Donkeys and Hardships

My host sisters have to be the cutest children alive. I didn’t grow up with younger kids around.  My younger brother and I are only 2 years apart, and so I never really knew what it was like to have younger kids around.  Most of my cousins are either older or about the same age as me.  I was never really exposed to kids.  Yet, here I am in the Youth Development program searching for little ones to hang out with me.  Here, in my house I have found two great friends, ages 4 and 7.  They really are the best.  They really listen to what I have to say, they remember all of our conversations, they are brutally honest, and they are willing to hang out whenever I want.  They are excited when I come home, they like to eat with me, they like to play barbies, do hair and nails, gossip, and speak English.  I mean what more could I ask for in a friend?  At the same time they drive me crazy, actually mad—but I guess that might be what it is like to have sisters?

I have recently fallen in love in Peru.  I have uncovered and explored my new-found love of donkeys.  They are just so cute, and they roam the streets of Chiquián always.  I think of them often, wondering what they are doing, if maybe one day they will hang out with me, what kind of goods their hauling, and if they notice me like I do them.  Have you ever thought about donkeys?  They exist in the US, but what do they do?  To my knowledge, they are not meant for riding, do not service our carnivorous needs, nor do they make appearances in carnivals or Hollywood, and I prefer not to think about sexual uses, so petting zoos…that is all that I have come up with.  However, I am living in the most beautiful place where donkeys have worth and purpose.  When I see a donkey openly walking across the campo in the Andres, with jagged mountains and the snow-capped Huayhuash in the back, it literally takes my breath away.  I am not kidding; this is the view I saw as I gasped for air half way through my run, I stopped, feeling a little yackcito breeching the mouth, sat on a rock, took in deep breaths followed by winded coughs, just admiring the life of a donkey.  It isn’t a simple life, they haul all sorts of stuff up and down the mountains.  I see them loaded with canisters of milk, sticks, sheep fur, babies, you name it.  They are also utilized on the long treks through the Andes.  I could get used to this fertile land of donkeys.  I want to be regaloed a donkey real badly.  Sheep on the other hand are not my favorite.

I now realize I have spent a lot of time and space on the many animals that roam the streets of Chiquián.  Did I mention I saw a stampede of donkeys cruising though the streets the other day? Picture a pack of wild horses jaunting through the open meadows, as the sun sets just beyond the incredible mountain backdrop.  Well, yeah, this was nothing like that, but I felt the same way I imagine I would if I were to witness the strength and beauty of those wild stallions.  Well, minus the unnerving fear that would inevitable overcome my body if I were anywhere near these wild beasts.  So, okay, lets stick to a bunch of donkeys trotting through the dusty streets of Chiquián—just amazing.

But again, a lot of animal talk.  I have covered the rapid dogs, deadly chickens, handsome donkeys, and even the boring sheep.  At this point, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned the cuys (aka guinea pigs) yet; we’ll get there.

So, I have recently read Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific. It was really great—a humorous and intelligent travel novel.  The beginning (the first 4/5) of Maarten’s book gives concrete details and descriptions of a day on his new island home of Tarawa.  He gives real, seemingly harsh descriptions of the smells, peoples’ actions, customs, histories, and problems of this South Pacific atoll.  While some images and anecdotes make you laugh and question the lives of these South Pacific islanders, it is not out of malice or disdain that he tells these stories.  They are rooted in appreciation and love.  To simply notice and describe life on the surface is one thing, to understand and recognize cultural customs and beliefs as in inherent force in the lives and actions of the citizens is another.  By the end of the book, the author returns to the US, an undoubtedly changed man, completely adapted and entrenched in this new island culture, to the dismay of life in the States.  He soon returns to another seemingly desolate and sad island to raise his family in happiness.  That being said, I hope to give light and appreciation to my stories of poop and tracksuits.        

So, let’s get serious for a moment.  I was talking with a fellow volunteer and friend, Betty, about the hardships of being a Peace Corps volunteer. I am certain we are not the first, only or the last volunteers to make these observations.  It is not the frequent power or water shortages, lack of Internet, abundance of bucket baths, illogical bureaucracy, relentless stares and giggles, tardiness and the constant waiting, or the incessant amount of potatoes and rice that gets to you; it is the chronic malnutrition in children, the lack of practiced hygiene, the prominence and evidence of physical and mental violence in the homes, the faltering agency of the citizens, the public drunkenness of role models, and the innate machismo that makes living at site most difficult.  Plus I miss my friends and family. :)    

But when I think I might be having a hard day, and life seems overwhelming, I just walk down the road, take a seat on the side of the road and look out to this….