Quechuata allí kosa yachakullaykaa!!

This weekend was another round of intensive quechua classes, four hours a day of grammar, vocabulary and painstaking practice. For me, the classes are always a bit frustrating. As soon as you walk out the door, perhaps with a bit of spring in your step after mastering the tricky “ku” suffix, you hear quechua. On my way back up to Musho every afternoon, I was surrounded by Quechua in the car. Straining my ears and trying to look nonchalant, I would try to understand the conversation around me. Inevitably, I would get lost.

Quechua, you see, is a language of suffixes. You may with one word: “sha” (to stand up) then add on “-mu” (directionally towards me) then “-rku” (directionally upwards) then “-ri” (quickly and just a little) to get “shamurkuri-“ which still must be conjugated and only the will mean “coming uphill for a little while.” I can also make it a question by adding “-ku” to the conjugated verb: “Shamurkurinki-ku?” “Are you coming uphill for a little while?” Quechua says with one maddening word what we say with 8.

However, what frustrates me also fascinates me. There is a suffix for humility and politeness (-lla, which changes the sense of any verb “Shamulla-“ would be, to come in a very humble and polite form) and a suffix for action realized on behalf of a community or group. There is a suffix for shared action (fighting, kissing, talking) and a suffix for meaning to help another person to do something (making the verbs learn, eat, sleep into teach, feed and put to bed).

Though I am no linguist, I like to think that these overly-specific, maddening suffixes not only act as a thorny barrier to my understanding but also show a lot about the Quechua culture. Our professor compared “-lla” (the suffix for politeness) to “por favor” (please, in Spanish), explaining that while you can use please in a tone of annoyance or demand (or sarcasm, in the States, “puh-lease…”), “-lla” could never be used that way and thus adds infinitely more courtesy to whatever action is realized. To work on behalf of the community is different than working for yourself, as kissing as a shared action is very different than kissing as a individual act.

Once I remember reading (probably in preparation for our rather bumbling journey to see Liesel) of a bilingual man, Japanese- English, who felt that his personality actually changed depending on the language that he spoke. In Japanese, he felt less selfish, more inclined to consider group and community. I wonder if the same thing happens to Quechua speakers. If so, I feel as though it gives far more reason to promote and cherish the Quechua language. With it´s demise may also come a diminished politeness and gentleness, a Spanish brashness and arrogance. For instance, I have been catcalled only once in Quechua and it was “kuyaqmi” (I love you) whereas it would take pages to note all the catcalls I´ve heard in Spanish. In 10 years, I want to know what language Musho will speak and what sort of changes that will bring about. In the mean time, I will suffer through pages of verbal and nominative suffixes in a quest for understanding.

Quechuata allí kosa yachakullaykaa!!

This weekend was another round of intensive quechua classes, four hours a day of grammar, vocabulary and painstaking practice. For me, the classes are always a bit frustrating. As soon as you walk out the door, perhaps with a bit of spring in your step after mastering the tricky “ku” suffix, you hear quechua. On my way back up to Musho every afternoon, I was surrounded by Quechua in the car. Straining my ears and trying to look nonchalant, I would try to understand the conversation around me. Inevitably, I would get lost.

Quechua, you see, is a language of suffixes. You may with one word: “sha” (to stand up) then add on “-mu” (directionally towards me) then “-rku” (directionally upwards) then “-ri” (quickly and just a little) to get “shamurkuri-“ which still must be conjugated and only the will mean “coming uphill for a little while.” I can also make it a question by adding “-ku” to the conjugated verb: “Shamurkurinki-ku?” “Are you coming uphill for a little while?” Quechua says with one maddening word what we say with 8.

However, what frustrates me also fascinates me. There is a suffix for humility and politeness (-lla, which changes the sense of any verb “Shamulla-“ would be, to come in a very humble and polite form) and a suffix for action realized on behalf of a community or group. There is a suffix for shared action (fighting, kissing, talking) and a suffix for meaning to help another person to do something (making the verbs learn, eat, sleep into teach, feed and put to bed).

Though I am no linguist, I like to think that these overly-specific, maddening suffixes not only act as a thorny barrier to my understanding but also show a lot about the Quechua culture. Our professor compared “-lla” (the suffix for politeness) to “por favor” (please, in Spanish), explaining that while you can use please in a tone of annoyance or demand (or sarcasm, in the States, “puh-lease…”), “-lla” could never be used that way and thus adds infinitely more courtesy to whatever action is realized. To work on behalf of the community is different than working for yourself, as kissing as a shared action is very different than kissing as a individual act.

Once I remember reading (probably in preparation for our rather bumbling journey to see Liesel) of a bilingual man, Japanese- English, who felt that his personality actually changed depending on the language that he spoke. In Japanese, he felt less selfish, more inclined to consider group and community. I wonder if the same thing happens to Quechua speakers. If so, I feel as though it gives far more reason to promote and cherish the Quechua language. With it´s demise may also come a diminished politeness and gentleness, a Spanish brashness and arrogance. For instance, I have been catcalled only once in Quechua and it was “kuyaqmi” (I love you) whereas it would take pages to note all the catcalls I´ve heard in Spanish. In 10 years, I want to know what language Musho will speak and what sort of changes that will bring about. In the mean time, I will suffer through pages of verbal and nominative suffixes in a quest for understanding.

A New Hope

Last week, I watched, little by little, the entire older Star Wars trilogy. Each evening, 9 pm found me curled up in bed, computer atop my lap, engrossed in the adventures of the Alliance against the evil Gallatic Empire. Was this the best use of my time? Perhaps not, but, as has become my new guilt-free philosophy, what work would I do at 9pm, with my host parents and siblings asleep? Also, for a couple days, it was the best answer to a long day full of frustration—too much bureaucracy, too many blank faces when I asked people to do their jobs, too many moments in which I asked myself why I had come back.

However, gradually, as I progressed from Monday to Friday and A New Hope to Return of the Jedi, life started filling again. I found a group of children willing to learn ultimate Frisbee, babysat my goddaughter enough to make a connection again, and, more than anything, continued to run into the people I love in Musho.

Honest with myself and the world, the reason I chose to stay a 3^rd year here is not the deep necessity of health and development work (it certainly exists of course) nor that I won´t receive a replacement volunteer (though I won´t) but because of the relationships I have built with people. This will make my eventually goodbye far harder but remembering that fact—and having my projects get going again—makes this 3^rd year make sense again.

First week back...

Toady I traveled back to Peru after a 6 week leave in the States, encompassing a wedding, reunions and tomfoolery with loved ones, gift-giving and receiving, story-telling and listening. During my morning goodbyes and finally hug to my dad at the airport, I wasn´t sure how I felt—sadness at saying goodbye, with no sense of urgency or finality, but most strangely, a sheer lack of excitement. This dullness continued through my airport time wasting (I tried to tell myself to stock up on American candy bars and magazines, to no avail) and both flights. I didn´t feel scared, nor doubtful, nor worried, but I also didn´t feel the urgency and nervousness I had imagined. It was like going on a business trip to Ohio or to the grocery store to buy eggs- simple, thoughtless and uninspiring. This in itself began to panic me and I tried to analyze but was distracted by Game of Thrones, until I finally arrived in Lima, and was standing in the customs line, behind two confused German women and in front of a blustering American.

It was there that I saw it: in the duty-free store, just ahead, there were four attendants, all unoccupied, all wearing hideous orange matching vests and skirts. There it was—a stunning example of Peruvian inefficiency (any store worth it´s salt will take at least 15 minutes to ring up your purchase, require fashion sacrifices out of its employees, and consider an employee pow-wow more important than customer service).

From then on, I was hooked once more. Through haggling my taxi price, forgetting my ATM card, realizing I had booked at the not-so-nice hostel, crossing my fingers to find my cellphone, and most of all, the wonderful, chaotic ride from the Callao airport to Miraflores, I smiled and giggled like a fat kid with a pocket full of fudge. Even the dirty streets and traffic are like the fart of a loved one—unpleasant, but it´s nice to recognize and remind you who you´re dealing with. Between swerves and near misses in the taxi, I saw graffiti, over-crowded buses and terrible junk cars, stray dogs and cats, tacky billboards, crowded slums and sleeks malls. We passed chifa, pollo a la brasa, tacos, Italian, food carts, tiendas, street vendors and drove through miasmas of frying potatoes and sautéing garlic, of gasoline and sea salt. It was a marvelous gauntlet of reintroduction.

Thank you, Lima, for continually baffling, frustrating and confounding me. It´s good to be back in Peru.

FIRE!!

Starting last Wednesday, I had an unusual view from my home—not just my daily vista of Huascaran, but also of huge clouds of smoke, as wildfires swept the forest below Huascaran. Having read accounts of out of control blazes in the States, I was fascinated and terrified by the sight. My host parents assured me that comuneros, people who held community land in the forest, would fight the fire—with dirt, water or ditches. For three days we worried, watching the black swath grow across the base of Huascaran. Finally, it rained, and I ventured up to see the results. This is the strange landscape that I found.

Starting last Wednesday, I had an unusual view from my home—not just my daily vista of Huascaran, but also of huge clouds of smoke, as wildfires swept the forest below Huascaran. Having read accounts of out of control blazes in the States, I was fascinated and terrified by the sight. My host parents assured me that comuneros, people who held community land in the forest, would fight the fire—with dirt, water or ditches. For three days we worried, watching the black swath grow across the base of Huascaran. Finally, it rained, and I ventured up to see the results. This is the strange landscape that I found.

Homecoming

A homecoming is many things—a return from travel with stories to tell and gifts to give, a silly high school dance to be fretted over, a celebration after long trials, greeting loved ones after a long or short absence. Over the past couple weeks I have had homecoming on my mind. First I attended our Close of Service (COS) Conference, where I greeted some volunteers after nearly two years without seeing them and saw other good friends for the last time. The topics were varied but focused on two things: saying goodbye to our communities in Peru and re-adjusting to the United States. Everyone threw around phrases like “culture shock” and solemnly asked about plans for the future.

Myself, I´ve been torn about my November leave date. On one hand, it has been far too long that I have been barefoot, curled up on the couch during a family cocktail hour, hearing the sarcasm, ridiculous stories and passionate debates that characterize our family. I miss everyone there—even my nephew, who I have yet to meet. However, going there means leaving here, where I also have people I love and a job I find challenging and fulfilling. The conference and days in Lima, spent walking, talking, shopping, dancing and generally chilling with other volunteers, helped me see some more of the appeals of going home—conversations about more than the weather, easy access to stores with fresh fruits and veggies, regular hot showers, to name a few. The week was so relaxing and enjoyable that I wondered if, for the first time, I wouldn´t be happy returning to Musho. What if I had somehow readjusted to city life?

With some apprehension over that thought, I arrived in Musho at 8, exhausted after a night bus. It was a wonderful day. My host family was so happy to see me that Edita broke her shyness barrier and gave me a hug (and then invited me to my favorite soup at lunch), my early childhood stimulation session at the health post went wonderfully, comments about the rain, where had I gone etc. were welcome and hilarious—in short, I arrived and felt like I was home.

Even in the evening, when Jesus dutiful plied the donors of the graduation party with beer (his responsibility as president of the graduation), I laughed, refused to participate, and didn´t mind at all. Home isn´t always about being comfortable or perfectly relaxed, I think, but contains some ephemeral quality that envelops you while you´re there. It is annoyance as much as affection; part of the comfort of home is the ability to be uncomfortable and still be happy. After a two-year absence, how quickly will I fall back into home once in my Stateside home?