The fam

17/1/2009

Lemme tell you a little bit about my host family. First, the house. We live in a six-bedroom adobe house on the main road into Chalaco, a few hundred yards before you really enter town. When I say “six-bedroom,” that’s bound to evoke some inaccurate images; it’s five little bedrooms (two on the first floor and three upstairs) and a separate side-room where I live, a small living room and smaller kitchen, and one bathroom attached to the back “porch,” a covered concrete slab that’s new since I arrived, and must be a huge improvement over stepping out into pure mud all the time during the rains. In a stunning display of cultural collision, on about my fifth day here we actually dug up about half our little front yard to get rocks and sand for the concrete mix for the project. I tried to explain to my brothers that not only would this be unthinkable where I come from, but that in other parts of the world people actually spend an exorbitant amount of time and money to maintain their lawns, and that I even used to provide that service for my neighbors when I was their age. Olga was gone at the time, and in my American perspective, my first thought was that there would surely be some major fireworks in store for when Mom returned to find a hole where the grass used to be. But it was never even brought up, and I came to realize that the entire concept of “lawn” is just completely non-existent here.

Adobe houses aren’t anything particularly special: mud bricks covered with plaster to resemble concrete, and then painted (and then often painted over again with some political propaganda message.) Virtually all roofs are made of calamina or corrugated sheet metal, an all-purpose material around here (like duct tape, but tougher to carry around with you.) It’s widely used, for example, rolled into tubes for chimneys in the improved stove kitchens that many NGOs and PC volunteers alike are big on in these parts. Interior ceilings are made of uncovered guayaquil wood (sort-of like bamboo) supported by larger logs running perpendicular, which are the real frame of the house. I have a theory that mosquitoes (zancudos in Spanish, not to be confused with mosquitos, which refers to any small flying insect...false cognates are a bitch) breed in the guayaqiul ceilings; especially now with the constant dampness, they come out and congregate in small armies around my one, naked light bulb every night when I’m in my room. As a result, I spend a probably unreasonable amount of time killing them by the dozens in my room at night before my usual 9-10PM bedtime – as well as other, much larger winged insects that sound like, and sometimes also resemble, small Apache helicopters. I know it’s completely futile, but I can’t just sit there and watch them. I wake up between 6 and 7AM usually, either on purpose to run or work out before breakfast, or because there’s cumbia music blasting from somewhere up the hill by then if not earlier (I’m still convinced there are only about five songs in Peru right now, which play through on every radio station, over and over, all day, everyday), or because the combination of pigs, chickens, dogs, and toddlers running around - and shrieking - outside my room isn’t any more conducive to sleep than living in, say, a steel mill.

One thing about adobe: it’s tough to really ever get the floor clean, because the walls virtually come apart in little pieces if you get the broom too close. But the house has concrete and tile floors, and it’s more than comfortable. DirecTV helps. I’ve seen more Jackie Chan and Van Damme movies in the last couple months than you can shake a stick at – or parts of them at least, until I can’t take it anymore and retire to my room. My room’s separated from the rest of the house, the only entrance being the door which opens out to the front patio. It’s plenty big, and by now I’ve got everything I need as far as furniture and the like. The dampness means that nothing ever really dries, so the smell of my room has gone from moldy and dusty at first, to slightly improved by the eucalyptus branches and orange peels I had in here for a while (til the bugs took them over), to now back to dank and moldy. Yesterday I found some interesting stuff growing on a shirt I hadn’t worn in a while. I think that’s really the key: something looks moldy or stinks, just wear it for a couple days. I had thought about painting the walls at first, but now they’re pretty much covered with posters, maps, and other items I’ve been collecting, so the dirty, off-white paint job isn’t so visible any more. Still thinking about painting a massive American flag on the wall opposite my bed, behind where I hang all my damp clothing. Gotta clear that with the señora, though. Same with getting a dog, which I’m seriously considering. I mean, there are enough of them around here.

We cook with gas, which is more than a lot of familias can say around here (ie, the above reference to improved kitchens or cocinas mejoradas), and water flows in the sink for most of the day, even if it’s a trickle during the mid-day hours. Showers are cold and lack pressure; I’ve gotten used to the cold, and have actually started taking a lot of showers in the chorro or constantly-flowing outdoor spigot about a hundred yards up the road. Walking through the mud both ways sucks, but there’s way more water pressure, and the view is pretty sweet. Plus I can’t bang my face on the roughly 5’5’’ high showerhead, which I did on about day two in the shower at home. Probably a little weird for the locals to see a big, pasty-white kid showering outdoors in his floral-print board shorts as they head out to work in the fields in the morning, but with two years to spend here, I’m sure they’ll get used to it. (Note: now that the rains have started, water is much more readily-available at all hours, not only in Chalaco but also in the caserios I’ve been getting to know – which is good on one hand, because towards the end of the dry season there often isn’t enough water to go around and people go days without it sometimes. On the other hand, more water running up in the hills means more opportunities for contamination and therefore an elevated risk for parasitos and other water-borne illnesses. This is the kind of dilemma I’m going to be working on.)

Anyway our house is painted a two-tone light blue and red on the outside, and the interior walls are various shades of yellow, lime green, and blue. The area out behind the house is home to the lavanderia where we hand-wash all our clothes; I actually kind of like it – a couple times a week you just tune out and wash clothes all morning. Though the rain makes it, like everything else, not that much fun. The other day my two youngest brothers and I built a sort of path out of large, flat rocks from the porch to the water spigot to avoid the mud. They got bored after about 20 minutes, but a couple hours later we (read: I) had a pretty decent path going. We’ll see how it survives the winter. The area beyond is a sweet garden waiting to happen. Lots of volunteers build gardens, and I see no reason not to follow suit, both to introduce some green stuff into the life of my family as well as for my own dietary benefits. Right now it’s all weeds and trash, but I’m already pushing the idea on Olga as a project after the rains. She digs it. No pun intended. Hah, get it?? ...I might be going slightly insane.

Moving on, meet the kids. A total of five live here: four brothers, ages three, seven, fourteen, and fifteen, and Claudia, a fifteen-year-old girl who lives with us and helps out around the house.

Diego, the youngest, is hysterical. I could literally sit around and just watch this kid all day. He speaks in this sort-of stuttering jibberish that I almost always have a hard time understanding, but as with little kids speaking any language, you just kinda smile and say “Yep” and he’s happy. Actually, I don’t say “Yep,” but rather Dí. Dí is an expression used in northern Peru which is more-or-less equivalent to a Canadian’s usage of “Eh?” It can be tacked on to the end of pretty much any question to which the answer is an assumed “Yes,” and with Diego I use it, semi-mockingly (but he doesn’t know the difference), as that affirmative response as well. But this kid uses it about 500% more than anyone else I’ve met. I pointed out to him that his name actually starts with his favorite expression, something which had obviously never occurred to him. He now has a new song consisting entirely of “Di’s” and “Diego’s,” for which I feel more than partly responsible, and often regret. Diego at mealtime is a sight to behold. I would describe him as basically filthy all the time, but in the way that it’s more or less condoned because he’s a cute little kid, and probably also because it’s just not worth the effort to try to make him clean. I’d say at least two-thirds of whatever he tries to eat winds up on his face, in his lap, on the floor, or anywhere else besides his mouth. This is partly because he’s way too small to reach the table and therefore shovels and pours more than he raises his food or drink to his mouth. Speaking of which, his other favorite phrase is “Y mi café?” which basically translates as “Where’s my coffee, damnit??” Probably about 75% of his mealtime adventures are initiated with this demand of Claudia or his mother, and once delivered, the festivities can begin.

Tangent: coffee. The term “café” in our house – and I assume most others around here – is used rather widely, encompassing just about anything liquid and warm. You never, ever drink cold beverages with a meal. Even cerveza in social situations is generally room-temperature (though not always, thankfully). I think this has something to do with the belief that cold drinks and warm food together cause illness. (Another instance where it’s best to just nod and pretend to understand, or even agree.) It could also be the general lack of refrigeration. In any case it’s something I’m already used to from my three months in Chacrasana, and meals now feel slightly incomplete without a warm drink. The term “café” can refer to any of the following: a variety of teas, either in bag form or derived directly from herbs like Lanche (like lemongrass), Hierba Buena (peppermint, I think), or others; hot chocolate; any of several barley-based protein and vitamin-enriched powders, mixed with hot water or evaporated milk (Nestle makes one called Milo, and there’s another one called Ecco); or actual Nescafe instant coffee (which is sort-of like real coffee...though so watered-down it’s often hard to tell from the Milo). The one, single constant is sugar. I’ve never seen people put away sugar the way my family does. My oldest brother Nestor will dump three or four heaping spoonfuls in a normal cup of café. It blows my mind. The younger kids complain when their drinks are too simple, and their requests are almost always automatically granted. It was obviously weird for my family when I confessed that I actually like my drinks simple, but they’ve since gotten used to it, and my host mother Olga even proudly says they’re all starting to use less sugar with me around. Great, but it’s gonna take more than two years to whittle the sugar levels down to anything close to healthy. But I digress...

Diego also has a ridiculous habit of grinning and raising his eyebrows repeatedly as he talks, like how cartoon characters do, which in conjunction with the “Dí’s” completes the full package. Except that he also cries all the time, and often for no apparent reason. But it’s rarely the kind of shrieking that was standard with the little girls in the Chacrasana house, so I can’t complain. I still do wonder, though, whether Peruvian kids cry more than normal or if I just haven’t spent enough time around toddlers. ‘Cause they seem to cry an awful lot down here. Anyway, Diego-in-motion is pretty damn funny, too, especially when he’s wearing his several-sizes-too-big poncho (though I’m sure it’s the smallest size that’s even worth the time and effort to make.) He swings his little arms in a sort-of robotic way...he reminds me of a little piglet when he runs and skips around – or right through – the puddles in the muddy streets. If you don’t know what piglets look like when they run, just come on down to Chalaco and I’ll point out a few (dozen) of them to you. Speaking of them, I just learned that piglets are actually hard-wired to roll over and lay there, semi-tranced, when you rub their bellies. That’s been fun.

Cesar is the next one in the lineup, and the kid’s almost always got a smile on his face. He calls me tio or “uncle,” does push-ups and sit-ups with me, and when I’m in my room he’s very often loitering around outside with Diego and several other kids and small animals, or inside, studying the Peru map on my wall and pointing out different places, or asking about others he can’t find. He’s a really bright kid, not only with geography but also English. In Peru, Inglés officially becomes part of the curriculum during the five years of high school or secundaria, but a lot of younger kids pick up the basics from their older siblings, parents, or TV. Cesar’s also got a couple books (“Clifford the Big Red Dog,” for example) – simple stories with both English and Spanish translations, and for a seven year old, he reads really, really well in English. He’s been gone for a couple weeks (along with most of the family), visiting Olga’s mother in Huancabamba, but when they get back I’m gonna make sure he starts coming to my English classes. (Note: since first writing this, the family has returned, and thus the noise level has skyrocketed back to normal. Cesar came to his first English class today, where we played “Mateo Says” for a good 45 minutes; he lost early-on every time, but later confessed that he hadn’t really understood the game.) Anyway there’s a custom in Peru, and particularly in rural areas, where you thank everyone at the table after eating, not just the cook. I still don’t really understand this, but I obviously partake. Cesar, though, is by far the most avid dinner-table-thanker, and will practically yell at you until acknowledged, just to thank you for the food you had no part in providing him. He’ll also point out completely obvious things at random moments and ask for approval from anyone around, I think just to flex his superiority to his younger brother, who often gets most of the attention. He’s also got a habit of swinging his arm at the shoulder, in rapid, vertical circles while making helicopter noises. Not surprisingly this is often after a couple turbo-charged cups of café. The kid cracks me up. One of his front teeth, I suspect also due to sugar, has a permanent brown buildup of something on it, which is a little worrisome, but I think the family just figures it’s a baby tooth and will fall out soon enough anyway. Fair enough.

Adrian and Nestor, the second-to and oldest of the four, respectively, actually remind me a lot of my brother Will and I; not only in the ways they relate to - and differ from -each other, but also in actually comparing the two of them to Will and I ourselves. To the latter point, they’re both tall (relatively speaking, that is), wiry, athletic kids who are into most of the same things, and will drop anything to go play soccer, even if it’s just with each other. They’re overly polite, in particular toward their mother, and take really good care of their younger siblings. A lot of times both parents are out of the house and either or both of them essentially take on the role of parent-figure to Cesar and Diego, whether resolving disputes, feeding them, or tucking them in at night. Pretty tight-knit group of kids in that regard.

As far as their personalities, Nestor, like me in a lot of ways I think, is the prototypical first-born: bright kid, diligent both academically – finished first in his class this last year at the Chalaco secundaria – and in other respects (gets up early and runs with me some mornings), and has a great sense of humor, but definitely a more even-keeled, reserved-type of kid. A little more uptight and occasionally more irritable than his younger brother, for sure. He’s also got a killer sweet tooth, as evidenced by his coffee-sweetening habits. The other day I caught him chugging the maple syrup I had brought up from Piura for the Banana French Toast I made on Christmas morning (which kicked ass by the way. I’ve also introduced the family to Tabasco sauce, which they immediately took to, and Sweet Baby Ray’s barbeque sauce, which I introduced as “what America tastes like.” I’ve now seen it added to everything from boiled potatoes to fried eggs to plain bread, to actually mixed into an ensalada of beets, carrots, and mayo.) Anyway yeah, syrup straight from the bottle, unbelievable; more or less repulsive to most people, but you gotta give him credit for just going for it.

Adrian, like Will, is a goofier dude, also on his game in the classroom, but more creative and easygoing. He has a habit of exclaiming “Oh yes!” at random times in a voice a couple octaves below his own, and he’s a big Manchester United fan. He’s also constantly compared to his older brother, especially because they’re so close in age, which can’t be easy on him (in fact I know it’s not easy on him), but he seems to handle it pretty well. In something of a reversal of my own family dynamic, Adrian actually takes on much more responsibility for his younger siblings. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them “Type-A” and “Type-B,” mostly because I’m not really sure what that means exactly, but I think some people might describe Nestor and Adrian, respectively, along those lines.

But overall they’ve got much more in common than they have differences. Both are still shy and awkward around girls, which was funny to watch one night after I’d been in town only a couple weeks. Every once in a while, there’s a “Bingo” held at the same covered, lighted sports platform (the coliseo as it’s called) behind the Police station, where we play fulbito some nights. “Bingos” are basically mixers for high-school aged kids, and include all the same elements of dances in the States: girls all dolled up and ready to dance, guys mostly sitting around looking cool (though a lot more are willing to dance here than ever were with my buddies), and cliques of kids including the proverbial kids “from across the tracks” (the agricultores’ kids from rural homes outside Chalaco, distinguished by their jean jackets and the cases of beer they brandish at the ripe old age of fifteen.) It turned out to be a pretty long night for me, because I just sat and watched for several hours, not sure if I was supposed to stick around til the end and make sure my brothers came home (Olga had hinted at that, but it was still too early to tell if she was serious. I’ve since decided she wasn’t.) But I was kept relatively entertained watching Adrian and Nestor mill around near the dancing and then report back to me periodically about the girls they were going after. Nestor apparently had a girl locked down, which Adrian gave him endless amounts of shit about. For his part, I don’t think Adrian ever actually succeeded in dancing with the object of his desire, but not to worry, he’s got it “all worked out.”

Claudia rounds out the lineup. She’s from Pacaipampa, a couple hours up the road, and I’m not clear on her family situation (why she’s here and not there, whether Olga pays her to work here or if it’s a payment-in-kind type-deal, how long she’s been here, etc.), but she’s friendly enough, if not overly timid especially around new people. She’s opening up, though, and we’ve had a couple good conversations about food and other safe, everyday topics (though always initiated by me.) She’s a decent cook; you can only make so much with rice, potatoes, bread, eggs, chicken, cheese, tuna, and a few odd veggies, but she makes it work. Not that the food isn’t sometimes a little suspect: occasionally we have fish, and the other night it was so salty it made the left side of my mouth numb. Can salt do that? Anyway she makes a pretty good tortilla (a plate-sized, super-dense flat bread that is either baked or fried, and constitutes a large percentage of the campo diet – not bad with some jelly and cheese or an avocado, but pretty bland on its own...for obvious reasons.) I can’t complain about the food, though – I haven’t gotten really sick yet, which, at the end of the day, is the ultimate indicator.

Claudia was one of the handful of students in Olga’s afterhours English classes which I took over until they ended with the end of the school year, along with a few of her friends who are similarly employed by other families. Not sure if she came because Olga’s the teacher or because she really wants to learn English, but I’d say I’m leaning toward the former. Either way some ingles can’t hurt. I keep forgetting she’s only fifteen. Not because she acts older really, but more because I’m used to fifteen-year-olds being pimply freshmen in high school, not the cook, house-cleaner, clothes-washer, and general keeper of the home. But there you go.

Nestor’s (Sr., that is) other two kids from the unknown woman were around for a couple weeks while the rest of the family was away visiting Olga’s mother in Huancbamba, and they were both friendly and easy enough to get along with. They’re both older, Nestor (the first of his two sons thus-named) is about 21 I think, and Angelica’s a few years older than me. They both live a couple hours down the coast in Chiclayo – he’s in law school and she’s an elementary school teacher. It was interesting to learn some more about the Peruvian educational system from a teacher’s perspective, and Nestor and I had a couple good conversations about things like the death penalty and habeas corpus and other legal issues. I never really got over his constant nose-picking or his cackling to his friends on the phone outside my room at night; he sort of reminded me of that secretary-guy, or whatever he is, in The Big Lebowski, who’s always talking really loud and kicking his feet and giggling in some foreign language to an unknown person on the other end of the line (know who I´m talkin´ about?) Which is obnoxious. But a nice-enough kid. On my birthday they threw me a little party at home which involved a lot of calentado (the same thing we drank on New Years) and them teaching me some sweet huayno dance moves. That was cool.

In any case, things got real quiet around here during the two or three days between the older kids’ departure and the return of the others. It was weird, but definitely nice. First time I’ve had control of the DirecTV since I’ve been here – I alternated between CNN International, Australian Open coverage, and Superbowl predictions in Spanish on ESPN Deportes. I also ate a lot of Ramen noodles and Mac and Cheese, which I’ve gotten pretty creative with: fry up some tomatoes, onions, and garlic, and throw in some oregano and you’ve got yourself a damn good meal. My hatred for the cat (and cats in general) was solidified, as it whined the whole time I was home, and contributed nothing even remotely useful or entertaining. The little pig grew on me, though (we had two but the one strangled itself the other day with the rope it was tethered to, so the other now gets to run loose, which means he (or she?) hangs out a lot in front of my door where it’s dry. It craps all over the place, but it’s a pretty cute little thing. Really good at the roll-over trick.) Anyway, things kicked right back into normal – if hectic – mode with the family’s return the other day. It’s good to have them back.

I’ll write about the rest of the family some other time, this is dragging on. Plus I gotta go wash my clothes before it starts raining again.