And I thought the Destruction Derby was a dixie phenomenon...

Anyone who has taken a course in Anthropology, or read the Hitchhiker´s Guide to the Galaxy books, or gone through Peace Corps training will know that the first thing when arriving in a strange culture is to keep an open mind.
However, after a good amount of time in the amazing country that is Peru, I think I am ready to pass a judgement: Peruvians, okay, specifically Ancashinos, are terrible drivers. Terrible!! I won´t deny that they have a lot of obstacles to deal with: rock slides, pot holes that could swallow a horse, children and live stock darting in and out of the interstate, to name a few. However, this past Sunday I spent 7 hours in cars with Peruvian professional drivers (taxistas, not race car drivers or something, though I think they might be a bit confused on the distinction) and had the chance to observe closely this national dare-devil pastime.
In the morning I set out with another volunteer and a Peruvian engineer from Huaraz to cross a mountain pass and visit San Marcos, a town on the other side where Peace Corps will install some latrines and bathrooms during a field-based training. The drive is astounding beautiful-- you pass snow capped peaks, a glacial like, a giant Jesus statue, and miles of seemingly wild highlands, with grazing cows and sheep and little thatch huts called "chozas" that look like something out of Middle Earth or another magical time-apart. To get to the other side of the mountains, the "Callejon de Conchucos," you climb high into the mountains, then pass through a tunnel. Passing through is a bit like waking up in Oz, or falling through to Wonderland. The sky and landscape change from one side to the other, after just a couple minutes of darkness (of course there are no lights in this interstate highway tunnel), and you are left dizzy and dazzled by the change (that could also be due to the fact that you are well, well over 4000 meters of altitude, and your driver has been taking the curves like he wants to try out for Nascar as soon as he can get a green card)
You are distracted from this magical, even spiritual place, by the life-risking hijinks required to get there. Sure, patches of the road are nicely paved, but just as you begin an interesting conversation in the car, you reach another patch that is unpaved, covered with small boulders and that leaves the small taxi rattling and you bouncing around (seat belts are for wimps-- and only necessary for people sitting in the front seats, apparently), into and on to your seat mates.
The brave soul driving this machine continues, undaunted, and no amount of noise or fish-tailing distracts him from his objective-- which is clearly to arrive on the other side not safe or sound, but before every other vehicle. This involves risks-- passing on blind curves, traveling on the other side of the road, trying to shift gears while dodging boulders and talking to his girlfriend on your cellphone--and he is willing to take them.
Despite this dangerous game, both of my trips (there and back) ended safely, but I am left with a healthy fear of Peruvian drivers and the need for at least a little break before attempting the ride again.

Babies, babies, babies!

So lately I´ve been working with a lot of planning. Of the family variety. Yup, a couple of my activities coincided on the birth control section of learning, so, today, I just gave my third class on birth control of the week. Our meeting started out serious and practical, with each youth practicing putting a condom on a banana:


However, things quickly descended into mayhem:
With a group of 12 high land Peruvian teenagers, we practiced putting condoms on the straightest bananas I could find in the local bodega (the quechwa grandma was skeptical as I, without explanation, searched through the stack for the least curved). Peace Corps supplied the condoms, of course in the tropical variety pack (pink, yellow and orange, all flavored. Government health care really might have something going for it).
The ironic thing about this overload of birth control teaching is that, right now, the health post in Musho is out of birth control. The center of salud, provincial hospital, and entire department of Ancash, does not have birth control to supply the public health care system. This means that women who are accustomed to free birth control, usually by injection, every 3 months, are forced to buy this (at 25 soles an injection, it´s a pretty high cost) or possibly get pregnant. I predict lots of babies next July.
It´s a cliche to say that birth control is empowering, especially having studied public health and development. However, it is sort of moving to hear first hand opinions and accounts of the change it brings. Birth control is a fairly recent phenomenon in this highland area; only available for about 10 years, since the Fujimori years. The other night, my host mom explained to me what an amazing development it was when birth control became available.
A wonderful thing about my life here is that a lot of things I knew theoretically before I am re-learning through experience. Try birth control. Theoretically, it´s empowering to women in poverty. Practically, most married women in Musho love it and you can spot the families that don´t use it (they have upwards of 5 kids and are living in squalor). Please cross your fingers for some pills arriving in Musho soon, though, or we are back to square one.

Obras! Pan! Sugar! Spice! Everything nice!

My friend Delina making bread in a wood oven. When I arrived, she handed me a piece the size of my head and told me it was for fattening me up. Thanks, Peru.
Musho is still gorgeous, of course. And now, for some news:
"For the bread. No, the condor, no the cooking pot, no, obviously the river!!"
Is this a debate over graphics to use in a coloring book? Words to include in an English lesson? No, no, this is a possible, and likely debate discussing the political candidates and parties for the regional election, which took place today (we are anxiously awaiting to hear the results over the radio). Each party chooses a symbol to be represented by on the ballot, and, surely due to the poorly educated electorate, are usually known better by their symbol than their platform or, often, candidates.
As in the States, voting begins months before. Unlike the States, I have managed to go through the entire campaign without having developed an idea of the platform of each candidates or the differences between them. Promises center on "obras," that is, public work projects that usually improve/create infrastructure and give jobs (and, incidentally, generate a perfect climate for corruption). Every candidate promises obras, so there is no way of knowing which will deliver or not, besides some sort of wishful thinking based on character-analysis. However, this does not prevent frantic campaigning and strong biases. These might be based on experience, the advice of friends or neighbors, or how much free stuff the candidate has given you or your town.
Last Wednesday and Thursday, for instance, were the official closing of the campaigns. For this, the candidates pay drivers and their staff to head out to the distant, high land villages, drum up support, and invite (pressure, goad, force) people to take a free trip down to the district capital, put on a free t-shirt with the candidates name, listen to some blustery empty promises, and then eat a free lunch. People vote based on this shameless gifting. I even heard of a case of a current mayor gifting 100 soles each to 300 people for the promise of a vote. Hearing this I commented that the people could easily accept the 100 soles and then vote for another candidate, but my host dad assured me that people would not think to do that.
Voting is obligatory here, under penalty of fine, and there is no absentee voting, causing massive travel and confusion over the voting weekend. Voting occurs on Sunday, but our schools are canceled Friday and Monday to prepare, give teachers time to travel, and clean up after the election. Despite these allowances, the day itself seems to be completely chaotic. I spent the weekend in Huaraz, for a regional meeting and some relaxation. After lunch, Pete and I headed back to Mancos to look for colectivos to our respective sites. The stop in Mancos was flooded with people, obviously trying to make their way back to their villages after coming down to the district capital to vote. Everyone was confused, there were few cars, and I ended up waiting an hour and a half to ride up to Musho in a crowded trunk. OK, that might sound like complaining, mostly because it is. However, it´s a pretty interesting system for voting, and it works pretty different than our non-obligatory, rather apathetic election system-- especially for local elections, when even 75% voter turn-out would be a delusional expectation.
For the most part, I´ve watched this process with bemusement, curiosity and occasional frustration. It´s a different system than the states, in the midst of a different culture. Democracy in action has so many different applications; I wish I could better judge the merits of each different system. What I will say is that it is certainly a chaotic system. A week after the elections, most of the votes have been counted and decided, but it was slow going.
Next up? Local, local elections for Musho mayor. As Peace Corps volunteers we are meant to stay out of politics, but I fear it will be impossible to stay neutral when my friends and neighbors begin to form planchas (planks, the word for election teams) for the town. We´ll see.

Musho is Beautiful

Here are some pictures of the last few weeks in Musho. Above are some baskets that we put together for one of the processions during the town fiestas.
Here are some of my youth group, in my room, making posters to show during the town fiesta. The themes that they chose were violence prevention, no to littering, and no to alcoholism.
These two are a bit out of date. They are both from the 1 year anniversary of my friend´s son´s death. Above, a friend is cooking (in a jacuzzi-sized pot) noodle soup for the lunch. Below is the mass, outside in the cemetery, my favorite spot in Musho.
And, finally, a charming Peruvian tradition of shoving a birthday boy´s face into his cake. Pobrecito. Also from my youth group.

Nix on the xoxos

It´s funny how something can be right under your nose for ages without you even thinking of it. Then, once something draws your attention, you can´t seem to avoid spotting it at every moment. For later this month, a group of teachers from the high school and I are planning our second "Escuela de Padres," a mandatory half-day-long workshop for parents. This month´s themes are dental hygiene, nutrition and revaluing cultural identity. Aside from planning the actual logistics and informational content of the event, we are planning different icebreakers and games, to keep people interested. The PE teacher, a merry fellow who would fit in well at a UGA tailgate, had the enthusiastic idea of a hugging ice-breaker. We all laughed, though, because the truth is, hugging is rare among adults in my community, perhaps nonexistent.
While I recognized this fact and quickly directed the brainstorm to more feasible and culturally sensitive activities, the deeper significance didn´t strike me until last night. In a typical bout of insomnia, I was tossing and turning in my bed (yes, bed!! I sprung the 80 soles and am the happiest, most comfortable girl in Musho) and thinking about the little boy on the way-- my host parent´s next baby. At dinner my host parents and I had spent a good 15 minutes brainstorming names. What struck me all at once is that between my host parents I had never witnessed any physical affection-- no handholding, kissing, hugging, putting an arm around, squeezing, nothing. Even in the midst of such a sentimental and exciting time, the 7th month of my mom´s pregnancy, my dad, publicly, won´t even touch her stomach.
Next, I expanded my thoughts to all the younger couples I know from Musho and it´s the same-- no affection at all. Is it from shyness? Or some inexplicable cultural force? It certainly isn´t from fear of touching. I have ridden up in packed colectivos practically sitting in the lap of some neighbor or unknown Peruvian. The greeting-with-a-kiss is a city and coastal phenomenon, which has gained little ground in Musho. I know very well which friends I greet with a kiss and with whom a hearty handshake or pat on the back is more than enough. Edita, my host mom, is in the second category, odd as that seems.
Here, I observe this as a cultural phenomenon, that´s all, without an opinion on whether it is good or bad. Personally, though, I miss affection. Sure, we don´t kiss our friends too often in the States, but we hug, tickle, cuddle, walk hand in hand, and not just when over-packed public transportation demands it. Maybe I only bathe, I mean bathe well enough to get the dirt and smell and particles of animal manure off me, once a week or so, and people don´t want to hug me. Maybe I don´t insist, and starting the practice of generous hugging should be part of my goal 2 (sharing American culture with Musho) work. Either way, I just realized the universal lack of hugging around here, and at the same time, realized it´s something that I miss. But there are other volunteers, and it helps to know of all the hugs waiting for me back in Georgia. Something to think about.
Incidentally, the picture is from the town parties, recently passed.

Death delights? Bloody Brownies? Sanguinary Sweets?

This is not, sadly, the list of treat suggestions for a True Blood theme party. No, rather, it is a sign of how completely my life has changed in the past year.
Yesterday it began innocently enough, chatting with the teacher in the preschool about how our little nutrition project was going. She mentioned that this Friday there is a recipe contest and that she wanted my help thinking of a super nutritious balanced plate. We brainstormed and shortly had a little number that combined high contents of iron, vitamin C, and vitamin A. However, the contest doesn´t stop there. Each school gets to submit two items-- and that´s where I got ahead of myself.
Months ago, during training, we visited a "wawa wasi," a state supported communal day care center, where they cook and serve highly nutritious meals. This model wawa wasi introduced us to some of their creative menu items, often using cheap but highly nutritious ingredients in novel ways. One of the items were chocolate donuts, which we learned were fortified with blood. If a few peruvian women can do it, why not me?
Conveniently, this morning I went down to our provincial capital, with the president and secretary of the Huambo Musho development committee, to see how support for our latrines project is going (answer: más o menos). After a few hours of shuffling from bureaucrat to bureaucrat, we split up, my buddies back to Musho, and me, to look for blood. I tried the meat section of the market without luck, and then they directed me towards the municipal "camal," a new word for me, a few blocks away.
This mysterious camal is no less than the butchering spot for all the animals that enter in the town market. I entered by a beautiful, sunflower lined drive, and was greeted (totally unexpectedly), but a friendly aquinatance, my nurse´s sister. Then we both went into the garage type structure in back to see dozens of hanging, dead animals, and several butcherings in process. While she filled my two soda bottles with fresh sheep´s blood (it could have been stolen from the Buffy set it was so vibrantly red), I did my best to close off my senses and not faint or say anything stupid. It was hard to make small talk.
I walked out with a liter of blood and a sense of the absurd (let´s review: I´m a vegetarian. I was semi-vegan for a while. I am from a world where meat is sold in pristine super markets, not killed before your eyes) This absurdity increased when I fell on my face walking out of the camal, in front of a couple on a motorcycle.
Back in Musho, I got cooking. I boiled my blood, let it dry out, ground it up, and used it in two surprisingly tasty treats: chocolate cookies and pancakes. Seriously, mixing the batter I felt slightly ill, but a good cook cannot go without trying her products. It was simple, chocolaty goodness. My host family and 1/2 my youth group tried them and approved. And they are very high in iron, low in fat and ready for the preschoolers to win a contest with. Myself, I hope I never have to cook with blood after this week, though.

RECIPE: CARNIVOROUS CHOCOLATE COOKIES
1 cup flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
salt
cinnamon
1/4 tsp baking powder
1 egg
1/2 cup evaporated milk
2 tbsp oil
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup cooked, ground blood

Mix sugar, oil, milk and egg.
Sift dry ingredients. Add to wet and combine. Mix in blood.
Drop by spoonfuls on a greased cookie sheet, cook for 10 minutes at 350, or so.
Serve to malnourished, anemic children, pregnant women who have worked in the fields all day, etc.

To do: feed pig, chop wood for cookfire, kill guinea pig for dinner, check email...

The past few weeks have been challenging. There are a lot of wonderful things happening in Musho: the acceptance of our grant application to work in the primary school on a healthy, green schools project, planting a vegetable garden behind the health post, and starting a crafts group with a group of mothers, to name a few. However, as ridiculous as it feels to state this, the challenge is that my computer is broken. Never, dreaming and planning for Peace Corps, did I imagine bringing a computer, but, looking at advice, I did. Then, never during training did I imagine having easy internet access; I had wireless (ok, the computer could only be in one spot in my window and it was slow) in my room. To face facts, I´ve been spoiled. Now, with no computer, I miss my family more than ever, typing documents, proposals and homework assignments is a afternoon of internet café, and, some of my favorite time wasters (food blogs, nytimes.com) are out of reach. But really, I live in an Andean village and am complaining about lack of computer access?
The truth is, my community is in a fascinating place: in between traditional ways of life and modern technology. At my primary school, there are plans to build a large computer room, with 20 computers, internet, a multi-media projector, and other gizmos. At the same school, some days there is no running water, and, in the students´ houses, they cook with wood and go to the bathroom in their fields. Once, the director and I sat in the computer lab and eavesdropped (accidentally) on two little girls who were exploring the internet. They found Porky Pig on you tube and began to chat excitedly about it—in quechwa “shumac!” (pretty).
The fact that Porky Pig is commented on in quechwa is a beautiful, shumac, thing. It´s exciting that such a rural traditional community is able to access advanced technology. 10 years ago, some areas did not have electricity (still some houses do not), and now people have knock off iphones and send their children to the internet café (ok, café is perhaps too kind—imagine an adobe room and dirt floors, with computers in it) to do homework. Of course, by homework, I mean play violent games, in English, four or five to a computer, crammed around the screen.
What does this accelerated access to technology mean, though? It is certainly an opportunity, but I feel it skews priorities (just like in the States, right? How many college or high school students would rather buy a new video game or dvd and survive on ramen than buy more expensive, healthier food). My host dad, who does not have glass in his bedroom windows, whose pregnant wife has to work sometimes 12 to 14 hour days in the fields, who eats meat less than once a week, is considering buying a computer, and has asked me to compare prices.
What do I say? Thoughts of Paul Farmer and his dismissal of the term “appropriate technology” fleet through my mind, but it is more my natural shyness and slightly strange role in the family that keeps me from voicing my opinion on the value of a computer. Instead, I did as he asked, looked at prices in Huaraz and Lima, and feel as though I am sitting back to enjoy the slightly bumpy ride as the Andes enter the age of information.