spaces and crumbled walls sit in near silence. Their stories yet to be told.

Gocta Falls

It is a two-hour drive on newly paved roads to a bustling little town near Gocta Falls. We step out of the van and see the cascading water off in the distance. Smiling faces direct us to a large, one-room building where we can buy our tickets and meet our guide.

Inside, a group of people all wearing matching vests are listening to someone who is pointing at a Powerpoint presentation projected onto the wall. I'm herded into a line for tickets and can only catch a word or two, but they appear to be in some sort of training session regarding customer service. Off to the side, a woman wearing the same vest stands near a rack of scarves and stitched bags and T-shirts that say "Gocta." The prices are clearly labeled, and I'm impressed with the professionalism demonstrated by all the smiling, vested people.

Our guide is from this village. He has a kind face and seems excited to lead us on a hike that he does daily.

The start of the hike is flat and easy with only mild inclines and plenty of hard stones. I ask our guide how long he has been working with tourists, and he mentions that he started when a German man came and "discovered" the falls in 2002.

I am floored. After only 8 years, this small Andean village two hours outside of the nearest city, has built such an operation.

The trail dips, and we head down into the valley, cross a bridge, and hike back up the mountain again. I'm beginning to tire. I brought tennis shoes and wore layers, but I don't have any water.

We turn the corner and are immediately hushed by a crowd waiting there. They are all staring up into a tree and taking photos.

"A monkey," our guide tells us. "What luck!"

They call it a night monkey, and it's sleeping in a branch meters from the trail. Someone lends me binoculars, but I can't seem to find it in the magnified lens. I decide to look with my own eyes and watch it for awhile. A branch hides much of its body, but you can make out its tail.

We're herded once again back up the trail, and we arrive at a small thatched building where I can buy water. I can't imagine how they get supplies there. Donkeys, I suppose.

We sit for a moment, catching our breath, and then decide it would be better to rest near the water and so decide keep going. They told us it would be roughly an hour and a half to get to the base of the falls. We must be about halfway there.

The trail is steep and narrow. Like the road to Kuelap, it twists and turns on the way down the mountain. And then, as we round yet another bend, we see it. Gocta.

We saw it, of course, before when we were in the village. But that was from a distance. We take pictures but don't linger. Our energy is renewed, and we rush now to reach its base.

The falls disappear again behind a cover of trees as we head further down the trail. I can hear it though. The sound of water tumbling from over 700 meters high echoes through my ears ... until ... finally ... we're there. At the base of the 3rd tallest waterfall in the world.*

And that feeling ... that awe that I thought had dissolved after 2 years ... is back in full force. I stand unable to move. It is so beautiful. By the time the water hits the ground, it is only mist. And I stand there, feeling it settle onto every inch of me.

We run down to the pool of water at the base and dare each other to drink from it. The water is so clear. I scoop my hands in and bring it up to my mouth. It's ice-cold against my lips and tastes pure. I know I will probably get sick in the morning, but I don't care. I didn't want to miss my opportunity to drink from one of the worlds most impressive marvels.

A few of us decide that we want to try and make our way directly beneath the falls. Our guide advises us not to.

"The falls produce a lot of wind," he says. "It's too powerful. Too dangerous."

We decide to try anyway, recognizing an opportunity for later regret if we don't. I borrow a poncho and hand over my Gocta bag (purchased from the smiling, vested lady). The rocks are big and slippery, so we take our time. With every step, the mist gets thicker; the wind from the force of the water, stronger. Twenty meters from the base, we are already soaked.

We get maybe 5 or 7 meters from directly beneath the falls before we have to stop. The force is too strong. We stand there for a moment, and let the mist fall over us.

When we finally get back to the others, we are laughing and smiling and sopping wet. The poncho did nothing to keep me dry, and I know it will probably be an uncomfortable hike back up.

I am so dumb with awe and excitement that I don't even care. I feel young and free and adventurous and like I can do anything.

We sit for awhile and listen to our guide tell us the myth of the falls. The reason why it was kept hidden for so long from outsiders. I don't catch every word. The roar of the falls makes it difficult to hear. But he starts the story telling of a farmer who lived near the falls. He would disappear from time to time without telling his wife where he was going. One day while she was washing clothes, the wife found gold and jewels in his pants pocket. She became confused and slightly suspicious, and so the next time he left, she went after him. She followed him to the base of the waterfalls.

There, she saw him talking to a beautiful mermaid. When he saw her standing there, the mermaid grabbed him and pulled him under the water ... never to be seen again ...

We start our trek back up the mountain. It's a difficult hike, and everyone goes at their own pace. Soon, I find myself in the middle. Alone with my thoughts and footsteps. I stop every 20 meters or so to hold my side and breathe. It's a steep incline, and I have to convince myself a time or two that I can actually make it back up.

When I pause to breathe, I stare back at the falls or, when I can't see them, I listen to them. And despite my aching lungs and tired legs, I am smiling a wide, dopey grin. I can't believe I am here. I can't believe I'm seeing this beautiful place.

Three-fourths of the way back to the village, I catch my second wind. I'm running. Leaping over rocks and slowing down only to maneuver the steepest of parts.

Maybe it's runners high; I don't know. But I feel amazing.

My second wind carries me into the village right behind my two long-legged friends who are leading the group. It's 4 p.m., but we haven't eaten since breakfast. We eat lunch greedily and then get back in the van to return to Chachapoyas.

As we drive along through the hills on the way back to the city, I sit and smile. The falls are out of view, and the sound of them is gone, but I close my eyes to make sure I can still see them in my memory. I don't want to forget this. I can't forget this.

The Plaza Mayor of Chachapoyas.

The 7 of us outside of Kuelap: Megan, Olga, Me, Glenn, Marian, Omar and Jessica.

The ruins of Kuelap. The roofed house was reconstructed by a Canadian archeologist in the 80s.

The rounded homes. Many of them had deep holes in their centers where, our guide informs us, they either kept potatoes or buried their dead.

The view from Kuelap.

We "sacrificed" Jessica in front of the upside-down cone-shaped silo/prison/temple.

The bend where we first saw Gocta Falls fairly close-up.

I drank this water. It was amazing. And I didn't get sick.

Glenn, Olga and I trying to get beneath the falls against better judgment and the warnings of our guide.

We got soaked. But it was worth it. Totally worth it.

* This is what the people of Gocta claim, but according to Wikipedia, that is up for debate.

Organic Vegetable Garden

2010-07-26T16:27:00.001-07:00

We started talking about planting a veggie garden over a year ago. Began prepping the soil about 3 months ago. And finally planted about a month and a half ago. Now, going to our little biohuerto is the best part of my day.

Not that the experience has been a cakewalk. Few things in Peace Corps are as easy as you think they'll be. But my counterpart, Karen, and I are learning a lot. At first, the onion and ají peppers didn't sprout, and then a fungus attacked some of our cucumber plants. The ground is as hard as cement and soaks up water faster than a sponge. But despite some of our little hurdles, we're having a lot of fun. And this Saturday, we're going to debut the garden to families participating in our Healthy Homes project.

But first, I'm going to debut it here for y'all to see.

These are some seedlings I have in my backyard. The green bowl is ají peppers; the checkered bag, onion; and the small red plastic bag, green peppers. But right now, they all look exactly the same.

Spinach -- I can hardly wait to make a delicious salad out of these beautiful leafy greens.

The cucumber we might have planted a little too close together. These plants are monstrous, and I'm seriously concerned there's an ant sting operation about to take them out ...

These are carrots. I think we gave them way more space than they needed, but we weren't sure. Although now I'm fairly certain that the ground isn't loose enough for them, and they will turn out to be short, fat little things. But oh well! We'll see how yummy they are.

Broccoli and cilantro. We'll probably have two harvests of cilantro before we get any broccoli.

New Edition of 'Pasa la Voz'

2010-07-19T11:25:00.000-07:00

The latest edition of Peace Corps-Peru's Volunteer magazine Pasa la Voz is hot off the pdf. If anyone is interested in an electronic copy, just let me know.

Cover

Table of contents

Hygiene Session with Moms

2010-07-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

Just in case you were wondering how to make a model latrine out of cardboard

2010-07-16T17:26:00.001-07:00

Step 1. Grab a giant cardboard box (from a fridge or, say, washing machine), some poles and your host dad.

Step 2. Attach poles to the cardboard box by using a giant sewing needle and some plastic-y black string.

Step 3: Saw open the box to make the door.

Step 4: Put smaller poles perpendicular to the long, sewed-in poles to support the roof. Then sew in the roof.

Step 5: Grab a bunch of neighbor kids and see how many can fit inside at once. Then take a picture.

This time for Africa

2010-07-11T18:13:00.000-07:00

This has quite possibly been one of the most fun months I've had in Peace Corps. Why? you ask.

Wait -- seriously? You have to ask?

THE WORLD CUP!!

One full month of The Beautiful Game. Painted bodies draped in flags. Constant buzzing on the television. People crowded around store fronts and small kiosks. Waka Waka. Wavin' Flag. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAL. So much excitement crammed into ~30 short days.

Not to mention the plethora of opportunities for an educational experience. Language. Culture. Geography --- I'll even admit I wasn't 100 percent certain of the exact location of Slovenia.

Perfect chance to whip out the ol' world map and dig around on Wikipedia.

Peru hasn't participated in the World Cup in decades. But that didn't stop my already sleepy little town to go into a coma for the past few weeks, just so that everyone could watch the games. Everywhere you went, a game was on, and people were shouting, groaning and clapping along with the TV crowds.

I started the Cup rooting, obviously, for the great nation of the United States of America -- with the condition that if *sigh* we were to be booted, I would cheer on the African team that went the furthest.

Not since college, when MU played KU (go Tigers!) and I taught my elderly grandmother the cheer MIZ-ZOU, have I been so enraptured by a single sport. Every time the US played, my heart jumped into my throat, my nails were chewed to bits, and I gave in to pure joy when my countrymen kicked that ball into the net and incredible disappointment every time they didn't.

I was with my host family in their living room when the US played Algeria. My host brothers and host father glued to the screen, me hopping up and down depending on the location of the ball on the field. When the US finally took the game and advanced to the next round, I leaped 2 feet in the air and shouted so loud, everyone surrounding the kiosk outside started laughing.

Even though the US didn't advance much further than that, their participation and my enthusiasm sparked a lot of questions from my Peruvian friends. Do you really have black people in your country? They asked me. How come that guy has a Spanish last name? Watching the US play was a great opportunity to talk about the diversity in our homeland. "Yes, there are Latinos who live there," I'd tell them. "Asians, too." In a country that is fairly homogeneous like Peru, the idea of such an array of people coming from all over was finally tangible by watching the players take the field.

Which was cool. Because that diversity and mix of cultures is exactly what I've grown to appreciate and miss most about the US. And the thing I'm most ready to talk about when I am asked that ubiquitous question, "What is America like?"

For the final game, I sat around a table with 8 other volunteers, in a room full of Peruvians. Some of us rooted for Spain. Others for Holland. Every body was cheering and gasping with every shot taken. Along with the rest of the world. And at that point, it didn't really matter where you came from. Or who you rooted for. 'Cause we were all watching together.

So often, I feel like The Other. An outsider ... And as comfortable as I get in site, I've never once felt like I belonged here ... Maybe that's my fault. For placing too many definitions and specifications on where Home should be.

But this World Cup made me feel like a part of something. ... Something big. And unifying.

And yeah, sure, it's just a game. But the World Cup is an opportunity to flip traditional power on its head. Where a tiny country like Uruguay could make it to 4th place. And China never even made the cut.

In the end, it didn't even really matter who took it all. Because we would have watched anyway. And for a few short weeks, we all hummed "Wavin' Flag." All around the world. Together.

And that's something.

Camp VALOR

2010-06-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

Photos from our boys leadership camp in Chulucanas, Piura. Because I'm a girl, I wasn't a counselor this time. But I ref'd field games with my friend Susan and played the female love interest in our dinner theatre telenovela Cuerpo de Pasión. A lot of fun and way less stress, but I didn't go away with any warm fuzzies this time.

Not to say the boys didn't have fun. The two I brought with me had a great time. But I don't know if they left motivated to change their community. Maybe I'll need to wait a little while in order to see the impact it had on them.

Jhonatan and Renson, the two boys I took from my community.

Relay races during field games.

Kick-boxing for morning exercises.

To build team spirit at the beginning, the boys had to de-ice-ify a t-shirt and put it on their camp counselor, Douglas.

Doug was pretty excited.

Me in my "ref" uniform. I found Susan's and my jersey at the border market for $3. I think they are technically from a team in Europe. The whistles are from our med kits. Thanks, Peace Corps!

The boys playing water balloon volleyball. That handsome devil on the left is Jhonatan, one of my teen health promoters.

The volunteers who participated. We always do a "loco" photo after the legit shot.

At the end of the camp, we had a talent show, and (in the spirit of the World Cup) we girls performed to "Wavin' Flag" ... the David Bisbal version. We had a hard time keeping up with the Spanish lyrics at some points, but we had fun.

All of the boys, counselors and the ladies.

Bonding with my host mom

2010-06-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

The smell wasn't unbearable at first. More like a mild annoyance. But despite cleaning all my dishes, washing my clothes, looking under my bed, even peeking under the mattress -- I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. And it was getting worse.

Deep down I think I knew. We'd heard the scurrying for a few days, and then one night I saw them: two small, gray furballs running along the walls just below the tin roof.

Most people don't like mice. I'm pretty indifferent, as long as they don't eat my food or fall on me while I'm sleeping. But my host mom ... it's kind of her thing. Like how some people can deal with spiders and ants but can't stand cockroaches. Norma can put up with a lot of things, but not mice.

The next day, she went into Tumbes and bought rat poison, placing a dish on the floor of my room near the scene of the First Appearance.

So, I guess that's kind of how I suspected the now rancid smell in my room was probably a decomposing rodent. Since I couldn't find it, I figured it was lodged in one of the many cracks or crevices of my walls. And I braced myself for an uncomfortable few days.

Norma took one step into my room and walked right back out, holding her nose. She returned with a small flash light and started the search. When she spotted him, Norma shrieked and ran to get the broom and dust pan.

I suppose since I was an accomplice to the rat poison, it would make sense that the mouse would choose his final revenge by dying in one of my shoes. I'd just hoped that he'd die before he got to carry out his evil plan.

I doused the spot with bleach water and threw out my shoes while Norma carried his tiny gray body away to toss behind the municipality. When she came back, we looked at each other -- pale, wide-eyed -- and we both just started laughing.

Nothing like a little pest control to provide some family bonding.

What I Have Been Up to Lately

2010-06-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

Training teen health promoters in HIV prevention and attending their replicas in the high schools.

We have 37 teen promoters in 3 communities this year.

Teens are focusing on the ABC method, A being Abstinence, B is Be faithful

... and C is Condoms.

They also learned a little more about the common sexually transmitted infections.

Sessions this year are entirely game- and activity-based. It's all hands-on and participatory. HIV Jeopardy is a favorite among the teens.

Making peanut butter from scratch ... sort of.

I brought peanuts back from the jungle, and we crushed them up with a rock.

My host brother, Samir, had a hard time getting the hang of it. It turned out exactly how you would expect crushed peanuts to turn out, but my host mom didn't want to add oil, so we just sprinkled it on top of jelly and toast.

Pumping up with our aerobics group.

We do a hike every month out into the countryside.

Our group resting in a town about an hour away by foot.

Working with other Global Fund committee members to present about tuberculosis and HIV in communities.

A group of college students came to present a skit about tuberculosis. People loved it.

We handed out 150 invitations and sent announcements over the loud speakers, but only 25 people came. What can you do? We had to tell ourselves that it was 25 more people who knew more about TB and HIV than before!

Educating parents on HIV and STI prevention through Escuelas de Padres.

Both the obstetrizes from the district came to help out with the session and try to appeal to the usually apprehensive male crowd.

The parents were really uncomfortable, but lightened up a little when we start to debunk myths about size of genitalia and its relation to potency, masturbatory tendencies and bestiality.

... and of course when we whipped out the banana.

Celebrating Women's Health Day (28th of May)

The psychologist working at our health post gave a presentation on domestic violence.

More than 50 women came -- double the amount we were expecting. We suspect it had something to do with a promised raffling off of goodies.

Attending the weddings of former teen health promoters.

Actually, just one former teen health promoter. She dropped out senior year to get married, which made me a little sad. But I take solace in the hope that she has, in fact, found her dream man and the life she wants to lead. Even if it's not what I would have chosen.

Sarah was my plus one and some of the other teen promoters were there.

Playing in the dirt.

As part of our latrines project, we're also building some veggie gardens in the community for families with kids (or anyone who has interest).

All the participating families came out to help build the first one and hear a session from the NGO Cáritas' environmental engineer.

Not a bad month.

Mural

2010-05-06T23:37:00.000-07:00

As part of our HIV-prevention program, we had an art contest for youth in our town. Ten to 17 year olds could submit their drawings about HIV prevention to be painted as a mural. My host sister, Keysi, won. And we, along with the help of some Peru 14ers visiting my town for some in-service training, finally finished it.

Enjoy:

Note: The mural says "The man of tomorrow is he who protects himself today." And the girl in the middle is shouting "Protect yourself from HIV with the rule of: A-Abstinence B-Be faithful and C-Use Condoms."

The Perfect Storm

2010-05-06T22:49:00.001-07:00

For the sake of transparency, I should say that though I have written some of my more dramatic sickness stories (chucake, anyone?), I try to keep ... that part of my life ... out of the spotlight and buried deep in my private memory. I mean, no one wants to hear the gory details, and I'm not all that excited about reliving them. This past week, however, I had what some in the PC world call "The Perfect Storm." And it was one of those moments where I had to shake my head and laugh because, come on, this stuff only happens in the Peace Corps.

While I was in Lima for a root canal, I got sick with giardia and dengue. The combination of tooth trouble, parasite and tropical virus made it pretty impossible for me to eat or hold anything down, resulting in three full days in a hostel bed, slipping in and out of consciousness.

The root canal, believe it or not, went fine. Despite my spending the weeks prior mildly freaking out about it, it was relatively painless, and left me with just a sore jaw and 5 more dental appointments to fit a crown.

The day after, however, I started feeling woozy -- losing steam really quickly and nearly passing out while out running. I shrugged it off as low blood sugar, downed some water, ate a huge lunch, and thought it was done.

Then the stomach cramps started -- a telltale sign of giardia, a parasite infamous for burrowing itself in the stomach lining and causing horribly uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing GI symptoms. It's actually pretty common among volunteers and most likely the result of my jungle adventure a few weeks ago.*

It probably wouldn't have been so terrible had I not had dengue fever running rampant through my blood stream, too. They call it the "bone crushing disease" because, well, it makes you feel like your bones are being crushed. It's a flu-like virus transmitted from person to person through mosquitoes and fairly common in Tumbes. I thought I had escaped the season, but alas. I ached along my spine and pelvis, had a fever, and fought to fend off the practically unbearable nausea.

Needless to say it was perhaps the most persistently miserable I have been (physically) in my Peace Corps service. But thankfully, like most things, it passed, and I am back to my sprightly self.

Truthfully, the whole thing could have been way worse. While dengue usually lasts 7 days, I got away with having it only 3 or 4. I was in Lima already for the root canal and so had access to the Peace Corps doctors and labs. And, coincidentally, my boyfriend was in town, and held my hand when there was nothing else I could do.

The experience made me realize a few things. 1.) It's never too late in your PC service to get sick as a dog (no matter how "over it" you think you are) 2.) I have awesome people in my life who are willing to take care of me and 3.) It's incredible what the human mind and body are capable of bouncing back from.

So don't worry, Mom. I'm fine now. Absolutely no permanent damage, and I wasn't even close to dying.

Just a lifetime ahead of testing positive for dengue fever, and yet another Peace Corps story.

*worth it.

Avery´s Shout-out

2010-04-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

Hey y´all,

My nephew Avery has recently gotten his very own e-mail account and has been e-mailing throughout the week. He asked me to mention him on my blog, so this is his shout-out.

Love you, buddy! Please keep writing and sending my pictures.

<3
Aunt Robyn

Trip to the Amazon | Part Two

2010-04-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

DAY FIVE

We're finally here! It's 9:30 p.m., and my eyelids refuse to stay open. It's been a long day.

We arrived at the reserve mid-morning and headed out in groups of 2 + one guide each canoe. It rained, and we spent most of the day pruney, wet and (in my case) cold. Within just a few hours, though, we saw blue and yellow macaws, spider monkeys and a sloth.

The sloth was spotted by Sarah and Jenny first, and they asked the guide if they could get closer to take a look. He paddled toward the tree, whipped out his machete, and chopped down the branch where the sloth had been sleeping.

Sid (yep, we named him) fell into the river, and Sarah and Jen had to pull him up by his arms. The guide said he was a young sloth, maybe equivalent to a teenager. He was small and wet with huge claws. Poor guy. We passed him around from person to person before taking him with us to the hut where we would stop for lunch.

It wasn't exactly immediately, but it didn't take long for us to see the enormous quantities of bugs crawling out from the sloth's fur. Without hand sanitizer or soap, we set the sloth on a pole and dug into our meal.

The guides made a makeshift bathroom for us ladies and on our way back, we saw an electric eel sliding through the water.

It rained a little more in the afternoon, and by the time we arrived to our base camp, we were soaked.

Where we're staying is an elevated cabin with beds and a wood-burning kitchen. There are even bathrooms. I feel a little spoiled.

We dried off and helped make dinner by peeling plantains and yuca, and cleaning fish.

I tried fishing for piranhas and came out with a catfish. Sarah literally took a stab at spear fishing and nabbed one on the second try. While we waited for dinner, we took the canoes out, and Jenny taught be how to paddle. The guides said they had never seen tourists take the canoes out and try to race in them before. To them, it was hilarious.

Klever, our main guide, has been serving us mint tea, and I love it. He grows the mint behind his house. He says it's for prevention of ailments, as we foreigners tend to get sick a lot. It seems to be working. We haven't had many problems.

After dinner we went on a night canoe ride, looking for crocodiles and snakes. Sarah made a very good point that searching for dangerous animals in the dark is a poor decision. But the stars were out, and the frogs were singing again.

The guides wore headlamps while we lay back in the boat. Every once in a while, they would point out a bird or a particular frog. We saw a crocodile eye or two, but no snakes. So far the ride has been my favorite part of the trip. I have never seen so many stars all at once. It's like how I imagine a black marble countertop would look after cooking with flour ... spotted with millions of white specks, almost too close together to seem real.

There are two other groups here, totaling 14 Peace Corps volunteers sleeping at this camp. We're told to get up at 4 a.m. to wake up in time to see the dolphins.

I don't know if i'll be able to sleep. The forest is so loud.

DAY SIX

Klever let us sleep in until 5, but were able to make it into the canoes in time to see the river dolphins. It's crazy. The river inside the reserve is only a few meters across, yet it's deep enough to be home to such a huge creature.

The trees here are incredible. Because soil depends on decomposing organic matter to become fertile, and the forest is two dense to allow this type of decomposition, trees can't rely on deeply-seeded roots to keep them standing. Instead, their roots are long and wide, just barely (if at all) below the surface.

Some trees hover, their trunks high above the ground while their roots sprout like legs beneath them.

We headed back to camp around 10 a.m. The guides went out to fish for us, and we ate fried piranhas for breakfast. I thought that could be a good band name.

Because of the rain, the current was strong. The guides paddled hard and didn't stop until 3 p.m. For lunch, we pulled over to a dry patch of land and chopped cabbage and tomatoes on one of our wooden paddles. We ate rice and boiled eggs under a tarp while it continued to pour.

We made it back to the entrance of the reserve cold, wet and smelly. My tennis shoes squeaked under my toes. Mud covered my jeans, and the yellow poncho Ryan lent me had a tear in the back.

I had never been so happy to see a shower. We cleaned up and sprawled on our hostel beds. Jenny and Tania sang along to Ryan's iPod while I washed my clothes in the sink.

Klever said there's no boat that leaves tonight. We'll have to wait to leave for Iquitos until tomorrow.

DAY SEVEN

The power went out in the middle of the night, and we slept without a fan. Our room is smelly and hot, but we woke energized.

Jenny, Sam, Sarah and I went to Klever's in the morning. Apparently, there's no boat leaving for Iquitos today either. If we wait until tomorrow we would barely make our flight back to Lima. We spent the morning walking around with him, looking for a way to get to the city.

The other two groups were in the same position, and so we decided to combine our efforts in our search for transportation.

We spent the morning frantic and slightly stressed out. Samantha, in her ever-present wisdom, turned to me and said in that calming voice she has, "Every great story has a conflict."

A guy came by to say that he could take us to a town 6 to 8 hours downriver for double the price of the regular boat. And from there we could take a car to Iquitos.

By noon we were at the docks waiting. There was a medium-sized roofed boat floating there. It was rotting, and there was only a hole cut out in the floor for a bathroom. We asked if we could hang our hammocks. They laughed. We didn't know why.

Another boat -- an open-air canoe pulled up alongside the shore in front of the larger boat. A small motor sat in back, and there were no benches to sit on.

That was our boat.

It looked like it couldn't hold more than 10 people, and we were 14 + our backpacks and the three guys in charge of the motor and searching for logs.

Before we boarded, they loaded two large barrels of gasoline on each end.

We motored off, waving back to a town watching us leave.

We spent the hours reading, laughing, singing, video logging, snacking and watching the stars. Dark clouds rolled in, and we huddled under the tarp to keep warm. We were all soaked from the spray coming off the side of the boat. Every part of our body was sore from being cramped and stagnant. Hardly any of us slept through the night.

DAY EIGHT

The next morning, we arrived early to the town of Nauta, where we could take a bus to Iquitos.

They tried to charge us 10 soles, when the ticket really cost 8. Sarah reamed them out and threatened to go to the police station to place charges.

We got to the hotel and took turns showering. Despite washing my clothes in the sink at our hostel in Lagunas, everything smelled terrible. The front desk told us we could wash our things at a lavandería around the corner. We dumped all of our smelliest things in a market bag and lugged it the three blocks to the laundry mat.

Our guide book said there was an American restaurant just a few blocks from our hotel. We sat down among Texas memorabilia and pictures of content customers from all around the world. We ordered chili cheese fries and onion rings and barbecue chicken sandwiches, and thought we might die of happiness.

The rest of the day, we wandered through an artisan market, and I bought a rain stick. The sun was shining. It was the first day of our trip that it hadn't rained.

We went down to the docks to see where the Amazon river rushes past Iquitos and ate grubs grilled over fire wood. They tasted a bit like sausage, and a little pieces of the grub head got stuck in my teeth.

Apparently, the guys from the bus who had overcharged us tracked down some of the other volunteers traveling with and gave us back the money. This city is just full of surprises.

I can't believe tomorrow will be our last day here.

DAY NINE

We woke early. Apparently, no longer used to the idea of sleeping through the night. Showered and clean, we hopped in mototaxis to see the market of Belén.

I needed flip-flops, sunglasses and brazil nuts, but I kept getting distracted by the crocodile tails, pig heads and turtle legs. It looked like every other market in Peru, yet every stall made me stop and stare.

"What's this?" I asked. And they'd let me taste it.

Most of the fruit was sour. Bitter. One called aguaje tasted like mashed potatoes.

There's a sector in Belén that is covered in water half of the year. All the houses are built on stilts, and people canoe to school instead of walking. We shuffled hesitantly into a small canoe -- so sick of boats already -- and paddled through the "streets" and in between houses.

Where do they put their trash? I asked the policemen accompanying us. Where do they go to the bathroom? Where do they get their water? They shrugged and pointed to the murky brown beneath our boat.

Even the health post, a massive building of light blue concrete, stood among the mild waves. Sheets of plastic or burlap hung from posts to make small outhouses. Wooden planks were side walks.

Kids swam alongside us as we slid through the water. I cringed at the fecal matter that must be covering their skin and splashing into their mouths, but I smiled at them as they smiled up at me, arching their backs to swim like dolphins.

When we reached land again, we wandered back through the stalls, stopping to point at some strip of bark or candle in the shape of a skull.

"What's this?" I asked. And they'd tell me.

I bought some essence of love from a vendor who told me it would work in a day.

"One day is all you need," he told me, sliding his essence of business back into his pants pocket.

Women told us about the indigenous god Apu and his children. They showed us bracelets beaded with red and black seeds, meant to keep away the evil eye. Fans made from straw. Powders. Masks. Paintings.

I didn't want to leave. It was the coolest thing I'd seen so far.

This afternoon, our last afternoon, we went to a zoo called Quistococha. There we saw animals that hid in the trees around the camp where we had slept. Animals we had glided passed without seeing. Toucans. Otters. Anacondas.

When we walked by the puma cage, I stopped and nearly gasped. There it was. The king of the jungle. The animal that tribes used to worship and fear. Man's greatest predator in the Amazon. There it was, pacing in a room, 3 meters long and 3 meters wide. No trees to climb. No grass on its floor. Just a giant litter box and some small scraps of meat.

I've been to dozens of zoos in my life, but I'd never before felt so much sadness for the animals. After seeing their natural habitat, the incredibly beautiful, lush world they are from – the cages seemed so cruel.

But not all the animals were as unsettling as the puma. The tapir, for example, was by far the most friendly. Way larger than I had anticipated -- about the size of a small donkey -- it walked over to where we stood and nuzzled its long nose against the gate. He seemed fascinated with us, and I dubbed him "Señor Tapir."

Leaf cutter ants marched under our feet, tiny black dots beneath large green circles. Macaws and green parrots perched on trees along the path, nibbling on pieces of bread. An old man sat on a bench with a small anaconda and called for us to hold the snake and perhaps, after, a tip.

The sun set as we stepped in one of the many wooden buses that jet around Iquitos. All around us, motorcycles and mototaxis zipped passed, weaving in and out of traffic. There were hardly any cars. A consequence of being a city only accessed by air or water.

A guy jumped up and stole my new sunglasses right off my head as we drove passed the market of Belén. It made me want to cry a little. The people from here have been among the kindest and most generous I've met in Peru. They deserve better than to have jerks like that in their city.

But whatever, I shrugged. They're just sunglasses.

Our last meal was at The Yellow Rose of Texas. We went around the table and recorded our favorite memories of the trip as a final video log.

I liked Sam's answer best. Hers was the bus ride to Chiclayo. Before any of this started.

"There were a million happy moments on this trip," she said. "But ... dreaming about what it would be like to see the Amazon for the first time and ... knowing that in that next week we were going to have all these amazing adventures. ... Just the anticipation of being with everyone and having those memories ... was my favorite part."

We took the long way back to the hostel and stopped to watch three guys perform hysterics in front of a crowd. One of them had been on our bus to the zoo that afternoon, selling candies.

The street lights shined against the heavy stone buildings built during the rubber boom. The river. That huge river that had been our captor and guide for the past week, disappeared into the darkness. And we wandered searching for music but not really caring where we ended up.

Tonight we're going to sleep in our comfy hotel room. With our air conditioning and clean sheets. And we're going to dream of the muddy water, the insects, the singing frogs, the damp bark, the humid air, the rain.

Tomorrow we're going back to our life on the coast. Back to our sites. Back to the dusty highways and endless meetings. But tonight ... Tonight, we sleep with the Amazon.

Me "eating" a piranha

On the canoe, with our guide, César

Blue and yellow macaws

Boat ride to Nauta

Touching an anaconda

Children swimming in the "streets" of Belén

Market of Belén

Wooden buses of Iquitos

Trip to the Amazon | Part One

2010-04-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

DAY ONE

I've barely slept in days. Not because I'm freaking out excited about leaving for the jungle today, but because I've been trying to get everything work-wise set in motion before I drop off the planet for 10 days. Where we are going there is no cell phone reception. No text messaging. No e-mail. Nothing to keep me in contact with my site or work life.

It will just be the six of us and the Amazon.

DAY TWO

On the bus ride from Chiclayo to Tarrapoto they gave us barf bags. I wasn't sure whether to be frightened or not. It had been raining hard, and landslides were a definitely possibility.

We lucked out. In 18 hours we went from desert coast through the mountains and into the high jungle. Again, I hardly slept through the night. Sarah and I froze as we went through the highest passes, making it impossible to fall asleep. That and the movie they showed before lights out was I AM LEGEND, which terrifies the gajeebas out of me. I clung to Jenny's sleeve the whole ride.

But now we're here in Tarrapota, safe, in one piece, and barf bags unused (though the reason they gave them out super obvious). We got to the hotel and heard that another Peace Corps group left the day before we did and got caught in the aftermath of a landslide. They were stuck on the bus for 28 hours.

We were exhausted but decided to go to a waterfall that is apparently quite the tourist attraction. Someone (*coughRyanandJennycough*) decided it was a good idea to jump from a landing a few meters above the pool at its base. The water was FREEZING. But I jumped! Even though I was terrified. I want to start this trip off right.

DAY THREE

To get to a place called the Blue Lagoon, we had to cross a river. The whole ride takes two hours, even though it's really only about 30 minutes away. The reason is because there's no bridge. Cars and buses form a queue to get on a ferry that takes them across before they can continue on the road. Only three vehicles are allowed at a time with its passengers.

The "ferry" is nothing more than three large canoes tied together with boards on top and three motors propelling them. Three men man the motors, pushing forward as much as they can before the current can pull them back.

We saw a long cable stretching across the water.

"What's that?" We asked our driver.

"The ferry used to be connected to that line, but it flipped over and sank." He said. "There was too much weight."

"When was this?" We ask ... expecting anything but the answer we were given.

"Last week."

Our eyes darted the van full of beefed up soldiers in line in front of us.

As we crossed, we saw a line jut from the cable and into the water mid-stream, the weight from the sunken load pulling on the cord making it bow.

Thankfully, we made it across safely and to the lagoon, where we swam and ate boiled plantains with peanuts and cheese.

On our way back, we didn't have to wait as long.

Back at the hotel, we showered in ice-cold water. I tugged on long sleeves, and we headed to a restaurant to try local food like paiche and juanes.

We're beginning to feel like we don't speak Spanish anymore. All the words are different, and we can barely understand the menu. When in doubt, we assume it's the name of a fish.

We ordered a sampler platter and some juanes – a corn/rice mash-up cooked inside a banana leaf with chicken or pork. I've had it before in Lima. But this one was terrible. The sampler, on the hand, was amazing. Venison, ham, and something that tasted a lot like bacon. I'm beginning to feel very Peruvian. I barely noticed the lack of vegetables.

There was some confusion after we got back about whether there would be a boat the next day. I guess we'll have to see.

We've decided to make a video log of our adventure.

DAY FOUR

We left this morning at 4 a.m. The owner of the hostel where we were staying woke us up at 3:30 and asked why we weren't ready to go yet. She sounds like she's singing when she talks, and it works like a lullaby. I'm so tired.

We took a car to a town where we could catch a boat to the reserve. The daughter of our guide met us at the docks and fed us breakfast before grabbing our hammocks to hang up in the boat.

It's Easter Sunday, and the regular boat wasn't going downriver. Instead we were shuffled into a smaller one with the 120 other travelers leaving today.

We walked onto the boat and nearly were decapitated by hammocks. At least 40 hammocks were hanging in a room about 40ft x 20ft. Everywhere, people were tucked inside their hammocks and sitting along the walls. Luggage piled up below the series of sunken cloths, and we had to duck, crawl, and backbend to get into ours in the center of the space.

Jenny had the great idea of going head to toe so that we could fit. Anytime we had to go to the bathroom, we had to do the dance again. Ducking, sliding, shimmying our way to the back ledge.

There was a kitchen though. And they fed us rice and fried potatoes with a small piece of chicken. Our guide's wife traveled with us, and she made us jelly sandwiches.

We slept or read most of the day, stopping hourly to make a video log. Kids were climbing beneath us asking us questions. I don't think they've ever seen a gringo before. Or at least not so many. They liked playing hide and seek, despite not being able to move from our positions in the hammocks.

We discovered around hour 5 (of 10) that we could leave the main cabin and venture up to the roof of the boat to get some air. I nearly slipped trying to climb up and had to get help from some men who were laughing at me.

Tania hung her feet off the edge for a while, but a guy told her to stop.

"There are things in there that will bite your feet right off," he said.

She laughed. He didn't.

"No ... really."

It was a beautiful view of the river. We came close to the shore, and I could hear the frogs singing inside the forest.

We landed in a town called Lagunas that's near the reserve where we'll be canoeing and camping. Our guide met us at the docks and took us to a hotel where we're sleeping 3 to a double room. It doesn't matter much though because we leave early tomorrow for the reserve where we'll present our guides with a list we've made.

TO DO:

Hold a sloth
Swing from a vine
Eat a piranha
See a monkey
" river dolphins
" a tucan
" an anaconda

Waiting for the bus to leave Chiclayo.

Waterfall near Tarrapoto
Waiting for the ferry

Boiled sweet plantain with peanuts

Squished together in hammocks.

Hanging out on top of the boat

World Water Day -- 22 de Marzo

2010-03-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

To celebrate World Water Day (March 22), I went to some elementary school classes to talk about the importance of conserving our water and purifying it.

At first, we did a bunch of activities in the classroom.

And kids broke up into groups to play games about water trivia.

Board game about water with the 5th graders.

Can you believe how attentive they were ?

Seriously. They were super interested in water.

The 2nd, 3rd and 4th graders saying hi!

After the classroom activities, we went outside to play with water balloons. The youngest kids liked hiding beneath the sheet. Not sure why.

2nd, 3rd and 4th graders tossing up the balloons.

All in all. Super successful day.
Future reference: water balloons = best idea ever (thanks, Ryan!)

A Huge First Step

2010-03-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

About a month ago a woman came to my door.

I'd seen her before once, last year, when I was completing my community diagnostic. I met over 100 women, but I remembered her right away. She was what my dad might call a spitfire.

Not in the negative sense. She just had a lot of spirit and fight in her, which it was evident despite only spending 10 minutes in her living room.

And here she was, wondering if I might be able to help her find transportation for a reforestation project.

It turns out that I have no clue where to find trees to plant ... or any big truck to transport them for that matter. But I remembered that she had been very vocal about her frustration with the lack of sewage or latrines in her neighborhood.

"How's that going?" I asked.

And then the floodgates opened.

The truth is I had been thinking about starting an additional project. My other projects, now in their second year, have found a kind of stability, and I was keeping an eye out for something more to do in my service.

Latrines had crossed my mind in the days previous. But I only had 8 months left. Subtract an entire month for a combined chunk of Peruvian holidays, and it was really more like 7 -- maybe 6 1/2. I didn't have time to do a latrine project.

But it's like God mocked my preoccupations and handed me one anyway.

It's possible that I know even less about how to plan and execute a latrine project than I do about reforestation. Nonetheless, I sat down with the woman, a really sweet señora named Dylsia, and the health promoter for that sector, and together we stumbled around to find our first step.

"We have to do a survey," I said, sounding very confident we did, in fact, need to do that. "We have to be prepared with charts and data to show that the latrines are a real necessity."

Together with Anita (the health promoter) and Dylsia, we agreed that I shouldn't be physically present when the questions are asked due to my incredible foreign-ness that sometimes makes people nervous. So I wrote it up, gave them the copies, and the two of them hammered it out.

And let me tell you, there's a real necessity.

Of the 44 families in the neighborhood, only two have restrooms that can be considered sanitary*. Additionally, nearly 95 percent drink untreated water, and fewer than half even have a place to wash their hands.

Cases of parasites and malnourishment are way higher than in the district capital (only 2km away). Work is temporary and scarce. And the average family (~4 people) live on $35 a week.

The sector is scheduled for sewage soon, but no one knows when "soon" will come, and if the families could even afford to put in bathrooms when it arrives.

So, we met with an NGO called Cáritas, a Catholic organization that works with latrine projects all over Peru, to see if we could count on their support, which they said we could.

Now the ball was in play, and all we had to do was call our first neighborhood meeting.

Thirty people came, including the district governor (a jovial authority figure who also happens to be my neighbor), and I found myself stammering like an idiot in my nervous Spanish while everyone got rained on outside the local store.

I'll be honest. The meeting didn't start great. No one wanted to speak or really participate. But thanks to some rousing words by the governor, we were able to form a committee!

Which I know doesn't sound like a lot. The planning, implementation, monitoring and evaluation are all in front of us. But it's a huge first step.

And despite being soaked to the bone, tired and hoarse, I left that meeting on cloud nine. Because it's happening! It's no longer just an idea or something we talk about. Even if we are denied funding from the first door we knock at, we have a team now. Fighting together. And playing to win.

*Meaning that the human waste is deposited in a prepared hole or septic tank rather than left in the open air.

Flat Avery out on the town

2010-03-16T12:40:00.000-07:00

Flat Avery climbing trees.

Flat Avery watching the chickens.

Flat Avery with my host brother, Samir, in our town´s main plaza.

Flat Avery enjoying the grass in front of our Catholic church.

Flat Avery reading the message on a local piece of art. Roughly translated: Pampas is by divine voice, this delight without equal, where natural beauty never ends nor the light that illuminates it.

Aerobics Classes

2010-03-10T20:24:00.000-08:00

In honor of Women's History Month, my counterparts and I have started an aerobics class for the women in our community. Last Saturday was our very first class, and I'm happy to report, I made a total fool of myself.

My friend Jessica and I shimmied and scuttled to the rhythm of Enrique Iglesias and Hannah Montana during an hour-long session of unabashed cardio. Roughly 10 women, from 14 to 49, came, and they all left laughing.

Which was great to see.

Most women in my community, my age and older, devote themselves to their home. They spend all day cleaning and cooking and watching their kids. Aside from the occasional gossip session with a neighbor or girlfriend, they lack any real opportunity to hang out and just be women.

On Saturday, I leaned in close and said in a low voice to the women that since no men were present, we were going to work on a problem area we all struggle with. They all busted out in dry heaves at the site of me bending forward with my arms out and then squeezing my glutes and clenching my fists as I stood back up.

They then started cracking what I assumed to be dirty jokes to each other while making fun of my pirated Buns-of-Steel moves.

And it was really cool to see. Men in our village have their sports clubs and cock fights and drinking circles. But the women are truly lacking a community. And during the class, they weren't thinking about their kids or their homes or what they were going to make for dinner. They were laughing and finding fellowship with other women.

They said they really enjoyed the class, and several have already swung by my place to make sure there would be another. Believe it or not, I've even caught some of them doing wall push-ups in their living rooms.

I hope they stick with it. Whether they lose weight or not, they're finding a community. And I think that's worth way more than a couple kilos.

... Though that would be nice, too.

While shuffling, shoes were optional.

Not, in fact, the Buns of Steel move.

Flat Avery: Part 1

2010-03-10T13:52:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from my nephew Avery with a self portrait of him cut out and tucked inside. His class at Sibley East Elementary (shout-out!) had just finished Flat Stanley by Jeff Brown, in which one very unfortunate boy is flattened by a bulletin board but then makes the best of it by visiting his friends via the mail. The little self portrait tucked inside my nephew's letter was, in fact, a Flat Avery, mailed to visit me here in Peru.

So, here you go, Buddy! Some pictures of Flat Avery and me in Peru:

Flat Avery relaxing in a hammock on a hot, summer day

Flat Avery and me enjoying a day at the beach

Flat Avery picking maracuyá (passion fruit) in my backyard

More Flat Avery adventures to come!

Enrique's Rap

2010-03-02T05:18:00.001-08:00

Enrique, our Safety and Security Officer, commissioned me to make a rap video about safety and security for the new trainees.

Enjoy!

Photo Update!

2010-02-27T16:22:00.000-08:00

House visits with my health promoters have been going really well. The families have begun to set up hand-washing stations and purify their water. They seem really excited about moving forward with the project, and it's great to see progress!

And ladies and gentlemen ... please meet my new host family!

From left to right: Keysi, Samir, Oreste, Me, Norma and Charlie

New Place

2010-02-19T07:16:00.000-08:00

It's a spacious studio right in the city center. Private bath. Front door exiting to a tiled boardwalk, right near Pampas' hottest kiosk. Water 24/7. Proximity to the town's loud speakers. And a window large enough for little kids to stare at me while I cook.

Did I score or what?

I didn't even mention the best part: My new host family is amazing. I've known them for over a year. We've baked chocolate chip cookies together. Made pizza. Filmed music videos. They ask me about my projects and offer to help. They let me sit at their kitchen table when I have a bad day and beat me at chess. They tease me. Adore me.

And that was all before I moved in.

I suppose I should probably back up since many of you had no clue I was moving host families. Which is actually kind of surprising considering how much it has consumed me for the past few months. I won't bore you with the details, but allow me to sum up.

November: Move in.

December: Get to know each other.

January: Bond with host brother.

February: Host dad finally talks to me.

March: Ok.

April: Good.

May: Good.

June: Ok.

July: Ok.

August: Gets awkward.

September: Gets more awkward.

October: Spend whole days in the health post to stay out of the house.

November: Talk to counter part about moving out. Find place.

December: Tell family I'm moving out. They freak out.

January: SUPER awkward. Awful. Miserable.

February: Move into new place!

I like my old host family. But long story short, I realized that in order to save our relationship and do this Peace Corps thing right, I had to find a different place to live. So I went to ask my "adoptive" host family (a family that had embraced me from the beginning) if there was room for me. They was, but it would take a couple of months to make it "Peace Corps approvable." I didn't want to go behind my old host family's back, so I told them my plan to move.

And they kind of flipped out. There was a lot of yelling. Peace Corps came in and saved the day. I went home for Christmas. Came back. Spent whole days out of the house or locked in my room. No one talked to me. When they did, it was biting. Then they tried to convince me to stay. They put in a fridge. Then Peace Corps approved the new place. Silent treatment again. I moved out. They took down my photo.

But now, I'm living in my new place with my new family, and going to my old host family's every day for lunch. It's working out really well.

Super cool bonus? I have three new host siblings, one of whom (Keysi) has made various appearances on my blog as the star of a music video we made and active member of my youth group, PALMA. Both parents are teachers and care a lot about education, which is blatantly obvious when you meet their incredibly bright kids:

Oreste, 18, is studying to be an accountant, has taken to calling me "hermanita" — which means "little sister" — and does this thing where he talks in a high-pitched voice just to be funny.
Keysi, 14, loves math, art and volleyball. She competes in chess tournaments and changes at least three times a day, always looking her cutest. This year she took a test that placed her as the top student of her grade in the whole department.
Samir, 10, didn't talk to me for the first year that I knew him. Then, out of nowhere, I see him in a regetón video Keysi made, and now I've discovered he's really talkative, outgoing and a total dork. My little rock star.

There's still some awkwardness. And my old host siblings still won't talk to me. But for the first time in my service, I feel at home where I am.

My front door. Note the hot PC logo to the right.

My big front room/office.

My kitchen ... sort of.

My conference table and library.

My bedroom. And for those who are wondering, yes that is a hospital bed. The health post lent it to me. The part under my pillow can even be pulled into an upright position.

Moving Day

2010-02-16T07:27:00.000-08:00

I´m officially moved into my new home!!

Pictures/stories/more explanation coming soon!

PC Book Club: The Irresistible Revolution

2010-02-12T17:44:00.000-08:00

I question whether to even write about this book, for fear of miscommunicating its message. I want to scream, "Go out now! Please! And borrow this book from someone!"

But if I did that, you probably wouldn't do it because you don't even know what it's about. And thus, the effort would be moot, so I'll try to sum it up as best as I can.

This book made me hopeful yet horribly uncomfortable, which, I suppose, is exactly what its author, Shane Claiborne, had in mind. The Irresistible Revolution is not a calling to arms, it's a calling out — demanding all those who are comfortable in their cushy lives to be uncomfortable in their complacency.

He gets a little soapbox-y at times, demanding social justice, equal rights and distribution for the poor, the abolition of the death penalty, the end to the war in Iraq and the complete rethinking of modern Christendom. But his rantings aren't political. Or at least not wholly. They are rooted in love. And the fundamental idea that you should love your neighbor as yourself.

In Claiborne's case, he thinks as Christians — as humans — we have a duty to love not just our neighbors, but everyone. Which would make a laundry list like that make sense. I mean, if you truly love someone, of course you'd want them to have the same rights as you, the same access to basic necessities, a chance at redemption, to live without bombs, or mislead or turnoff millions of people with an incomplete (and often inaccurate) depiction of how Christian life should be.

The motive for this movement is Christian, but the actions are simply human. If you at all feel that we are all connected in some way, that there is an inherit injustice in allowing others to have nothing while others have too much, the stories inside this book will shake you to your core without even needing to crack open a Bible.

Claiborne's posse, The Simple Way, is a community in the strictest sense of the word. They share everything. They pool their resources and share the workload to make sure that everyone has enough. He compares it to a rich parent with lots of kids. If every person pitches in a little, a lot is gathered in order to take care of everyone.

And this concept doesn't just apply to his small network in Philly's inner city. It's a global community — a family — equipped with blogs and online wire transfers to make sure that when, say, a Tsunami hits Indonesia, those who truly need it, have it.

As Claiborne puts it, there is always enough for everyone's need, but not enough for everyone's greed.

This idea of redistribution, he stresses, is not just a radical new way of neutralizing poverty and righting the world's injustices. It just makes the most sense. We spend so much time crawling over each other, only a few ever reach the top. But if we stop and work together — maybe even tie together a few of our ropes — everyone gets to climb.

This dogma is reinforced over again with this guy's stories. He's been everywhere, working with his global "Family," and it's almost hard to believe the same guy who sat mending lepers' wounds in Calcutta was also praying with war children in Baghdad and sleeping with the homeless in inner-city Philadelphia.

The worst thing someone can do, Claiborne calls out, is sit back and watch while poverty and injustice happen in the world. And no, writing a check to Save the Children isn't enough. There's a gap between the rich and the poor that's bridged but doesn't allow them to interact. If the two sides ever met, he says, and the rich (and by rich, he means even those in middle-class America) saw the crime of hoarding while others go without, the world would be a much different place.

The concept isn't crazy, Claiborne insists:

"What's crazy is a matter of perspective. After all, what is crazier: one person owning the same amount of money as the combined economies of twenty-three countries, or suggesting that if we shared, there would be enough for everyone? What is crazier: spending billions of dollars on a defense shield or suggesting that we share our billions of dollars so we don't need a defense shield? What is crazier: maintaining arms contracts with 154 countries while asking the world to disarm its weapons of mass destruction, or suggesting that we lead the world in disarmament by refusing to deal weapons with over half of the world and by emptying the world's largest stockpile here at home?

"What's crazy is that the US, less than 6 percent of the world's population, consumes nearly half of the world's resources, and that the average American consumes as much as 520 Ethiopians do, while obesity is declared a 'national health crisis'?"

The ability to eradicate poverty, find peace and balance out the world is there. It's just a matter of first learning how to love.

In between his tales of altruism, he pulls inspiration from Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi and Mother Theresa. One of my favorites is this quote by Mother Theresa: "We can do not great things, only small things with great love. It is not how much you do but how much love you put into doing it."

Claiborne complements this by writing, "The revolution begins inside each of us, and through little acts of love, it will take over the world."

He never says it's easy to give away all your possessions to the poor and join in the fight for justice, he just says it's right. And if you do decide to give it all to gain a new world, there's an entire family ready to embrace you and make sure you need for nothing.

Some more quotes from the book:

"We are not a neo-denomination because we are not trying to spread a doctrine or theology. We are not even trying to spread a model of community. We are just trying to discover a new (ancient) kind of Christianity. We are about spreading a way of life that exists organically and relationally and is marked by such a brilliant love and grace that no one could resist it."

"Recognizing that something is wrong is the first step toward changing the world."

"One friend was asked by a skeptic, 'You all are just a little group of radical idealists. What makes you actually think you can change the world?' And she said, 'Sir, if you will take a closer look at history you will see ... that's the only way it has ever been done.'"

Matthew 25:40 — "Whatever you have done for the least of these brothers of mine you did for me."

Rainy Season

2010-02-11T08:17:00.000-08:00

There I was, looking out over the perilous lake that stretched before me. I could see my salvation in the distance — not 100 meters away. But how to get there?

My eyes scanned the horizon. My heart started to race.

There! A dry patch of land, stretching thin between to bubbling pools. Stepping slowly, I made my way through the narrow passage, only to find myself at another dead end.

But wait! The smooth, shimmering face of a nearby rock caught my gaze a meter away. Could I jump? Will I make it?

Knowing no other option, I made the leap – nearly falling as my toes hit the smooth surface.

I stopped to catch my breath. My haven was still another 90 meters away.

Another thin stretch, another broken bridge. I crisscrossed my way through the death trap. I was 60 meters away. 40.

I cursed under my breath as I backtracked 5 meters to correct a dead-end path.

20 meters. 10.

I skimmed the wall that lined the dangerous pool. My hands flat against the hot cement.

5 meters. 2.

One more leap, and I'd be free. I braced my body for failure, but allowed my mind to hope.

I bent low and soared. My feet crashed against the hard asphalt, and I stumbled forward.

Freedom! Freedom! Aretha Franklin belted out in my head.

I turned and looked at the defeated mess behind me. Overhead, the hot sun began its daily ritual of drying the puddles and mud pits. But tonight it would rain again.

And tomorrow, I'd have to face the mocking maze from my house to the pavement once more.

Portraits Project: Lalo

2010-02-11T08:15:00.000-08:00

Lalo, 40, groundskeeper and part-time clown

"Hello!" He calls to me.

It's 6:30 a.m., and I'm only half-awake.

"Hello," I croak back, squinting to see him in the early morning sun.

"Good morning," he says (only it sounds like "gooed more-neen"), and continues to sweep tiny plastic plates and bits of cabbage into a dust pan.

I nod, make what I think is a smile, and head past him to the bathroom, almost tripping over a chicken on my way. While I'm brushing my teeth, I can hear him humming.

Last night had been another late one for their polleria. There was a soccer match — Peru vs. Ecuador — and people came by for chicken and to catch a glimpse of the game until 1 a.m. Volume was at full blast, and whenever anyone scored, an announcer shouted Gooooooooooooooooooooool!! for an entire minute straight.

I barely slept a wink.

I step out of the bathroom, and Lalo looks up to smile at me again.

"How did you sleep?" he asks.

"Fine," I lie. "How about you?"

"Oh, great!" he says, and I believe him.

He sweeps another bit of shredded cabbage and dumps it in large plastic bin.

Garu, our baby howler, squeals behind him, causing Lalo to turn his head in concern.

"What's wrong, my love?" he asks her. "Are you hungry?"

He dumps the broom and dust pan, and rushes to Garu, who's now hanging off the metal gate. Grabbing some chicken left over from the night before, he makes a tiny plate and places it at her feet.

"Monkey?" he asks, sounding like "mone-key," and points at her with a huge grin.

"Monkey, yes," I say, nodding. Lalo reaches out to pet her head, and Garu grabs his finger. He makes a face and grabs his chest as if Garu herself were pulling at his heartstrings.

It's then that I come to my senses and realize that there is a baby howler monkey in my back yard, hundreds of miles away from the jungle.

"Lalo," I ask. "How did you find Garu?"

This is when he tells me his story.

He was raised in the circus, traveling all around Peru. He was a clown, his sister a dancer. When he came to Tumbes, he met Nancy, his media naranja and future mother of his three kids. He decided to stay to raise a family and now works as a groundskeeper at the elementary school where his wife teaches second grade.

Many of his family members still travel with the circus though they are now based mostly out of Trujillo. They had recently gone to the jungle and brought Garu back to him as a gift. Every once in a while, Lalo gets asked to perform at birthday parties or anniversaries. His nickname around town is "El Payazo," and now I understand why.

As he tells me this story, he make wild gestures and faces.

"Do you ever miss the circus?" I ask.

He looks a me thoughtfully and pours some water in a small dish for Garu.

"Sí, claro," he says. "But my loves are here now."

He smiles at me again with his wide grin.

A moment passes.

"Well, I better get going," I say, turning to head back to my room.

"Gooed Bye!" he calls back to me.

"Bye!" I call back, and now, smiling, I close my door behind me.

Camp ALMA

2010-02-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

Well, it happened. After one year, four months, and 28 days of being with the Peace Corps, it happened.
I got the warm fuzzies.

This past weekend, in the bustling town of La Union, 22 volunteers held a 3-day leadership camp for teenage girls in Piura and Tumbes. Thirty girls showed up in total to hear successful women speakers, play team-building activities and do other, you know, camp-y stuff. Like water balloon volleyball and sing Boom-chick-a-Boom.

If you've been to camp, you've heard Boom-chick-a-Boom:

I said a boom-chick-a-boom! (campers repeat)

I said a boom-chick-a-boom! (campers repeat)

I said a boom-chick-a-racka chick-a-racka chick-a-boom (campers repeat)

Alright (campers repeat)

Ok (campers repeat)

One more time ...

The song is sung through once and then followed by different "styles." Cheerleader-style (with perky voices and jerky arm movements). Fat-man-style (with a deep voice, and big, heavy stomping). Mouse-style (high-pitched voices and revealed upper teeth).

You get the idea.

Well anyway, the whole weekend was spent covering super intense themes, like feminism, sexual health, domestic violence, entrepreneurship, and volunteerism. There was even a panel of five professional women (including a police officer) to answer questions and talk about how they arrived to where they are. Each theme was accompanied by discussion groups and activities. And at the very end, the girls broke up into groups according to where they live and developed a plan of how they were going to improve their own community.

It was awesome. And the girls really seemed to have a great time. As a special treat, we even put together a mini soap opera that some of us did during dinners. I played the friend of the main character, Jessica.

The plot was that two bad guys (Don Macho and Señor Sinvergüenza) are trying to destroy the camp. "Girls can't be leaders!" they scoff. And the whole time they are plotting this evil plan, Jessica and our friend Alex start making goo-goo eyes at each other, and a love story develops in the margins.

Eventually the bad guys kidnap Jessica — who is the weekend's MC, and thus destroying Camp ALMA — and Alex and I chase after her. Sr. Sinvergüenza stops us in our path as Don Macho takes off with Jessica, and I challenge him to a duel (fyi--we used empty plastic Coke bottles as swords ... It was awesome). Amidst the dueling, I convince him to give up his machista ways and admit that girls are awesome and can work together alongside men.

Meanwhile, Alex chases after Don Macho, only to be foiled by getting his glasses knocked off his head and left blind. Jessica sees this chaos around her and decides no longer to stand idly by and let Don Macho win. So she yells at him and makes him listen to lots of healthy self-esteem and pro-women rantings, which, in turn, makes him melt. Yay! Girls rule!

The campers were really into it. Always booing when the bad guys came onstage, swooning when Alex walked in, or cheering for me when I kicked Sr. Sinvergüenza's butt in Coke-bottle sword fighting. They loved it.

That is until, the final scene.

After the last battle, Alex and Jessica have their climactic romantic moment, and Alex leans in to give her this huge, wet, passionate kiss — and Jessica stops him.

"Hold up," she says. "I only just met you. How about we get to know each other before we suck face."
This, of course, was to go along with the sexual health and domestic violence sessions we had where we talked with the girls about taking their time and really getting to know a boy so they don't end up having babies at 13.

The girls hated it. They actually booed when all of us left the stage. They wanted the passion! The kisses! The lust! And we gave them a responsible reality.

Ah well, maybe next year.

At any rate, the girls had a great time. And the morning they were all getting ready to leave, breakfast was late. So in hopes of keeping them from becoming too antsy, I asked if they wanted to play a game or sing a song. Naturally (in true camp fashion), they wanted to sing Boom-chick-a-boom.

We sang for over a half hour. And at one point, while I was rapping like a regatonista, it happened. The warm fuzzies.

I just looked out and saw the enthusiastic, smiling faces of those girls, and it hit me.

I wondered how many of them had been told that they could do anything? How many had heard how far they could go? How much they could change their own communities? Peru? The world?

I wondered how many had thought of their future as something different than what had always been done before. Something other than just their mothers' pasts?

Even if we hadn't invited nine speakers to come and blanket them with wisdom, or even if we'd left out the tug of war or human board game, we had an effect on those teen girls. If only because we believed in them enough to drag them all the way out to La Union, Piura to meet other incredible girls like them and sing Boom-chick-a-boom.

The majority of them will probably go back to their site, do their planned activity, and that will be it. Nothing much will change.

But I have no doubt in my mind that some of them walked away from Camp ALMA with a nagging, a tugging toward something bigger. Something that will blow all of us away.

And that was enough for me.

Laura, 13, rolls for her team during the Human Board Game.

The girls playing a communication game, where one girl had a picture and she describes that picture to another girl who then draws it without looking at the original image.

The cast of Cuerpo de Pasión

All 30 of the girls from ALMA.

PC Book Club: The Tipping Point

2010-01-26T04:58:00.000-08:00

I had heard that The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell was one of those books that made people working in behavior change or marketing swoon. My feet stayed firmly on the ground, but I did think it was interesting.

The writing is a little textbook-y but with a casual tone — in way of a baby boomer trying to pull off the word "chillax" — and (like a conversation with "Uncle G," you get through it pretty quickly and relatively unharmed.

The main theme centers around three essential characters, without whom, starting trends and selling Airwalks would be nearly impossible: The mason, the connector and the salesman.

The mason is the fact-finder. The trend-seeker. The information-gatherer. He/she/they search tirelessly for what's new. What's hot. What's au courant. They know all about that new African fusion restaurant in SoHo and polka-dotted Keds. And not only do they collect this information, but they pass it on. Enjoying the process of gifting useful knowledge to the world.

The connector's role should be easy to surmise. Once masons are able to get their information to a connector, all they have to do is wait for the burnt-out Blackberry to get going. Connectors know everybody. And inevitably the somebodies.

Salesmen are those somebodies. They tell people what's cool and what's lame. They make other people want to do whatever it is they are doing.

In Peace Corps, it's very possible we'd be all three. Let me give a concrete example.

As a health volunteer, I routinely try to seek out new information concerning water purification. (Mason!) I come across SODIS* technology and think it's really cool. Now because I'm the token foreigner and a regular face in the town's health post, people know me. I tell them about this hot, new method of cleaning my drinking water and how it has minimal effects on my wallet or routine. (Connector!) I then place the clear, plastic bottles filled with water atop my own tin roof for all of the community to see, inspiring my neighbors and other passers-by to try the same. (Salesman!) This causes, of course, a chain of SODIS-practitioners to pop up all over my community.

The whole premise is that for a trend to hit the mainstream, a certain number of people have to adopt it. I thought that the The Tipping Point would offer suggestions as to how to make that happen. Unfortunately, it just gives the obvious: get the trend to the people who are going to make other people want to adopt it. No specifics, no tips or tricks.

Overall, the book wasn't bad. It was kind of cool to track where certain fads started and flopped. And as far as behavior change study, it's a good start. It's made me think about who are the masons, connectors and salesman in my own community — and how I can work with these people more hopefully to cause change. Boiling your water isn't exactly like watching Blue's Clues. But you never know. It could catch on.

*SODIS is a process of water purification that uses the sun.

What's Next?- Updated

2010-01-25T06:44:00.000-08:00

A bit of a bummer note: My mass communications class was canceled due to lack of kids.

I guess "lack of kids" makes it sounds like there were some kids, just not enough to make a full class. That's misleading. There wasn't a single kid. Not one.

Last year, my teens were begging me to do more radio spots or skits. I thought summer would be a great time to do that, as the kids wouldn't be all that busy. So, I planned this class, told teens, slipped a fiver to the loudspeaker guy and talked the course up to anyone who breathed near me.

But it's summer. And I guess it's not what the teens really wanted to do during their break. To be honest, when I was a kid, I didn't want to spend my summers in a classroom either. You can't blame them really. Why study when you can run around with your friends and go swimming in the river?

I'll admit, I'm a little disappointed. I was really looking forward to teaching the class. But I can't make people participate. So ... I guess I'll do something else. I'll just use my extra free time to think of the next cool idea.

Quiz: How Long Have You Been a PCV?

2010-01-25T06:30:00.000-08:00

1.) You call a meeting. And I mean you really call a meeting. You put up signs, place an announcement with the town loudspeakers and go door-to-door to spread the word. But when the time comes, no one shows up. You:

a.) Slump your shoulders in disappointment and defeat, but convince yourself to stay resolute and plot out to succeed the next time. You'll probably cry later.
b.) Feel bummed but decide to talk to a few community members to help encourage participation.
c.) Shrug and head back to your room to watch How I Met Your Mother.

2.) You meet someone for the first time, and they immediately call attention to how fat you are (something you've been a little sensitive about). You:

a.) Shoot them death glares and vow to go on a diet.
b.) Smile but secretly want to snap at them for being the 62nd person to say that to you this week.
c.) Laugh and pat your belly. Whatever, man. You are what you are.

3.) You are visiting a family in your village, and they give you a heaping plate of rice, noodles and questionable-looking meat. You:

a.) Smile politely and will yourself to eat as much as you can while suppressing your gag reflex.
b.) Thank the host graciously and polish off the plate with some difficulty.
c.) Compliment the host profusely, eat as much as you want (and not a grain of rice more), and then excuse yourself for a "very important meeting" – still emphasizing how delicious the meal is as you walk out the door.

4.) You and the mayor agreed to meet at 8 a.m. You confirmed and re-confirmed, but he never shows. You:

a.) Stay at the meeting place for 2.5 hours, feeling more depressed by every minute.
b.) Stay at the meeting place for 1.5 hours, all the while plotting his death.
c.) Stay at the meeting place for 45 minutes – just enough to finish the book you brought with you.

5.) You're eating lunch and find a hair in the rice. You:

a.) Lose your appetite and say you're full.
b.) Eat around it.
c.) Pull the hair out and finish eating.

RESULTS*:

If you answered with mostly A's: You're likely fresh off the boat. I'd say 0-5 months in site (max). Life is new and exciting. You are still doe-eyed and enthusiastic about pretty much everything, and you're terrified of a making cultural faux pas. Outgoing and sedulous, "no" is not a word you use often. But you're still learning, and two years can seem pretty long.

If you answered with mostly B's: You're a seasoned idealist. In site for 6-11 months, sure you've learned a few hard lessons. People are usually late and feed you too much, but you've got it pretty much under control. You're still enthusiastic and eager to please. You are learning to recognize your limits.

If you answered with mostly C's: You're jaded – you know, in a good way. You've been in site for 1 year + and know what you need to survive. You don't need stupid quizzes like this. You've got it under control.

*No promises that this will be in any way accurate.

What's Next?

2010-01-10T14:38:00.000-08:00

Rainy season's back! And you know what that means.

Well, you probably don't. But it means summer school, sweating and zancudos.* And while last year, I was spending morning fumbling about with my community diagnostic survey and watching whole seasons of NCIS in front of my fan in the afternoons, this year I'll be kept really busy.

Summer school is starting soon. This year, I'll be teaching a class on health promotion through mass communication as part of our PEPFAR project. We'll be working with the teen promoters we trained last year in two different communities, as well as some new students who want to participate. We'll be covering how to do radio spots, posters — even making a video. And I'm really pumped. Mass comm is one of those few areas in which I feel moderately competent, and it will be fun to get a chance to incorporate it into our HIV-prevention project.

I'm mostly excited to write and shoot the video about HIV/AIDS and prevention methods. A lot of the materials we get are from Lima or other parts of Latin America. But those places aren't Tumbes, and the culture is slightly different. It will be great to have locally made resources.

Our English class is finally getting off the ground — *fingers crossed*. A really nice woman in my town has studied English up to a more advanced level, so she'll be taking on the role as facilitator/teacher, and I'll just be a support role. We'll also be charging 8 soles for the 8-week course, which will go toward materials and as a small stipend for the señora. I really don't know how this is going to work out, but I'm optimistic. I'm hoping the setup will make it more sustainable.

The first weekend in February, PCVs in Piura and Tumbes will be doing a girls retreat for teens. Each participating volunteer will bring 1-3 girl teens to a leadership camp, equipped with strong, female speakers and life skills activities. I'll be serving as a camp counselor, leading one of the groups. I've never participated in this type of camp before (there's a boys camp mid-year), so I'm a little nervous to see how it turns out. But it sounds like it will be really fun for the girls.

In between these activities/classes, we'll be continuing with our Health Homes projects with our team of health promoters. I'm hoping this year I'll have more time to go out into the campo and do house visits with the families. I spent most of last year in the district's capital, but I'd really like to venture out to the small villages only accessible by walking. Our tech trainer in Lima during training told me once that if your shoes aren't dirty, you aren't working hard enough. So I'm planning on getting mine a little muddy.

Anyway, so that's what I have planned. I'm sure things will change, come up, or fade away. Nothing really works out the way that you plan it, and in Peace Corps it's more the rule than the exception. But we'll roll with it and see where we end up. I mean, I signed up for an adventure, right? And the best things are never planned.

*zancudos means mosquitoes

Back to Peru

2010-01-06T08:07:00.000-08:00

Hey all! I made it back to Peru OK, and in a lot better shape than I thought I'd be, thanks to your comments and e-mails. One note, in particular, helped shake me from my sulking.

A friend of mine told me to try and remember what it was like when I first got accepted to Peace Corps. How it felt when I held the thick envelope in my hands with photos of blonde 20-somethings in the Andes beside stories of planting vegetable gardens with families and primary schools. How I daydreamed about where I would go and the people I would meet. The adventures I'd have.

And how in nowhere in those daydreams was leaving early an option.

So, since I committed to stay, I'm at least going to do it without pouting. Because frankly, I'm getting a little sick of myself. I love my family and friends back home, and I miss them. But as another friend pointed out to me, I have the rest of my life to live among them. And I need to take advantage of what's in front of me.

Happy New Year, everyone!

A favor

2010-01-02T16:21:00.001-08:00

Hey Everyone,

I need a favor. So ... I came home for 18 days to spend Christmas and New Year's with my family and some friends, and it's been amazing. A little too amazing. And now, with only three days left of my trip, I'm starting to, well, freak out a little.

You see, I love my life in Peru. I do. But coming home has made me realize how much better I fit here, and how much I miss my friends and family. It's hit me with a wave of premature homesickness. And I'm finding it a little hard to go back.

So, here's where you come in: I'm in need of a little encouragement. Some help improving my attitude so that I go back to Peru excited and cheery.

Think y'all can help?

White Christmas

2009-12-24T07:18:00.001-08:00

Two feet of snow over Christmas. I love snow, but stepping outside makes me miss the balmy heat of Tumbes.

My Twelve Days of Christmas

2009-12-22T12:30:00.000-08:00

On the 1st day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 2nd day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 3rd day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 4th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 5th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... five dozen Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 6th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 7th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 8th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... eight vintage Ray-bans, seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 9th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... nine sexy vampires, eight vintage Ray-bans, seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 10th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... ten all-new sitcoms, nine sexy vampires, eight vintage Ray-bans, seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 11th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... eleven health bill revisions, ten all-new sitcoms, nine sexy vampires, eight vintage Ray-bans, seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

On the 12th day of Christmas, I was surprised to see ... twelve twamous tweeters, eleven health bill revisions, ten all-new sitcoms, nine sexy vampires, eight vintage Ray-bans, seven iPhone 3Gs, six mini laptops, five Tiger lovers, four pants-less popstars, three classroom smart boards, two Wii controllers and a plasma screen HDTV.

Home for Christmas.

2009-12-20T11:46:00.000-08:00

The waiting was killing me. I worked all morning. Went to Tumbes. Kept busy with errands. Showered. Ate lunch. Visited with the health post ladies. Re-packed everything-twice.

And I still had 5 hours left until I left for the airport.

I sat on the back stoop and watched the turkeys. Clouds had rolled in, breaking the heat, and I squinted at the sun as it set behind the banana fields.

It had been a hot day. Like super hot. Can-feel-the-sun-touch-my-skin-hot. And I was enjoying the breeze.

I looked at my watch for the 80th time that day. It was 6:05 p.m. The car was picking me up at 7:30 to bring me to the airport. I knew I should eat, but the idea of food made me want to sew my mouth shut. I was too excited.

I was going home.

How I didn't give it away for 3 months, I have no idea. I'm a terrible liar. And I'm sure if my mom had been able to see me as I repeatedly fibbed about my Christmas plans, she would have called me out months ago.

"I don't know ... maybe I'll go to the beach." ... "I was thinking about maybe Lima." ... "No, mom. Peace Corps isn't allowing us to go home for the holidays." ... etc.

They were seriously pathetic. But I'm glad she believed them.

The car picked me up 20 minutes early. Despite spending the whole day preparing, I ran around one last time, making sure I had everything. My host mom hugged me twice. And my host dad hugged me for the first time ever. I promised I'd call.

They hugged me once more. I waved goodbye and hopped in.

The driver's name was Darwin. A friend of a friend from the next district over. We chatted, and I thought about how easy Spanish had become. A wave of panic hit as I questioned – yet again – if I had my passport.

The next 12 hours was a foggy blur. I flew from Tumbes to Lima. And then made my way from Lima to Miami. I slept maybe 20 minutes the entire flight. My legs were stiff. My stomach was in knots.

I daydreamed about what my parents would do. How I would greet my sister. Should I do the run and jump? Maybe a squeal? Perhaps a casual "Oh hey ... fancy meeting you here." Should I do a British accent maybe? ... you know, as a joke.

A friend of mine had told me once that when she came back after 9 months in Quito, Ecuador, she started crying when she saw the 8-lane highways out the plane window. As the plane got ready to land, I tried nonchalantly to lean my entire body over the guy next to me so I could see out the window. He gave me a weird look. I pulled back.

They told us that reverse culture shock is harder than original culture shock. And I wondered what would make me crack. The highway didn't do it for me – I live off the PanAmerican Highway. Too many choices in the grocery store? Probably not; they have big stores like that in Lima.

Even so, I lasted a whole 20 minutes in the US before I lost it.

It was in customs. The guy who stamps passports was stamping mine, and asked where I lived.

"Peru," I said.

"Ahh well, then," he said. "Welcome home."

He smiled, handed me my passport, and I had tears trickling down my cheeks before I made it the 30 meters to baggage claim.

40 minutes later, I passed a water fountain. A WATER FOUNTAIN. Free water. Perfectly clean and parasite free. I smiled. I wasn't thirsty. But it was FREE, CLEAN WATER. It tasted like I remembered.

5 minutes later, I was sipping a Starbucks House Brew while watching CNN. Jesse Ventura will have is own show? I audibly groaned. And what was going on with his ponytail. Seriously what happened to our country (our media??) in the 15 months since I left?

It was rainy, and I was nervous my flight would be delayed or – oh God, please no – canceled.

I needed to surprise my mom. I was going to give my camera to my sister's boyfriend, and he was going to film the whole thing. The car pulling up to the house. Stef and I stepping, lugging my camouflage hiking backpack and little black roller up the ice-covered sidewalk. We'd open the door – or wait, better, we'd knock. We'd knock, and my parents would answer the door together. The door would open, and a breath of fresh-cookie-smelling heat would kiss my face. My mom would register my sister's presence. Then turn to me and – gasp – could it be? Yes, it's she! And we'd hug, and cry. And she'd say how surprised she was while my dad gave me a quick side/shoulder-hug before hauling in my Peruvian dust-ridden luggage –

The flight was delayed. But not for long. And 3.5 hours after boarding the plane, I was impatiently tapping my foot behind the world's longest line on the way into the terminal of the Minneapolis airport.

When I finally broke free, I booked it. My bag hit my hip as I ran from the gate to baggage claim. It hurt. Carousel 4 Stef had told me. 4. 4. 4.

13 ... 12 ... 11 ...

8 ... 7 ... 6 ...

4! 4!

I saw her. I ran, arms stretched. We hugged. A symphony rose in the background. A deep crescendo. I started crying again. Huge tears this time. Soaking my sister's fleece.

We spun. People stared. Gawked. Swooned. What a lovely reunion! They thought. How cinematic!

During the 45 minutes driving back to my hometown, I braced myself for the shock, but it didn't come. I didn't even really mind the cold. When we pulled up to my parents' house, I started getting nervous. It suddenly dawned on me that I lied to my mom for months. I Lied. To my Mom. What an awful daughter I was! Maybe she'd be mad?

She wasn't. She screamed. Hugged me. More crying. My dad walked through the door, in his quiet astonishment, and said to no one in particular, "You're not supposed to be here."

Followed by more hugging and tears. Finally, I was home.

Just when I was getting comfortable ...

2009-12-06T16:19:00.000-08:00

If my first year of service were a novel, it would start kind of slow. The beginning chapters would be focused on character development and setting, with long paragraphs outlining the curves of the distant hills, the sound of rain on tin roofs, and profiles of the people met along the way.

There would be small conflicts and resolutions creating crests and troughs in the story line. I would play up the embarrassing (but hilarious) condom-breaking-during-demonstration debacle, but still embellish the lazy Sundays spent in the hammock.

For every three steps forward for plot, one step back would be taken for context. There would be laughter and tears. And the climax — the vibrant culmination of a year's worth of integration, confidence building, language skills and lessons learned – would definitely be World AIDS Week.

The end of November/beginning of December has been a whirlwind of preparations, presentations, goodbyes and deep breaths. Five volunteers are leaving this tiny department, and seven more are arriving. With just two of us holding the anchor, it's made for a lot of change.

But the peak will be followed by a hard and fast crash. The rains are coming and school's letting out, giving way to the falling action of Christmas preparations and the abrupt denouement of New Years.

And when life picks up again, maybe a different story will begin. New resolutions will be made. Friendships formed and projects started. Will it be all that different? Could it possibly be the same? Instead of ticking off, I'll be counting down the days I have left in my Peace Corps adventure. And before I know it – they tell me – I'll be back home reminiscing about time spent here.

But for now, it might not be a bad idea to hold still and look back. Revisiting moments both key and mundane. Lamenting the loss of close friends. Smiling at the ones who've stuck around. Shaking my head at the person I'm becoming. Squinting to recognize the person I was.

While, you know, eating mangoes and swinging on the hammock ... prepping for Volume Two.

Thanksgiving 2009

2009-12-06T13:53:00.001-08:00

"How are we going to cook this?" My friend Mike asked me as he raised up the 4 kg bag of frozen turkey breasts and legs.

We were heading to the beach to celebrate Thanksgiving with some friends, and the place where we were staying had an outdoor kitchen.

I shrugged. "We'll figure it out. It can't be that hard."

I'd seen a makeshift oven, made out of a pot atop bricks in a larger pot, sitting over a bonfire. It could work.

But there wasn't a huge pot. Just a couple small ones.

"How about we boil the legs and then fry the breast ... you know, like chicken? With some spices, it should be fine."

But there weren't any spices. Just salt and some garlic. So we chopped up some cloves and massaged in some salt.

That's what Peace Corps is about, right? Being resourceful?

Believe it or not, it turned out OK. We cut up some fruit and made some mashed potatoes. We even managed to make some gravy. Dinner was served just as the sun was setting over the water.

All in all, a very successful Thanksgiving.

World AIDS Week Recap

2009-12-06T12:14:00.001-08:00

Great week! But I'm exhausted. Check it out.

Monday and Wednesday: HIV Jeopardy with teens during recess. Primary school students wanted to hang out with the giant condom, too.

Tuesday: World AIDS Day march. Over 600 kids, teens and teachers participated. I got very, very sunburned.

Friday: AIDS Week dance with teens in the community. Kind of lame. We couldn't turn off the lights without turning off the music, and the kids didn't want to dance with bright lights on. They also didn't want to participate in any of the activities. I thought a condom race was a fun idea!

Then/Now

2009-11-22T13:09:00.000-08:00

This week, all of us are in Lima for mid-service med checks and meetings. Each of us gave presentations on what we've been up to this past year, and we started to realize something.

Peace Corps ages people.

Check out my then and now:

Youth Group Photography Project

2009-11-17T19:21:00.001-08:00

My youth group recently did a photography project in our little pueblo. The objective was to take a collection of photos that would make a portrait of how life is in Pampas. No pictures of over-photographed landmarks. No posing.

Here are a few taken by the teens:

PC Book Club: The Wisdom of Whores

2009-11-14T05:53:00.000-08:00

Thanks to PEPFAR, a huge chunk of PC Peru volunteers are finding themselves knee-deep in HIV prevention. It's no surprise that, as a result, books discussing the AIDS pandemic are now appearing on the Peace Corps Book Club list.

In The Wisdom of Whores: Brothels, Bureaucrats and the Business of AIDS, epidemiologist Elizabeth Pisani tears apart the current ideology driving AIDS work worldwide.

Africa is leading the world in HIV-infection rates, and rightfully so much of HIV prevention and funding is going to this part of the world. However, Pisani argues, what's happening in South and East Africa is NOT what is happening everywhere else. And while these parts of Africa have HIV infection in the general population, the rest of the world is discovering the highest risk of HIV infection isn't. In fact, the epidemic is concentrated in pretty condensed at-risk populations: sex workers, males who have sex with males and drug injectors.

An overwhelming amount of AIDS funding, however, is not funneled toward these groups, but toward the general population, where the risk is much lower. Instead of focusing funding for providing and promoting the use of clean needles, condoms and lubricant, money is being spent on development projects, life skills for teens and encouraging abstinence.

Not to say that these programs aren't useful. But as Pisani points out, economic development and individual empowerment are all well and good, but what will really stop the spread of HIV are condoms and clean needles.

I've spent the past year working on HIV prevention projects in my site. We've trained 60 teachers, 40 youth health promoters and over 200 teenagers in HIV prevention. We've shown movies, done marches, and recorded radio spots. We've organized community meetings to educate house wives and conducted condom relays in classrooms.

But has it really made a difference in curbing the spread of HIV?

According to Pisani, it most likely hasn't. And from the data I've seen, she's probably right. HIV infection rates in Tumbes ARE high, but really only in males who have sex with males, and sex workers. In the general population – where all our work is conducted – the rates are actually quite low.

This is kind of disheartening for a girl who has spent a lot of time waving bananas in the air with one hand and condoms with the other.

Perhaps our resources would be better utilized if we focused our energy in the at-risk populations. But in a culture with such fierce machismo, where prejudice and hostility might lurk around any professed outsider, how can we seek them out without putting them at risk?

Our solution so far has been to blanket the entire community with information in hopes of reaching those who are truly at risk, which – let's face it – is a little like throwing seeds across an open field in hopes that a few will start to grow.

As Pisani mentioned, a positive byproduct of our project might be a reduction in teen pregnancy and STIs. Some youth might not cave to growing delinquency because they're kept busy with sessions and project activities. And we're certainly doing a lot to open up lines of communication concerning sex and condom usage.

But what's more, the community is stepping up, working together – getting excited about something.

Call me naive, but I think that's a pretty good step. And even though we're not where we need to be, we're at least moving forward. Hopefully in the right direction.

--
Pisani's evaluation of the problems guiding the HIV pandemic and her solutions (pulled directly from her book):

The Problem (on Planet Epidemiology)

The overwhelming majority of HIV-infected adults get HIV by having unprotected sex with an infected person, or by sharing needles with them while injecting drugs.

People pass the virus most easily when they have lots of it in their blood (i.e. when they are newly infected).

HIV is transmitted most easily when it comes into contact with sores, lesions or foreskin.

The Solution (On Planet Epidemiology)

Cut the exchange of body fluids between infected and uninfected people.

Getting people to give up sex doesn't work very well, so in terms of sexual transmission, our best bet is to persuade uninfected people to use condoms with any partner likely to be infected with HIV. In East and Southern Africa and in many gay communities that means any new sex partner. Bombard the places people go to meet new partners with condoms and lube. Remember that men have sex with another in prison.

For heterosexuals in most of the world, the highest-risk sex is paid for. Create incentives to use condoms every time sex is bought or sold.

Methadone and other oral drugs can help people stop injecting, so make them widely available but recognize that they don't always work. Make it easy as possible for people who are still injecting to do it safely. Make clean needles available, make them free or dirt cheap. Give them to people in prison if they need them. Make sure no one winds up in prison just because they're carrying needles.

Don't forget to make sure that all injecting equipment used in health services is sterile. Screen all blood for HIV before transfusion.

Cut the amount of virus in the blood of people who are infected. The most obvious way to do this is to provide people who need it with antiretroviral treatment. Test for infection where you're most likely to find it. Bundle prevention services with AIDS drugs at every opportunity. Treating other infections (such as sexual transmitted infections) promptly will reduce spikes in the amount of virus, even among people who are not on anti-HIV drugs.

Close all the potential "open doors," so the virus can't get into the uninfected person.

In communities where there is lots of HIV, circumcise men. Screen for sexually transmitted infections and treat them among women, men and transgenders who sell sex, and among their clients and regular partners. Make sure you use drugs that work. Promote the use of lubricant in all anal sex and for female sex works, too, to minimize tears and lesions. Package it with condoms. Get it into gay bars.

Small Victory

2009-11-08T07:25:00.000-08:00

We invited two women living with HIV to come to Pampas and give their testimonies, and we made a whole event of it. The youth health promoters performed a skit and gave a small presentation on what HIV is, how it spreads and how to prevent it. And a couple people came from the Ministry of Health to present on the situation of HIV in our department.

Over 100 people showed. More than double any other event we´ve ever done.

Yay for small Peace Corps victories!

Pasa La Voz

2009-11-02T19:10:00.000-08:00

Twice a year, Peace Corps Peru puts out a volunteer magazine called Pasa La Voz*. Though not technically the official PC-Peru publication, PLV is a compilation of articles, creative works and commentaries by volunteers, and put together by three PCV** editors. It also includes a special section devoted to profiles of PCVs completing their service.

This next issue is set to hit volunteer mailboxes around Peru soon, and focuses on the GEOGRAPHIC adventure on a NATIONAL level *cough* among volunteers here in Peru.

Special insert, El Ají (a copycat of The Onion), is back and hotter than ever. One volunteer explains the significance of photography in site while others question what the future will bring to Peru's campesinos and if hiking really is the sport of fools and masochists. A case is made for going where the wild things are in the Peruvian Amazon. Miracles of meditation are revealed. And I debate the merits of Twitter.

Amidst the passion, excitement, thrill and intrigue, there's nostalgia and analysis with, at times, a touch of lunacy. This Pasa La Voz promises page-turning fun that you can't put down.

"I'd recommend this issue to all my fellow volunteers in Peru," wrote one reviewer. "The personal account of one volunteer's resolution to embrace, rather than exterminate, the rodents and insects in her bedroom was truly inspiring."

"This is one of the best reads I've had all year!" raved another. "Anybody with any personal interest in the whacky world of PC Peru (and significant amounts of inside knowledge) will love this issue."

Others could not even speak for fear of shedding joyful tears beckoned by the photocopied pages.

Pasa La Voz. In Serpost mailboxes everywhere in 3-4 weeks.

* Pasa La Voz means Spread the Word
**Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)

Portraits Project: Cecilia

2009-11-01T15:09:00.000-08:00

Cecilia, age 40, mother

"ROW-bean!" A voice squealed. "ROW-bean!"

I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, but I didn't need to see the face to recognize the voice.

"Hola Ceci!" I called. She waved me over – lifting her hand, wrist up, and pushing it down toward her, as if she were in a boat without an oar.

"ROW-bean! Come here!"

I walked over to the short, stout woman with the wide smile buying cilantro from the corner store. She gripped my shoulders and gave me an eager kiss on the cheek.

"Row-bean, how are you? What are you doing? Where are you going? Come to my house!" She said in one breath.

"I'm well, señora," I replied. "How are you?"

"Good, good. Row-bean, where have you been? You haven't visited me in so long. You have to come to my house. Let's chat."

"Oh, thank you, Ceci, I would love to, but I can't. I'm sorry," I said, bulking up the sound of my regret. "I have to get back to work."

"Nonsense," she waved my words away. "You have to come over and have some dessert."

I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 a.m.

"Really, thank you, Ceci, but I don't think I can," I said, then added, " you know, full chamba" for emphasis.*

Ignoring my response, she put her hand on my arm eagerly.

"Row-bean, Row-bean. You know what we need to do? You have to come with me soon to visit my mom in the country. I tell her all about you. What are you doing this afternoon? Let's go this afternoon! We'll make ceviche and go for a walk on the paths along the hills. You'll meet my mom. Yes, that's what we'll do this afternoon. Come over around 3."

"That's really kind of you, Señora. I would really love to, but I have another engagement." Her smile was not deterred. "But that sounds really fun. We should definitely plan on doing it sometime soon."

She nodded vigorously, and her smile brought crinkles to her eyes.

"Yes, Row-bean. Soon, soon. When can you come with us to the country? You let me know."

"Of course, Ceci. I will let you know as soon as I can."

She took my hand with both of hers and brought me in to kiss my cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Row-bean. We'll see each other soon. You'll come over, and we'll chat."

"Yes, of course, Señora. Take care. We'll see each other soon."

*full chamba is Peruvian slang for "super busy working"

My Plastic Ball

2009-10-25T08:54:00.001-07:00

There's this massive plastic, thin-rope ball that's been sitting in the corner of my room for a while now. Stretched out, the entire thing covers about 10 meters. I use it for activities with my youth and have gotten into the habit of just haphazardly wrapping it around my hands when I'm done and tossing it back in my bag.

The result, of course, is this clump of garbage-bag thread so gnarly and caught with knots that it no longer correctly unwinds, and I've had to resort to toilet paper as a thread substitute.

A few days ago, I glanced over and decided that it was time. I would spend my Saturday afternoon unwinding, untangling — and totally conquering this rat's nest.

Full of determination and imagined stamina, I dived in.

The beginning started pretty easy. A few knots here, a loopty-loop there. I started off slow, not pulling so hard as to ensnarl the mass further. After a while, however, I lost my patience. The plastic thread kept catching, and when I stopped to admire my progress, I realized that I hadn't gotten very far at all.

I started yanking the thread in every direction, randomly grabbing pieces and jerking them away from the hellish center knot. Sometimes it made it better, sometimes worse. Sometimes I thought I was making headway and smiled at myself smugly — only to find yet another series of impediments, making my face fall.

You can imagine how frustrated I was. I stepped back, took a breath, watched the ducks eat banana leaves in the backyard and tried again. Whenever I reached the brink of exasperation, I averted my attention — I wrote to-do lists, re-ordered my stack of books, turned on my fan. But after a brief break, I went back to my project, full of fervor and with a sense of duty.

I pulled and tugged at random strings at lightning speeds. I delicately slipped one piece over another as if handling lace. I seriously contemplated just cutting off the rest of the stupid thing and calling it a day.

After a while, I looked down to check my progress again.

And wouldn't you know it? I was actually getting somewhere. It took me nearly an hour, but I eventually had my garbage-bag thread tightly wound into a nice, neat little ball.

When I was all done, I set it aside and admired it for awhile. Seriously, a ball of thread is NOT that big of a deal. But I was proud of it. And mostly I was proud that I didn't give up on it.

And then I thought, Hmm ... what I nice, neat little metaphor for my Peace Corps experience.

PC Book Club: ´Mountains Beyond Mountains´ and ´Eat Pray Love´

2009-10-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

There are some books that get a lot of traffic among Peace Corps volunteers.

I'm speaking, naturally, of the typical stories of one person single-handedly saving the world (i.e. Three Cups of Tea); societal examinations (like Freakonomics, The God Delusion); easy-to-read escapes into fantasy, such as Harry Potter (in Spanish, of course), and, – you guessed it – the ubiquitous tales of self-discovery.

Copies of these paperbacks travel from site to site, collecting bits of aerial sand from the desert and dirt smudges from the mountains. Pages are dog-eared and water-stained, riddled with underlines and musings in the margins. Covers are torn with coffee rings. Each one wholly abused and loved, then passed along.

I've read my fair share of "The Peace Corps Classics," along with some pretty terrible chick lit, and I wanted to highlight some of the most impactive books I've read so far.

Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder didn't change my life, but it did shake it up a bit. In this biography of Dr. Paul Farmer, Kidder follows this modern-day public health icon around the world, from Haiti to Boston, Russia to Peru.

I won't bog you down with the details, but trust me, the gist alone is enough to impress you. Farmer built a clinic in the poorest part of the poorest country in this hemisphere and started Partners in Health, an international aid organization responsible for leading the way in some of the worlds largest health problems, like tuberculosis and HIV.

Did I mention that he started all this work as an undergrad? And kept traveling to and from Haiti while attending Harvard Medical School, arriving just in time to take his exams or do his labs and then hopped back on a plane to the Caribbean?

The guy's intimidating. And probably a little crazy. But it's paying off. Partners in Health was a main player in getting the MDR TB drug prices to plummet, making it possible for people in poorer countries to access treatment.

Farmer and his team at Partners in Health have done more for the world in these past two decades than most do in their lifetimes, and are inspiring a lot of people to try and do the same.

Anyway, the point is, this guy redefines the phrase "doing your best." And has made me reevaluate how I view my time here in the Peace Corps. Perhaps not as my one big gesture, but the first of many small ones.

The book is easy to get through when you're not going through an existential crisis. And I recommend it to anyone with any interest at all in global health. Kidder is also a fantastic writer. Even if I had no interest in humanity, I'd still find his portrayal of this superhero/megadork utterly fascinating.

For all two of you on the planet who have yet to read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, I won't spoil the juicy plot points. But I will tell you it's a basic self-discovery story of a divorcee who finds pleasure in Italy, spirituality in India, and love and balance in Bali.

I totally thought I'd hate it.

But, despite myself, I found it easy to connect with Gilbert. I might not be locked up in an Ashram in India or on the porch of a medicine man in Bali, but I get the need to find a balance between pleasure and discipline and the desire to find God in your circumstances.

When I expected mac and cheese, Gilbert gave me beef stew — meaning, I thought it would be cheesy and unsatisfying, but it was really substantive and gratifying. And her personal story and inner dialogue forced to the surface some thoughts that I, well, needed to think about.

Now I just hope Julia Roberts can do Gilbert justice.

A (not-quite Fairy) Godmother

2009-10-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

We were arguing with our fourth taxista when a woman about 65 walked passed.

The ride from Miraflores to Surco (Lima) should cost about 8 soles (~$3.00), but it was shaping up to be about 15, an unfortunate byproduct of being blatantly foreign. The woman, with perfectly coifed hair and a brightly colored pantsuit decided that that was just not acceptable.

She asked us where we were going, which was not wholly uncommon. People are usually curious about where we're from and headed. We were polite but non-embracing and moved onto the next taxi, who, again wanted 15 soles.

The woman, now really appalled, interrupted, stuck her head inside the window and proceeded to ream out the driver. While the conversation in its entirety was out of my earshot, she said things along the lines of how terrible he was for trying to take advantage of innocent tourists and how foreigners are people too and how Peruvians need to be kind to visitors so that they will come back and tourism will continue and help pick them out of this miserable recession. And oh, by the way, you selfish jerk, the trip costs 8 soles. Not 15.

In the end, she insisted he give us the trip for 8 soles and then – can you believe this? – she PAID for it! She gave the driver a 20, demanded her change and then turned to us to apologize for her fellow countrymen's rudeness.

We thanked her profusely, but she waved it away and thanked us for wanting to visit her country. With that, she shook our hands with both of hers and headed back down the street on her way.

Cumplo 24! (My second Peruvian birthday)

2009-10-18T16:16:00.003-07:00

My friend Ryan flew 1/4 around the world to spend my 24th birthday with me in Peru. We met in Lima, and traveled north to see the pre-Incan culture of Chan Chan and then up to my site in Tumbes. Along the way, we saw ruins, dances and beaches, conducted hand-washing and HIV charlas in the schools, and ate heaping piles of white rice.

Oh, and my host mom killed a duck for me. All in all, it was one of the best weeks I've had in Peace Corps.

Street painter in the coastal city of Trujillo

My youth health promoters facilitating a condom race

The health post ladies baked me a cake!

Ryan with my host family

Me at the beach of Huanchaco

At the ruins of Huaca de la Luna. Citizens at the time had to pay a tax of a certain number of adobe bricks. They marked them to prove they had paid the full amount. I like the smiley face one.

Ryan and I at the ruins of the Huaca de la Luna

Tentacles of a sea creature, teeth of a mountain lion and eyes of an owl – representing the 3 levels of the world in Moche culture: underworld, present life and heavens.

Northern coastal dance called La Marinera

Ryan and I at the ruins of Chan Chan.

The Pilgrims

2009-10-04T20:14:00.000-07:00

Today I drove past a line of pilgrims walking along the PanAmerican Highway. They were lugging backpacks and sleeping mats and filed against the backdrop of sugar cane fields and rice paddies. Some were carrying crosses. Huge, giant, slabs of wood, decorated with flowers and cloths. Others carried children. Balancing sacks and babies through clouds of dust and passing exhaust.

Most, I'm sure, carried prayers.

They walked in clusters. And alone. All with a single destination: Ayabaca, a town in the highlands of the coastal department of Piura. It's surrounded by green and drowned in the rainy season. But for a week in October, it's the central location for a spiritual celebration apparently worth this impressive trek. A festival to pay homage to el Señor Cautivo.

Year-round, el Señor Cautivo hangs on dashboards and from rear-view mirrors. He looks out over dining room tables and around the necks of his followers.

I don't know anything about this saint. But he reminds me of Jesus. Not the typical light-skinned, bearded Messiah, but browned by the Piura sun. With a crown of thorns and a cross.

It's said that he heals. That he brings blessings on to those who ask for it and watches over those who need guidance. Which is why, I suppose, so many people make this journey. In the merciless sun in the land of eternal summer.

I wonder what their reasons are. To leave their homes, their work, school, their families. To travel for weeks to arrive at the foot of this saint's church. What could they be seeking? Thinking? Praying?

But I only have a second to ponder the possibilities. The van I'm in speeds forward, leaving nothing but dust behind to shroud their pilgrimage.

CHEVERE-Take 2

2009-10-02T06:44:00.000-07:00

Calm down, Screaming Masses! The Community Health Volunteer Educational Reader (CHEVERE) will be hot off the press and out on stands for readers again soon.

Of course by "hot of the press," I mean in pdf form and by "on stands" I mean in the e-mail boxes of all Peace Corps Peru Community Health volunteers.

This next issue features photo essays and focuses on capturing moments throughout our Peace Corps service. Volunteers submitted photos with short descriptions, ranging in topics from building a baño to organizing a marathon. Some focused their attention on relationships within their host family, others with their community or department, but all of them reflect some commonalities that we as health volunteers in Peru have in our own anthology of anecdotes.

To give you a peek at what's in store, here are some sample* pages/spreads from this issue:

If you are outside the Peace Corps Peru Health circuit and would like a copy of this issue of CHEVERE, send me a quick note of request via e-mail at robyn.correll@gmail.com.

*Note: these spreads are my own rough drafts and have not yet been approved by Peace Corps Peru.

We'll miss you, man.

2009-09-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

Kirk Rankin (1986-2009)

The first of many faces: Sheick

2009-09-30T22:04:00.001-07:00

Recently, my friend Zach came to visit me for a week in Peru. He saw the sites, charmed my host family, and believe it or not, even rode a donkey. He brought me news of the U.S., tales of his life in NYC and half a suitcase of Sour Patch Kids. And as if that weren't enough, he risked life and luggage through customs and brought me a camera.

My own camera, sadly, was pick-pocketed in early July, and Zach's replacement was a very welcomed surprise — but it came at a price.

He told me that he would give me the camera, but only if I agreed to do a project. A portraits project of the people in my life here in Peru.

I'm not a photographer. But a deal's a deal. So, I present to you the first of many faces. (And thanks, Zach.)

________________________________

Sheick, age 6, first-grader

“Do you want to read a book with me in English?” I asked. Sheick nodded, chin to chest, face to sky, and back again.

I showed him my hand, and he took it, walking with me to the back step. We crouched down to face the banana trees and crowing roosters.

“Do you like Winnie the Pooh?” I asked. He nodded, vigorously again, until I was afraid his head would fall off his neck.

Laughing, I started at page one.

Sheick didn’t speak English. It didn’t matter. By page two, he ran his playground fingers across the page, shouting the names of the figures he saw.

“Weenie-poo!” … “Tigre!” … “Abejas!”

“Yes, bees,” I said.

By page three, he grabbed the book from my lap and declared it was his turn to read to me. With careful concentration, he sounded out the English words on the page in perfect, first-grade Spanish. It made no sense. He didn’t care.

At page four, he returned the now-smudged book to its prior place in my lap. We read on, trading pages. English to nonsense. Until all was well in the Hundred Acre Woods.

He looked at me. I looked back. I closed the book, and he grabbed it, flipping pages and running his palm across the drawings. Suddenly, he shoved it back into my hands.

“Again!” he demanded. “And this time in Spanish.”

A Walk in the Woods

2009-09-30T06:57:00.000-07:00

I took my youth group on a paseo to Huarapal, a national forest reserve, to learn about deforestation and see some waterfalls.

Two environmental students from the Universidad Nacional came along to teach the teens about the different plant species and their uses.

Of course, there was some time for swimming.

Waterfalls along the trail.

Tumbes: Where the dry forest meets the tropics. But it kind of reminded me of Minnesota river valleys in summertime.

So, I'm a godmother

2009-09-24T09:13:00.001-07:00

I didn't want to be a godmother. I had said no before. But Jasmyn, 15, and one of my teen health promoters, really wanted me as the madrina for her confirmation.

"It's just one day," she pleaded. I sighed.

She's a good kid, and I wasn't busy.

"Ok, ok, but what do I have to do?"

I was right to ask this question. Normally, in addition to public speaking of some kind, being a godparent entails shelling out plata — for presents, hiring a DJ, the cake — something. But she assured me that I just had to buy her a small gift, attend a mass, and take some pictures.

So ... I went out and bought her a fun picture frame, along with some printed photos of some of our activities. I didn't want to buy a new dress, but the only other one I had was hole-y with moth bites. Even with my mediocre stitching skills, it was barely acceptable. In dark lighting, you could hardly see the tiny scunchies, but in sunlight ... well, it was questionable. I didn't mind being judged for my clothing (though my host mom has pointed out several times that I should), but I didn't want to embarrass Jasmyn.

I changed 3 times before I decided on a mid-length skirt and tank-top combination. As priests frown on spaghetti straps, I also had to toss on a black long-sleeved cardigan — it was the only thing I could find to cover my sleeves. Thank God it was only 100 degrees outside.

I showed up at 2, like J had told me. She was ready at 2:30. In the meantime, her mom chatted me up and laid on the guilt. Why didn't I come over more often? Why didn't we ever go out to the country to visit her mom? I smiled and nodded. The noncommittal affirmations worsened my guilt.

An hour into the 2.5 hour mass, I was getting antsy. This entire experience was forcing me to encounter everything I despised: dressing up, public appearances and sitting still for long periods of time. Seriously, I thought, what was I thinking?

Then, as if the small statue of Jesus looming over my head could hear my thoughts, I snapped out of it.

Wtf, Robyn, I thought. This isn't about you.

It was about Jasmyn. The 15-year-old, only child kneeling in the row in front of me. The health promoter who looked up to me like a sister and always arrived on time.

Shame mingled with the incense and overloaded my senses. How selfish could I be? She's a good kid. And it was an honor to be her godmother.

Once the focus shifted from me to her, the rest of the mass was much more bearable. For the first time, I noticed the colors in the room. The proud parents. The dangling rosaries. I sang along with the music, though I didn't always understand the words. And I felt it. The gratitude. The excitement ... to be here, experiencing things like this.

I still felt horribly uncomfortable in my non-Peace Corps-y clothes. My mascara was bothering my eyes, and I'm pretty sure some children gawked. But I felt lucky. And hey, check it out. I'm a godmother.

Jasmyn and me at a paseo to the beach

YEAR IN REVIEW

2009-09-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

First day of Peace Corps: Sept. 10, 2008
First day in Peru: Sept. 12, 2008
First day of official service: Nov. 28, 2008
First day in site: Nov. 30, 2008
Cell phones lost: 3 — but I got one back, so ... technically, only 2
Books read: 26 and 5 "started-but-didn't-finish"es
Favorite book read: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
Seasons of TV Shows watched: 18 ... that's kind of embarrassing
Most-beloved show on DVD: NBC's The Office
Number of oh-dear-God-I'm-so-sick sick days: 4
Craziest health problem: My brush with chucake
Biggest language blunder: "¡Estoy abierta!" does NOT mean "I'm open!"
Projects started: 6
Projects still going: 5 (the failure? the veggie garden at the primary school)
Condom demonstrations + banana: 12
Best thing said to me by a Peruvian child: Boy says, "When Chinese people talk, do you understand them?" I say no. Boy says, "But you speak English."
Thing I love most about Peru: The generosity of the people
Favorite Peruvian dish: Ceviche (from Tumbes), with lots of lemon and ají
Favorite Peruvian place: The Tumbes coastline at sunset
Best thing about site: My teens and the women at the health post
Most regrettable moment: Crying in front of my health post's machista dentist
Guilty pleasure: Ice-cold Coke from a glass bottle and crime scene investigation shows
Places visited: (Peru) Lima, Tumbes, Mancora, Chiclayo, Piura and Cajamarca; (Ecuador) Cuenca and Quito
Most frequently asked question: ¿Te enseñas? (Are you getting accustomed?)
Person I talk to most from back home: My mom
Person I talk to most in Peru: Sarah
Person I talk to most at site: My host mom
Most important thing I've realized: The United States is the greatest country in the world — for its diversity and opportunity alone. And I entirely underestimated my love of my mom's leftovers.
Worst habit accrued: Lying (to avoid gossip, resentment or unnecessary frustrations at site)
Favorite pastime: Making music videos
Soundtrack to my year: "If you want me to" by Ginny Owens
Most interesting thing I've done: Rode a donkey
Coolest thing I've learned: That you can purify water with the sun
Strangest behavior in the eyes of Peruvians: Eating vegetables raw and not drinking alcohol
Greatest accomplishment: Keeping my compassion while growing thicker skin
Favorite Peruvian custom: Invitar-ing (giving a little of whatever you have to everyone else)
What keeps you sane at site: Closing the door to my room
Something I've discovered: Peace Corps volunteers are some of the coolest, craziest and most incredible people I've ever met in my life.
Things I miss most from home: Watching TLC and Discovery with my mom on the couch, visiting my dad at work, watching chick flicks with my sister, going to my brother and sister-in-law's house, playing with my nieces and nephews, going out to dinner with my friends, eating what I want when, free refills, clean water from the tap, hot showers, bookstores, feeling healthy, carpet, couches, understanding what's going on around me most of the time, having regular access to news, colorful seasons, coffee shops, tex-mex, really tight hugs, singing at the top of my lungs without anyone listening, cooking, church on Sunday mornings, and sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches.

Favorite photo of a Peruvian child:

Favorite photo of a Peruvian landscape:

Favorite photo of my site:

Favorite photo that needs a back story:

Favorite photo of a captured moment:

Rotten timing, Google.

2009-09-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

I spent an hour and 45 minutes today waiting at the internet cafe for gmail to work before giving up and heading back to site.

My teens made a music video

2009-08-27T21:18:00.000-07:00

After seeing the music video some fellow volunteers and I made, some of my teens asked if they could make one of their own.

Enjoy*:

Srtas. Keysi and Patricia featuring in La Factoria's "Hay otro en mi vida"

*Note: In addition to being a fun activity with some of my girls, it's also a great tour of our town.

A very Peruvian moment

2009-08-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

When I got in the taxi tonight, the driver tried to charge me 15 soles. A half hour later when I stepped back out on the street, he called me an angel and asked for only 10.

In-Service Training

2009-08-26T18:50:00.000-07:00

Recently, we had workshop with our counterparts in Piura about improved kitchens, latrines, vegetable gardens, animal husbandry and early stimulation.

Here are some photos from the week:

Preparing a vegetable garden

Building an improved kitchen
(Note: We most definitely did NOT have a mud fight while constructing this particular model. We're professionals.)

Ta-da! Less smoke, fewer burns, less wood = improved kitchen!

A Lima Haiku

2009-08-26T18:46:00.000-07:00

Since when does 60
degrees feel to me like 10?
Lima is freezing!

FYI

2009-08-16T08:16:00.001-07:00

Not dead. Just busy. Write more soon.

A very Peruvian Birthday

2009-08-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

Sheick, my host cousin, sits squished next to me on a faded armchair, kicking his legs and shoving puffy Peruvian Cheetos into his mouth. He holds one out to me with sticky hands, and I take it.

"Gracias," I say, popping it into my mouth and peering around at the chaos of the Peruvian birthday. Kids squirm in their mothers' laps and spill over furniture placed in a large circle along the walls of the room, Cheeto crumbs and candy wrappers scatter across the floor, and music blares from old speakers in the corner. The same songs are put on repeat, and not a single grown man is in sight.

Sheick shoves another fistful of candy into his mouth and is lured out by a family member to dance in the middle of the room. He likes to practice his "Michael Jackson" moves, and I encourage this as much as possible. With a quick spin, he tosses his Power Ranger bag of goodies in my lap.

I don't tell him this, but I could kiss his 6-year-old feet. If it weren't for him, I'd still be the land of the grown-ups.

As a 23-year-old, unmarried, non-mother, I think some Peruvians don't really know what to do with me. Upon arriving, I offer to help in the kitchen, but am shooed away. I try — briefly — to strike up a conversation with the Grandfather of the family, but the topic quickly changes from sudden deaths ("You can be walking along and then you're gone *snap*, just like that!") to how rich I must be.

Grandfather: So you must be making quite a bit of money.
Me: Actually, no. I'm a volunteer. I don't receive a salary.
Grandfather: But surely you receive something.
Me: A little. Just enough to cover my living expenses.
Grandfather: Oh! But the dollar. The dollar is worth so much.
Me: Yes, but I receive my stipend in soles.
Grandfather: No doubt, though, when you go back, you'll have a big old pile of money ...

Needless to say, discomfort sets in, and I excuse myself to go out in the sitting room. I sit on a couch next to a young woman about my age, with a child in her lap. She smiles politely, and after the normal round of "what-brings-you-to-Peru" interrogations I get to ask her some questions.

How old is she? 21. Is this her first child? Yes. Does she work in or outside the home? Inside. She's a housewife. Does she like it? Yes, sometimes it can get boring. Oh? Yeah, when the baby's sleeping, and she's by herself.

With every question, I feel myself being able to relate less and less with this kind-faced woman. Then, out of nowhere, she makes me her confidant.

"You know, sometimes, I get very frustrated. Like when the baby won't stop crying. I give him food. I change him. I give him toys — and nothing. He just cries and cries, and I don't know why or what to do."

I don't know what to say. Whenever a baby cries on me, I just give him or her back to the mother. In this topic of conversation, I'm completely out of my element. I pat her hand and say lamely, "I'm sorry. That must be very upsetting."

This is where Sheick, my short knight in Power Ranger gear, runs up to me and demands my undivided attention. I say goodbye to the nice, young mother, and allow myself to get pulled to the old, faded armchair.

I have never seen Sheick shy. But there, on the dance floor, shuffling across from a pretty, young girl about his age, his head is bent low, and he throws me a look every 10 seconds as if to ask "Am I doing OK?" I give him the thumbs up and wiggle my foot to the music.

The song ends, and women emerge from the kitchen with more goodies. Sheick rips his bag from my hands and squeezes back in next to me. He's nearly bouncing up and down with excitement, and his body heat makes the right side of my body warm and clammy. The lady gives Sheick some popcorn, and I take a handful off her tray.

I look over to the cake table, outlined with styrofoam Barney decor and balloons, and stare longingly at the once-cold bottle of Pepsi warming by the window to the kitchen. Oh, how I would love just a quick little jolt of caffeine to help me get through the next few hours! The loud music, screaming children and small talk in Spanish tire me quickly, and I can already feel myself lagging.

Soon, the birthday boy is brought out from his nap room, and we're all told to line up behind the cake table for pictures. The guest of honor is 1-year-old Alejandro, the son of a cousin once removed, and has droopy eyelids and a pillow crease on his left cheek. He's freakin' adorable. Women clap and wave their hands wildly to get him to look their way for the camera.

My host mom, Andrea, shouts across the room at her daughter.

"Daily! Daily! Come here. Take a picture from here." Daily rushes over and takes what must be the 300th picture of Alejandro that day.

I'm reluctantly pushed behind the table, only to realize that I'm the only one in line not holding a child. Sheick, once again, comes to my rescue. He's wiggling underneath the table, and I pull him up to stand in front of me.

An hour later, we sing the standard "Happy Birthday" in English and Spanish (I'm the only one who actually sings the English version — everyone else more or less just hums), and the giant wax "1" is lit.

It's custom to smash the honored guest's face in the cake, and I wonder if they'd actually do that with a 1-year-old child. They do. Everyone coos over the infant covered in icing; my host mother shouts for more pictures.

Someone puts the "Piñata Song" on, and the kids rush to hover below the Giant, paper machete Barney. With a lot of help from his mom, Alejandro manages to smack down the purple dino. The crowd converts into a rioting array of splaying limbs and screaming. A few seconds later, some children emerge victorious, plastic toy in hand.

Sheick was busy licking Cheeto crumbs off a serving plate and so missed his chance at a prize. He walks over to me with a fat lower lip and shoulders drooping. I give him another piece of candy, which he shoves into his mouth before tossing the wrapper onto the floor, and pat his head. I used to scold him for littering, but I've realized it's a lost battle. Mothers stand around us, small piles of wrappers scattered around their feet.

The cake's being cut, and I wait patiently on the opposite side of the room for the pushing crowd around the table to die down. To tell you the truth, I'm really excited about the cake. I only ate half my lunch to prepare for the calorie-infested party, and I'm getting kind of hungry. I go up when it looks like nearly every one has gotten a piece. The cake is vanilla, and the icing is hard and slightly flaky. Mmm.

People start to leave. Kids yank down balloons to take with them. Mothers sneak pieces of cake for their husbands. My host mom pulls me in as if to give me a kiss on the cheek and whispers, "They're going to invite you to a plate of food. Don't be ungrateful and reject it. What you don't eat, we can bring back for your host brother."

I feel the weight of the cake in my stomach as I stare at the giant mound of duck, potato salad and rice coming right toward me. Thankfully, it's accompanied by a tall glass of Pepsi. My second wind hits me, and I dig in, Sheick munching happily beside me.

He doesn't like potato salad, so he pushes some from his plate to mine. I replace the void with some of my rice.

My host mother's brother walks through the front door, slightly inebriated and walks up to me.

"Don't eat too much," he says, gesturing wildly at his stomach and then at mine. "You don't want to get fatter!"

Andrea looks over at me from inside the kitchen. I shove another forkful in my mouth to show her I'm eating, and she makes exaggerated movements from her invisible plate up to her mouth.

Surprisingly (perhaps for the first time ever), I clean my plate — leaving only the standard small mound of rice on the side to be "ladylike." I walk proudly into the kitchen, showing off my empty plate. I make a big show out of how full I am and how delicious the food was, making my host aunt smile as she starts to wash dishes.

After offering to help, and being denied once again, I go out to the now nearly empty sitting room to find Sheick. We wait for Andrea to finish up with her healthy portion of food and gossip, and play volleyball with one of the balloons. He's good, but I'm better. I think it has something to do with my hands being larger. At any rate, I have him chasing the balloon around the room, while I sit comfortably in my chair.

Nearly 40 minutes later, we're making our rounds. Even the swine flu can't stop the dozens of cheek kisses and handshakes accompanying Peruvian hellos and goodbyes. Grandfather pats me on the back while rubbing his thumb and fingers together. Money, money. I give him a kiss and nearly run from the room.

Sheick's outside, and I convince him to dance the moon walk with me while Andrea and Daily finish up. Finally, we all squeeze into a mototaxi and head back to the house. Sheick sits on my lap and bounces up and down with the potholes, while I continue my critical acclaim of the food to my host mom's smiling face.

Cajamarca

2009-08-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

My feet were killing me.

We'd hiked nearly 1000 meters down the side of the mountain, and all I could think about was yanking off my non-hiking (but cute) gym shoes and dunking my aching arches into the river hidden in the valley below.

A hike sounded like a fantastic idea in theory. Here I was, in the heart of the Andes, all too eager to open my lungs to the crisp mountain air and prove we Coasters can be outdoorsy. But four hours later, my toenails felt like they were about to fall off, and I couldn't feel my hips.

The rocky foot trail strung out ahead of us, while dark-green spines climbed the mountains towering along the other side of the valley. We walked passed grazing cows and crouched señoras, wearing wide, woolen skirts just past their knees and firewood and twin braids strewn across their backs. Old VW vans rumbled along the dusty switchbacks, kicking dirt into the air and onto our clammy, sunburnt skin.The pain in my feet radiated up into my limp arms.

"Are we there yet?" I asked, like a 4-year-old on the way to Grandma's house.

We broke through the brush, a village merging into view.

"Almost." A friend motioned to the opposite side of the town, pointing passed the church and crops to a line of banana trees in the distance. "Just there."

I took a gulp of air but forbade myself to breathe a sigh of relief. The air was lighter, different from the smoggy humidity of sea-level Tumbes. It was hard to catch my breath. My body wasn't used to working so hard, and I felt constantly light-headed. But at least the air was crisp and clean and quiet. No cumbia music blasting from every corner, announcements from town loud-speakers or roaring mototaxis. Just rustling grass and soft-spoken niceties and — holy crap, did I hear water?

The last half-kilometer was the hardest, but then I was putting my red, blotchy feet into the crisp, cold water, and suddenly it didn't matter anymore. I closed my eyes to the sound of the river slapping against the rocks. I felt the silty mud between my toes and the warm sun against my flushed face. I listened, expecting to hear pan flutes in the distance, playing that deep, melodious sound that echoes all throughout the Andes.

We sat there for a while on large boulders along the bank, nursing our poor, sore feet and splashing ourselves and each other. After a while, we busted out our packs and made cucumber and avocado sandwiches with sliced mango and mandarins oranges.

We watched as families made their way to the water's edge and gently, playfully dip toes into the glacial waters. Brave souls cut branches to cross the rushing current. We swatted at bugs and reapplied sunscreen for the umpteenth time that day. I thought of my parents back home and how much they would love it there. Of how much I loved it there.

My friends and I talked about nothing, laughed, made fun of ourselves. Every once in a while someone would start to comment on the beautiful view or incredible opportunity it is to know such a place, to be young and doing this, but they'd stop. It didn't need to be said; we all knew.

In the late afternoon, we munched on apples and read while the sun made its way behind the green giants to the west.

Later, we would get a ride up from the valley, spend the night dancing at a town festival, and wake in the morning practically crippled. But for then, we lay out, enjoying the company and the sound of the mountains.

Another Music Video

2009-07-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

Note: This video was shot in the Andean province of Cajamarca. Check out the landscape; it was beautiful.

A cute story about 2 boys and 3 little pigs

2009-07-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

The kids are almost inescapable. The ones at site hang on your legs, and the ones in the city hang on your change purse. Both pull heart strings. It's a lot harder to say no to a cute little kid.

So one evening, sitting on the steps of a church in the Andean city of Cajamarca, my two good girl friends and I tried a different approach.

"I'll tell you the story of this church for a little money," Edwin, 11, asked us, his lower lip jutting out just slightly — surely to knock off a couple years and boost his cuteness level.

We looked at each other, unsure as to how to let this lil' guy down gently. I was about to say the same unfortunate speech we always give to those asking for money on the street "Thanks but No Thanks," when my friend Jules said: "I have a better idea. How about we tell YOU a story, and you give US a little money."

Edwin looked at us, eyes wide. His friend, Percy, 12, sauntered over, and Edwin told his friend what these apparently nuts gringas had just offered him.

I thought it was a brilliant idea.

"Yeah, do you know the story of "Los Tres Chanchitos?" I asked. The three little pigs.

Incredulous, Edwin shook his head and started to walk away. Percy, however, nodded his head vigorously and plopped down on the step in front of us.

"Well," I began, "Once upon of time there were three little pigs."

Edwin, caving, came back and sat down next to his friend. His eyebrows were furrowed, but he was apparently ready to listen.

I smiled down at him and kept going.

"And there lived a big, bad wolf —"

"Who wanted to eat the pigs!" Percy chimed in.

A little surprised, I nodded.

"Yeah. He wanted to eat them. So to protect themselves the pigs built houses. The first one made his house out of —"

"Straw!" Percy jumped in again. "And the wolf blew his house down!"

"Right," I said laughing. "But thankfully, he escaped to his brother's house which had been made of —"

"Sticks!" This time, Edwin. "And the wolf brought in all this air, filled up his bellow this far" — Edwin stuck out his belly and puffed out his cheeks— "and blew the house down."

"Mm-hmm, but the two escaped and went the house of the third brother who had built it —"

"Out of bricks," both boys shouted at once. Then both rushed to finish the story.

"The wolf tried to blow the house down —"

"He filled his belly with air like this —"

"But he couldn't do it, so he climbed up the chimney —"

"The pigs had built a fire —"

"He burnt his tail!"

"And he never came back to hurt them again."

By this time a small group of boys had come to listen, and Edwin and Percy leaned back again triumphantly.

They asked us questions about where we were from and why we were here, and threw out the few English words that they knew.

Right as we were about to leave, Edwin held out the small package of candy he had in his hand, offering some to each of us.

It was dark, so we got up to leave. A long series of high-fives ensued before we finally headed down the stone steps, waving goodbye.

Gripe A(H1N1)'s silver lining

2009-07-23T20:45:00.000-07:00

As an American health volunteer in Peru, I've found that the only two things I seem to talk about lately are the new flu and Michael Jackson. Both, perhaps, for good reason. The latter of course being an international superstar with out-of-this-world dance moves*, and the former, well ... scaring the gajeebas out of everyone.

The terror is not entirely unwarranted. The number of cases in Peru, like everywhere else in the world, skyrocketed. According to the Flu's Web site (no joke; it has it's own Web site), the number of cases rose 147 percent the week between July 3rd and July 10th. And the World Health Organization recently announced that they will no longer be tracking individual cases, instead reporting only the countries newly infected with the virus.

Naturally, people are little freaked out. Medical, food service, transportation — even hostel and hotel — workers wear masks, covering their mouths and noses from the possibly infected. People are avoiding meetings and crowded places. School has been called off for a whole month. And everyone — EVERYONE — can't stop talking about it.

Recently our health post devised an "action plan" to combat this disease in our district. We've made posters and radio spots** outlining the symptoms and prevention methods, and we're training adult and youth health promoters to go out into the community to tell people how they can protect themselves and check on at-risk groups (babies, elderly, pregnant women).

My absolute favorite byproduct of this otherwise grim pandemic, however, definitely has new trend potential. Are you ready for this? It's good: elbow-bumping. Instead of giving a kiss on the cheek, handshake or a hug to greet someone, you touch elbows.

I'll repeat: YOU TOUCH ELBOWS.

Example: "OH! Hey Friend! Good to see you!" [elbow bop].

In the words of the Brits, it's bloody brilliant. And I think it's going to be the next big thing. I encourage you all to try it out.

Happy elbow-bumping! (And please wash your hands!)

* pun intended
* with "The Way You Make Me Feel" in the background as a tribute to the late King of Pop

Dear potential future PCV,

2009-07-10T09:55:00.000-07:00

To tell you the truth, you're the reason I started this blog. I wanted to give you an idea of what you should expect if you were thinking of applying, decided to apply or getting ready to go.

For the most part, I think I've been pretty honest —though, granted, there are stories en cantidad that I haven't shared. And I've definitely made light of, downplayed, at times even skipped over how hard this whole thing really is. I'm sorry about that. Maybe it's because in training they* told us that perhaps it would be best if the good days were for the blog; the bad days for your journal. Maybe it's because I felt like a wimp because, I mean, come on, I'm in the Peace Corps, I should be tougher, right? Or maybe it's because I just didn't want to bum you out. Whatever the reason, I've flaked out on giving you an honest account of life as a PCV. Sorry. But I'll give it to you now.

The past few months have been pretty rough on me.Things happened that I couldn't control or stop, and little by little I felt like I was being buried beneath a pile of dirty clothes. Though the socks were small, they were stinky, and each one laid on top of me made it harder and harder to breathe.

As a result, I've been moody, cynical, anti-social and sullen. Every few seconds, I have been on the verge of tears, making me put in only what was necessary and then going to my room to shut out the world and sleeping or reading too much so as to keep my mind off of my despondency.

At first, I brushed it off as the Peace Corps Blues. "Everybody goes through it," I thought. "It'll pass." But it didn't, and the lack of an upward swing only brought me lower.

I tried talking to people about it, but it just made me feel worse. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Why I couldn't pull myself out of it. I'd never been like this before, and it frustrated me.

And then there was a paro — a transportation strike — that left me immobilized in Piura, 5 hours from my site, without a cell phone* and no way to contact my counterparts or host family.
For three days I had to figure out what to do with myself without the distraction of work. And I was really, REALLY sick of myself.

So, I talked to my mom about six times. Skyped with my dad, sister, grandpa and some good friends from back home. I went to the movies. Ate out with other stuck volunteers. Read Anne Lamott. Cried. Took long showers. Listened to music. Prayed. Slept.

And by some miracle, it worked: I became human again.

What, exactly, caused the sudden restoration of my sanity, I don't know. The unfortunate events still happened. The smelly socks were still on top of me. I guess I'd just found an air hole, and all I needed was a moment to stop and catch my breath.

At any rate, when we were finally freed, I couldn't wait to get back to site, see my host family, see my teens. I was practically bouncing in the already bouncy bus seat.

Keep in mind, Potential PCV, I'm not telling you this little anecdote to freak you out or deter you from applying. You probably know that Peace Corps isn't easy. But what I didn't know was how hard it could be.

And granted, I'm only one person. It's impossible to blanket or compare volunteers, when every situation is different. Other volunteers have it easier or are better at taking the blows. Others, much, much worse. Mine is just one story.

But the point of all of this, the reason I'm even telling you in the first place, is because even though it was a really sucky time in my service, I still think it was worth it to stay.

I mean, I'm not promoting masochism. Peace Corps isn't for everybody. Sometimes it IS best to leave. But in my case, it wasn't. And even at my lowest, I knew that.

And besides, just think of the emotional buffness I'm going to get from holding myself up these two years.

*Beloved trainers and officials of the Peace Corps.

Marathons and transit strikes

2009-07-08T13:19:00.000-07:00

Last weekend we celebrated the 4th with a marathon run* by a PC business volunteer in the beach town of Pacasmayo. It went well, with the unfortunate exception of one tiny, little snag.

About halfway back to site, we were caught in the middle of — *dun, dun, DUN* — transit strikes. Drivers all over the country are upset about a sudden and steep hike in fines for traffic violations and have decided not to move for a while.

Meaning we can't move either.

I'm trying to take it in stride. I'd like to get back to site, but I'm also keenly aware that I'm stuck somewhere that has 1.) internet 2.) restaurants with salads and 3.) a movie theater.

So, as frustrating as it can be to be stuck, I think I'll take in some Ice Age 3 and try and bear this burden as best I can.

* pun intended

Warning: All gringos have swine flu

2009-07-04T21:08:00.000-07:00

Peru has authorized medical personnel to man certain check points to keep AH1N1 in check across the country.

As a result, a nurse boarded our bus today and explained the symptoms of swine flu and what to do if you think you might have it. She was gliding along the aisle repeating her instructions when she stopped mid-sentence.

I looked up to see her distraction.

It was me. One hundred percent healthy-looking, sign and symptom-free me. Coincidentally, also the only foreigner on the bus.

A second later she was standing in front of me.

"Where are you coming from?" she asked through her face mask.

"Tumbes," I said. "I've been living there the past seven months."

She looked at me skeptically. After a minute she said, "And you haven't been to Mexico recently?"

I almost laughed. "No," I said. "I've been here."

She stood there for a good 30 seconds until I finally said, "Please don't worry, Ma'am. I don't have the swine flu."

She didn't respond. She just kept one eye on me as she left the bus.

Ecuador

2009-06-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

Sarah’s guidebook warned that there might be some “slight of hand” at the Equator. That the cool tricks they showed us (balancing an egg on a nail, water spinning down the drain in both directions, etc.) might not have been entirely genuine.

Honestly, I didn’t care; I was having a blast. I eagerly volunteered to test things out, and when it came time, I plopped my feet on either side of the line, proving I could be in two places at once.

It wasn’t too far off, really.

My whole week in Ecuador was kind of like that — straddling my two worlds: indulging in American comforts, while moving among Latin American realities.

Well, for one, I ate very, very well. I mean it was amazing. There was BBQ (with corn bread!), Mexican (with real guacamole), peanut butter, puffy Cheetos, homemade cookies, spinach salad, and vegetables — lots and lots of vegetables.

And oh, Oh! A club sandwich!! I could have cried. Made with real turkey breast, three slices of bread, bacon — oh thank you, Jesus, bacon!! — lettuce, tomato and mayo, it was positively decadent in all its sandwich glory.

But that was just the food.

I used the dollar, had hot showers, spoke English for hours at a time, rode in legit accordion buses, watched the Disney Channel, decided what to eat when and ate as much or as little as I wanted without offending anyone, and slept rooster-free — all with three great friends from the US.

For a week, I almost felt like me again.

Almost.

Perhaps there was no slight of hand, but despite my creature comforts and company, I wasn’t back home. No matter how bad I wanted to be.

It broke my heart to see so many children working in the street instead of at school. People tried to cheat me, and I had to barter. The catcalls were just as gross but in better English. The “Chinese food” was terrible. I got sick. And eventually, my friends got on a plane to go home.

And there I was, back on my own in Latin America.

But you know what? It was totally worth it. We saw some pretty amazing things and spent time with great people that had nothing to do with my life in the United States or the Peace Corps.

Like, for example, I went zip lining. ME, ZIP LINING. In the cloud forest. Right after we hiked to some killer waterfalls. We also sat on top of a volcano. That’s right, in a crater lake. You could see the bubbles and everything. And for a few days, we didn’t worry about bills, school, tri-annual reports, PEPFAR meetings, moving, or starting a new job. We just kind of enjoyed each other, while hanging out in the middle of the Earth.

Waterfalls!

Me in two places at once

Sarah, Molly and I in front of the crater lake.

A shoeshine boy working in Quito’s Old City plaza.

The club sandwich

Screw that noise. I'm going to Ecuador.

2009-06-14T19:21:00.001-07:00

Lately, I've been a little mopey and stressed out. I love what I do, who I work with and where I am, but as I mentioned before, I think I need a vacation.

Lucky for me, I have amigas who hear my desperate pleas from across the equator. Two great friends are coming to visit me this week to hang around my site and go to my town's anniversary (big deal here). But come Friday, we're heading to — wait for it — Ecuador!

It will be my first honest-to-goodness, mini-break-from-Peace-Corps vacation since I entered, and I'm kind of freaking out.

A chronicle of inevitable adventures to follow.

CHEVERE* (Community Health Volunteer Educational Reader)

2009-06-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

Four times a year, PC Peru's Community Health Program puts out a newsletter. It's exactly what it sounds like — a hodge-podge of success and horror stories about working with health in Peru. This time around, the powers that be chose me to help put it together with one other volunteer (shout-out Stacey!).

As much as I love judging condom relays, it was nice to take a break and had a great time cramped in a hotel room over my mac, redesigning the newsletter and editing stories with Stacey. It was the first time in 9 months I'd been able to do something truly journalism-y, and, I don't know, it just felt good to be in my element. I wish I could post the whole issue, but I'm afraid of any bureaucratic repercussions. :-/ But I'm pretty sure it's safe to post the cover.

For your enjoyment:

Our 'Working with Youth' issue

* Chevere is slang for "cool" in Peruvian Spanish.

What have you been up to? Update

2009-06-07T10:39:00.000-07:00

I know you're probably writing your senator right now and asking "WHY exactly is the US government paying $80,000 for this chick to ride donkeys and frolic on the beach in Peru??", but in my defense, here's a quick update on what I've been up to lately work-wise.

Our teen group, PALMA, is doing well. We have about 10 teens who are active with 5-10 who filter in and out.

Recap for those who don't know what I'm talking about: every month the teens have two meetings with us in the health post — one is an info session on some life skill, and the other is an activity in the community that puts into practice or reinforces what they've already learned.
So far we've covered teen pregnancy, love and relationships, small businesses, HIV, communication, and "healthy lifestyles" (nutrition, exercise, hygiene and water purification); and we've taken a trip to the beach, made magazine-bead bracelets to sell, held a volleyball tournament with youth and their moms, and watched two movies (Juno and Philadelphia). Coming up, we're tackling drug addiction and alcoholism, reforestation, trash and recycling, vegetable gardens, and professional/technician career options.

They gain points for every activity and info session they attend, plus bonus points for coming on-time, cleaning up, helping to teach a session or doing additional activities. We finish up in December with a huge dance and ceremony for the teens, where they all get certificates (big deal here), and those with the most points get prizes.

Every time I start to think that my workload is getting heavy and that maybe PALMA wasn't that great of an idea (support from my counterparts has died off, and I'm the only one keeping it going), I think about all the cool kids I've met, and how much I've learned from all my terrible, truly humiliating, and typically verbal mistakes.

Three teens in our PALMA group making a radio spot about HIV.

Our PEPFAR, HIV-prevention project, PRO-PRE Pampas is slowly devouring me whole — in a good way. We have two youth health promoter groups in my district, one in each high school, with roughly 30 teens serving as peer educators for HIV prevention.

Like PALMA, the youth promoters have two meetings a month: one is an educational session where the teens take turns teaching more in-depth info about HIV and sexual health education, and the other is reserved for planning the activities for that month and dividing up responsibilities. They've been really active so far: planning skits, parades and radio spots that go out over the town's loud speakers. The teens have a simple uniform of jeans and a red shirt, identifying themselves as health promoters in the global fight against aids.

The whole project is incredibly time-consuming, but it's by far and away my favorite part of life here. I'm so proud of the energy and enthusiasm the teens have. And even more impressed with the support we as a project have from teachers and parents, who sacrifice the little free time they have to help us, if only because they believe that things really can change for the better. It's humbling.

Our community health promoters (not HIV-specific) have literally tripled in number. So ... rock on. Karen, my counterpart, and I made a new work plan for the health promotion program that included finding additional health promoters to work with a handful of families in every zone of our town.

The promoters are going to be training the families in health themes like water purification, nutrition and waste management. Promoters will work one theme at a time, starting with an educational session and following it up by a series of house visits to ensure the skills and behaviors be adopted and continued by the family. The program will hopefully continue with other themes, such as malaria and dengue prevention, and leading to perhaps a latrine or improved-kitchen project.

One of our health promoters working in the community.

Other projects include singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" off-key an hour a week with kindergartners; co-teaching an English class in the community with a local professor; editing the PC-Peru's Health Program quarterly publication, CHEVERE; pretending I know anything about animal husbandry while putting together a co-op duck-raising project with a local farmer; reinforcing the stereotype that gringos can't dance; and talking about the weather.

So, I guess in short, I need a vacation, and you should come visit.

Amanecer

2009-05-22T09:11:00.000-07:00

In Peace Corps, they tell you that there's no such thing as a solid routine.

Sometimes you're cramming a week's worth of work in a weekend. Sometimes you're left to your own devices. And when you're host mom kicks you out of the wash bin, complaining that you're not washing your clothes right, you usually find yourself with a book in hand.

Granted, I haven't read THAT many books since becoming a PCV. While other volunteers average a book a week, I've probably read a book a month.

But that was, of course, until I started reading Twilight.

I blame my friend Diane. She was the one who told me to read it before I left.

"I know they're for a younger crowd, but you'll love them," she said.

We have similar tastes in books. I trusted her.

It took me eight months to pick up my copy of the first Twilight book. And now, three days later, I am anxiously pacing, sleep-deprived, among the roosters, wondering how I could possibly get a copy of the 4th book — the only one I couldn't bring with me — in English, in Peru.

They´re so awful and so amazing all at the same time. Thank God Stephenie Meyer stopped at four.

Crippling illness attacks Peace Corps volunteers

2009-05-19T08:36:00.000-07:00

A recent survey has discovered a potentially serious illness targeting Peace Corps volunteers in Peru. The Peace Corps Blues — or PCB — is feared to be responsible for the incapacitation of dozens of volunteers in May alone — with many of the victims being struck without warning.

"It just hit me suddenly, you know?" said Geoffrey Lord, a current Peace Corps volunteer living just outside of Lima. "One minute I was dancing to cumbia and discussing the merits of sustainable development, and the next I was running outside to call my friend in tears, screaming about how much I love and support [President] Obama."

Although PCB is not known to be fatal, symptoms include: hating everything Peruvian, idolizing everything from the United States, being irrationally sensitive, never wanting to leave mosquito netting, crying over spilled SODIS water, lashing out at small children, and general irritability.

More than what some psychologists call "homesickness," PCB attacks volunteers at their idealistic core. Persistent introspection worsens their condition, with such questions as: "What am I even doing here?" ... "What difference can I actually make?" ... "Why did I ever think this was a good idea?" ... and "Where the %$@* am I? Seriously?"

Like herpes or a stubborn case of giardiasis, PCB can lie dormant for months before an outbreak occurs.

"I thought I was perfectly fine, and then it hit me twice in one month," recounted Julie Fast, a health volunteer based in the Andean department of Cajamarca. "It was nasty."

There is no cure for PCB, but treatments for the condition include: Ceviche, calling another PCV across the country and talking for three hours, ice-cold Coca-Cola, watching President Obama's inauguration speech on YouTube, eating chocolate, going to the beach, going to the beach and eating chocolate, watching NBC's "The Office" entire season 3 in one sitting, shouting English curse words to cat-callers, and yoga.

Despite an outcry by volunteers' parents, the World Health Organization has denied plans to take further action.

"They see no reason to raise the advisory to level six," said Jason Pickens of the New York Times.

Causes of the disease are yet unknown, but some speculate there could be a correlation between PCB and a volunteer's peanut butter intake.

Further research on the long-term effects of PCB are pending.

— With reporting by Sarah Walker.

A Mother´s Day Story

2009-05-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

Before my front door was even shut, I heard the words calling me over.

"Row-bean .... ROW-bean! ... Ven!"

A beautiful 24-year-old dressed in a sparkly blouse and full makeup waved her hand violently.

"Hola Sandra," I called back, stepping lightly toward the drinking circle set up on the dusty street. It was a small group of 20-somethings consisting of several host relatives and some neighbors, all passing the small glass around with the chelas. It was mother's day. They were celebrating. And I highly doubted they were sober.

"Row-bean," Sandra said again as I approached. "I need to talk to you. Do you know anything about medicines?"

"Medicines?" I asked, slightly confused. "No, not really. Sorry."

The lip-sticked corners of her mouth drooped.

"Oh ... It's just my son, Josep."

He won't eat, she told me. He'll only eat milk — like he's 1 or 2, but he's 3 years old! He fights her all the time. He says 'Mommy! You don't love me! You make me eat plants!'

"Will he eat eggs?" I interrupted gently. She nodded. I explained how to cut up the vegetables very small and put them into an omelet, so he won't notice.

She works hard to buy his milk, she continued. She gets up at 6 a.m. and works until 7 p.m. to make sure that he never goes without. Sometimes, she goes without a new blouse or jewelry, but her son, Josep, never. She always tries to get him to eat his vegetables. 'To be big and strong like Spiderman' she tells him.

"That's really good," I assured her. "It's obvious you're doing the best you can."

He calls his grandmother mamá, she went on. When she gets home from a long day at work and is tired, sometimes she snaps at him. The minute she walks in the door, he's shouting about how he wants his milk, and she can't handle it. She's tired. 'Go away, Sandra' her mother tells her. 'I'll take care of him.' Sometimes he tells her that he hates her, she said, eyes swelling.

"I know that must really hurt you," I said. "But he's 3, he doesn't understand why you're away from him."

And then Miguel, she said. Miguel asks her why she won't spend enough time with him. Why she won't go to bed with him. 'I'm tired!' she cried out. 'I'm tired all the time!' She gets home from work, and she has to wash the dishes, wash the clothes, make dinner. She doesn't even have time to spend with her own son.

"You don't even have much time for you," I said softly.

"I don't!" she said. But she doesn't want to lose her husband. They've had their problems, she admitted. They were separated for a nearly a year. "But we have four years together," she said. "Three of those with the baby." He talks about other girls to her. He works when he wants to. He doesn't get that she doesn't even have time for my her son.

She'd been clinging to the drinking glass, and her friends in the circle were getting annoyed. She swallowed the last of the beer, and passed it along.

She paused, looking down at a splatter of foam on the ground.

"I tell him that if he eats his vegetables, he'll be big and strong like Spiderman," she said almost whispering. "I just want to be a good mom."

"You are," I said, and grabbed her hand until it stopped trembling.

Earth Day! (Día de la Tierra)

2009-05-03T21:20:00.000-07:00

Earth Day Activity 1: Veggie garden in the primary school.

Earth Day Activity 2: Decomposition Activity

Earth Day Activity 3: The Web of Life (how everything is connected)

Earth Day Activity 4: Coloring pages! Kids were given a page with animals already drawn on them, and they had to add where the animals live.

Earth Day Activity 5: Climax!! 200-kid parade down the main street of Pampas. I'm really surprised we didn't lose anyone.

I rode a donkey.

2009-05-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

Hot potatoes and condom races

2009-04-18T09:47:00.001-07:00

So, I went with Maria, one of our OBs , to give an educational session to a group of teachers and parents in a nearby community. Maria was going to take the lead presenting the STI portion, and then I presented information about HIV.

It started well, I thought. Albeit my Spanish wasn't flawless. Five minutes in, however, I had no doubt whatsoever that I preferred working with youth.

We were playing a game — "Papa caliente" (hot potato) — where there's a ball of paper, and each person who catches it had to peel off one layer and read the statement on the sheet. Then, they had to say True or False and give their reasoning.

"Homosexuals have a greater probability of contracting HIV," one sheet read.

Absolutely not, right? Everyone's chances are equal.

"Of course they do!" called out one teacher in the back of the room. "They're promiscuous and engage in risky behaviors more frequently that heterosexuals."

"That's not true of all homosexuals," I said. "That's a stereotype. There are plenty who do not and plenty of heterosexuals who do."

No, he argued. "It says 'greater probability', and they definitely have a greater probability because of their lifestyle."

Another teacher piped in: "No, it's false. Everyone has an equal chance of getting HIV."

"Exactly," I said. "The statement could have easily said 'whites' or 'rich people'. HIV doesn't care what you look like, how much money you have or your sexual orientation — everyone is at equal risk if they engage in unsafe sexual activities."

The first teacher huffed and said "You're wrong. I'm right."

I moved on.

Later, the inevitable question arose from the same skeptical man in the back. "Can you contract HIV from a public bathroom or toilet seat?"

"No, you can't," I said. "The virus can only live for seconds in the air, and it's unlikely you would place your genitals directly on fluids containing the virus."

"Unlikely?" he said. "So it's possible."

Shoot.

He posed an example: "Let's say that I have HIV, and I jack off in the bathroom, spilling a little semen on the toilet. Immediately afterward, my daughter comes in and sits right on the semen. Will she get it?"

Maria steps in to save me. "It's a myth. You cannot contract HIV from a toilet seat."

"But what about other STIs that are from bacteria?" he asked.

Moving on ...

The session climaxed (no pun intended) with a condom relay. I had done the activity two weeks before with a group of teens, and it went really well.

"I know it's uncomfortable and awkward," I said, "but you have to learn to do this, so that when teens ask for help, you can tell him or her how to protect themselves."

So I demonstrated with a yellow banana. And then asked them to form teams.

Some started too early. Some unwrapped their condoms first. Some refused to participate.

But really it didn't matter anyway because the bananas exploded.

All over my hands.

"This is why the penis always needs to be erect when putting on and taking off a condom!" I joked.

*Cough* moving on ...

We decided instead to do an activity where one person gives an excuse not to use a condom, and someone else refutes it.

It was actually going really well. That is, until ...

"I don't want to use a condom because they're too small for me," one man called out.

Ah-ha! I'd seen it done so many times before. I thought I could do it, too.

I unwrapped the condom — a cocky "you just wait and watch" expression on my face — and pulled it over my fingers and down to my elbow when ... it ripped. The freakin' condom broke.

"Whoops!" I said, trying to laugh it off. "That's not supposed to happen!" I hurriedly pulled it off my arm and grabbed another.

You wouldn't believe it, but the second one ripped, too.

Oh, but it gets worse.

I cried.

Yup, I cried. I finished off the session with a speech about the high prevalence of HIV in Tumbes, the risk the young people were in, the need for everyone to see it as a social issue not just a health issue. I called out for their support so that Tumbes 10 years from now won't resemble the tragic situation of some African nations — where children are being raised by grandparents, and whole cities are devastated by an entire generation dying away.

And in the height of my fervor, I lost it.

I mean, I didn't weep or anything like that. But my voice cracked, and I got a little teary-eyed, and some people actually started laughing.

*Sigh* oh well. There is a silver lining though (isn't there always?). After my session was over, a psychologist came in to talk about life skills, and one woman left after 10 minutes.

"I'm bored," she said. "I want to talk to you more about this AIDS thing."

If only it were a koala

2009-04-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

I think there's a rat in my room. I can't be sure. But it's either that or a monster lives under my bed.

2009-04-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

Patricia, 13, Me and Doris (our OB) explain how HIV affects the body´s defenses during an HIV educational session with a group of adolescentes.

Condom relay race during the same educational session, where teens had to correctly place and remove a condom on a banana. Not surprisingly, it was a lot of fun.

PEPFAR

2009-04-06T08:47:00.000-07:00

This year Peace Corps was given a $25,000 PEPFAR grant to implement HIV prevention programs in Northern Peru. Tumbes, having the highest percentage of HIV cases in Peru, is one of the three departments taking part.

PC volunteers and community leaders came to Tumbes for a 2 1/2-day workshop on HIV and HIV prevention. Each PC volunteer formed a team from their communities consisting of a member of the health post staff, a representative from the municipality, a teacher from the local school and a health promoter or teen. The idea was that at the end of the workshop, each team formed a work plan for 2009 to implement in their districts.

With me came an OB from my health post, the energetic lieutenant mayor of the district, a quirky middle school teacher and a health promoter that's ALSO, coincidentally, a teen. Every one of them was excited to start with the project and active throughout the workshop.

The conference gave us some sobering statistics. The numbers in Tumbes, despite its small, mostly rural population, are increasing rapidly — reaching, for the first time last year, to endemic proportions (over 1% of the population). In some vulnerable groups, such as sex workers and MSMs, over 10% of its population has HIV.

What's perhaps more disturbing is the high level of youth affected. Over 50% of new cases every year are young people under the age of 25.

So, what do we do? Discussing different activities and methodologies was a big part of the conference and sparked the enthusiasm and vigor of a lot of the participants. A Uruguayan doctor came perhaps more to motivate than to educate our groups, with (in true Peace Corps fashion) interactive activities instead of dry Powerpoint.

The results were overwhelmingly positive. At the end of the conference, our Peruvian counterparts were ready with a long list of ideas of things to implement in their community.

In Pampas, our plan is to form a special committee specifically in charge of HIV prevention, consisting of at least two representatives from each of the base organizations (municipality, school, health post, etc.), two additional youth, and me representing Peace Corps.

Replicate workshops are planned for local authorities and leaders (including churches), parents and teachers. We'll do radio spots, marches, movie nights and propaganda campaigns, as well as youth dances, talent contests, murals and health fairs.

We're also going to see if it's possible to provide rapid AIDS testing for a large chunk of our population.

Of course, this is what we've planned on paper. The actual logistics of how it will all work out is dependent on the special committee. But Pampas is fertile ground. People are interested, service providers are enthusiastic, and the ganas to move forward is definitely there.

So, here we go.

Fanmail

2009-04-05T16:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Makers, Producers, Cast and Crew of NBC's The Office,

I want to express my sincerest thanks and gratitude for the joy you have brought into my life.

When the rooster outside my door wakes me up at 6 a.m., I find cheer in Dwight's extensive knowledge of soils and bears.

When the craving for a mouth-watering cheese burger overtakes my senses to the brink of madness, I find contentment in the finer things.

When I spend an hour and a half on a Monday morning waiting for the mayor — only for him to tell me that he was late because he "felt like taking a swim in the river" — I find serenity in Angela's temperance.

When it's so hot outside that I can do nothing but lie spread-eagle on my oven-hot straw mattress, I find comfort in office supplies encased in wobbly green Jell-o.

And when I accidentally tell someone that I'm aroused sexually instead of emotionally stimulated, I find repose in Michael's fearless ignorance and candor.

You have given me a reliable cure for the semi-constant homesickness I find here. Each 23-minute episode a tiny slice of joie de vivre. And for that, from the depths of my heart, I thank you.

Sincerely,
Robyn

Earth Hour: Pampas de Hospital, Peru

2009-03-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

FOR DAYS they had been talking about Earth Hour.

"Robyn, did you know everyone shuts their electricity off for an hour?" ... "Robyn, do they do this in North America, too?" ... "Robyn, do you have enough candles?" They asked me.

They were going to cut the power off at 8:30 — the whole city, they said. It wasn't even voluntary. The municipality was going to do it. Staff members rushed out of the health post to get home before everything was shrouded in darkness.

I, myself, camped out in my room, candle and matches ready, waiting for the moment where everything would stop — the cumbia, the loud soccer game, the bright lights outside.

8:30 came and ... nothing.

Maybe it's just Peruvian time, I thought. Does that rule apply here?

At 8:45 I finally just turned off all the lights in my house and sat down with my candle and crossword.* Outside everything continued as before, as if all the hype had never happened.

Ahh well, maybe next year.

* Thanks, Silas!!

A painful reality of living abroad

2009-03-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

Someone I really care about was in trouble a couple of weeks ago. I won't recount the story here. It's not my story to tell. But the repercussion of his actions back home shook me to the core here in Peru.

It started with the bone-chilling e-mail. The one that says "Something bad has happened. Call me as soon as you can." That causes your heart to stop beating and your breath to catch in your throat as you frantically run through the list of the possible catastrophes. Only when you do make the call, you discover that it wasn't anything you had imagined.

At first, it might feel like you've been slapped: a fresh, but dull pain. It's distant, after all. Far away from your immediate vision. After a while, the news sinks in, and it grows to a light burn: painful only when touched. So you try to keep busy, keeping in contact with friends from home when you can. A little time passes, and you might even think that the worst has passed. It sucks, you tell yourself, but it's bearable.

It's only when you're in the middle of a light conversation — recounting the day's events with your host uncle — that you start to cry suddenly and uncontrollably, shaking and left without the vocabulary to explain.

But you're stuck. You know you can't just fall into a tear-soaked heap without giving some explanation. So you offer something vague.

"I've just had a really bad week," you say.

His concerned eyes flash briefly with skepticism.

"What happened?" he asks.

And then it all tumbles out. In between heaves you explain as best you can what happened. You try to gloss over the details while desperately searching for a tissue, a napkin — anything to save you from your blotchy face and snotty nose.

You know you aren't making much sense. You can't tell if you're even speaking Spanish anymore. And you don't really care. You just keep going until, all at once, you're out of words.

He looks at you and just says "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

We're family, he continues, obviously offended. When you don't let us in on your pain, it makes me feel like you don't love us, like you don't trust us.

No, no, you explain. It's just that in my culture, we deal with hard times differently. Sometimes, we share the pain with only those who are most affected by the situation. You don't know my friend. It's not your burden to bear.

It's not meant to offend, you say. It's just a different way of dealing with things.

He doesn't pause. Still very much offended and with a wave of his hand, he dismisses your explanation.

But you're not in your culture now, he tells you. You're in Peru.

At first you're struck into silence.

You think "No, that's not ok. I'm American. American — not Peruvian. I will never be Peruvian. And who are you to tell me how to deal with life?"

You want to tell him how 4 months cannot change 23 years. How the only thing you want to do is run and hide in your room. To silently allow the guilt and pain and overwhelming desire to be home, with your friend, shake every cell in your body. Because you know that actions speak so much louder than words, but words, at this distance, are all you have.

Instead, you reiterate your previous speech (adding a small part about our individualistic nature), apologize for any offense taken, and half-hazardly promise to keep them all informed in the future.

It was at this moment when I felt the fragility of everything I've worked for so far in Peru.

I thought I was doing so well. I'm busy with work, doing something I believe in, and where people believe in me. I'm getting along well with my host family. I'm not nearly as sick as I started out to be. I've been here 4 months! I boasted proudly — not expecting the alternate reality to strike so deeply:

I've been here 4 months.

Not nearly enough time to build the kind of confidence and trust that allows me to weep in front of someone without hesitation. Nor is it sufficient to bear my soul to a gathering crowd.

I am an American, I say to myself. My home, my family, friends — who I am — is in the U.S.

I'm just a visitor here. And I always will be.