Note: This video was shot in the Andean province of Cajamarca. Check out the landscape; it was beautiful.
Another Music Video
Note: This video was shot in the Andean province of Cajamarca. Check out the landscape; it was beautiful.
A cute story about 2 boys and 3 little pigs
The kids are almost inescapable. The ones at site hang on your legs, and the ones in the city hang on your change purse. Both pull heart strings. It's a lot harder to say no to a cute little kid.
So one evening, sitting on the steps of a church in the Andean city of Cajamarca, my two good girl friends and I tried a different approach.
"I'll tell you the story of this church for a little money," Edwin, 11, asked us, his lower lip jutting out just slightly — surely to knock off a couple years and boost his cuteness level.
We looked at each other, unsure as to how to let this lil' guy down gently. I was about to say the same unfortunate speech we always give to those asking for money on the street "Thanks but No Thanks," when my friend Jules said: "I have a better idea. How about we tell YOU a story, and you give US a little money."
Edwin looked at us, eyes wide. His friend, Percy, 12, sauntered over, and Edwin told his friend what these apparently nuts gringas had just offered him.
I thought it was a brilliant idea.
"Yeah, do you know the story of "Los Tres Chanchitos?" I asked. The three little pigs.
Incredulous, Edwin shook his head and started to walk away. Percy, however, nodded his head vigorously and plopped down on the step in front of us.
"Well," I began, "Once upon of time there were three little pigs."
Edwin, caving, came back and sat down next to his friend. His eyebrows were furrowed, but he was apparently ready to listen.
I smiled down at him and kept going.
"And there lived a big, bad wolf —"
"Who wanted to eat the pigs!" Percy chimed in.
A little surprised, I nodded.
"Yeah. He wanted to eat them. So to protect themselves the pigs built houses. The first one made his house out of —"
"Straw!" Percy jumped in again. "And the wolf blew his house down!"
"Right," I said laughing. "But thankfully, he escaped to his brother's house which had been made of —"
"Sticks!" This time, Edwin. "And the wolf brought in all this air, filled up his bellow this far" — Edwin stuck out his belly and puffed out his cheeks— "and blew the house down."
"Mm-hmm, but the two escaped and went the house of the third brother who had built it —"
"Out of bricks," both boys shouted at once. Then both rushed to finish the story.
"The wolf tried to blow the house down —"
"He filled his belly with air like this —"
"But he couldn't do it, so he climbed up the chimney —"
"The pigs had built a fire —"
"He burnt his tail!"
"And he never came back to hurt them again."
By this time a small group of boys had come to listen, and Edwin and Percy leaned back again triumphantly.
They asked us questions about where we were from and why we were here, and threw out the few English words that they knew.
Right as we were about to leave, Edwin held out the small package of candy he had in his hand, offering some to each of us.
It was dark, so we got up to leave. A long series of high-fives ensued before we finally headed down the stone steps, waving goodbye.
So one evening, sitting on the steps of a church in the Andean city of Cajamarca, my two good girl friends and I tried a different approach.
"I'll tell you the story of this church for a little money," Edwin, 11, asked us, his lower lip jutting out just slightly — surely to knock off a couple years and boost his cuteness level.
We looked at each other, unsure as to how to let this lil' guy down gently. I was about to say the same unfortunate speech we always give to those asking for money on the street "Thanks but No Thanks," when my friend Jules said: "I have a better idea. How about we tell YOU a story, and you give US a little money."
Edwin looked at us, eyes wide. His friend, Percy, 12, sauntered over, and Edwin told his friend what these apparently nuts gringas had just offered him.
I thought it was a brilliant idea.
"Yeah, do you know the story of "Los Tres Chanchitos?" I asked. The three little pigs.
Incredulous, Edwin shook his head and started to walk away. Percy, however, nodded his head vigorously and plopped down on the step in front of us.
"Well," I began, "Once upon of time there were three little pigs."
Edwin, caving, came back and sat down next to his friend. His eyebrows were furrowed, but he was apparently ready to listen.
I smiled down at him and kept going.
"And there lived a big, bad wolf —"
"Who wanted to eat the pigs!" Percy chimed in.
A little surprised, I nodded.
"Yeah. He wanted to eat them. So to protect themselves the pigs built houses. The first one made his house out of —"
"Straw!" Percy jumped in again. "And the wolf blew his house down!"
"Right," I said laughing. "But thankfully, he escaped to his brother's house which had been made of —"
"Sticks!" This time, Edwin. "And the wolf brought in all this air, filled up his bellow this far" — Edwin stuck out his belly and puffed out his cheeks— "and blew the house down."
"Mm-hmm, but the two escaped and went the house of the third brother who had built it —"
"Out of bricks," both boys shouted at once. Then both rushed to finish the story.
"The wolf tried to blow the house down —"
"He filled his belly with air like this —"
"But he couldn't do it, so he climbed up the chimney —"
"The pigs had built a fire —"
"He burnt his tail!"
"And he never came back to hurt them again."
By this time a small group of boys had come to listen, and Edwin and Percy leaned back again triumphantly.
They asked us questions about where we were from and why we were here, and threw out the few English words that they knew.
Right as we were about to leave, Edwin held out the small package of candy he had in his hand, offering some to each of us.
It was dark, so we got up to leave. A long series of high-fives ensued before we finally headed down the stone steps, waving goodbye.
Gripe A(H1N1)'s silver lining
As an American health volunteer in Peru, I've found that the only two things I seem to talk about lately are the new flu and Michael Jackson. Both, perhaps, for good reason. The latter of course being an international superstar with out-of-this-world dance moves*, and the former, well ... scaring the gajeebas out of everyone.
The terror is not entirely unwarranted. The number of cases in Peru, like everywhere else in the world, skyrocketed. According to the Flu's Web site (no joke; it has it's own Web site), the number of cases rose 147 percent the week between July 3rd and July 10th. And the World Health Organization recently announced that they will no longer be tracking individual cases, instead reporting only the countries newly infected with the virus.
Naturally, people are little freaked out. Medical, food service, transportation — even hostel and hotel — workers wear masks, covering their mouths and noses from the possibly infected. People are avoiding meetings and crowded places. School has been called off for a whole month. And everyone — EVERYONE — can't stop talking about it.
Recently our health post devised an "action plan" to combat this disease in our district. We've made posters and radio spots** outlining the symptoms and prevention methods, and we're training adult and youth health promoters to go out into the community to tell people how they can protect themselves and check on at-risk groups (babies, elderly, pregnant women).
My absolute favorite byproduct of this otherwise grim pandemic, however, definitely has new trend potential. Are you ready for this? It's good: elbow-bumping. Instead of giving a kiss on the cheek, handshake or a hug to greet someone, you touch elbows.
I'll repeat: YOU TOUCH ELBOWS.
Example: "OH! Hey Friend! Good to see you!" [elbow bop].
In the words of the Brits, it's bloody brilliant. And I think it's going to be the next big thing. I encourage you all to try it out.
Happy elbow-bumping! (And please wash your hands!)
* pun intended
* with "The Way You Make Me Feel" in the background as a tribute to the late King of Pop
The terror is not entirely unwarranted. The number of cases in Peru, like everywhere else in the world, skyrocketed. According to the Flu's Web site (no joke; it has it's own Web site), the number of cases rose 147 percent the week between July 3rd and July 10th. And the World Health Organization recently announced that they will no longer be tracking individual cases, instead reporting only the countries newly infected with the virus.
Naturally, people are little freaked out. Medical, food service, transportation — even hostel and hotel — workers wear masks, covering their mouths and noses from the possibly infected. People are avoiding meetings and crowded places. School has been called off for a whole month. And everyone — EVERYONE — can't stop talking about it.
Recently our health post devised an "action plan" to combat this disease in our district. We've made posters and radio spots** outlining the symptoms and prevention methods, and we're training adult and youth health promoters to go out into the community to tell people how they can protect themselves and check on at-risk groups (babies, elderly, pregnant women).
My absolute favorite byproduct of this otherwise grim pandemic, however, definitely has new trend potential. Are you ready for this? It's good: elbow-bumping. Instead of giving a kiss on the cheek, handshake or a hug to greet someone, you touch elbows.
I'll repeat: YOU TOUCH ELBOWS.
Example: "OH! Hey Friend! Good to see you!" [elbow bop].
In the words of the Brits, it's bloody brilliant. And I think it's going to be the next big thing. I encourage you all to try it out.
Happy elbow-bumping! (And please wash your hands!)
* pun intended
* with "The Way You Make Me Feel" in the background as a tribute to the late King of Pop
Dear potential future PCV,
To tell you the truth, you're the reason I started this blog. I wanted to give you an idea of what you should expect if you were thinking of applying, decided to apply or getting ready to go.
For the most part, I think I've been pretty honest —though, granted, there are stories en cantidad that I haven't shared. And I've definitely made light of, downplayed, at times even skipped over how hard this whole thing really is. I'm sorry about that. Maybe it's because in training they* told us that perhaps it would be best if the good days were for the blog; the bad days for your journal. Maybe it's because I felt like a wimp because, I mean, come on, I'm in the Peace Corps, I should be tougher, right? Or maybe it's because I just didn't want to bum you out. Whatever the reason, I've flaked out on giving you an honest account of life as a PCV. Sorry. But I'll give it to you now.
The past few months have been pretty rough on me.Things happened that I couldn't control or stop, and little by little I felt like I was being buried beneath a pile of dirty clothes. Though the socks were small, they were stinky, and each one laid on top of me made it harder and harder to breathe.
As a result, I've been moody, cynical, anti-social and sullen. Every few seconds, I have been on the verge of tears, making me put in only what was necessary and then going to my room to shut out the world and sleeping or reading too much so as to keep my mind off of my despondency.
At first, I brushed it off as the Peace Corps Blues. "Everybody goes through it," I thought. "It'll pass." But it didn't, and the lack of an upward swing only brought me lower.
I tried talking to people about it, but it just made me feel worse. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Why I couldn't pull myself out of it. I'd never been like this before, and it frustrated me.
And then there was a paro — a transportation strike — that left me immobilized in Piura, 5 hours from my site, without a cell phone* and no way to contact my counterparts or host family.
For three days I had to figure out what to do with myself without the distraction of work. And I was really, REALLY sick of myself.
So, I talked to my mom about six times. Skyped with my dad, sister, grandpa and some good friends from back home. I went to the movies. Ate out with other stuck volunteers. Read Anne Lamott. Cried. Took long showers. Listened to music. Prayed. Slept.
And by some miracle, it worked: I became human again.
What, exactly, caused the sudden restoration of my sanity, I don't know. The unfortunate events still happened. The smelly socks were still on top of me. I guess I'd just found an air hole, and all I needed was a moment to stop and catch my breath.
At any rate, when we were finally freed, I couldn't wait to get back to site, see my host family, see my teens. I was practically bouncing in the already bouncy bus seat.
Keep in mind, Potential PCV, I'm not telling you this little anecdote to freak you out or deter you from applying. You probably know that Peace Corps isn't easy. But what I didn't know was how hard it could be.
And granted, I'm only one person. It's impossible to blanket or compare volunteers, when every situation is different. Other volunteers have it easier or are better at taking the blows. Others, much, much worse. Mine is just one story.
But the point of all of this, the reason I'm even telling you in the first place, is because even though it was a really sucky time in my service, I still think it was worth it to stay.
I mean, I'm not promoting masochism. Peace Corps isn't for everybody. Sometimes it IS best to leave. But in my case, it wasn't. And even at my lowest, I knew that.
And besides, just think of the emotional buffness I'm going to get from holding myself up these two years.
*Beloved trainers and officials of the Peace Corps.
For the most part, I think I've been pretty honest —though, granted, there are stories en cantidad that I haven't shared. And I've definitely made light of, downplayed, at times even skipped over how hard this whole thing really is. I'm sorry about that. Maybe it's because in training they* told us that perhaps it would be best if the good days were for the blog; the bad days for your journal. Maybe it's because I felt like a wimp because, I mean, come on, I'm in the Peace Corps, I should be tougher, right? Or maybe it's because I just didn't want to bum you out. Whatever the reason, I've flaked out on giving you an honest account of life as a PCV. Sorry. But I'll give it to you now.
The past few months have been pretty rough on me.Things happened that I couldn't control or stop, and little by little I felt like I was being buried beneath a pile of dirty clothes. Though the socks were small, they were stinky, and each one laid on top of me made it harder and harder to breathe.
As a result, I've been moody, cynical, anti-social and sullen. Every few seconds, I have been on the verge of tears, making me put in only what was necessary and then going to my room to shut out the world and sleeping or reading too much so as to keep my mind off of my despondency.
At first, I brushed it off as the Peace Corps Blues. "Everybody goes through it," I thought. "It'll pass." But it didn't, and the lack of an upward swing only brought me lower.
I tried talking to people about it, but it just made me feel worse. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Why I couldn't pull myself out of it. I'd never been like this before, and it frustrated me.
And then there was a paro — a transportation strike — that left me immobilized in Piura, 5 hours from my site, without a cell phone* and no way to contact my counterparts or host family.
For three days I had to figure out what to do with myself without the distraction of work. And I was really, REALLY sick of myself.
So, I talked to my mom about six times. Skyped with my dad, sister, grandpa and some good friends from back home. I went to the movies. Ate out with other stuck volunteers. Read Anne Lamott. Cried. Took long showers. Listened to music. Prayed. Slept.
And by some miracle, it worked: I became human again.
What, exactly, caused the sudden restoration of my sanity, I don't know. The unfortunate events still happened. The smelly socks were still on top of me. I guess I'd just found an air hole, and all I needed was a moment to stop and catch my breath.
At any rate, when we were finally freed, I couldn't wait to get back to site, see my host family, see my teens. I was practically bouncing in the already bouncy bus seat.
Keep in mind, Potential PCV, I'm not telling you this little anecdote to freak you out or deter you from applying. You probably know that Peace Corps isn't easy. But what I didn't know was how hard it could be.
And granted, I'm only one person. It's impossible to blanket or compare volunteers, when every situation is different. Other volunteers have it easier or are better at taking the blows. Others, much, much worse. Mine is just one story.
But the point of all of this, the reason I'm even telling you in the first place, is because even though it was a really sucky time in my service, I still think it was worth it to stay.
I mean, I'm not promoting masochism. Peace Corps isn't for everybody. Sometimes it IS best to leave. But in my case, it wasn't. And even at my lowest, I knew that.
And besides, just think of the emotional buffness I'm going to get from holding myself up these two years.
*Beloved trainers and officials of the Peace Corps.
Marathons and transit strikes
Last weekend we celebrated the 4th with a marathon run* by a PC business volunteer in the beach town of Pacasmayo. It went well, with the unfortunate exception of one tiny, little snag.
About halfway back to site, we were caught in the middle of — *dun, dun, DUN* — transit strikes. Drivers all over the country are upset about a sudden and steep hike in fines for traffic violations and have decided not to move for a while.
Meaning we can't move either.
I'm trying to take it in stride. I'd like to get back to site, but I'm also keenly aware that I'm stuck somewhere that has 1.) internet 2.) restaurants with salads and 3.) a movie theater.
So, as frustrating as it can be to be stuck, I think I'll take in some Ice Age 3 and try and bear this burden as best I can.
* pun intended
About halfway back to site, we were caught in the middle of — *dun, dun, DUN* — transit strikes. Drivers all over the country are upset about a sudden and steep hike in fines for traffic violations and have decided not to move for a while.
Meaning we can't move either.
I'm trying to take it in stride. I'd like to get back to site, but I'm also keenly aware that I'm stuck somewhere that has 1.) internet 2.) restaurants with salads and 3.) a movie theater.
So, as frustrating as it can be to be stuck, I think I'll take in some Ice Age 3 and try and bear this burden as best I can.
* pun intended
Warning: All gringos have swine flu
Peru has authorized medical personnel to man certain check points to keep AH1N1 in check across the country.
As a result, a nurse boarded our bus today and explained the symptoms of swine flu and what to do if you think you might have it. She was gliding along the aisle repeating her instructions when she stopped mid-sentence.
I looked up to see her distraction.
It was me. One hundred percent healthy-looking, sign and symptom-free me. Coincidentally, also the only foreigner on the bus.
A second later she was standing in front of me.
"Where are you coming from?" she asked through her face mask.
"Tumbes," I said. "I've been living there the past seven months."
She looked at me skeptically. After a minute she said, "And you haven't been to Mexico recently?"
I almost laughed. "No," I said. "I've been here."
She stood there for a good 30 seconds until I finally said, "Please don't worry, Ma'am. I don't have the swine flu."
She didn't respond. She just kept one eye on me as she left the bus.
As a result, a nurse boarded our bus today and explained the symptoms of swine flu and what to do if you think you might have it. She was gliding along the aisle repeating her instructions when she stopped mid-sentence.
I looked up to see her distraction.
It was me. One hundred percent healthy-looking, sign and symptom-free me. Coincidentally, also the only foreigner on the bus.
A second later she was standing in front of me.
"Where are you coming from?" she asked through her face mask.
"Tumbes," I said. "I've been living there the past seven months."
She looked at me skeptically. After a minute she said, "And you haven't been to Mexico recently?"
I almost laughed. "No," I said. "I've been here."
She stood there for a good 30 seconds until I finally said, "Please don't worry, Ma'am. I don't have the swine flu."
She didn't respond. She just kept one eye on me as she left the bus.
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