I had no idea what to expect when I landed in the two-terminal airport in Piura, Peru over a year ago now. I left behind my concept of what life really was about. I had done some research, but mostly about food. I knew basic Spanish, but was I prepared to navigate another culture? The experience wasn't a two-week pleasure cruise with careful guides.
As an expat on my own, I had to decode everything from greetings (kisses on the cheek), time, transportation, food, shopping, and daily life.
Thankfully, I had help, but to the native Peruvians, it was hard to anticipate what would be difficult, their way of life was so routine, they weren't always aware of what might be confusing for a foreigner. For example, the basics such as how milk and eggs were stored in the grocery store is different than in the US. Hailing a taxi was something I saw children do, but I had to learn how as an adult. It wasn't that anyone was insensitive, it just didn't always occur to them that things like making a phone call or using a hot water attachment on the shower head would be different or challenging.
Navigating a new culture was a constant, evolving process with something new to learn every day. If the routine changed even a little, I would be confused and lost. I clung to the familiar, but with gusto, tried to embrace new culture.
Peruvians are very warm, friendly, generous, and genuine people. Family is the most important thing to them. Many don't have much in material wealth, but they are rich in relationships. Not that I was materialistic before I left, but now I really know and believe that material trappings of the world are even less important in life. Stuff doesn't make you happy.
Time was another concept that was hard to get a handle around. If a party started at 7, nobody really showed up until at least 8:30, maybe later.
I tried to adapt to my environment. It did no good to complain or grouse. You have to accept, adapt, and never assume.
Yet, at the same time, I was grateful for Facebook, emails, Skype, English conversations, and care packages from home. Sometimes, the constant cultural negotiation was too much, so any trace of home was like a relief to my addled brain.
One of my main staples in Peru was peanut butter -the exotic treat from North America. Most people had never tasted it before. I would go through a jar a week. It was true comfort food. It was expensive though but worth it to me. It also was heavenly to have tortillas, refried beans, salsa, or taco shells.
One lesson I quickly learned upon my return to the United States was that I needed God even more here than I did there. Being on my own in a country far away from home for so long was hard.
I was blessed to make amazing friends in Peru that will be "contigo siempre," or "with me always." The people (okay and the food!) were the best part of my experience in Peru. I was also tremendously blessed with my family and friends back home who kept in frequent and even infrequent contact with me, mailed me cards, packages, and let me lean on them when I was lonely, stressed, or confused.
Yet, here I am, two months back in my own country. It's been a hard transition. The proverbial question "What are you going to do now?" is haunting me. The dreams I had have gone up in smoke. I don't know what I'm doing past December.
Yet, I have to keep moving forward and try to see the pathway before me that's right for me. I keep moving forward, that's just me. I can't stand paralyzed in fear and doubt.
And just for the record, I haven't had even a smidge of peanut butter since I've been back.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Monday, July 1, 2013
Julio
I can´t believe it. It´s really here- July that is. I never thought I´d see the day when I turned my free calender from Morris Murdock Travel over to July.
I have less than 20 days here in Piura, Peru. It hasn´t quite sunk in that my time is almost done. It still seems so far away. However, I feel my end date will crash into me more quickly than I realize. Soon, I´ll leave this Peruvian bubble of daily life behind to go back to the United States with no job into an uncertain future. Looking for jobs has already worn me out but I must persevere. I have one more class I am teaching until I leave - a crash course that meets every night from 7 until 10 p.m. It´s grueling but it keeps me from dwelling on my time left too much.
Everyone has said that time will go fast but believe me, while I am happy it is finally July, I have felt every single day here. It´s a time of reflection towards the past year and the future. What have I become and who will I become when I return? What will stay the same with me? What will change? What will stand out as weird? What habits will revert back to post-Peru life? Will my friendships and relationships stay the same?
I again go back into a new world with new things to figure out. I know I must have the Lord close to me to help me make the right choices into the brave new world.
I have less than 20 days here in Piura, Peru. It hasn´t quite sunk in that my time is almost done. It still seems so far away. However, I feel my end date will crash into me more quickly than I realize. Soon, I´ll leave this Peruvian bubble of daily life behind to go back to the United States with no job into an uncertain future. Looking for jobs has already worn me out but I must persevere. I have one more class I am teaching until I leave - a crash course that meets every night from 7 until 10 p.m. It´s grueling but it keeps me from dwelling on my time left too much.
Everyone has said that time will go fast but believe me, while I am happy it is finally July, I have felt every single day here. It´s a time of reflection towards the past year and the future. What have I become and who will I become when I return? What will stay the same with me? What will change? What will stand out as weird? What habits will revert back to post-Peru life? Will my friendships and relationships stay the same?
I again go back into a new world with new things to figure out. I know I must have the Lord close to me to help me make the right choices into the brave new world.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
It's a Small (LDS) World After All
Upon arriving to my new life in Piura, Peru, some 3,000 miles away from home, I never expected to find such a small world within the LDS community. I didn't expect to find as many connections as I have in this hot northern Peruvian desert landscape.
During the first few weeks of my attendance at my local ward - Los Angamos, I met the one American missionary from Blackfoot, Idaho, Elder Stephenson. He was transferred shortly after that, and then one Sunday, a missionary from Sandy was visiting. He worked at the ski shop around the corner from where I lived in Cottonwood Heights. Later, the next American missionary was Elder Smith from Layton. I also met missionaries from West Jordan as well.
As far as Peruvians, I met Jorge and Kelly Diaz, siblings who studied at BYU. Jorge also was a language instructor at the MTC. I thought that was pretty cool- though Jorge told me he associated Utah girls with cookies. I'm sure he got a lot of cookies from all the girls too!
Next, I met the newly-called the Peru-Piura Mission President and his wife. President and Sister Rowley are from from Santaquin, Utah.
In December, I met their daughter, who was visiting from Utah. It turns out she was getting married to the son of one of the recruiters at Westminster, Jenn who worked for the degree programs I worked on!
On New Year's Eve, I was at a party at my friend's house in Utah. I met two girls that had served their mission together. We did the initial get-to-know you questions. I told them I was working in Peru. They said they knew 1 Peruvian missionary from their mission... 1 out of millions, right? I asked what his name was. It turns out it was my friend Karlo, who they knew too! So out of all the Peruvian men in the country and world, we 3 knew the same guy! Hermana Hutchinson and Hermana Grass and I knew the same Peruvian!
In January, my first Sunday back from holidays, I met a visting BYU student, Sean Ellsworth. We did the normal song and dance when you meet a fellow non-Peruvian.
But, it gets even better- even smaller!
Back in February, I went to a missionary training meeting with the sister missionaries. I walked in to the mission home and was introduced to a sister. She looked familiar and I started talking to her.
So the dance begun. We knew we were both from the United States, so we started with:
During the prayer, it dawned on me... her name was Brittany, and we used to be in the Midvale 7th ward together with Bishop Barrow!
After the prayer, I asked her if her name was Brittany and if she used to be in the Midvale 7th ward. She replied "Yes." We then did a name exchange. Do you remember Amber? Do you remember Lexi? And so forth.
It sure feels like a funnel, getting smaller and smaller here. I don't know how much smaller it can get, unless I discover some long lost relative here. Hey, it could happen, anything is possible in Peru! :D
The world is small in the LDS community! I'm grateful though for all the tender mercies the Lord has given me to remember and find the connections to home and the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
During the first few weeks of my attendance at my local ward - Los Angamos, I met the one American missionary from Blackfoot, Idaho, Elder Stephenson. He was transferred shortly after that, and then one Sunday, a missionary from Sandy was visiting. He worked at the ski shop around the corner from where I lived in Cottonwood Heights. Later, the next American missionary was Elder Smith from Layton. I also met missionaries from West Jordan as well.
As far as Peruvians, I met Jorge and Kelly Diaz, siblings who studied at BYU. Jorge also was a language instructor at the MTC. I thought that was pretty cool- though Jorge told me he associated Utah girls with cookies. I'm sure he got a lot of cookies from all the girls too!
Next, I met the newly-called the Peru-Piura Mission President and his wife. President and Sister Rowley are from from Santaquin, Utah.
In December, I met their daughter, who was visiting from Utah. It turns out she was getting married to the son of one of the recruiters at Westminster, Jenn who worked for the degree programs I worked on!
On New Year's Eve, I was at a party at my friend's house in Utah. I met two girls that had served their mission together. We did the initial get-to-know you questions. I told them I was working in Peru. They said they knew 1 Peruvian missionary from their mission... 1 out of millions, right? I asked what his name was. It turns out it was my friend Karlo, who they knew too! So out of all the Peruvian men in the country and world, we 3 knew the same guy! Hermana Hutchinson and Hermana Grass and I knew the same Peruvian!
In January, my first Sunday back from holidays, I met a visting BYU student, Sean Ellsworth. We did the normal song and dance when you meet a fellow non-Peruvian.
Where are you from?Turns out Seth's dad is Dr. Ellsworth, a local dentist who is in my dad's stake and/was my parent's dentist!
The United States.
What state?
Arizona originally.
What city.
Phoenix.
What part.
Litchfield Park
My dad, stepmom and family live there.
But, it gets even better- even smaller!
Back in February, I went to a missionary training meeting with the sister missionaries. I walked in to the mission home and was introduced to a sister. She looked familiar and I started talking to her.
So the dance begun. We knew we were both from the United States, so we started with:
What state?
Utah.
What city?
Salt Lake City.
What part?
Midvale.
Cottonwood Heights.
During the prayer, it dawned on me... her name was Brittany, and we used to be in the Midvale 7th ward together with Bishop Barrow!
After the prayer, I asked her if her name was Brittany and if she used to be in the Midvale 7th ward. She replied "Yes." We then did a name exchange. Do you remember Amber? Do you remember Lexi? And so forth.
It sure feels like a funnel, getting smaller and smaller here. I don't know how much smaller it can get, unless I discover some long lost relative here. Hey, it could happen, anything is possible in Peru! :D
The world is small in the LDS community! I'm grateful though for all the tender mercies the Lord has given me to remember and find the connections to home and the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Moto? Taxi?
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| Taxis and Motos in Piura |
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| She looks thrilled to be on the back of the motorcycle. |
2. Motocycle (motos)
You can ride on the back of a motorcycle with or without helmet. After seeing the driving practices in Peru, I haven't dared this method. It's cheap though. I just am afraid of getting that close to a stranger and also tipping it over because of my weight. It's also dangerously funny to see how many people stuff themselves onto a single motorcycle. Babies and small children are smashed in between adults, or in front of the driver. It's terribly dangerous and I see it every day. About a sole or so.
3. Combi/Collectivos
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| A standard moto |
3. Motos
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| A typical taxi |
4. Taxis
Taxis are the most expensive, but the rates vary on the type of taxi you take. The older, junkier taxis cost less than the fancier, newer taxis. Some taxis are private cars. As well, you arrange a price before you get in the taxi. The later it is, the more expensive it is. Of course, they're faster, but when you get in a traffic jam, it's no different than being in a moto. It is more comfortable to ride in a taxi. In Piura, motos aren't allowed downtown, so when I go to Serpost to get a package, I can only take a taxi. It costs anywhere from s./4-8 soles for a ride.
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| These motos remind me of Guido from "Cars." |
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Change
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| July 24, 2012 |
Move to another country, even better, move to another continent!
It took moving to a different time zone, a different continent even to actually get it finally through my skull that I had to lose weight. However, it wasn't shear "ganas" that propelled me to my current reduced size. It was circumstance. I am cheap. I walk a lot. I also don't have a car nor a bountiful pantry, or kitchen. I also can't buy the same foods (blocks of cheese anyone?) that I could in the states. I started losing weight without really trying because I walking so much and eating differently. I walk back and forth to the university 4 times four times a day, which equals roughly about an hour of walking five days a week. I knew for years I needed to lose weight for my future and immediate health;yet, I just couldn't commit to a lifestyle change.
So, opportunity led me to another continent. Sure, I could easily still get soda, cookies, chips, hamburgers, pizza, and ice cream here. However, I slowly I started to make better food choices.
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| August 20th, 2012 |
As days and weeks go by, it is hard to see the changes during the daily grind. I don't have a full-length mirror, and until recently, I didn't have a scale. So to me, I am the same old, awkward, apologetic, fat outcast.
It is hard to walk by the bodega and snack shops with delicious, luscious ice cream, cookies, cakes, and treats, or the hamburger stand, or resist getting an Inca Kola to drink. Sure, an occasional treat is okay, but I have to remind myself that every choice either subtracts or adds to my goal of a healthy weight.
In January 2010, according to my Google Docs spreadsheet (yes, I made a spreadsheet to track weight loss), I weighed 223 pounds. According to my spreadsheet, I started losing some weight in 2011, when I signed up for a free health class at Westminster College for employees. Yet, by February 2012, I was back to the original weight and measurements.
During my last checkup before I left in July 2012, I think my weight was about 210 pounds plus or minus. I think 207 to be exact, I remember how upset my doctor was with me. I wore a 2X in shirts and size 20 in pants/skirts.
I knew I was losing weight because my clothes were falling off me. I got a few things altered in the mercado, but it wasn't until I went to Lima in the fall that I saw myself in a full-length mirror at a hotel. I was shocked. I really had no idea how I looked.
I started recording measurements in November. On November 28th, I took my first set of full measurements. My mom had sent me a care package with some new clothes because there is no Ross here, and clothes are pretty pricey. I was happy I could get into size 16 pants and XL shirts.
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| My skinny jeans December 2012 |
I did buy a scale from a departing American teacher. On February 2013, I weighed 176 pounds, so I'd lost a few pounds since Christmas. I wasn't exercising as much because of my summer schedule.
A few weeks ago, I some more skirts altered, it was gratifying to see how much was taken out. Now, even 1X shirts are too big, and XL are becoming too baggy in the shoulders Now, it's almost April. I've not been as vigilant with running, but I've dropped down to 168 pounds, about 10 more pounds since Christmas!
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| The same skirt I wore on August 20, 2012. |
I'm trying to eat healthy based on the food culture of Piura. I don't always succeed though. I am still obese though. I have another 40 - 50 pounds to go. I still don't feel like a thinner person. I still feel the same, but sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror, I see the change, or when I glance at my wrist and then wrap my pinky finger around it to meet my thumb, it hits me. Also, when I see how my old clothes just hang on me, I start to believe maybe I have changed. I still have work to do on my psychological mindset. I have to be diligent that this is a permanent lifestyle change when I return to the United States. I have a little under 4 months left, so I hope to continue to focus and commit to a healthy lifestyle and exercise.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
A Ticket To Ride
One of my worst fears about traveling alone was realized today. My friend Piert invited me up to Sullana, a town about 45 minutes north of Piura, to visit for the day. I had no problems with getting to the bus station. The last time I went to visit him, the moto driver didn't know where the Eppo bus station was. I think I got the only driver in the whole city who didn't know where it was. Anyway, I got to Eppo just fine. I had no problems buying my ticket. The ride was uneventful.
I went to church with Piert and it was a nice day. The people were friendly and welcoming. I met the only American missionary so far not from Utah or Idaho! He was from Missouri. After church, we went to Piert's aunt's house to eat lunch and visit. It was a nice afternoon. When it was time to leave, Piert's dad drove me to the bus station, but also gave me a little scenic tour of Sullana. We drove by the river, and the main square. When we reached the bus station, there wasn't anyplace to park, so Piert's dad pulled over and I hopped out.
"Do you want me to go with you?," Piert asked me.
"No, I'll be fine," I said as I said my goodbyes and waved. I had this down pat.
I went into the fairly dingy bus station and walked up to the ticket counter. I was in luck! A bus was ready to leave at 3 p.m. It was 2:56 p.m. The cashier told me the bus out front was the bus back to Piura. I quickly walked out towards the bus, feeling proud of my Spanish conversation skills. I handed the ticket taker my ticket and got on the bus. I noticed there wasn't any seat assignment.
"I bet the bus won't be full, I'll just take a seat in the back, and move if someone comes," I thought to myself.
I didn't want to get off the bus and ask the attendant.
I sat down in the back and sure enough, a man came for my seat.
I moved to the last row, and a grandmother and her granddaughter came. I really confused the young girl, I think she was scared to sit next me. I explained that I didn't have a seat assignment as normally everyone does.
Then I heard the attendant call my name!
"Emily, Emily?" she said. By the time it registered she was calling my name, she was getting off the bus. Then she turned around and repeated, "Emily?"
I raised my hand.
"Es usted Emily?" she asked.
"Si, Soy Emily," I said.
She came back to where I was sitting and told me I was on the wrong bus! I was on the bus to Talara, a city at least (if on the express bus) 2 hours north! I wanted to go 45 minutes south back to Piura! I shoved my way off the bus, hitting people with my bag by accident.
I couldn't believe I was on the wrong bus and I was only moments away from going to Talara! I was so grateful that she noticed and I heard her call my name.
I went back to the ticket counter and realized that they were forcing me to buy another ticket, even though I simply was on the wrong bus. Since the attendant had torn it, it apparently wasn't valid anymore. I had to pay another s./2.50 (96 cents) for a new ticket on the right bus. I didn't know how to communicate about the misunderstanding and why I shouldn't have to pay again, but "pride cometh before the fall." So much for my Spanish skills or not needing any help.
"Whatever!" I thought to myself. I just wanted to get home at that point.
I always, always ask the attendant if I'm on the right bus but that time, I didn't because the 1st cashier told me it was the bus to Piura. Maybe there was a misunderstanding between language. I'm just glad I got on the right bus and got home. I even splurged and took a taxi, which costs more than a moto once I got back to Piura. I'm glad I wasn't on the Talara bus, or I'd be just getting home now. So life lesson, always, always verify you're on the right bus in life, or you'll end up going the wrong way. Taking detours takes double the time to get back to where you want to go.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
A Tale of Two Skirts
One of the best things that's happened during my stay here in Peru is that I've lost some weight, thus leaving me with a limited wardrobe. Clothes aren't as cheap here, no Ross or Savers for me to pursue on Friday evening. However, down at the local market, I have found a seamstress to alter some of my clothes for me, for far less than trying to buy new things that still fit me (I'm still too fat for most Peruvian clothes), and are also modest.
I finally had a little spare money and narrowed down two skirts that I wanted altered. One of the chosen ones was a black, lined front-pleated Dress Barn skirt. It literally fell off me when I put it on. I wanted to augment my actual professional skirt options. My second skirt choice was a long, paisley purple skirt with black lace on the hem. It still kind of fit, but the elastic was shot. I had repaired the lace that I'd stepped on and ripped twice. I've had this skirt for at least 7 years. I am wearing it in one of my pictures from Washington D.C., when I worked at the House of Representatives, and that was back in 2006.
Saturday, March 9th, 2013
My friend and colleague, Leidy, one of the new American teachers, Carmen, and I went to the mercado. Leidy, a local, took us to a new part of the mercado that I hadn't been to before. It was clean and quiet as compared to the usual parts I'd been to - the parts rough with noise, dirt, trash and chaos. She said she knew a shop, but the shop keeper said she couldn't do the skirts until Monday. The shop I'd used twice before had done alterations the same day, but I figured I'd try a new place. Plus, I wasn't quite sure where it was and I didn't want to wander around aimlessly too much longer. We asked at another shop, but they didn't alter skirts, and they referred us to another shop.
At the next shop, not much bigger than my bathroom, the shop keeper and Leidy negotiated what I wanted done. She also said she couldn't have them done until Monday. I didn't want to waste anymore time and agreed to have the skirts altered for s/.12. ($4.68). I couldn't even buy a jar of peanut butter for s./12, so this was a good price.
She measured me and it was amazing to see how much she'd be taking out of the size 20 skirt. On the purple skirt, she asked if I wanted it shorter, I decided I did and I wanted the lace repaired. We agreed that Leidy and I would come back on Monday afternoon to pick up the skirts.
Monday, March 11th, 2013
Leidy and I made arrangements to meet for raspadillas (snow cones) before going to the market. She knew a place near the cemetary, and we agreed to meet there after my class finished. This proved to be a bad idea in my opinion. None of the streets had names on them, so by my vague memory from looking at Google Maps, I guessed the corner where we were supposed to meet. It was hot, humid, and miserable waiting. At least I was at the right corner, after I called Leidy with no answer, she appeared. She took me to a neighborhood staple instution, it was like Piura's version of a snow cone shack in the parking lot of Smith's. The owner had been there for years and years, it was a family business. I ordered a pina (pineapple) raspadilla. I sure enjoyed slurping the juice out of the ice and then enjoying crunching the ice (sorry Mom), as we sat in the shade.
We headed over to the mercado and found the shop again. The woman was sitting at her sewing machine, lazily reading a newspaper. She saw us and immediately jumped up. Apparently, she had forgotten to mend my skirts! I was angry. Leidy and she worked out a deal that she would bring them to the main gate of the university that evening at 6:30.
I had to pay her there but she gave me a discount to s./10 soles ($3.85). Leidy told me I'd need to let the security guard at the front gate know about the arrangement. I realized I didn't know what to say, so Leidy wrote a note, as we stood in the dirt road outside the mercado. I passed the note to the security guard and he understood it and my poor attempts to explain.
I had to pay her there but she gave me a discount to s./10 soles ($3.85). Leidy told me I'd need to let the security guard at the front gate know about the arrangement. I realized I didn't know what to say, so Leidy wrote a note, as we stood in the dirt road outside the mercado. I passed the note to the security guard and he understood it and my poor attempts to explain.
I let my 5-6:30 class out a few minutes early, and I raced to the main gate to get my skirts before my 7 pm class.
"Soy Emily Johnson, tiene mis dos faldas aqui?" I asked the security guard. "I'm Emily Johnson, do you have my two skirts here?" I don't know how to say the verb to bring... so I was a bit clunky.
"No faldas senorita," said the security guard. "No skirts, miss."
I was so angry. I had the shopkeeper's phone number but I didn't have time to call. What would I say? What would she say and would I understand? I decided to check back after my 9 pm class.
After my 9 pm class, I again walked to the main gate of campus. I was tired. I'd already walked a lot to the mercado, home, back to the university. Again there were NO skirts. I was so ticked off. I was not happy. I figured I'd call in the morning with someone to help me.
Tuesday, March 12th, 2013
I was still stewing about my skirts, I had hoped to wear my black skirt today. I asked my friend Laura to call the woman. She called and nobody answered. Argh! She called again and the woman answered. Laura asked me if I wanted to go get the skirts or have the woman drop them off. I preferred that she dropped them off, I didn't want to hike back over to the mercado in the melting heat of midday.
After my class got out at 12:30, I went back again to the main gate, and yes...you guessed it. NO SKIRTS. UGH! I immediately tore over to the mercado, angrily rehearsing in Spanish what I wanted to say, was I going to demand my money back? My skirts? What if she hadn't done the work? What if she tried to stiff me the money? What if my skirts were missing? What was I going to do? I was on my own. I didn't have the crutch of a good friend to help me.
I stormed to the shop and the woman jumped up from her table, and grabbed my skirts, shoved them into a bag, and handed them to me. I took them to examine each one. She left thread trails from the black one, so I had her cut them off. Once I checked them over, I mumbled gracias and stomped off.
What an aggravating experience, which of course, could happen in any country. It maybe a 1st world problem in a 3rd world country but nevertheless, it ended well. My newly remodeled purple skirt has new black lace and is much cooler for this massively humid heat. It's also nice to have new life in my black skirt, even though it's still a little too big. At least I have the skirts, the work was done and I have a few more options for my wardrobe.
And, in light of the theme, it is a far, far better thing that I use the same shop that I know.
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| My altered skirts have new life again. |
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
One More Haircut
The measurement of time is an interesting one. The song from the musical "Rent" flutters in the back of my mind. How do you measure the passing or anticipation of time?
I walk the same route back and forth to the university every day, usually 4 times a day or 2 round trips. During our summer vacation here, in the afternoons, as I cut through the local park, I usually saw children playing. Oh, how the youth think that time will never pass, that summer days last forever, and that youth is endless. I usually felt a sense of telling them to enjoy every moment of their unabashed enjoyment of the simplicity of life, before life got in the way. If I could, I wish I could tell them to not be in a rush to grow up, before deadlines, commitments bills, ad responsibilities robbed them of their zest for living.
It made me reflect on my younger days and how I thought about time. A memory of fall afternoons comes to my mind. It was still warm but the sun would start its descent behind the western horizon. I would sit in the green grass in the front of my church, waiting for my mom to come pick me up after play practice at my high school across the street. I remember thinking that high school would last forever. 4 years? That seemed like a lifetime. Yet, now I look back and wonder where did 20 years disappear to since those memories?
Time is a slippery object to measure.
Yesterday, I realized during my 11 am Intermediate II class that it was the first day of my last semester of teaching at the University of Piura. Yesterday was the last time I would use my introduction to class Prezi.
On Monday, this thought began to percolate in my mind as I sat in the salon. The salon, in the basement of a house, is large, spacious,quiet and clean. It's heavenly. Even getting cold wax ripped from my overgrown eyebrows was a relaxing experience in the cool, quiet room. All I heard was the gentle swish of the air conditioner unit and the occasional sound of the salon assistant. There was no sounds of trucks,or motos, or even of people. Another woman quietly read a magazine as she waited for a manicure.
There was something calming and yet normalizing about being at the salon. I was transported away from the reality of my daily life here by doing something as normal as going to the salon. One of my favorite indulgences is having my hair washed in a salon. I love the feeling of the water rushing through my hair.
Afterwards, as I sat in the stylist's chair, waiting for the hair stylist, I looked in the mirror. I reflected back on my first visit to the salon with my colleague at the time. I remember how nervous I was to be there. I had written down carefully what I wanted done to my hair in Spanish. Would I get a hack job or would it be good? Thankfully, the salon has been a good place to go with the actual ambiance of a spa.
I forced myself to take a long look at myself in the mirror. However, I hate mirrors. I hate the utter depressing feeling I get when I stare back at my reflection. I can't hide from the truth about how I really look in the mirror.
Yet, as I stared at myself yesterday afternoon, I saw change from that first reflection in that mirror last fall. I saw not only physical change but spiritual and emotional change looked back at me. I didn't immediately feel depressed about my lack of beauty. I saw a spark of confidence and acceptance in my eyes looking back. Hey, I'm not as ugly as I thought. Maybe?
Then something hit me.
I only had one haircut left to schedule in Peru before I returned to the United States. One haircut left for mid-May. The next time for a haircut will be when I'm back home.
One more haircut. Can I really measure time by haircuts?
What about rent payments?
5 more.
How many more Sundays at church?
19 more, adjusting for General Conference and Stake Conference leaves 17.
Weeks in the semester? 16 weeks for my everyday classes. My English for Communications class lasts longer but I'm not sure how much longer.
According to www.timeanddate.com, I can also caculate time by days, months, hours, etc.
From and including: Tuesday, 5 March 2013
142 days can be converted to one of these units:
I don't know the best way to measure time, but when I realize I've been here for nearly 8 months, I wonder where time went so quickly. Soon enough, I'll be sitting in an American salon at the end of July, for my first American haircut after a year, and looking back at the last months of my experience here and wonder how I measure the future.
I walk the same route back and forth to the university every day, usually 4 times a day or 2 round trips. During our summer vacation here, in the afternoons, as I cut through the local park, I usually saw children playing. Oh, how the youth think that time will never pass, that summer days last forever, and that youth is endless. I usually felt a sense of telling them to enjoy every moment of their unabashed enjoyment of the simplicity of life, before life got in the way. If I could, I wish I could tell them to not be in a rush to grow up, before deadlines, commitments bills, ad responsibilities robbed them of their zest for living.
It made me reflect on my younger days and how I thought about time. A memory of fall afternoons comes to my mind. It was still warm but the sun would start its descent behind the western horizon. I would sit in the green grass in the front of my church, waiting for my mom to come pick me up after play practice at my high school across the street. I remember thinking that high school would last forever. 4 years? That seemed like a lifetime. Yet, now I look back and wonder where did 20 years disappear to since those memories?
Time is a slippery object to measure.
Yesterday, I realized during my 11 am Intermediate II class that it was the first day of my last semester of teaching at the University of Piura. Yesterday was the last time I would use my introduction to class Prezi.
On Monday, this thought began to percolate in my mind as I sat in the salon. The salon, in the basement of a house, is large, spacious,quiet and clean. It's heavenly. Even getting cold wax ripped from my overgrown eyebrows was a relaxing experience in the cool, quiet room. All I heard was the gentle swish of the air conditioner unit and the occasional sound of the salon assistant. There was no sounds of trucks,or motos, or even of people. Another woman quietly read a magazine as she waited for a manicure.
There was something calming and yet normalizing about being at the salon. I was transported away from the reality of my daily life here by doing something as normal as going to the salon. One of my favorite indulgences is having my hair washed in a salon. I love the feeling of the water rushing through my hair.
Afterwards, as I sat in the stylist's chair, waiting for the hair stylist, I looked in the mirror. I reflected back on my first visit to the salon with my colleague at the time. I remember how nervous I was to be there. I had written down carefully what I wanted done to my hair in Spanish. Would I get a hack job or would it be good? Thankfully, the salon has been a good place to go with the actual ambiance of a spa.
I forced myself to take a long look at myself in the mirror. However, I hate mirrors. I hate the utter depressing feeling I get when I stare back at my reflection. I can't hide from the truth about how I really look in the mirror.
Yet, as I stared at myself yesterday afternoon, I saw change from that first reflection in that mirror last fall. I saw not only physical change but spiritual and emotional change looked back at me. I didn't immediately feel depressed about my lack of beauty. I saw a spark of confidence and acceptance in my eyes looking back. Hey, I'm not as ugly as I thought. Maybe?
Then something hit me.
I only had one haircut left to schedule in Peru before I returned to the United States. One haircut left for mid-May. The next time for a haircut will be when I'm back home.
What about rent payments?
5 more.
How many more Sundays at church?
19 more, adjusting for General Conference and Stake Conference leaves 17.
Weeks in the semester? 16 weeks for my everyday classes. My English for Communications class lasts longer but I'm not sure how much longer.
According to www.timeanddate.com, I can also caculate time by days, months, hours, etc.
From and including: Tuesday, 5 March 2013
To and including: Wednesday, 24 July 2013
It is 142 days from the start date to the end date, end date included
Or 4 months, 20 days including the end date
Alternative time units142 days can be converted to one of these units:
- 12,268,800 seconds
- 204,480 minutes
- 3408 hours
I don't know the best way to measure time, but when I realize I've been here for nearly 8 months, I wonder where time went so quickly. Soon enough, I'll be sitting in an American salon at the end of July, for my first American haircut after a year, and looking back at the last months of my experience here and wonder how I measure the future.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Jueves Por Favor
Last night, after an all adventure at the beach, I decided I was too tired to go grocery shopping at the neighborhood market. After hobbling home with a bad sunburn and a broken right flip flop, I stopped at the corner bodega to buy something to eat for supper. I decided upon some hard-boiled eggs and an alfajor (a delicious cookie) to augment my meager supplies at home... which consisted of left-over food from the departed American teacher and my last reserves.
I'm sure the clerk, who I think must live there because she's always there when I go by the bodega, is amused at my "gringaness" when I attempt to buy things in my limited Spanish.
At first, I was too afraid to use the bodegas (or little convenience stores) because I was afraid of actually knowing what to ask for...however, convenience, hunger, and necessity overcame my fear. One of the unique things about these little stores is that you don't walk in and peruse the aisles like you do at 7-11 or Circle K. The store part and the clerk are behind large metal bars. You step up the counter and ask them for what you want, like you're ordering something in a prison commissary.
Another thing I had to learn about culture here is that for the most part people here don't usually understand the concept of standing in line. I have to be aggressive sometimes and make sure that nobody cuts in front of me, especially if I had been waiting for a while.
I also wonder how so many bodegas ( stay in business in such a small radius. In my neighborhood, there are five bodegas in a five-minute walk. Maybe they're really all part of one collective like in China.
So when I saddled up to the counter to ask for the eggs...
I said "Quiero dos jueves por favor."
The clerk looked at me funny and said "que?"
Then I realized my mistake.
I said "I want two Thursdays please."
What I meant to say was "Quiero dos huevos por favor.".... Or, "I want two eggs please."
Long story short is that pronunciation does matter! And for the record - the pronunciation is very similar!
I'm sure the clerk, who I think must live there because she's always there when I go by the bodega, is amused at my "gringaness" when I attempt to buy things in my limited Spanish.
At first, I was too afraid to use the bodegas (or little convenience stores) because I was afraid of actually knowing what to ask for...however, convenience, hunger, and necessity overcame my fear. One of the unique things about these little stores is that you don't walk in and peruse the aisles like you do at 7-11 or Circle K. The store part and the clerk are behind large metal bars. You step up the counter and ask them for what you want, like you're ordering something in a prison commissary.
Another thing I had to learn about culture here is that for the most part people here don't usually understand the concept of standing in line. I have to be aggressive sometimes and make sure that nobody cuts in front of me, especially if I had been waiting for a while.
I also wonder how so many bodegas ( stay in business in such a small radius. In my neighborhood, there are five bodegas in a five-minute walk. Maybe they're really all part of one collective like in China.
So when I saddled up to the counter to ask for the eggs...
I said "Quiero dos jueves por favor."
The clerk looked at me funny and said "que?"
Then I realized my mistake.
I said "I want two Thursdays please."
What I meant to say was "Quiero dos huevos por favor.".... Or, "I want two eggs please."
Long story short is that pronunciation does matter! And for the record - the pronunciation is very similar!
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Stuff it Top Chef
Saturday
Inspired by watching old seasons of "Top Chef" during my siesta, and in an effort to expand my culinary palette, I decided to try some new ideas. I looked up some recipes for easy skillet meals and Spanish rice. White rice is a staple part of the Peruvian diet, so I thought hey why not, with some spices and seasoning, it would be a cheap and filling (albeit a health wise debatable choice).
I wrote down a few staple ingredients I'd need for Spanish rice: chili powder, garlic powder, bell peppers, etc. I had to go to the mercado to buy some cheap sunglasses. My friend Leidy went with me because she had to buy some things for her sister's engagement party. As we walked around the food stalls, I decided to buy the chili powder and garlic powder at the mercado because it would be cheaper.
The first shop didn't have anything like that, but we found a shop with chili power and garlic in a liquid form. I happily paid my $1.76 US and went on my merry way.
Later, I went to the supermarket, and without any set recipe, or ingredient list, I purchased limes, peppers, rice, and bistec with lomo (I don't know exactly what it is, some cut of beef). I was excited to prepare my meal on Sunday.
I tried cooking some rice on Saturday night but I totally screwed it up. I added one cup of water to one cup of rice because I thought that's what the instructions (in Spanish) said. It was nasty and inedible. I added some chili powder and garlic - bad idea. The chili powder was really spicy.
Sunday
About 6 p.m, I start preparing my meal. I cut up the limes, and squeezed the lime juice on the beef as a marinade. Now, remember, that my kitchen prep area is a glass computer desk that I also am using as a desk. My electric skillet doesn't have a long enough cord, so I just leave it on the floor.
Soon, the aroma of the lime juice soaked beef was wafting in the air. Learning from Saturday, I prepared a mixture of a little chili powder with water and poured it into the skillet. After the meat was done, I drained the water and added in the peppers and onions to saute. Things were smelling good. When the mixture was finished, I drained the water again, then realizing I should have saved it for the rice. I boiled the water, and added the rice. I cooked it for 20 minutes and added the meat and veggies back in for another few minutes. I added some garlic as well. I prepared myself a serving of the meal and sat down to eat.
Yet, nothing could prepare me for what I was about to taste or experience. No matter how good my intentions were, or how normal the food looked, I was in for a major surprise.
Pieces of meat and rice were so spicy, I thought flames would burst out of my mouth, pieces of pepper seemed to ignite my taste buds into oblivion. One last college try on a piece of pepper caused my mouth to feel like I had just licked the fiery furnaces of the 7th level of Hell. This was 1000 times worse than the Kansas City "Night of the Living Dead" BBQ sauce incident where I thought I was tough enough to handle the burn.
I went out to the fridge and grabbed the only thing besides water I had - pineapple juice. I slugged that down and felt some relief... but as soon as the taste went away, the flames started up. I briefly thought about asking my colleague who lives in the next room, if I could use some soy milk but I wasn't that desperate. I then just ate a piece of bread and that helped. My eyes also started watering, so naturally what do I do? I rub them...only to have my eyeballs turn inside out in their sockets as my eyelids contract and shrivel. I immediately ran to the bathroom and splashed water into my face, but that wasn't cutting it. I quickly ripped off my clothes and turned on the shower. Come on hot water, come on...the water needs to be at least tepid for me to get into the shower. Finally, it was tolerable, I jumped into the shower and let the water just pour over my eyes and face as they burned. After about 10 minutes of showering, I felt some relief. 3 hours later - the burn is still lingering and I blame "Top Chef" for it. I will just stick to peanut butter, tortillas, and tomatoes (not all at once!). And the next time I'm feeling adventurous with food, I think I'll just try a new brand of fruit juice.
Inspired by watching old seasons of "Top Chef" during my siesta, and in an effort to expand my culinary palette, I decided to try some new ideas. I looked up some recipes for easy skillet meals and Spanish rice. White rice is a staple part of the Peruvian diet, so I thought hey why not, with some spices and seasoning, it would be a cheap and filling (albeit a health wise debatable choice).
I wrote down a few staple ingredients I'd need for Spanish rice: chili powder, garlic powder, bell peppers, etc. I had to go to the mercado to buy some cheap sunglasses. My friend Leidy went with me because she had to buy some things for her sister's engagement party. As we walked around the food stalls, I decided to buy the chili powder and garlic powder at the mercado because it would be cheaper.
The first shop didn't have anything like that, but we found a shop with chili power and garlic in a liquid form. I happily paid my $1.76 US and went on my merry way.
Later, I went to the supermarket, and without any set recipe, or ingredient list, I purchased limes, peppers, rice, and bistec with lomo (I don't know exactly what it is, some cut of beef). I was excited to prepare my meal on Sunday.
I tried cooking some rice on Saturday night but I totally screwed it up. I added one cup of water to one cup of rice because I thought that's what the instructions (in Spanish) said. It was nasty and inedible. I added some chili powder and garlic - bad idea. The chili powder was really spicy.
Sunday
About 6 p.m, I start preparing my meal. I cut up the limes, and squeezed the lime juice on the beef as a marinade. Now, remember, that my kitchen prep area is a glass computer desk that I also am using as a desk. My electric skillet doesn't have a long enough cord, so I just leave it on the floor.
Soon, the aroma of the lime juice soaked beef was wafting in the air. Learning from Saturday, I prepared a mixture of a little chili powder with water and poured it into the skillet. After the meat was done, I drained the water and added in the peppers and onions to saute. Things were smelling good. When the mixture was finished, I drained the water again, then realizing I should have saved it for the rice. I boiled the water, and added the rice. I cooked it for 20 minutes and added the meat and veggies back in for another few minutes. I added some garlic as well. I prepared myself a serving of the meal and sat down to eat.
Yet, nothing could prepare me for what I was about to taste or experience. No matter how good my intentions were, or how normal the food looked, I was in for a major surprise.
Pieces of meat and rice were so spicy, I thought flames would burst out of my mouth, pieces of pepper seemed to ignite my taste buds into oblivion. One last college try on a piece of pepper caused my mouth to feel like I had just licked the fiery furnaces of the 7th level of Hell. This was 1000 times worse than the Kansas City "Night of the Living Dead" BBQ sauce incident where I thought I was tough enough to handle the burn.
I went out to the fridge and grabbed the only thing besides water I had - pineapple juice. I slugged that down and felt some relief... but as soon as the taste went away, the flames started up. I briefly thought about asking my colleague who lives in the next room, if I could use some soy milk but I wasn't that desperate. I then just ate a piece of bread and that helped. My eyes also started watering, so naturally what do I do? I rub them...only to have my eyeballs turn inside out in their sockets as my eyelids contract and shrivel. I immediately ran to the bathroom and splashed water into my face, but that wasn't cutting it. I quickly ripped off my clothes and turned on the shower. Come on hot water, come on...the water needs to be at least tepid for me to get into the shower. Finally, it was tolerable, I jumped into the shower and let the water just pour over my eyes and face as they burned. After about 10 minutes of showering, I felt some relief. 3 hours later - the burn is still lingering and I blame "Top Chef" for it. I will just stick to peanut butter, tortillas, and tomatoes (not all at once!). And the next time I'm feeling adventurous with food, I think I'll just try a new brand of fruit juice.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Feliz Dia Del Pavo
 |
| Some of the dinner party! |
As it turns out, one of my colleagues asked me if I knew how to make banana bread. She was craving it and hoped I could help her make it. I leaped at chance and also suggested that we have a Thanksgiving dinner. She agreed and we put together a small group of guests and a menu.
Turkeys like you can get at your neighborhood grocery store are hard to find here in Piura. The stores had small turkeys, but with our work schedules, we didn't have time to devote to a half-day or full-day tending a tender Tom. We decided on turkey breast fillets, mashed potatoes, Stove Top stuffing (thanks Mom!), and banana bread. Another colleague was going to make another desert as well.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, we went to the grocery store and got our supplies. I carefully wrote down the ingredient lists for our meal. I was in charge of the mashed potatoes, stuffing and banana bread. We purchased everything and went on our way.
Thanksgiving Day
After frantically marking final exams, my colleague Elizabeth and I went to Marianella's house because she was hosting the dinner. We were on siesta so we wanted to prep the food so we weren't eating at 11 pm at night.
Banana Bread
I started prepping the banana bread. I can't find baking soda here, so I found a recipe that called for baking powder instead. Also, nobody had a loaf pan to make the bread so we settled on using a casserole dish. I had in a rush scribbled down the cooking instructions for the bread, and noticed after I made the dough that I wrote "mix flour, sugar and baking powder." Sugar?! Sugar? I didn't have sugar on my separate ingredient list. No internet, no smart phone. No way to call my go-to cooking expert Kristina in the United States. What was I going to do? The dough tasted lousy. Luckily, Marianella had sugar. The next step was to try to figure out how much sugar to add. Most people don't have measuring cups or spoons here, they eyeball measurements. Marianella handed me a tablespoon and I proceeded to add several tablespoons of sugar into the dough and crossed my fingers.
Elizabeth had brought bananas from her father's farm in Tallara. She mashed them up and she proceeded to pour the banana goo into the dough. I stirred it until it looked somewhat familiar to what I'm used to with banana bread. She poured the batter into the casserole dish and put it in the oven. I was really anxious about the bread. Was there enough sugar? Would it cook okay in the dish? I fretted about it, I didn't want to waste the ingredients or be embarrassed in front of my friends if it didn't turn out right. About an hour later, the knife test proved it was done. When we were actually ready to dine at about 9 pm, I made sure to test the banana bread first to make sure it was edible - it was! It was pretty close to what you would expect in the United States, it tasted good and with a little butter, it was delicious! What a relief!
Stuffing
Back in September,my first care package included a box of Stove Top Stuffing. Those that know me,know my deep affinity for Stove Top Stuffing. Sometimes, I just prepare a box and eat that for dinner. So, this box had been sitting in my food shelf for 2 months, taunting me, calling out to me... "Eat me..Eat me." I refused, because I was saving it for Thanksgiving. My friends, and Marianella's mother and brother had never seen stuffing before or heard of it. I explained that it was dried bread crumbs with seasoning. I boiled the water and butter, and viola...the stuffing was done!Mashed Potatoes
In my humble opinion, you can't have Thanksgiving without real mashed potatoes. Luckily for me, Peru has thousands of varieties of them. However, I stuck with my favorite - the yellow gold variety. I wanted to leave the skins on them for extra texture and taste, but my friends said that "wasn't secure." I also learned that the way to peel potatoes in Peru is to boil them first, then pull the skins off. So, we put the potatoes in the water to boil. Ever wait for potatoes to boil? They seem to take forever. Finally, the potatoes were done. I observed the experts peel the skins of the potatoes. Armed with a fork and a knife, I proceeded to operate on each yellow potato. I felt like I was opening up a body with forceps as I was carefully peeling the skin off, but leaving as much of the potato behind as I could. It was tedious work and the potatoes were hot. I wished I had a peeler and had peeled them beforehand, but that would be tedious too, so it was really sixes. Thankfully, Marianella's mom helped perform the post-boiling surgery on some of the potatoes. I mashed them, added butter and my grandfather's secret ingredient - evaporated milk. I did a taste test and man they turned out perfectly creamy and delicious.
 |
| The Spread! Yes, Inca Cola is delicious! |
We had a wonderful evening. It was so nice to have a dinner party and I can't tell you how comforting eating mashed potatoes and stuffing was to me. It was like a taste of home with familiar food that I knew and enjoyed.
Everyone tried the stuffing and enjoyed it. All the dishes were perfect and it was a lovely evening. I enjoyed my Peruvian/American Thanksgiving - even if I couldn't go Black Friday shopping! I am grateful for the friends I have made here in Piura!
 |
| My delicious plate of Thanksgiving food! |
Sunday, October 21, 2012
La Lavadora Love
Responding to President Thomas S. Monson's recent conference address, I share the following experience.
During my sojourn here in Piura, I haven't had access to a washing machine. My colleague who lives in my building tried hiring a woman to wash her clothes. I too, thought this was a good solution. However, it was expensive and the woman didn't really do good job for my liking... and I know some of my clothes weren't each touched. As far as I knew, there weren't any laundromats. There were laundry services where you could drop your clothes off and pick them up, but it was far from me and the thought of lugging dirty laundry and paying for it didn't thrill me. That only left one option. Hand wash. On the roof there is a sink, so I would hand wash all my clothes. Yet, my clothes and sheets would never quite come clean.
The language center's administrator offered to bring us a washer from his home in Trujillo - 6 hours away. September passed and it hadn't worked out for the washer to get sent up. Then, during the first week of October, the washer arrived. The administrator had an opportunity to go to Trujillo and arrange the shipment of the washer to my landlord.
On Wednesday, the washer had arrived! It was a glorious site to see. It was hooked up Thursday. I'm glad I didn't have to lug that washer up the 3 flights of stairs. My coworker washed a load of laundry. On Friday, I attempted to do a load of laundry. Yet, as I looked at the hieroglyphs on the washer, I couldn't figure out how to make it work. There were no words. Just letters and pictures. I tried every combination. Nothing. I got frustrated. I got angry. I tried checking the power, I turned it off and on again. I stomped my feet.
"I shouldn't have to be a rocket scientist to use this. How could I be so stupid? Why can't I make it work?" I chastised myself. It taunted me with the bright blue sticker that proclaimed "European Standards!" Maybe that's why I couldn't get it to work. The washer must hate Americans.
Finally I gave up and went downstairs. I'd have to ask my colleague.
Friday evening, I asked her how to use the washer and she just vaguely replied that it took her a while.
Saturday morning, I woke up early, and I simply included in my prayer that I hoped I could figure out how to use the washer. It was a simple and maybe even petty request among the huge problems in the world, yet it was important to me. I went back upstairs, and turned on the washer again and it fired right up. The same thing I did on Friday, worked on Saturday! The water filled the washer drum and away it went. I found that the "X" setting worked.
However, as I watched it for few minutes, the power strip started to smoke and burning smell filled the air. I tried plugging the washer cord into another plug, but it smoked again.I unplugged everything and went downstairs. I had to look up how to say "smoke." I got the landlord. He thought I was asking how to use the washer! And, of course, there was no smoke from the outlet! He called up another tenant to translate and still there was no smoke. As we talked, the cord started to smoke.The landlord brought up a heavy-duty power strip and finally, the washer was humming along.
After I came back from work, I had officially my first, full load of really clean laundry. I thankfully hung the clothes on the line and I was so happy. I felt blessed. I came home after the Saturday afternoon session of conference. I gathered my clothes off the line. Oh, they smelled so fresh! They were so clean! The deodorant stains from the arms of my shirts were gone!
This simple blessing of having access to a washing machine and having it work brought happiness and joy to me. It may seem to be such a simple thing to have a washing machine, but after months of washing by hand, it is a wonderful gift that my colleague Jose brought for us.
During my sojourn here in Piura, I haven't had access to a washing machine. My colleague who lives in my building tried hiring a woman to wash her clothes. I too, thought this was a good solution. However, it was expensive and the woman didn't really do good job for my liking... and I know some of my clothes weren't each touched. As far as I knew, there weren't any laundromats. There were laundry services where you could drop your clothes off and pick them up, but it was far from me and the thought of lugging dirty laundry and paying for it didn't thrill me. That only left one option. Hand wash. On the roof there is a sink, so I would hand wash all my clothes. Yet, my clothes and sheets would never quite come clean.
The language center's administrator offered to bring us a washer from his home in Trujillo - 6 hours away. September passed and it hadn't worked out for the washer to get sent up. Then, during the first week of October, the washer arrived. The administrator had an opportunity to go to Trujillo and arrange the shipment of the washer to my landlord.
 |
| I feel like I'm in a rhetoric class...what do these symbols mean? |
On Wednesday, the washer had arrived! It was a glorious site to see. It was hooked up Thursday. I'm glad I didn't have to lug that washer up the 3 flights of stairs. My coworker washed a load of laundry. On Friday, I attempted to do a load of laundry. Yet, as I looked at the hieroglyphs on the washer, I couldn't figure out how to make it work. There were no words. Just letters and pictures. I tried every combination. Nothing. I got frustrated. I got angry. I tried checking the power, I turned it off and on again. I stomped my feet.
"I shouldn't have to be a rocket scientist to use this. How could I be so stupid? Why can't I make it work?" I chastised myself. It taunted me with the bright blue sticker that proclaimed "European Standards!" Maybe that's why I couldn't get it to work. The washer must hate Americans.
Finally I gave up and went downstairs. I'd have to ask my colleague.
Friday evening, I asked her how to use the washer and she just vaguely replied that it took her a while.
Saturday morning, I woke up early, and I simply included in my prayer that I hoped I could figure out how to use the washer. It was a simple and maybe even petty request among the huge problems in the world, yet it was important to me. I went back upstairs, and turned on the washer again and it fired right up. The same thing I did on Friday, worked on Saturday! The water filled the washer drum and away it went. I found that the "X" setting worked.
However, as I watched it for few minutes, the power strip started to smoke and burning smell filled the air. I tried plugging the washer cord into another plug, but it smoked again.I unplugged everything and went downstairs. I had to look up how to say "smoke." I got the landlord. He thought I was asking how to use the washer! And, of course, there was no smoke from the outlet! He called up another tenant to translate and still there was no smoke. As we talked, the cord started to smoke.The landlord brought up a heavy-duty power strip and finally, the washer was humming along.
This simple blessing of having access to a washing machine and having it work brought happiness and joy to me. It may seem to be such a simple thing to have a washing machine, but after months of washing by hand, it is a wonderful gift that my colleague Jose brought for us.
3 Questions You Don't Ask
After midterm exams a few weeks ago, we had break from English classes. It was a nice but quick break. During that week break, I volunteered to go to Colegio Santa Maria, a secondary school for girls. I would be talking with 3 English classes on two separate visits.
The levels of English were different, yet each class asked me the same questions. I asked them about music, movies, family, etc. In every class, there was at least one girl who professed love for One Direction, the British boy band. I assured them that they would outgrow that love in a few years. They didn't believe me even though I told them I was once like them with New Kids on the Block.
1. Do you like Peruvian food?
Yes, I responded. Everything I have eaten has been delicious.
2. Do you like ceviche?
Yes, which is funny because I don't like seafood.
3. Are you married? Do you have a crush?
I said I wasn't married, but I might have a crush...
But, perhaps the best question every class asked was:
3. How old are you?
Yes, every class asked how old I was! I took this opportunity to educate them about the 3 questions you don't ask American women.
1. You never ask how old a woman is.
2. You never ask how much she weighs
3. You never ask if she is pregnant because she may just be gorda (fat!).
This answer would be met with peals of laughter! I asked them to guess how old they thought I was. I loved the answer that I was 21. Most of them guessed mid-twenties. I was pleased. One girl though ventured I was 40! I answered them in Spanish that I was 33. Boo. Even typing that makes me depressed. Hah.
I told every class that by learning a foreign language while they were young was an excellent decision. I encouraged them to travel and to see the world and Peru. It was a choice experience meeting with the girls and a lot of fun, even if they thought I was middle-aged.
The levels of English were different, yet each class asked me the same questions. I asked them about music, movies, family, etc. In every class, there was at least one girl who professed love for One Direction, the British boy band. I assured them that they would outgrow that love in a few years. They didn't believe me even though I told them I was once like them with New Kids on the Block.
1. Do you like Peruvian food?
Yes, I responded. Everything I have eaten has been delicious.
2. Do you like ceviche?
Yes, which is funny because I don't like seafood.
3. Are you married? Do you have a crush?
I said I wasn't married, but I might have a crush...
But, perhaps the best question every class asked was:
3. How old are you?
Yes, every class asked how old I was! I took this opportunity to educate them about the 3 questions you don't ask American women.
1. You never ask how old a woman is.
2. You never ask how much she weighs
3. You never ask if she is pregnant because she may just be gorda (fat!).
This answer would be met with peals of laughter! I asked them to guess how old they thought I was. I loved the answer that I was 21. Most of them guessed mid-twenties. I was pleased. One girl though ventured I was 40! I answered them in Spanish that I was 33. Boo. Even typing that makes me depressed. Hah.
I told every class that by learning a foreign language while they were young was an excellent decision. I encouraged them to travel and to see the world and Peru. It was a choice experience meeting with the girls and a lot of fun, even if they thought I was middle-aged.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Now I'm Cooking
Living in another country forces you to be resourceful. Certain things that you take for granted back home don't always come standard.
For example, you may take a kitchen for granted. You come to expect things like a microwave, fridge, stove, or a sink with hot water. Maybe you take it for granted that you can cook a hot meal.
Now, I must point out that of course homes and apartments have kitchens here in Piura;however, in my boarding house, I don't have access to a kitchen. So I have to be creative in what I eat. I don't like to eat out for all my meals since that adds up!
So, yes, you can do the math. For the last two months, I haven't had a way to prepare a hot meal at home. When you don't have a fridge or stove, you have to be creative in your meals. Also, when you don't have a proper sink with hot water, you have to wash your dishes in your shower to get some slightly hot water on them.
After my colleague moved into the room next to me, we got a fridge, so I could store deli meat, cheese, yogurt and fruit. The possibilities expanded, it was like adding a new set of colors to my crayon collection. After cold meals at home for months, I was so excited! I normally enjoy cold leftovers, but to be able to heat them up would be nice.
Finally, last Saturday, thanks to a financial contribution from mother, I purchased a toaster and an electric skillet! Now I feel I'm almost cooking with an entire color spectrum! My first dish? Spanish rice. Thanks mom! Yeah, rice...but hey, by the time I got to the store, it was so crowded and I did not want to stand in a huge line, plus I am nervous about trying to buy carne o pollo.
I took the skillet out of the box and set it up. I have to use my desk as not only a computer desk, but it also serves as a food prep area, and now kitchen stove and food prep area. I tried plugging in the cord and for some reason, it didn't fit the plug! It also was a short cord, so I had to move the desk closer to the outlet. Thank goodness for my trusty international converter. Now I was cooking. The skillet heated up quite fast.
The rice cooked quite nicely and I added a bit of the Mexi-Salsa from the gas station to the mix (wishing for some good queso, olives, and green chilis to add), and then made some wheat wraps for dinner.
I can't tell you had great it was to make a hot meal at home! Now I can make all kinds of things: soup, pasta, meat, chili, etc... any other suggestions? Oh, yeah, mac and cheese! It's the little things that make life worth living. Next time, you complain about "slaving away over a hot stove," maybe remember me and be glad you have one.
For example, you may take a kitchen for granted. You come to expect things like a microwave, fridge, stove, or a sink with hot water. Maybe you take it for granted that you can cook a hot meal.
Now, I must point out that of course homes and apartments have kitchens here in Piura;however, in my boarding house, I don't have access to a kitchen. So I have to be creative in what I eat. I don't like to eat out for all my meals since that adds up!
After my colleague moved into the room next to me, we got a fridge, so I could store deli meat, cheese, yogurt and fruit. The possibilities expanded, it was like adding a new set of colors to my crayon collection. After cold meals at home for months, I was so excited! I normally enjoy cold leftovers, but to be able to heat them up would be nice.
Finally, last Saturday, thanks to a financial contribution from mother, I purchased a toaster and an electric skillet! Now I feel I'm almost cooking with an entire color spectrum! My first dish? Spanish rice. Thanks mom! Yeah, rice...but hey, by the time I got to the store, it was so crowded and I did not want to stand in a huge line, plus I am nervous about trying to buy carne o pollo.
I took the skillet out of the box and set it up. I have to use my desk as not only a computer desk, but it also serves as a food prep area, and now kitchen stove and food prep area. I tried plugging in the cord and for some reason, it didn't fit the plug! It also was a short cord, so I had to move the desk closer to the outlet. Thank goodness for my trusty international converter. Now I was cooking. The skillet heated up quite fast. The rice cooked quite nicely and I added a bit of the Mexi-Salsa from the gas station to the mix (wishing for some good queso, olives, and green chilis to add), and then made some wheat wraps for dinner.
I can't tell you had great it was to make a hot meal at home! Now I can make all kinds of things: soup, pasta, meat, chili, etc... any other suggestions? Oh, yeah, mac and cheese! It's the little things that make life worth living. Next time, you complain about "slaving away over a hot stove," maybe remember me and be glad you have one.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Chulacanas
Last Monday was a religious holiday and while some people hiked to the town of Paita, my colleague and I took a day trip to Chulacanas, known for its pottery.
We took a moto to the bus depot, one I'd been to before, in the outskirts of town. Each bus company has their own booth and you locate one that goes your direction, not one direction. :P
My colleague N and I went up to a counter and she said "Chulacanas?" A man answered "Si." It costs us s./4 soles ($1.53 US) to get a one-way bus ticket to the town. We went outside to meet our trusty chariot only to find a rickety relic awaiting us, complete with a young boy checking our tickets and directing us onto the bus. Granted it was a holiday, so I hope he was there because of that.
I momentarily thought my feet would go through the floorboard of the bus, but we took our seats. Sometimes on a bus, you'll have an assigned seat. This time, we were instructed by the boy we could sit anywhere. N warned me not to sit too far back because there are no real set bus stops. So, if you're not careful, you could blow past your stop and be out of luck.
The bus pulled out of the station to begin our trip. Our first stop? The gas station across the street.
Onward and outward we finally went... and it wasn't too long into the journey that the boy porter started his sales shill. He eventually started passing out candy. N explained that he was hoping for a donation. I had taken some of the candy, so when he walked by, I gave a 50 cent piece (roughly 25 cents).
As we hurtled down the highway and out of the city, the landscape started to change and so did the houses. Many of the homes were barely more than shacks, with brightly colored outhouses for bathroom facilities.
We approached our stop, or so we thought, and jumped off the bus in a little village area. Of course, there were taxis and motos waiting for the fresh meat. We had to make a beeline for the bathrooms at the gas station across the street. While not luxurious, they were clean, thankfully N had brought tissue and graciously let me use some (clean) ones. :P
She explained to the manager that we wanted to the ceramics market. Apparently, we weren't near the village after all. A moto taxi pulled in for gas and the manager hired the driver for us. The ride would cost s/.4 - the same as the bus ride!
After the driver was done, we hopped in and away we went. Apparently, we weren't close to the actual city of Chulacanas at all. The young man kept driving when we passed a sign that said pottery with a left arrow. I remarked to my colleague that there was a sign, but the driver didn't stop. We assumed he knew where he was going. We drove into the town, it was festive, bright and interesting. He turned left and then right and around again. I had no idea where we were, and it turned out - neither did he. He stopped, and before we could get out, a swarm of men started coming towards the moto! Finally, he asked for directions and away we went again, on a serpentine journey though Chulcanas proper. Around we went and finally, we went through their mercado. No pottery to be found.
He stopped for gas again and away we went back out of town, back the way we came. The novelty and humor was wearing off for us. Where were we? Where was this elusive market? Finally, we made it back to that pottery sign and he went down the road. It was a barely graded dirt road for about 5 or 6 miles, in a moto taxi, so I felt like I was in the tumble setting on a dryer. I felt all my fat jiggle into new formations on my body.
We went further and further away from the main road. My wild imagination started running. We certainly were going to get shanked or fillayed like two pieces of fish. Thankfully, my worry was assuaged when I saw otehr motos coming our way with happy shopper clutching their ceramic treasures.
Finally, we reached a dusty, low-slung little village. He went down a dusty dirt path and stopped down the main street, if you could call it that. My colleague jumped out to use the bathroom and left me to negoitate payment. Suddenly, the payment he wanted was s/.20 soles! ($7). I argued with him in my limited Spanish. Next, he wanted s/.12 soles! Nope. I said s/.5 and that was it. It wasn't our fault he got lost! Finally, we just walked away.
He didn't follow after us as we perused the shops. We wandered into a small shop and ran into three men. My colleague asked them in Spanish how much a moto driver should charge for a ride. They responded in English. They said they'd wait for us from what I heard, I was wandering around the shop. I figured they were going to help hire us a moto back to town, so we could then catch the bus.
As we were leaving, our moto driver pulled up, with a passenger, he was ready to go. I shoved a s/.5 coin in his hand, and walked off. He took off and that was the end of that hustler.
I enjoyed lookig at a few more shops and it turns out that the men had their own car, and were offering us a ride all the way back to Piura! So, we climbed in with the 3 guys into the nice silver steed. Now, this sounds alarming, but I didn't get any weird vibes from the men. Away we went, they were all colleagues and were out in the town on a sales call for an international food company.
We enjoyed a 45-minute ride with them as opposed to a moto ride back to town, then on a bus, then on a moto home. Having your own transportation is such a blessing. They dropped us off at our house and all was well. After they drove away, I remarked that we were pretty brave or stupid to take a ride like that. My colleague, having lived overseas for several years, said you have to learn to size up help really quick in a foreign country.
Thankfully, we were safe and sound, and got some good deals on pottery, just next time we'll know where to get off the bus.
We took a moto to the bus depot, one I'd been to before, in the outskirts of town. Each bus company has their own booth and you locate one that goes your direction, not one direction. :P
My colleague N and I went up to a counter and she said "Chulacanas?" A man answered "Si." It costs us s./4 soles ($1.53 US) to get a one-way bus ticket to the town. We went outside to meet our trusty chariot only to find a rickety relic awaiting us, complete with a young boy checking our tickets and directing us onto the bus. Granted it was a holiday, so I hope he was there because of that.
I momentarily thought my feet would go through the floorboard of the bus, but we took our seats. Sometimes on a bus, you'll have an assigned seat. This time, we were instructed by the boy we could sit anywhere. N warned me not to sit too far back because there are no real set bus stops. So, if you're not careful, you could blow past your stop and be out of luck.
The bus pulled out of the station to begin our trip. Our first stop? The gas station across the street.
Onward and outward we finally went... and it wasn't too long into the journey that the boy porter started his sales shill. He eventually started passing out candy. N explained that he was hoping for a donation. I had taken some of the candy, so when he walked by, I gave a 50 cent piece (roughly 25 cents).
As we hurtled down the highway and out of the city, the landscape started to change and so did the houses. Many of the homes were barely more than shacks, with brightly colored outhouses for bathroom facilities.
We approached our stop, or so we thought, and jumped off the bus in a little village area. Of course, there were taxis and motos waiting for the fresh meat. We had to make a beeline for the bathrooms at the gas station across the street. While not luxurious, they were clean, thankfully N had brought tissue and graciously let me use some (clean) ones. :P
She explained to the manager that we wanted to the ceramics market. Apparently, we weren't near the village after all. A moto taxi pulled in for gas and the manager hired the driver for us. The ride would cost s/.4 - the same as the bus ride!
After the driver was done, we hopped in and away we went. Apparently, we weren't close to the actual city of Chulacanas at all. The young man kept driving when we passed a sign that said pottery with a left arrow. I remarked to my colleague that there was a sign, but the driver didn't stop. We assumed he knew where he was going. We drove into the town, it was festive, bright and interesting. He turned left and then right and around again. I had no idea where we were, and it turned out - neither did he. He stopped, and before we could get out, a swarm of men started coming towards the moto! Finally, he asked for directions and away we went again, on a serpentine journey though Chulcanas proper. Around we went and finally, we went through their mercado. No pottery to be found.
He stopped for gas again and away we went back out of town, back the way we came. The novelty and humor was wearing off for us. Where were we? Where was this elusive market? Finally, we made it back to that pottery sign and he went down the road. It was a barely graded dirt road for about 5 or 6 miles, in a moto taxi, so I felt like I was in the tumble setting on a dryer. I felt all my fat jiggle into new formations on my body.
We went further and further away from the main road. My wild imagination started running. We certainly were going to get shanked or fillayed like two pieces of fish. Thankfully, my worry was assuaged when I saw otehr motos coming our way with happy shopper clutching their ceramic treasures.
Finally, we reached a dusty, low-slung little village. He went down a dusty dirt path and stopped down the main street, if you could call it that. My colleague jumped out to use the bathroom and left me to negoitate payment. Suddenly, the payment he wanted was s/.20 soles! ($7). I argued with him in my limited Spanish. Next, he wanted s/.12 soles! Nope. I said s/.5 and that was it. It wasn't our fault he got lost! Finally, we just walked away.
He didn't follow after us as we perused the shops. We wandered into a small shop and ran into three men. My colleague asked them in Spanish how much a moto driver should charge for a ride. They responded in English. They said they'd wait for us from what I heard, I was wandering around the shop. I figured they were going to help hire us a moto back to town, so we could then catch the bus.
As we were leaving, our moto driver pulled up, with a passenger, he was ready to go. I shoved a s/.5 coin in his hand, and walked off. He took off and that was the end of that hustler.
I enjoyed lookig at a few more shops and it turns out that the men had their own car, and were offering us a ride all the way back to Piura! So, we climbed in with the 3 guys into the nice silver steed. Now, this sounds alarming, but I didn't get any weird vibes from the men. Away we went, they were all colleagues and were out in the town on a sales call for an international food company.
We enjoyed a 45-minute ride with them as opposed to a moto ride back to town, then on a bus, then on a moto home. Having your own transportation is such a blessing. They dropped us off at our house and all was well. After they drove away, I remarked that we were pretty brave or stupid to take a ride like that. My colleague, having lived overseas for several years, said you have to learn to size up help really quick in a foreign country.
Thankfully, we were safe and sound, and got some good deals on pottery, just next time we'll know where to get off the bus.
It's Prounced GUY-YETTAS
When learning a new language, it's important to practice pronunciation Let me say it again. It's very important to practice, especially pronunciation.
Yet, you can't learn or improve unless you try, so please learn from my fail. On the 22nd of September, I helped host a YSA (young single adult) church activity around the idea of American cookies. I already blogged about that event;however, I didn't mention the most embarrassing part after the fact.
It was after 10 p.m., and we'd cleaned up every trace of cookies in the church building. We were standing around talking in small groups.
In an effort to initiate a conversation with one of the young men, I asked "Te gustan las gallatas.." (Do you like the cookies?). I pronounced it like "gall-lett-as."
He gave me a strange, puzzled look so I asked again... "Te gustan las gallatas?" Again, he gave me blank, confused stare with a tinge of pain.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, another guy said ... "It sounds like you're saying a word that means naked pictures."
I basically was asking him if he liked naked pictures!
I probably turned so red, I could have been mistaken for a stop light in the dark city night. I was so embarrased - I mean, we were still at the church!
Everyone laughed about it and I know the double ll in Spanish, really I do. And, by the way, he did like the cookies.
Yet, you can't learn or improve unless you try, so please learn from my fail. On the 22nd of September, I helped host a YSA (young single adult) church activity around the idea of American cookies. I already blogged about that event;however, I didn't mention the most embarrassing part after the fact.
It was after 10 p.m., and we'd cleaned up every trace of cookies in the church building. We were standing around talking in small groups.
In an effort to initiate a conversation with one of the young men, I asked "Te gustan las gallatas.." (Do you like the cookies?). I pronounced it like "gall-lett-as."
He gave me a strange, puzzled look so I asked again... "Te gustan las gallatas?" Again, he gave me blank, confused stare with a tinge of pain.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, another guy said ... "It sounds like you're saying a word that means naked pictures."
I basically was asking him if he liked naked pictures!
I probably turned so red, I could have been mistaken for a stop light in the dark city night. I was so embarrased - I mean, we were still at the church!
Everyone laughed about it and I know the double ll in Spanish, really I do. And, by the way, he did like the cookies.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
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