October 27, 2006: Nothing like I thought

I have decided that expectations can serve as quite the hindrance. When initially accepted into the Peace Corps, I was given very limited information about my site and job, so naturally, my imagination conjured up all sorts of expectations of what my experience would be like. For some reason, I spent most of my time painting a mental picture of what my living arrangement would look like. I attribute this fixation of mine to the fact that the majority of returned Peace Corps volunteers that I have met have most elaborately described their austere surroundings during service. From their descriptions, I saw myself in an adobe two-roomed hut minus floors, windows or a bathroom, equipped with nothing more than a wood stove. These figments of my imagination couldn´t be any further from how I am actually living, to be honest. I am living in the nicest house of my 12,000-people pueblo, and have the most luxuriously comfortable room that I have inhabited since going away to college. And, if I ever get homesick, I can walk down the hall and watch CSI on DirecTV and pretend I am watching it with my dad. Yes, DirecTV. Is this really third world living? When I discovered these advantages, I was a little sad that I would not have an experience closer to camping for two years (since I LOVE to camp), but ultimately, I was thankful that the challenges I envisioned were nonexistent. However grateful I was though, I forgot to consider that their may be less superficial challenges that I failed to expect or envision, making them that much harder to resolve. When I have expectations about something, I usually find that if those expectations become realized, any wrinkles involved aren´t terribly difficult to iron out considering they aren´t surprises.

There is one main hurdle that I am facing right now, which I really don´t know how to tackle. I am referring to my slow, and seemingly hopeless integration process. While I am trying my darnedest to make myself available to any and all townspeople, I feel that I may be stigmatized by the social status of the family I am living with. I have noticed that many townspeople are self conscious when I enter their homes, perhaps because they know that I am living large up by the plaza. In such a homogenous society, where I already stand out enough, I really don’t want people thinking that I think I am too good for them, too good to live in a house with dirt floors and an outhouse. They probably think that it was my choice to live in what is most doubtlessly considered Jesus´ palace. It´s really uncomfortable because they practically genuflect to me every time they see me, as if they are not worthy of my presence. I really don´t know how to fix something that I didn´t impose upon myself. I am praying that with more time and patience on my part, I can prove myself as different than the people in my town are currently viewing me as. It is just frustrating because my friends who are living more primitively, like the people in their towns, aren´t having the same integration difficulties. I hope that in a couple of months I can look back on this entry and laugh at my present preoccupations. I know I will be a lot happier when the townspeople accept me as one of their own.

I am not missing home too much, but I definitely experience pretty crippling waves of nostalgia that are sparked by the strangest things. The other day, as I was watching a TV show in English, jazz music was on in the background. Much of the music here leaves a lot to be desired, and hearing something so soothing and warm made me really homesick. One thing I have noticed here is that people either don´t care about or can´t afford to create cozy ambiances in their homes or businesses. For a population that is generally so tranquil, they don´t have many things to seek comfort in, or niches in which to act out their tranquility. Things that we use in the states to spruce up our surroundings and make them more snug aren´t very popular here (pillows, rugs, couches, posters, artwork, candles, relaxing music, etc.). So when I do certain things like listen to jazz or classical music or light a candle in my room, I am reminded of how many comforts exist for me in the states (most of which I didn’t even consider comforts before coming here). I don’t think I am comprehensively explaining this. Basically, some things tickle my senses here to the point that they almost transport me back to the states, never for as long as I want, but always for long enough to make me realize that I just miss the feeling of being there and living in a place where I have the power and resources to cheer myself up almost immediately. It makes me wonder if the Peruvians I am working and living with have a really low quality of life, or if my standards are just skewed. Are they happily married? Do they have dreams that they fear they will never accomplish? Are they proud of and comfortable in their homes? I really don´t know.

October 25, 2006- Resurrected

Finally, after two music-less weeks, I have been reunited with my computer. Now, I am once again able to listen to Maroon 5 over and over and OVER again (while thinking of no one other than the gorgeous Jenn Edington, naturally), which is just about the only CD I burnt onto my computer before coming down here. For such a music lover, you would think that I would have burnt all of my cd´s onto the computer, but apparently I wasn’t envisioning how painful it would be to listen to the same 12 teeny bopper tunes for two years straight. Oh well, it is certainly better than nothing, and believe me, nothing was pretty unbearable. The tech at the computer place took a mighty long time to decipher what the heck happened to my laptop during the power outage, and then once he did figure it out, he told me that he needed to wipe out all of my files entirely, and replace my system with a Spanish system. He was, however, able to salvage my music files. He wasn´t however, able to ensure that all of my keyboard keys maintained their functions. This is real fun. For instance, right now I am going to press the question mark key for you __________. Wait a minute, that´s not a question mark. Where did that dirty rotten scoundrel hide my punctuation marks (insert your own question mark here). I guess I can´t complain too much though. He only charged me 7 American dollars for a job that probably would have cost me over 100 in the states. After declaring the price for his services, he shyly asked me, ¨Is that too much?¨ (Ah ha!!! There´s the question mark!) Anyway, sir, no…that is not too much.

And at last, I can inundate you all once again with the mundane details of my existence here in Jesus, Peru. Actually, things have picked up a bit since last I checked in. I have been spending many of my mornings traveling to caserios (surrounding villages) with my town´s doctor and nurses. They were going to vaccinate people for Rubeola because this month is free Rubeola shot month, and I was going to learn some of the 47 villages that Jesus is comprised of. This Rubeola shot is mandatory for people ages 2 to 39. I really didn´t know what I was getting myself into with this little project, to be honest. Evidently, many people in the countrysides of Peru are not very health-conscious, and are superstitious about the aftereffects of vaccines. This meant that we couldn’t just go to a centralized location in each caserio and expect people to flock to us for their free shots. This meant instead that we had to go door to door, and most times, since people chose to hide from us, this meant trespassing straight into their kitchens to catch them crouching behind whatever furniture piece was large enough to conceal them (I´m being serious, they had no shame). My counterpart actually ended up getting a little fussy with me because I refused to chase a 40 year old woman down the mountain for her shot. Are you kidding, Irma? What the heck am I supposed to do once I catch up to her? Tackle her to the ground and restrain her while you stab her with a syringe? Is this really how healthcare works in Peru? I thought I was asking that last question in my head, but apparently I said it out loud to my counterpart who responded, ¨Doctors don´t have to track people down for their shots in the states?¨ Uh, no, not exactly like this. Maybe with a friendly phone call, or reminder postcard in the mail, but no highspeed chases, that´s for sure. She was genuinely surprised by my response.

The best part of our caserio escapades was the transportation provided to us. Most times, if the caserio was closer than a three hour walk from us, we would hike. I won´t get into how tiresome it was for the six of us (arguably the least fit people in Latin America) to climb up the rugged mountains of Jesus in the fierce Peruvian sun. Other times, we were piled into an antique, out-of-service ambulance that was already piled full of powdered milk bags. And yes, in case you didn’t predict this, as I was laying on top of one powdered milk pile (pretending that I always travel like this, so my coworkers wouldn´t again jump to the conclusion that I am a spoiled American brat), my belt buckle popped one of the bags and left my entire bottom half coated in white powder. Just shake it off, Lindsay. Ha! Easier said than done, my friends. Easier said than done. This meant that everybody that we vaccinated got the story of how Lindsay had miraculously transformed into a sack of flour on the way to vaccinate them. Laughter ensued for all but one person involved, as usual.

Let´s see…what else has been going on here? My 4 year old host sister and I have really mastered the art of communication. While I was standing over the stove cooking myself a sweet potato last weekend, she came in and said in her most bratty voice that she wanted bichi or pichi or something crazy-sounding like that. Since I was in the kitchen, and I was cooking, I assumed that she was addressing me instead of her mom because whatever she wanted was a food product. Okay Victoria, let me find you some pichi, I said as I scoured our shelves. ¨NO!!!!!! Quiero pichi!!!!¨ Yes, you little brat, I understand. I´ll get you a biscuit or whatever the heck you are asking for, just give me a second to access my Spanish-English internal lexicon for crying out loud! This is when I gave her my nastiest sisterly look, only to witness a trickle of urine running down her leg. When her mom came in twenty seconds later, she kindly explained to me that since pichi or bichi meant ¨to urinate¨ in child´s terms, I probably wasn’t going to locate it in our cupboard. Well, now that we have established that, I think I am finally fluent!

I´ll leave you with this anecdote. Last night my host dad´s friend Leo was eating dinner with us. Leo is a distinguished looking man probably in his late 50´s who has actually done a great deal of traveling, and has even published two poetry books, both actions that are not very common in Jesus´ population. Leo and I spend the majority of our time together translating words in English and Japanese (he lived in Japan for four years), and I like him a great deal because he actually acknowledges that I exist. Last night I found out that he has two grown children, and two grandchildren as well. I thought that he had never been married, so this came as a surprise to me. Below, I have translated an excerpt from our conversation about his children.

Leo: ¨Yes, I actually have a son who lives in Chimbote.¨
Lindsay: ¨Oh, wow, what is his name?¨
Leo: ¨Well, it is an interesting story, because I had invented a boy´s name when my wife was pregnant, but we were told that we would have a girl, and I was very upset that we couldn’t use the unique name that I invented. But then, to our surprise, when the baby was born, it was a boy, and I COULD use my invented name!!¨
Lindsay: ¨Wow! So what is this name that you speak so highly of?¨
Leo (looking proud): M-I-K-A-L J-O-R-D-A-N
Lindsay: ¨Michael Jordan?¨
Leo: ¨Exactly. Doesn´t it have a nice ring to it?
Lindsay: ¨Sure, but that might be because it is the name of the world´s most famous basketball player. I don’t know, it´s just a thought.¨

I am serious when I tell you that this man thought that he had invented the name Michael Jordan, and I think I may have crushed his world yesterday, considering he has been living a lie for the last thirty years. That gave me a good chuckle.

October 23, 2006- Guest Entry Numero Dos

To my dear and loyal audience:

Before you peruse this gem of a guest entry I am about to post, allow me a moment to explain why I have been missing in action, and why I feel compelled to post the following pollution. There is a 95% chance that I fried my laptop during a power outage, meaning that my postings could potentially be less frequent. It has been in the shop for the last two weeks, and while I return almost daily for a verdict, the guy in charge (apparently a typical guy, regardless of nationality), keeps insisting that he is perfectly capable of fixing it, and that he just needs one more day. In the meantime (while I wrestle him for the truth), the below entry is all I have for you. While it is borderline pitiful in content, I leave you with this question to ponder:

Who is losing their mind at a more rapid pace in the Peace Corps: Kevin or Lindsay? I think this entry speaks for itself...

“Why do they call it taking a dump, when you don’t actually take it anywhere, you leave it?” - Ghandi

Hi everyone. How are you all getting along? It’s Kevin (Lindsay’s disgustingly crude alter ego), and I’m here making deposits in the porcelain piggy bank once again. Since it’s been a while since we’ve chatted, I figured it’s about time to share some more of my bathroom insights and queries with you all. Since I’m sure you’re eagerly anticipating what I have to say, and because my 4 year-old host nephew is outside the bathroom door screaming “You watch too much TV” (I taught him that) and generally creeping me out as usual, I won’t waste any time and get right to it.

- Dancing is a funny phenomenon here in Peru (and I’m guessing this applies to a lot of South/Latin America). Dancing is different in a lot of ways than it is in the States, and I’ll point out just a few. For starters, everyone here dances. And I mean everyone. Regardless of age, sex, number of working legs, whatever, if you’re Peruvian, you’re dancing. In the States, many people like to dance, don’t get me wrong. However, there is always the occasional goofy white male standing off to the side refusing to step on the floor. Here, that’s not the case. First off, if you’re a goofy white male at a fiesta here, there will most definitely be 100+ Peruvians dragging you onto the dance floor regardless of your personal feelings on doing the salsa (read: me at any sort of social function I’ve been to). Anyway, everyone dances and everyone loves it. Next big difference, all Peruvians like the same 10 or so songs. There must be a tradition here that at birth everyone is given nineteen names (I still don’t understand that one, either) and the very same CD. It’s pretty bad. All the parties, restaurants, and family gatherings I’ve been to feature the same dozen songs. I realize that the songs are traditional Peruvian tunes and that Peruvians take pride in their culture. I may have even thought the songs were catchy the first few times I heard them. I just don’t understand playing the same songs OVER AND OVER again. When I asked one of the artisans I work with why the same songs are always on at parties, he told me that they aren’t the same songs. When I responded with something like of course they are, he told me that the beats are always the same, but the words are different. Now, if I had learned to speak Spanish by now, I probably would have picked this up for myself, but this is beside the point. Personally, I think this Peruvian version of the remix is sort of stupid. I don’t care if Shakespeare is rewriting these songs, I would still not want to hear the same beat over and over again. Call me crazy. Then again, we do have Puff Daddy in the U.S. making millions of dollars doing the same thing. Whatever. Needless to say, I probably won’t be purchasing any Peruvian dance mixes anytime soon.

- Homophobia is a problem down here in Peru. We PCVs discussed this during our training sessions to an extent, and I’ve noticed how prevalent it is now that I’ve been at my site for a month. The main issue is that the people here understand what homophobia is, yet they are unaware that it is a major issue and that it exists in a vast majority of the population here (it’s the same with racism). I’ve often heard Peruvians bad mouth homosexuals for extended periods of time, then turn to me and tell me that Peruvians aren’t racist or anything like that, and that these problems only really exist in the U.S. While I am more than slightly concerned with the glaring contradictions in these sorts of statements, this issue of homophobia does not exactly blow me away. I’ve seen homophobia and gay-bashing in the States, and I don’t see enough of a disparity here to write off all of Peru as a country full of bigots or anything. I do, however, see a major difference between the two countries, and it is in the manifestation of the homophobia that exists. For example, if you happened to be a male Peace Corps Volunteer, and you also happen to be taking dance classes in your site, one would imagine that this would be grounds for unadulterated ball-busting from any and all males that knew about it, right? I mean, this would be just the opportunity for homophobic terms and issues to surface if I’ve ever heard of one. However, this apparently is not the case here. When I (and by I, I mean some other male PCV who told me this story, obviously) was recently caught right in the middle of a private dance class by a few of the most manly of men in all of El Peru, not a derogatory term was heard. I would even go as far as to say that the guys’ interest was peaked and that they were close to joining in the dance class. In the states I would expect nothing short of, “So, did your testicles happen to fall off when you got up this morning, fagboy?” and, “Nice dance moves, queery. Next time you might move better if your boyfriend lays off the old corn hole just a little bit.” Here, however, nothing of the sort. Do they relentlessly harass and bash the effeminate waiter in town beyond belief? Yes, yes they do. But nothing about private dance lessons (in my defense, they’re “marinera” dance lessons, the traditional dance of my area, thank you very much). I guess this goes back to the whole, every Peruvian loves to dance thing, but who really knows.

- I’ve started to watch a good amount of Peruvian television. And by Peruvian television, I mean American shows dubbed over in Spanish. The family favorite here is The Simpsons. We watch a few episodes every night during dinner. My favorite part about watching these horribly dubbed Simpsons episodes (they’re so bad because the actors’ voices sound nothing like their original, American counterparts) is that Homer’s name is translated to “Homero.” Why is this so funny to me? Well, a common technique for struggling Spanish students using English as their native tongue is to simply add the letter “o” to the ends of English words to get the Spanish equivalent. This tactic is effective more times than one would think, too. Believe me, when this method fails, it’s hilariously awkward (i.e. changing the word “meat” to “meato” just sounds ridiculous). However, for words like “product” (producto), it gets the job done. Anyway, the fact that Homer’s name is translated by simply adding an “o” is hilarious to me. It makes watching the dubbed Simpsons worth it, if only for the few times I hear Marge or Bart say “Homero” during an episode. And yes, I would probably enjoy the shows more if I actually understood the language. Buen punto. Now get off my case about it, I’m sensitive.

- I’ve been eating pretty healthily here in Peru. Actually, since I just eat what is put in front of me, I should say that my most family feeds me pretty healthy food. All the food I eat is made fresh that day, with soups and the like usually included. It’s pretty delicious really. I’ve lost something like 15 pounds since I got here, and I didn’t think I had any real weight to lose. So, that’s a sign that I’ve been eating healthily. Another, slightly more frightening sign, is how I react to run of the mill sweets. Por ejemplo, the other night after dinner, my host mom brought out some animal crackers (the Peruvian version, of course). Now, animal crackers are good and all, but the fact that I had visions of stabbing my 4-year-old host nephew’s hand when he grabbed the last one out of the basket might be a sign that I need some more sweets in my life. I mean, for a Butterfinger this may be an appropriate response. But animal crackers? That may be crossing the line. Being healthy and trim is nice, but maiming young children is not a fair trade. That’s just the bottom line.

- Here’s a business proposal for you entrepreneurial types out there. You want to make some easy money, here’s what you got to do. Grab some C-list celebrity, maybe even a decent looking D-list one, and put them in an action movie. The script doesn’t really matter, and the only things I’d say need to be included in the plot are as follows, in no particular order: militant mercenaries, preferably ex-marine generals; a big-breasted, blonde, sword wielding ass kicker; a revenge-driven former samurai soldier searching for the man who killed his father/brother/dog/high-school football coach; a pony-tailed, special-ops vet who may or may not be mute; and ninjas – lots and lots of ninjas. Now, the filming of the movie doesn’t matter, just as long as the big-breasted sword wielding blonde, the pony-tailed mute, and the samurai guy kill 99% of the extras in the film, who are all ninjas. That’s it. Cut corners, save money wherever you can, this is all you need. I promise you that this movie will sell to every single bus company in Peru to be shown on all their fares countrywide. Judging by the enthusiasm and attentiveness of the audience on the buses here, you could bank on selling this film to the vast majority of the general public, too. Now, my market analysis hasn’t come back yet, but I’m betting that this ninja-action-revenge movie phenomenon is found all around South America. Regardless, the market for it in Peru alone makes the production of a movie of this sort worth it. I would put this idea into work for myself, but as a Peace Corps Volunteer I’m unable to make a profit from anything I do here. So, you’re welcome up front. A name drop in the credits is all I’m looking for in return. I look forward to seeing your films on future bus rides.

Well, I’d like to sit here all day and share more mind-blowing insights with you, but it’s possible that my host nephew has passed out outside the bathroom door from screaming for the past half hour. Also, I may or may not have a dance class that starts in ten minutes. I also may or may not be the best marinera dancer ever. My mom always says that I have dancing feet. Anyway, until next time (and judging by the decreasing value of these guest entries, it won’t be anytime soon).

Happy hopping,

- Kevin

October 1, 2006: Mugger or distant relative?

Don’t leave the decision up to me, because I am bound to knock a guy/girl/child out here before realizing that they either A. live with me, or B. are a some far removed cousin of my host family that I have met at least six times. I have been told by so many volunteers never to let my guard down here, no matter how comfortable I feel in my surroundings, because bad people will prey off of my comfort and my let-down defenses. I have been known to take these sorts of notions to an extreme, and unfortunately, my behavior here is no exception. In my site, I am relaxed, but when it comes to visiting the city (note that Cajamarca is probably the most laid back city in the world), I sometimes transform into a suspicious hyper vigilant hawk. Is that 2 year old adorable child trying to steal my grocery bag? Probably. One can never be too cautious with the plastic bag that is holding a coveted $20 vat of peanut butter. Would I have hit that same child upside the noggin if she had come too close? I will let you answer that one yourself as not to incriminate myself.

Usually my preposterous paranoia does not affect those who know me, because as I hinted at before, I am only out to catch the criminals, not the people who I gladly fill my life with. Sometimes (especially when I am wearing my non-polarized glasses and there is a thick glare), I confuse the above two groups of people. I am not positive that the polarization factor has anything to do with my stupidity. I am trying to make myself feel better, which I am sure you are able to discern without my pointing it out. Anyway, last night, I was waiting outside of my host aunt’s house in Cajamarca city. I was visiting to help my 8 year old host brother with a science experiment, since I have apparently become the go-to girl, the 1 million trick pony, so to speak, of all of Cajamarca. When someone doesn’t know how to do something, I am the first person they consult. More about that later, though. Back to the story, people…focus….it’s scary, like a Halloween tale. So I am patiently waiting to be let in when I see a sketchy character headed right for me. I bent at my knees, positioned myself in a not-so-subtle crouch, and prepared for the pounce. There was absolutely no way this ruffian was getting my bag. I had my best set of doodling markers with me!

Hoodlum: “Hola, Lindsay, como esta usted?”

Yours truly, deep in thought: Nice try, buddy, but good manners aren’t going to fool me out of defending myself. Wait a minute…did you just say my name? A prepared thief! Who would have thought?

Hooligan: “Sabes donde esta mi tia? Porque no esta contestando la puerta? (Do you know where my aunt is and why she isn’t answering the door?)

Me, again in thought (such the intellectual): Interesting. Thank the HEAVENS I wasn’t carrying pepper spray with me because I would have temporarily blinded my COUSIN, who I spent all freaking day with yesterday, and should have readily recognized. Hmmm…fancy meeting you here, Jose. Why do I resemble crouching tiger hidden dragon right now, you ask? Because I am a bumbling MORON!

Whatever. In my defense, I have had a stressful few days punctuated with nothing aside from violence and gore. I would compare it to viewing a traumatizing film that you are unable to turn off because it is your LIFE, which I am going to make your life by telling you all about it. I will begin with a piece that we will entitle The Demise of Peter Rabbit, a tale not meant for the faint at heart. My host sister turned 4 this past weekend, which was celebrated with a lunch at my grandmother’s farmhouse. My grandmother, a wonderfully cute and weathered woman who looks to be about 95, but is probably only 76, is a good cook so I was pumped for whatever dish she was going to surprise us all with. Immediately upon our arrival, I asked if I could help and she told me I could go pick out a rabbit from the cage. How cute, I thought…she is giving one of her prized rabbits to Victoria (my host sister) as a birthday gift. Make sure it is big enough for all 12 of us to eat though, she said to me. Oh shit. Is there anyway I could peel the potatoes instead, I asked her, praying that they weren’t going to kill this rabbit in front of me. Sure enough though, two minutes later, my frail grandmother who I previously couldn’t even imagine killing an earthworm, was ripping a large, fluffy, gorgeously speckled bunny rabbit out of its cage by its ears. Two seconds after that, she was hacking into its throat with a butcher knife as I sat ten feet away from her fighting back the tears of every child I know in the U.S. who would have killed (perhaps this is a poor verb choice?) to have a rabbit of this caliber as a pet. I seriously almost cried, because it is difficult for me to view this as a mere cultural difference, especially since my family was laughing throughout the whole process, getting joy out of this act that looked a lot like animal cruelty to me. While the skinned rabbit flesh was waiting to be cooked on a pan in front of me, I was sickened by the still-pulsating leg muscles and the lifeless eyeballs staring up at me. An hour later, when my plate of rabbit greeted me, I really wanted to politely try a bite of it, and then conscientiously abstain from the rest. However, this was impossible considering it ended up being quite possibly the most delicious piece of meat that my mouth has ever met. Please don’t hate me.

The second piece in this compilation of short stories by Buck is called “Holy Cow”, not to be confused with the Argentine piece “Goodness Grapecious.” There is one dirt road that connects Jesus (my site) to Cajamarca city. I know this road quite well, as I travel it once or twice or maybe sometimes three times per week whenever I visit the city to take care of bizz or get my dairy fix. I know the road’s traffic patterns, namely being that it is only congested on Mondays, when there is a livestock market almost smack dab in the middle of our trip. All practiced combi drivers know that the trip on Mondays has to be taken with more care and caution than other days, because animals and people from every nearby region fill the one and only road that really exists in this area. My combi driver on Monday must have lost track of this obvious idea because instead of slowing down around the livestock market, he sped up and hit a bull. Yes, a bull. I am estimating that the bull’s owner purchased it only five minutes before and was trying to figure out how to get the massive creature home when BAM!!!!!, my combi driver collided with it, cracking our windshield and sending us all flying forward. I couldn’t see, as two Peruvians were sitting on my lap (my idea of traveling in style and comfort), so I was a little concerned that we had just killed a human being, until I saw the confused bull and furious owner fumble to the side of the road to yell every imaginable profanity (all of which I hope to learn by the end of my time here) at our combi driver. The only humorous piece of this story is how the bull looked after we hit it, sort of like it had had one alcoholic beverage too many. It kept moo-ing a lot, and wobbling back and forth, and chasing its tail. After a few seconds though, he seemed as good as new, though his owner probably could have argued that our combi left his bull internally damaged. Instead of this coherent argument though, he chose to scream things at us like, “$#@*%#!!!!” Never an uneventful trip, that’s for sure.

On a sad note, my neighbor and a judge in our town died on Monday night of Cirrosis. She was in her early 40’s and her death was not expected, so it has been a very upsetting few days for my townspeople. My host dad used my camera to take pictures of the open casket at the funeral today, which made the situation really sad and real for me, especially since I couldn’t figure out who she was before from their descriptions. When I saw the photos, I realized that I had spoken with her in my host dad’s pharmacy the day before she died. I probably would have worked closely with her over the next two years because she was one of Jesus’ leaders. A few things bother me that have surfaced with this death. I have heard some people talking about her in the town, focusing on how much she drank, almost implying that she deserved to die. Of course, I could be misinterpreting their words, but I have yet to hear a nice thing about the woman, who must have had some redeeming qualities if she held such a respectable position in the town. And even if she had no such qualities, why must people treat the situation and her with such disrespect? In the states we do this sometimes, too…rate peoples importance after their deaths, insinuating things like their deaths are sadder if they had kids, or aren’t as sad if they were alcoholics. Death is sad in every form, and I believe there should be an understood level of respect associated with it. The morning after this woman’s death, I went in to work, prepared to hand out some letters to town leaders about my job in the Peace Corps. My counterpart, who I previously considered an empathetic person, joyfully announced that one of our letter recipients had died, and therefore we have one less letter to distribute. She followed this with a giggle, which I was confused by. How strange. So many things to adjust to!