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!