JASS meeting

22/4/2009

“Gentlemen, let’s keep something in mind: we’re all farmers, and we’re all poor. But we’re talking about one sol, here. We spend more than that on a couple cigarettes.” I snap out of my daze; this is the first reasonable thing I´ve heard in what seems like hours. In fact, it´s been only 45 minutes or so, but the rapidly darkening room makes it seem much later than the 7:30 my watch shows. This is my third or fourth JASS meeting (I’ve lost count) in the town of Huacapampa, just outside of Chalaco. You could say the novelty has worn off.

JASS (pronounced “hohss”) has become one of the more often-used proper nouns in my vocabulary. An acronym for Junta Administradora de Servicios de Saneamiento, the term refers to the committee each caserio has – or is supposed to have – in place to manage the town’s drinking water, sanitation services, and solid waste. At best, the JASSes in my district do a meager job at the first of their three areas of responsibility. The other two are rarely, if ever, brought up at meetings; in fact, it’s pretty clear that in practice a JASS works with water and nada más. A JASS is made up of all the usuarios (individual water-drinkers) in a town (AKA the Asamblea General), and a board of directors (the Consejo Directivo), made up of a president, a treasurer, a secretary, a fiscal or general order-keeper/bouncer, and one or two other members from the community called vocales. In their defense, no one is paid for their services (except, sometimes the system operator), and none of them have any training in community organizing, engineering, or accounting. The Consejo members are simple farmers just like the rest of the community, exceptional only in that they’ve agreed to take on the responsibility (sometimes enthusiastically, but more often quite grudgingly) of a two-year stint on the water board. Just like everyone else, they work hard all day in the fields planting corn and wheat and beans, and have family and other obligations to attend to. Taking that into account, it’s sort of amazing that JASSes even exist, given their total dependence on voluntary service and community coordination and cooperation. Not that they always (or, even usually) function very effectively.

My first couple JASS meetings were fascinating: I was finally there, watching grassroots democracy play out in front of me, participating in a community meeting of the kind I had only heard about during training in Lima. At that time, “the JASS” had seemed to me more of an abstract, idealistic concept than a real thing that existed in the campo, but all the sudden here it was. It was at once inspiring and intimidating to look around at a roomful of hardened campesinos sitting together, discussing/debating/fighting over something they all agreed to be the most basic of all needs. Inspiring because their very presence meant I had an already-arranged forum through which to address and work with them, and intimidating because it hit me like a slap to the face how very little I knew about either caserio politics or the specifics of rural water systems. I´m learning, though, poco a poco.

Every once in a while, someone will ask my opinion or advice on something, which can be pretty nerve-racking when it has to do with, for example, the appropriate course of action (ie, punishment) for someone who hasn´t shown up for a meeting in two years. I generally defer those questions to the town leaders, explaining that I know a bit about water systems, but am not here to settle disputes that have probably existed for years before I arrived on the scene. The other day I heard about a dispute out in one of the caseríos where the local ronda campesina or publically-elected order-keepers/justice-enforcers actually lashed (like, with a cane) the president of the JASS for “negligence.” Not the kinda stuff I want to be getting myself in the middle of. Sometimes I wonder how old these guys think I am. It´s gotta be at least thirty or so. I can only assume that if they knew I was young enough to be their third or fourth son, they wouldn´t even give me the time of day, much less ask my advice on anything of import. Anyhow, at the moment, said community members are shouting over each-other (mercifully, leaving me out of it) about a dispute regarding monthly payments for water service, or cuotas.

I’ve found the JASS in Huacapampa to be one of the more reliable ones I’ve come across; at least they have people in the proper positions and actually schedule meetings once in a while, which are attended by a little over half the community’s heads of household – exceptional attendance in this neck of the woods. The topic of tonight’s meeting was to be the election of the new Consejo; they’re legally supposed to serve for no more than two years at a time, but this crew has had their respective positions for over three, and have been growing increasingly antsy every time I’ve visited. They’re ready to move on, and I can’t say I blame them. Take tonight, for example. All we ended up talking (read: bickering) about was the several community members who refuse to pay their monthly cuotas for various reasons, including “not getting as much water as I used to,” “I already pay for my one house, why should I have to pay for my ex-wife’s?” and “well, my neighbor isn’t paying either.” Some of these people haven’t paid their dues since Michael Jordan tried baseball, and the really sad part is that they refuse to understand (except for some, like my new best friend in the room, whose inspiring quote woke me out of my stupor) that it’s a vicious cycle: if they don’t pay, there’s no money in the JASS fund, and if the JASS doesn’t have any money, they can’t chlorinate the water or fix the pipes to bring water to the houses that don’t get enough.

Switching gears, and I know I said I was over my fascination with JASS meetings, but from a cultural-sociological perspective they´re really a pretty interesting experience. It’s a lot like church in my mind; the general environment and the building itself and the people around you are often just as – if not far more – interesting than what’s being said by the guy up front. Looking around the room in Huacapampa, I realize what a funny picture it really is: a small, unlit classroom in the town’s primary school, filled with hard campo men just back from the fields, sitting around the periphery of the room mostly looking very serious, and maintaining their unflappable pride despite being squeezed into the tiniest chairs I’ve ever seen outside of a dollhouse. And as funny as they appear, I myself have to look just absolutely ridiculous sitting on these things meant for toddlers.

The guys sitting around the room (and yes, they’re almost exclusively males) have names like Octavio, Maximo, Cesar, Segundo, Dayner, Elvis, Wilmer, Milton, and Jimmy – the juxtaposition of Roman-emperor namesakes, ‘50s-era American names, and the more traditional Latin ones strikes me as odd, and pretty entertaining. The average usuario is wearing his damp, cotton or sheep’s-wool poncho, khaki pants spattered with mud and rolled up over calf-high rubber boots, and yonqui sandals made from old tires, or often plain old bare feet, their muddy toes swollen and gnarled from years of shoelessness, and in pretty serious need of a nail clipping. Variations on the standard wardrobe include Memers Only-style jackets or the kind of windbreakers you´d wear to an ‘80s party, Brazilian or European club soccer jerseys, camouflage t-shirts printed with things like “CIA,” or “DEA,” or a giant pot leaf (ironic, eh?), or sometimes phrases in English that make absolutely no sense, and jeans with faux-Japanese-style fire-breathing dragons and other comically aggressive images embroidered on the thigh or back pocket.

But the hats take the cake. Now, there are some badass cowboy hats in these parts. High quality they are not, but they’re the kind of hats that have a story to tell: worn, dirty, probably terrible-smelling…my kind of headwear. A handful of guys will be wearing those. But the more popular choice is baseball caps, often advertizing any American professional sports team you can think of, from the Yankees to the 49ers to the Chicago Bulls. (I´ve noticed an unexplainably high concentration of Charlotte Hornets gear around here, which I´m currently looking into.) Other hats are brand-name only: FUBU (I have a feeling the message behind the label is lost on these guys), No Fear, and surfing companies like Ripcurl and Quiksilver (or knockoffs like “Qwiksolver”) are pretty common. So are Ché hats. The highlight, though, are what I like to call “Git ‘er dunn hats,” with so much brazen American patriotism they would make Bill O’Reilly blush. You name it, they got it: bald eagles, American flags, fire/lightning detailing, and always a giant “USA,” just in case there was any confusion. Unbelievable, awesome hats. And just about the last thing I ever expected to find here. As Peace Corps volunteers we’re constantly talking about “integrating” into our communities; who would have thought that everything I ever needed to fit in in Chalaco was probably waiting for me right there at the first truck stop westbound out of Columbus on I-70? But there you go.

With night falling and a steady drizzle picking up, everything seems more dramatic. The faces of the Consejo members are illuminated by a flickering gas lamp on the table in front of them, the lone light source in the room save the occasional flicker of a match as a Hamilton-brand cigarette is lit up. At least half of those present is smoking, either with his own cigarro, or more likely sharing one with those immediately flanking him, and the soft red glow of cigarettes is weirdly comforting to me, though I´ve never been a smoker myself. Every once in a while a moth the size of a small bird hits a window from the outside; when one finds its way inside I seem to be the only one who takes notice. Occasionally, silence breaks the din, and you can hear someone cough and hack, and then his spit smacking the floor in some dark corner of the room. A baby is crying, underfed dogs are wandering in and out, and people are getting restless. We’ve now been here for a few hours, and nothing much seems to have been accomplished. A drunk stumbles in and demands to be heard out, a request which is actually honored for 30 seconds or so before he´s drowned out. I think this is partially due to the entertainment factor recognized by all, and also because he isn’t actually a drunk, but rather a pretty well-respected community member who just happens to be shitfaced this afternoon. Someone reminds us all that we still haven´t gotten around to the topic at hand…

But after yet another half-hour or so, it is decided that not enough of the usuarios are present to actually proceed with the elections. The exiting committee is thrilled. The meeting is rescheduled for the end of the month, and I walk back to Chalaco alone in the thick, dark fog. Forgot my flashlight.