White Christmas
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
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.
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.
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.
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 ...
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.
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
"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.
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
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!
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
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:
Peace Corps ages people.
Check out my then and now:
Youth Group Photography Project
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:
Here are a few taken by the teens:
PC Book Club: The Wisdom of Whores
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.
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
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!
Over 100 people showed. More than double any other event we´ve ever done.
Yay for small Peace Corps victories!
Pasa La Voz
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)
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
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
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.
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´
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.
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
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.
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)
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
The first of many faces: Sheick
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
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.”
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
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
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
"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 beachYEAR IN REVIEW
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:
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:
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