Horror Hair

I made the mistake of going to the peluqueria (the hair salon) today. A good friend of mine, someone I work with actually, said she knew just the place. We had to take a combi outside of Huancayo central just to find her. Most peluqueras cost 3 soles ($1) my friend tells me, but this lady charges 5 soles for her work. She had to be good.

We waited a half hour for her to arrive. I took my seat and explained what I wanted in broken Spanish - keep it long in the front, trim the back, fix the bangs, which I had been painstakingly cutting by myself the last three weeks. She starts trimming the back and all seems good. I find it weird that she only sprays my hair with water because I'm used to the soak pre-cut, but I brush it off. What should I be expecting for 5 soles anyway? Then, in one fell swoop, she performs an act so wholly disgusting, rendering me speechless - she cuts almost 3 inches off the front of my hair. My hair was already so short, I was trying to grow it out, and now... I have a mushroom cut and I look like a boy.

For some reason, my friend says nothing as the peluquera cuts more of my hair off, as she shaves the back of my neck with shaving cream and a blade old-school style, as she cuts another inch off my already short bangs. The left side of my hair is now noticeably longer than the right side of my hair, my bangs aren't straight but I can't trim it any shorter because they're already abnormally high on my forehead, and I have stubble on the back of my neck. Above all this, I get charged 10 soles when she usually charges 5 and I don't understand why. I cannot believe I let this happen to me. This...is...un...fixable.

Yum!

My favourite way to absorb a new culture is through its food and the Peruvians are proud of their food. Sharing a meal is an excuse to spend time to get to know another person, talking about how the food is made is always a conversation starter, and cooking together is the most fun!

>Last week, Sara and Tabita came over for a work meeting that never did happen (because we’re still waiting for a package of materials from the US that is now two weeks over due and is being held in Lima – long story!), so they spent the afternoon teaching us how to cook papa a la huancaina (Huancayo potatoes). Potatoes are the staple food here in Peru. This, Maria and I observed as soon as we arrived here and visited El Museo de La Nacion in Lima, which was undergoing major renovations and only had two exhibits open – one on the Shining Path and the other on potatoes. It seems common here for Peruvians to eat potatoes with rice as a meal. And speaking of carbs, I remember having lunch at a friend’s house a couple weeks ago and his sister made rice and quinoa for us! That’s like eating rice and rice!

Every morning, Maria and I drink mate de coca (coca tea). One can find coca leaves being sold everywhere in the markets and the Peruvians believe it to be a cure all plant. For my uneasy stomach last week, for example? More coca leaves steeped in hot water longer would make me feel better for sure, apparently. During our coca shops, Maria and I have also learned that we can ask for the better quality coca leaves to chew on (not that we do – although, I have to admit that I’ve tried it and it just tastes like leaf).

The dish I was most scared to try was cuy (guinea pig), especially because I always see tons of live guinea pigs crawling over each other in mesh bags or cages everywhere in the streets. But when you’re in a small village and all the mothers want to show their appreciation for the work you’re doing with their infants by serving you their most prized piece of meat, there’s little you can do. The director of the infant nutrition program of Caritas (Cesar) tells me it’s super healthy, rich in protein, very little fat. So I had to try it. I held its little paw in my hand as I tried to scrape the meat off – it’s tough and chewy. They say that the skin is eaten too, but I couldn’t even chew it.

I’ve always considered myself a food junkie. The Food Network is the only channel I watch on TV and I love fine dining even though I don’t have critique-worthy taste buds – almost any kind of food or pastry or dessert or drink tastes lovely to me. But I’ve always known that I’ve been missing a huge part of the world of food – cooking! So I’ve been loving the past month that I’ve spent with Maria who lets me be her assistant. We’ve been making a lot of beans and soups; maybe I’ll perfect these by the end of the trip. As an aside, I was cutting potatoes for our carrot and potato soup yesterday when I accidentally cut a small piece of my thumb off. I put pressure on it for two hours, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding. Eventually, I chose the alcohol route so it would close up. Pain pain pain. My sister says this is why I should’ve taken cooking classes in high school. Haha!

Search Him

So, I'm going for a walk with my friend, Kevin, through the streets of Huancayo. There are always a lot of people out and about in the evenings in the centre of the city. On a whim, I ask if we can cross over the walkway that spans the busy highway. It'd be fun to see the cars whizzing by from above, I think. We're walking up the stairs when we run into two young guys chilling in the stairwell. They start talking to Kevin in Spanish and I can't understand completely what they're saying. I think at first they're just saying "Hi" until I notice that they aren't smiling and that Kevin has given them 1 sol. We're being robbed.

As far as I understood, Kevin was trying to negotiate. "Search him," the taller guy said. So far, they've left me alone. I'm frozen, watching all of this in amazement and fear. The shorter guy leans in to pat Kevin's pockets (or maybe to reach inside), but Kevin pushes the guy away. I imagine he's saying something like, "Calm down. I'll give you more money." He takes out his wallet and gives them 2 more soles. They aren't satisfied. "Search him," the taller guy insists. I'm thinking of how much money I had in my pockets and in my shoes; if they only knew.

I'm really scared and a million thoughts run through my head. Give them my money. Help Kevin. Escape. Yell. There are so many people walking along the pathway just below us. I feel horrible because this was all my idea. I feel horrible as I start to instinctively inch my way towards the staircase to escape. The taller guy notices me move and puts him arm around me, blocking me. I have never felt so afraid in my life.

The taller guy lets me go for a moment to help his friend out and I run down the stairs, turning back once or twice to see Kevin getting hit in the face, double teamed. A few seconds later, Kevin is beside me. He was hoping for and waiting for me to escape. Apparently he's a scrapper, has been in many fights before, but was being passive because he was afraid of what they might do to me. On the way home, he spits out blood more than a couple times. I'm saying "sorry" over and over again. He's just happy that I'm safe. So am I. Peru can be a dangerous place. It was a lesson I needed to learn because I tend to see the world as one big happy place; I tend to be very gullible, trusting. Next time, they might not be amateurs. I've gotta be street smart and even then, you just never know.

BTU Crew

One of Rik’s projects here is a youth drop-in centre (JPC) for the so-called “thugs” of Huancayo – those who are not necessarily thieves or hooligans, but are nevertheless looked down upon in society because they are different. Most are break dancers, rappers, graffiti artists. All are kind, welcoming, and open.

Ruth, a young dance teacher from The Netherlands, has been teaching modern dance classes three days a week at JPC and it’s amazing to see the raw talent in these guys shine. They communicate with their bodies, imitating, improvising, expressing themselves – their anger, their strength, their playfulness, their creativity. It’s hard to imagine that these same guys need to work 7 days a week just to pay for food and rent, and could barely afford the 5 soles (less than $2) fee for the trip to Huaytapallana (one of the most famous peaks in the Central Andes, reaching past 5000m with snow, glaciers, and all that jazz).

The other night, we went to support BTU’s break dancing show at the discoteca. Their show went without a hitch and they were so proud of the shirts they had designed and bought for themselves, the BTU crew, with their individual names stitched on the bottom right of each shirt.

It’s interesting to think how much kindness, personality, and talent many people in Peru are missing simply because they discriminate against these youth. And how much more would these guys thrive if they did have more support from their own community? Despite the odds, they have taken initiative to spend their free time practicing, to seek out opportunities to perform, to write meaningful lyrics, to make music videos with what little they have. Why don't I have a passion? Why don't I put more effort into the things that I love when I already have so much love and support from others?

Para La Pachamama

I was just a part of the biggest and craziest fiesta that I have ever been to in my life! Families and friends come together from all over Peru at this time of the year to Sicaya (a town just outside of Huancayo) to celebrate the pachamama (mother earth). There were hundreds of people, shoulder-to-shoulder packed, mostly dressed in traditional Peruvian garb, pouring beer for each other, and dancing away. Each family proudly wears scarves around their neck etched with their name and have their own band with 12-15 saxophonists, clarinet players, a harpist, and drummers. The tradition is to make your best offering to the pachamama first, whether it’s throwing coca leaves or pouring your beer on the ground before passing the cup around to everyone and anyone else. Afterwards, the family holds hands and dances in a circle or parades through the streets of Sicaya, but they’re never an exclusive bunch – Jaap, Dorien, Ruth, and I were recruited to join the dancing and the festivities over and over again as we walked through the plaza! And the party’s not over yet! It’s still going on right now and we may even hit up Sicaya again Monday evening for the castallones (fireworks). =)

Maria and I shared pachamanca for lunch – a traditional Peruvian dish and very fitting for the occasion. They throw layers and layers of food to be cooked in a hole in the ground. Our pachamanca had green beans, spiced pork, beef, and humita (a sweet corn tamale).

Later in the afternoon, we explored the farmlands in the outskirts of Sicaya. We chatted with a family in the midst of building their own home – they had found prime earth to mix with straw to make adobe bricks, the construction material of choice in this region. We then continued on into the currently abandoned farmlands and found ourselves truly aware of our presence in the Mantaro Valley surrounded by the Andes mountains every direction we turned. We trekked up and down dirt hills, leaped across little rivers, ran through rows and rows of tall dried grass, remembering pachamama.

Culture Shock

A good friend e-mailed and asked: " What has been the biggest culture shock that you have experienced so far?" and I had to think about that one...

I have to admit that I first tried to address "culture shock" in terms of trauma and anxiety - and I've had my share of struggles! - but really, the biggest "shock" in moving here has been very positive. I would say I've been most pleasantly surprised by the wealth of culture and history here. Being in the Central Andes gives me access to the Inca civilization at its core (e.g. one of the main streets through the city was once part of the Inca trail), but I also love the diversity here from Peru's rich history before and after the Incas and from the country's geography - the Andes seem to be like a mixing pot as the sierra is flanked by the coast to the west of Peru and the Amazon rainforest to the east. Many of the people here in Huancayo, for example, consider themselves mestizo (of mixed race), usually a mix of Huanca, Inca, and Spanish. Not to mention all the people who look like gringos (foreigners) to me, but are actually Peruvians descended from the Spanish, and all the Chinese and Japanese looking-people who have also lived here for generations. In fact, Rik, the director of my NGO, is in the Amazon right now visiting a rural community whose members all have blonde hair because their ancestors came from Germany centuries ago!

I'm ashamed to say that if I had done more research on Peru and South America, this culture shock would probably have been much less potent. At the same time, because I'm jumping with a near-blank slate, I've noticed that my eyes are open a lot wider, my attitude is fresher, and I've been able to connect more with so many people who are excited to teach me about their country (the Huancas are so friendly!)

The Plaza Constitucion is only a couple blocks away from the apartment and I love sitting there, in the centre of the city, seeing people come and go, imagining their stories. And I think of how lucky I am to be here and how my own story is unfolding.

Bienvenidos a Huancayo!

Here, in Huancayo, I am La China (pronounced chee-na), the Chinese. There is yet to be a day that someone hasn’t tried to get my attention or that I haven’t overheard others talking about me as China or Chinita. It is my new Peruvian identity. And I thought that I’d be able to fit in here – for a relatively small city, they seem to have a lot of Chifa (Chinese food)!

Maria and I have an apartment on the top floor of an office building in the middle of the centre – I like to think of it as a penthouse though it’s a little rough around the edges. It’s entirely furnished though the furniture is aging and mismatched, green carpet in one room, almost all of kitchen chairs have lost a spring, greasy gas stove. Every three showers (jumping in and out of scalding hot water) the fuse blows and it’s the old school kind of fuse that we have to screw in each time. My favourite part of the place is the huge terrace where we can soak up the sun, hang our laundry, and where I would do yoga if there weren’t school kids popping their heads out the windows in the building across the street. The place has character.

Huancayo is up in the Central Andes, over 3000m above sea level. I was expecting some altitude sickness, but had little difficulty adjusting – I feel winded every time I climb up the four flights of stairs to our penthouse, but that may be more a measure of my poor fitness. The air is polluted and the atmosphere is dry here – they don’t expect any rain until September at the earliest. It’s usually sunny and hot during the day and cold at night, but not much worse than fall in Vancouver. I can go out in shorts and a jacket, but people find that weird because they consider this their “winter.” There is hardcore poverty everywhere I turn. Huancayo opened its first supermarket (e.g. Walmart-like everything store) just last week; otherwise, the streets are mostly filled with little family-owned shops or street vendors on the sidewalks. I’ve been practicing my skill of dodging cars, people, and dogs as the sidewalks are small or non-existent and there is no such thing as a pedestrian crossing.

It’s day 3 in Huancayo and we already have practically a weeklong vacation. It’s Fiestas Patrias on Monday and the city basically shuts down for at least a week to celebrate Peru’s largest national holiday, its independence day. Vive Peru!