I really am working here... really, I am.

Today I sold some hand-knit hats to tourists from Lima for just 5 soles (which is about $1.73). I showed up at Gaby’s shop in Hualhuas and her mom gave me a hug and told me, “go help Gaby.” The tourist train from Lima came in last night, and so the place was swarming with people. They had a baby llama out front, dressed in a red sweater to greet everyone. People were crazily snapping photos and buying the same style of hat. They were a little confused as to why a gringa was selling them “authentic” Peruvian knits. Later, when things calmed down, I was sitting at the entrance to the shop, knitting, when another Limeño tourist actually approached me. She asked if I lived and worked there. I considered telling her that I was their daughter, but figured my horrendous accent would give me away.

Speaking of accents, Betty, the house assistant here in my building, has absolutely no clue what I am saying when I speak to her. It has become quite comical. I know my pronunciation is pretty bad and my accent, well, sounds like a French Canadian trying to speak broken Spanish, but others seem to decipher what I’m saying. Whenever I see Betty, she always asks me where I am going to or coming from. I tell her a place name, and then she takes a guess at what I said. Except her guess seems the most illogical grasp in the dark. For instance, this afternoon, I said “Hualhuas.” She responded “Centro?” Then I repeated, “Hualhuas” and she responded “Mercado?” I tried once again to adjust my pronunciation and again said “Hualhuas.” I was about to try to describe the village, but luckily the neighborhood security guard was there as well and he finally decided to interrupt. “She’s going to HUALHUAS,” he semi-shouted at her. “Hualhuas!” Betty exclaimed, “Take me with you!” I can only imagine how that field trip might go.

Last Saturday, I ventured to Viques, a town about an hour (by public transport) south of Huancayo. I had not been there before, but had read that they were well known for the “fajas” or woven belts worn during fiestas. They are woven on a backstrap loom, and so I decided I would try to find a woman named Maria Magdalena Huzco who was written up in an old guide book. I had a street name, but no house number. That really didn’t matter though because Viques does not have street signs. The town was very quiet when I arrived, with just a few children and a couple sheep wandering the streets. It is a lovely pueblo though, set at the base of the mountains. A storm was moving in over the mountains and so I wandered around, taking advantage of the dramatic light and snapping photos of the adobe buildings. The storm passed, somehow moving around Viques without dropping much rain. People surfaced, and I soon found my way to Maria’s door. She, her husband and her two old boys all brought things out to show me – the corn they were harvesting was wrapped up in a manta, symbols adorning the fajas were explained and photos of all the other gringos (from every country in the world!) were shown. Before I knew it, I was wearing an embroidered skirt with a faja and hat, and having my photo taken with the family. I return on Monday to learn how to weave my own faja. Maria thinks I can finish it in a week… if I work really hard. She also suggested that maybe she can fix lunch for me each day. Guinea pig is for special occasions, she said, but since I’ve never had it, maybe she should fix it one day. It is, after all, the most delicious meat. In these situations, I like to use my new favorite phrase, “vamos a ver,” or “we will see.” It seems to allow room for intervention.

Up until last week, I had managed to take only one very short hike (if you would even call it that). I stare out at the mountains with clueless longing. I happened to tell Gaby at the soccer game that I like to hike, but that I wasn’t sure where to go. She responded “hike? In the mountains?” But then said that Celso knows some paths. A few days later Celso also revealed that he is perhaps the only recreational runner in the Mantaro Valley (well, that’s my impression; he just said he likes to run for fun). So I met him this week at Gaby’s shop so he could take me up into the hills to run. Gaby came along on her bike. He pointed to the top of the mountain and said we were going there. I laughed, assuming he was kidding. He wasn’t, but luckily he did not intend for us to run up the mountain. We ran for awhile on a great flat path and then stopped for a short stretch. After that we climbed up to the top of the mountain. It wasn’t that high, but was a perfect afternoon hike. Gaby, whose home we had walked from (a home, mind you, where she has lived her entire life), had never climbed up this small mountain. Along the way, they pointed out the various plants used for medicines and dying yarn. We passed remnants of stone walls and storage structures built by Incans. We also saw several brick “factories” where men were digging, making mud and forming large building bricks without machinery. Celso said they work seven days a week, well over eight hour days. We finished the hike in Celso’s home town, where Gaby and Celso “treated” me to a bowl of something. I would tell you the name, but I keep forgetting it. I have no idea how to truly describe it. I just know that I won’t mind if I don’t have to eat it again. Except I did not want to be rude, so I exclaimed how tasty and delicious I thought the weird jell-o/pudding/slime mix tastes. This might not have been the best strategy. Vamos a ver.

Celso’s birthday was on Wednesday, and so he and Gaby invited me to the party. Since it would be a late evening, they offered that I stay overnight as well. A birthday party in these parts is probably not much different than anywhere else. Friends and family both came. Gaby made a nice dinner for everyone. They played their favorite music and everyone danced (granted, the music and dance is very different). They had a cake. We sang happy birthday. Celso blew out the candles and Gaby playfully smashed his face in the frosting. Oh yes, and there was a lot of beer. But here, the difference is in how you drink beer. We had cases of liter bottles of beer. When you first arrive, the host pours your first glass of beer. The glass is small, about the size of a juice glass. After that, Gaby told me, you pour the beer for yourself, so you can determine how much you want to drink. So the big bottle of beer gets passed around the circle. When it is your turn, you pour yourself a glass, pass the bottle on to the next person and then have your drink. You dump whatever excess there might be into a bowl in the center of the room and pass the glass on to the person with the bottle so that they may have their drink. Thinking I was being responsible, I made sure to pour very small drinks for myself when it came my turn. I didn’t account for the fact that I would be there ALL night. I have no idea what time I went to bed, nor do I really know how much I drank. I just know that Thursday was a very, very bad day. The details are just too incriminating to recount here in print. But perhaps one day I can tell you what it’s like to spend some time in the first aid station at the modern grocery store and try to convince the doctor that no, you’re not pregnant, and no, you’re not really sick. You just need to use that chair. Now.

Well, just one more week until the elections. I would be remiss to write about my experiences here and not mention the elections. I think about it every day. I have tried to wean myself off of the news, but I have been fairly unsuccessful. I am including this link here to a N.Y. Times editorial by Nicholas Kristof because it saves me time from writing really the exact same conversation I had with Celso’s dad at his party.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/23/opinion/23kristof.html?_r=1&em&oref=slogin
Celso’s dad and I spoke of other things about the elections beyond race, but others have also asked me about it. And just as Kristof writes, they do keep questioning me: “really, a black person can be elected in the United States?” And when I tell them that I am hopeful that that is the truth, they shake their heads and smile. Of course, as Kristof also says, one should vote on substance, rather than race. But I do think it’s interesting to hear how this election is perceived outside the U.S. Of course, if you are still undecided, I would like to share this link that my friend Sonua sent me… perhaps David Sedaris can help put things in perspective for you:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2008/10/27/081027sh_shouts_sedaris?currentPage=1


And now photos, for your consumption:

This is Nelly Vasquez, a jewelery maker in San Jeronimo. I've done some work here.

The wall to a home in Viques, just before the storm.

Yeah! Dress up is fun!

Gaby and I just before setting off on our hike.

View from the hike. That's Huancayo off in the distance.

One of the brick "factories."

The group at Celso's party.

Celso and Gaby. Note the frosting in Celso's hair.

Gaby's cousin and her little boy, Yeps. Yeps really liked to get down.

That's Gaby's brother in the front, Gabber. They call him the clown. Everyone is dancing in the background.

As you can see, it's my turn to drink next. Just as soon as Celso's dad finishes. More cups came out later in the night, when this photo was taken... which sadly just meant we drank more often.