A very Peruvian Birthday

Sheick, my host cousin, sits squished next to me on a faded armchair, kicking his legs and shoving puffy Peruvian Cheetos into his mouth. He holds one out to me with sticky hands, and I take it.

"Gracias," I say, popping it into my mouth and peering around at the chaos of the Peruvian birthday. Kids squirm in their mothers' laps and spill over furniture placed in a large circle along the walls of the room, Cheeto crumbs and candy wrappers scatter across the floor, and music blares from old speakers in the corner. The same songs are put on repeat, and not a single grown man is in sight.

Sheick shoves another fistful of candy into his mouth and is lured out by a family member to dance in the middle of the room. He likes to practice his "Michael Jackson" moves, and I encourage this as much as possible. With a quick spin, he tosses his Power Ranger bag of goodies in my lap.

I don't tell him this, but I could kiss his 6-year-old feet. If it weren't for him, I'd still be the land of the grown-ups.

As a 23-year-old, unmarried, non-mother, I think some Peruvians don't really know what to do with me. Upon arriving, I offer to help in the kitchen, but am shooed away. I try — briefly — to strike up a conversation with the Grandfather of the family, but the topic quickly changes from sudden deaths ("You can be walking along and then you're gone *snap*, just like that!") to how rich I must be.

Grandfather: So you must be making quite a bit of money.
Me: Actually, no. I'm a volunteer. I don't receive a salary.
Grandfather: But surely you receive something.
Me: A little. Just enough to cover my living expenses.
Grandfather: Oh! But the dollar. The dollar is worth so much.
Me: Yes, but I receive my stipend in soles.
Grandfather: No doubt, though, when you go back, you'll have a big old pile of money ...

Needless to say, discomfort sets in, and I excuse myself to go out in the sitting room. I sit on a couch next to a young woman about my age, with a child in her lap. She smiles politely, and after the normal round of "what-brings-you-to-Peru" interrogations I get to ask her some questions.

How old is she? 21. Is this her first child? Yes. Does she work in or outside the home? Inside. She's a housewife. Does she like it? Yes, sometimes it can get boring. Oh? Yeah, when the baby's sleeping, and she's by herself.

With every question, I feel myself being able to relate less and less with this kind-faced woman. Then, out of nowhere, she makes me her confidant.

"You know, sometimes, I get very frustrated. Like when the baby won't stop crying. I give him food. I change him. I give him toys — and nothing. He just cries and cries, and I don't know why or what to do."

I don't know what to say. Whenever a baby cries on me, I just give him or her back to the mother. In this topic of conversation, I'm completely out of my element. I pat her hand and say lamely, "I'm sorry. That must be very upsetting."

This is where Sheick, my short knight in Power Ranger gear, runs up to me and demands my undivided attention. I say goodbye to the nice, young mother, and allow myself to get pulled to the old, faded armchair.

I have never seen Sheick shy. But there, on the dance floor, shuffling across from a pretty, young girl about his age, his head is bent low, and he throws me a look every 10 seconds as if to ask "Am I doing OK?" I give him the thumbs up and wiggle my foot to the music.

The song ends, and women emerge from the kitchen with more goodies. Sheick rips his bag from my hands and squeezes back in next to me. He's nearly bouncing up and down with excitement, and his body heat makes the right side of my body warm and clammy. The lady gives Sheick some popcorn, and I take a handful off her tray.

I look over to the cake table, outlined with styrofoam Barney decor and balloons, and stare longingly at the once-cold bottle of Pepsi warming by the window to the kitchen. Oh, how I would love just a quick little jolt of caffeine to help me get through the next few hours! The loud music, screaming children and small talk in Spanish tire me quickly, and I can already feel myself lagging.

Soon, the birthday boy is brought out from his nap room, and we're all told to line up behind the cake table for pictures. The guest of honor is 1-year-old Alejandro, the son of a cousin once removed, and has droopy eyelids and a pillow crease on his left cheek. He's freakin' adorable. Women clap and wave their hands wildly to get him to look their way for the camera.

My host mom, Andrea, shouts across the room at her daughter.

"Daily! Daily! Come here. Take a picture from here." Daily rushes over and takes what must be the 300th picture of Alejandro that day.

I'm reluctantly pushed behind the table, only to realize that I'm the only one in line not holding a child. Sheick, once again, comes to my rescue. He's wiggling underneath the table, and I pull him up to stand in front of me.

An hour later, we sing the standard "Happy Birthday" in English and Spanish (I'm the only one who actually sings the English version — everyone else more or less just hums), and the giant wax "1" is lit.

It's custom to smash the honored guest's face in the cake, and I wonder if they'd actually do that with a 1-year-old child. They do. Everyone coos over the infant covered in icing; my host mother shouts for more pictures.

Someone puts the "Piñata Song" on, and the kids rush to hover below the Giant, paper machete Barney. With a lot of help from his mom, Alejandro manages to smack down the purple dino. The crowd converts into a rioting array of splaying limbs and screaming. A few seconds later, some children emerge victorious, plastic toy in hand.

Sheick was busy licking Cheeto crumbs off a serving plate and so missed his chance at a prize. He walks over to me with a fat lower lip and shoulders drooping. I give him another piece of candy, which he shoves into his mouth before tossing the wrapper onto the floor, and pat his head. I used to scold him for littering, but I've realized it's a lost battle. Mothers stand around us, small piles of wrappers scattered around their feet.

The cake's being cut, and I wait patiently on the opposite side of the room for the pushing crowd around the table to die down. To tell you the truth, I'm really excited about the cake. I only ate half my lunch to prepare for the calorie-infested party, and I'm getting kind of hungry. I go up when it looks like nearly every one has gotten a piece. The cake is vanilla, and the icing is hard and slightly flaky. Mmm.

People start to leave. Kids yank down balloons to take with them. Mothers sneak pieces of cake for their husbands. My host mom pulls me in as if to give me a kiss on the cheek and whispers, "They're going to invite you to a plate of food. Don't be ungrateful and reject it. What you don't eat, we can bring back for your host brother."

I feel the weight of the cake in my stomach as I stare at the giant mound of duck, potato salad and rice coming right toward me. Thankfully, it's accompanied by a tall glass of Pepsi. My second wind hits me, and I dig in, Sheick munching happily beside me.

He doesn't like potato salad, so he pushes some from his plate to mine. I replace the void with some of my rice.

My host mother's brother walks through the front door, slightly inebriated and walks up to me.

"Don't eat too much," he says, gesturing wildly at his stomach and then at mine. "You don't want to get fatter!"

Andrea looks over at me from inside the kitchen. I shove another forkful in my mouth to show her I'm eating, and she makes exaggerated movements from her invisible plate up to her mouth.

Surprisingly (perhaps for the first time ever), I clean my plate — leaving only the standard small mound of rice on the side to be "ladylike." I walk proudly into the kitchen, showing off my empty plate. I make a big show out of how full I am and how delicious the food was, making my host aunt smile as she starts to wash dishes.

After offering to help, and being denied once again, I go out to the now nearly empty sitting room to find Sheick. We wait for Andrea to finish up with her healthy portion of food and gossip, and play volleyball with one of the balloons. He's good, but I'm better. I think it has something to do with my hands being larger. At any rate, I have him chasing the balloon around the room, while I sit comfortably in my chair.

Nearly 40 minutes later, we're making our rounds. Even the swine flu can't stop the dozens of cheek kisses and handshakes accompanying Peruvian hellos and goodbyes. Grandfather pats me on the back while rubbing his thumb and fingers together. Money, money. I give him a kiss and nearly run from the room.

Sheick's outside, and I convince him to dance the moon walk with me while Andrea and Daily finish up. Finally, we all squeeze into a mototaxi and head back to the house. Sheick sits on my lap and bounces up and down with the potholes, while I continue my critical acclaim of the food to my host mom's smiling face.