April 2, 2008- The day I made my host mom cry over milk (that wasn´t spilt)

We were forewarned that Peruvians eat very light breakfasts and dinners, and that lunch is the heartier meal here. I haven´t really warmed up to this custom, and I find myself regularly famished both before and after lunch. I miss big breakfasts terribly, and whip up pancakes often to address my longing. It is rude to cook anything here and not offer it to your host family, but seeing them slyly feed all of my creations (from French toast to tacos) to our mangy dogs has made me a bit less generous with the culinary luxuries I allow myself. The straw that broke the camel´s back was seeing them dump my deliciously fluffy banana pancakes (that they claimed they LOVED, and always beg me to cook again) with expensive imported maple syrup in front of our collection of spoiled chickens. I swear, these animals eat better than I do. Anyway, let´s get back to the point.

For as long as I can remember, I have come downstairs for breakfast and my host mom has placed a thermos of hot water in front of me as if she spent hours laboring over the stove to prepare it for me. Enjoy your breakfast gringa, she says, and by breakfast, she means wood-flavored water. Two times a week, there is bread to accompany my water, but other days, a lone cup of water greets me with no promise of anything tastier. I have been having my parents mail me instant oatmeal packets, so you shouldn´t feel too sorry for me, but for the last year and a half, I have been simply puzzled as to how these people work so productively on their farms with water as their only morning sustenance. A few weeks ago though, I learned their dirty secret. I inadvertently broke my morning routine, and ended up downstairs fifteen minutes before my usual feeding time. I opened our dining room door, and was greeted by the ashamed faces of all of my family members around the table, enjoying what can only be labeled as a smorgasbord of food. Soup, fresh bread, potatoes, fish, rice, hot chocolate, and fresh cow´s milk. Wait a minute, now…I thought Peruvians had ¨light breakfasts¨ consisting of nothing more than hot water. On this fated morning, they reluctantly invited me to sit down, and passed some bread to me. I was not upset at them for not sharing the potatoes and rice, since I get my fair share of those two things in this country. But my body is so protein deprived, that I think I hallucinated the fish calling my name. I just wanted some fish, or some milk, and after chewing my stale piece of bread, I went up to my room to sulk. How could they lie to me all this time about what breakfast is all about, and then when I catch them, not offer me anything even though I saw an abundance of food on the table behind us? I had a lot of trouble letting this go, since my life is essentially driven by food, but I had to be careful about how I handled this situation because Peruvians are not the most direct or communicative people in the world. My host dad thinks he is a saint for being so non-confrontational. He says that whenever he is angry, he lets God deal with his problem. He doesn´t seem to realize that while he is waiting for God to get down and dirty with his issues, that he (my host dad) is incredibly passive aggressive, and can be really hateful with his remarks. So whenever I have an issue with my host family, I have to be sure to pick my battles, because sometimes confrontations just cause them to gossip and make the situation more awkward than I could have ever imagined. For some reason (reason being I am obsessed with food), I could not let this go. I marched downstairs and told my host mom that I am still hungry after just a cup of water, and asked her if she could at least please save me a cup of milk every morning. I told her that if it was a money issue (which is impossible considering a cup of milk cost 7 cents and she just inherited a huge heap of money from her dad that would even equate to a lot in the States), that I could pay her more money. She cried, sat down with me and told me how embarrassed she was, promised to serve me milk every day, and then proceeded to offer me hot water the next morning. I just can´t win. I have even gone as far as to buy us milk (even though we get milk daily from our 8 cows), and she still doesn´t serve it to me.

This is probably one of the most challenging things about being in the Peace Corps. You live with the same family for two years, so you assume that you will grow close, like a true family. In many senses, that is true. However, many cultural differences make it impossible to get past a certain point. I grew up in a place where communication is valued and rewarded. They grew up in a place where it is better to gossip about your problems or ignore them than confront the source of your issue. This has created a rather large rift between us, because it is a cultural component that I cannot seem to accept from them. Many times, they agree to things they are not comfortable with, and even feign enthusiasm. Then they grow resentful of what they agreed to, and blame you since you asked them to do whatever it is they are doing. It is really maddening. It leaves you constantly wondering what the heck you could have done to rub them the wrong way. They think that they are doing you a huge favor by not burdening you with their concern, but they are unintentionally making things tense by holding in something that bothers them so.

Here is an example. I am doing a project with another Volunteer, who lives about an hour from me. We are often spending time at each others sites, getting to know each others host families while planning our course. We figured it would be a good idea to plan a special lunch where our families could get to know one another. We decided to buy a live turkey that my host mom offered (offered, not agreed) to kill and cook. My mom mailed me Stove Top stuffing from the States, so we figured we would make a Thanksgiving-type feast. I was responsible for picking out the turkey, and since I didn´t have much faith in myself in this area, I brought my host sister with me who claimed to be experienced in the realm of livestock. We picked out the biggest turkey we could find, and I brought him home for my host mom to cook for the lunch, which was scheduled for the next day. She laughed in my face when she saw the turkey. She said it was too small to kill and that it had the ¨meat of a chicken¨, whatever that means. Instead of offering me a solution, she just continued chuckling. I found myself silently cursing my host sister for pretending to be so knowledgeable. Finally, I interrupted my host mom´s constant criticisms to ask her what she suggested I do. Well, she said, you have to raise it for at least a month before I can kill it. When I told her that I had never raised a turkey before, and that I would need her advice, she was really vague as to what I needed to do. I blindly went to the city to get my new pet turkey some food, made the mistake of getting attached to him and naming him ¨Leap Year¨, and for a month, fed him as much as he would eat, trying to fatten him up. My host mom, the guru of animal-raising, offered me no help at all. She changed her attitude towards me, which I could not understand considering I was doing all I could with the turkey. I bought everything, was always home for his feeding times, and made sure he was interacting well with her other animals (as opposed to her turkey, who tried to take my life with his killer beak and claw combination at least four times). Leap Year was a good pet, really timid and agreeable, never attacking or stealing food from the chickens who so readily stole his food. Each day I woke up to my host mom being a little more cold towards me than the day before, but when I would ask her what was wrong, she would dismiss my questions. Until one day I woke up to her laughing with her friends, all of them announcing at the same time to me that my turkey was sick, and would surely die by the end of the day. What kind of sickness? What could I do to save him? Why were they laughing about it? All of my questions went unanswered. I managed to keep him alive for a week more, and I thought he was getting better. I made the decision to move him to my friend´s house (try transporting a live turkey sometime. Great fun) because I thought it might alleviate the tension in my household, the tension that no one would explain to me. Leap Year died a few days later, and provided that my host mom didn´t poison him to get rid of him, I seek solace in knowing that I was able to give him a pretty good life while he was with me. Strangely enough, all the weirdness in my house has disappeared. I refuse to tell them the turkey died. They might throw a party.

I also refuse to consider my communication skills a weakness, and hate that they do not reciprocate my openness in confronting issues. I can´t believe it took moving to Peru for me to realize how much I value directness and honesty. I think there should be Communication Volunteers in the Peace Corps. After the experiences I have had in my town, I would certainly sign up to serve in that sector.