Aged

As my dear Sean once said, it is as if I have gone back in time, and in many ways I have.  I will show you through a hypothetical Friday and Saturday in site.  Friday morning I head to one of my high schools to talk with the Director or give a class.  I walk into the gated rounds.  The Director is speaking to all of the students as they stand in lines and rows in their uniforms: girls in skirts, and boys in slacks.  The students at the top of the class have a shoulder band marking their status.  They listen intently, repeat the school hymn, recognize its motto, and shuffle off to class.  Later that day, there will be a parade, for anything really—there are always parades.  The school marching bands are present, playing the same traditional song over and over as they march around the plaza.  The other people in the parade, sans smiles, carry banners for their cause, as they march military style, straight-kneed with arms swinging.

As I walk from the school to the plaza to see this parade, I take a dirt road where a couple of men push a red truck down towards the hill, a donkey cruises by them carrying some canisters of milk, and a small woman complete with her straw hat, warm leggings, black clogs, hand-knitted sweater, and brightly colored flowered skirt runs by behind the donkey with a baby lamb in her arms, speaking in the native Quechua language.  On her friend’s back, tied with a traditional brightly colored blanket, is a bundle of alfalfa she has cut and carried herself to feed the guinea pigs, pigs, chickens or whatever other small animals they care for in the home.  Earlier that morning they were surly out in their farms, no less than a 40 minute walk outside of town, and foot is the only mode of transportation available to most.

I watch some of the parade, head to the municipality to greet and announce my arrival cordially to everyone.  I then proceed to hand in oficios, necessary documents needed to ask for any type of support from any person or organization.  The bureaucracy and importance of formalities and documents supercedes any personal relationship.  From there I head to the one of two places in town with internet.

That night, I go to bed, only to be woken in the early morning hours to my host-sister giving birth to her second child, feet away from my room in our very own, unsanitary living room. After the birth, I hear the voice of the OBGYN who has come to check up on the situation, cut the cord, and send them on their way.  I wake up to a new baby in the house.  I go outside find a bucket, fill it with water, throw in some laundry detergent, find the scrub and slab of wood, add the clothes and begin my 2 hour adventure.  Others you will spot in the rivers washing their clothes and using bushes or cactus plants to dry them afterwards. 

            As it seems, living in a lesser-developed country can also be like taking a spin in the Delorean.

I am not saying that there is anything wrong with any of this.  These are many of the things that I love most about Chiquián and the sierra of Perú.  Nor am I saying that Peruvians are worse off because of any of these factors.  The images that I have described and here and throughout the rest of my blog are realities no more. I am not here as a development worker to bring washing machines, cars, or fashion to my small town, rather I am here to capacity build and use and embrace their culture and daily lives to begin sustainable projects to which the people can relate and appreciate.  The changes that come from my projects, I hope, are not those of physical or monetary changes, but rather personal y societal alterations or developments.   

While many aspects of my daily life bring me back in time, others age me tremendously.  Though I am still very much a young lady, I think that I can still accurately imagine what the life of an older lady is like.  I have different experiences to draw from as I make my conclusions here below.  In my life and time at site I have gotten to know the older generations quite well through numerous play dates with my new 70-year-old best friend, my observations of the small, Quechua women as they yell at me while knitting in the grass, casual chats in the chacras with old farm hands still at it in their 7th decade, and time spent with my own Grandparents. 

Watch now as I make all too many connections between my own life here in Peru and your stereotypical elderly person in lets say the United States. 

The obvious first link is that I now have trouble understanding people who talk too quickly, softly, or mumble.  I myself am a known fast talking mumbler who is very hard to comprehend; I now understand the distress and frustrations that I have caused, and I will do better.  Next, compared to some, I am a slow walker.  However, I could win races here as I saunter down the streets.  The rate at which most people here move can at times be infuriating (this is only by foot—you do not want to drive here)--I see that strange man who plays music to me through the phone up ahead, and I would try with all my might to walk or more like creep in order to keep the distance, yet some how I would end up whizzing by the man nonetheless.  However, now, you will catch me in the back of the pack being passed by school children and other old women alike. It could be that because I walk so slowly that I am out all day running my errands, having meetings, teaching classes, and chatting with the locals that by the time 8pm rolls around I am just exhausted. By 8:01pm on any given night I will be in bed either knitting or reading a novel, bundled up in a couple pairs of pants, a few shirts, and sometimes a scarf or my mittens as I am, like many older persons, always cold.  By any given night I mean any given night. Friday and Saturday mean nothing to me.  Whether a high school, college, or graduate student, back home you know well of the importance and thrill of Fridays and Saturdays.  I won’t get into details, but they can involve numerous activities and places: fish tacos, Days Inn, Firemen, 6 men and a deck of cards, bicycles and parents, a concert or a rooftop, whatever.  However, the nightlife in Chiquián involves nothing more than some Pollo a la Brasa and a walk through the Plaza – this still will get you home and in bed with a book or some yarn before 8pm.

Between the antibiotic for intestinal infections and my vitamin supplements, I have made quite a routine for my pill taking.  I can remember from a young age, my Grandparents were merely middle aged at this point, Grandma and Grandpa taking 8-15 pills daily.  Though I haven’t reached such numbers, it still takes me half the morning to take my few capsules, due to my inability to swallow pills larger than a grain of sand.

It seems like I am becoming more and more like my Grandmother every day—and it isn’t so bad, in fact, I enjoy it maybe more than your can imagine. 

Merry Christmas from Peru