Regalame

I am writing this blog from the inside of my mosquito net—yep, it’s up. After an entire summer of not putting it up and toughing out the nights of laying half-naked on top of my bed with mosquito spray on, I have reached my limit. The mosquitoes have gotten so bad I can’t even sit at my desk without getting mauled. I am pretty sure I am going to have permanent scars from scratching my bites raw.

Anyways…

The serpost (post office) had been on strike for sometime during March, and the first week of April I was off traipsing in Ancash for Semana Santa (Holy Week, AKA, free vacation days for volunteers!) so I hadn’t been able to check mail for quite some time. So, you can imagine my surprise when I went to check and I had four packages and three hand-written letters!

I don’t think I can express how much receiving mail, let alone care packages full of goodies, means to me. I feel spoiled, indebted, loved, homesick, strengthened, heartbroken, and refortified all at once. The moments after I’ve signed for my mail and stand in the serpost looking through the notes and items from home give me a high and humble me.

Sometimes when I’m sitting at my computer at home and I am looking at Facebook and seeing everything everyone is doing, I think the most self-centered thoughts of, “They’re all moving on without me!” The internet both connects me and makes me feel even more disconnected. I once sat on Facebook in a hostal with my fellow volunteers and I said, “You know you’ve been in Peru for awhile when you no longer relate to anyone’s status updates on Facebook.” My reality has become so different. This tool of communication is so deceiving. My friends are all there in a row with pictures of their beautiful faces, and yet they are so far away and out of reach. Anyways, I won’t go into the merits and demerits of social networking, but the point being, regardless of what I know in my heart, there are times when I still feel far away and forgotten.

And then I receive mail and I get the reality check that, “Yeah, their lives are moving on, but they haven’t forgotten me.” People are using a system that isn’t free and is practically obsolete just to let me know they care.

Thank you, my lovely friends and family, for the love and consideration you put into all of these acts of kindness!

And now, for a side story on my trip to the serpost:

After I had finished opening all of my packages and letters of glory and was busily writing postcards on one of the tables in serpost, a young girl walked in selling caramelos. This is a common job for children and teenagers (and sometimes adults), as they often walk along the streets and come into restaurants begging patrons to buy a caramelo (candy). And I mean begging, or, “The Peruvian Whine.” 

The girl set herself in front of me and begged in that irritating tone for me to buy some of her candy. I politely declined. She begged some more, not budging. I declined. More begging. More declining. Finally, the girl saw I wasn’t about to buy anything from her, but had taken note of some of my packages that were still sitting on the table. She motioned to some protein powder my mom sent and begged, “Regaaaaaalameeeee” (Give it to me). 

“No,” I said.

“Porfi, regaaaaaaaaaaalameee…” she begged again.

“What are you going to do with this? Do you even know what it is?” I asked.

“Regaaaaaaaaaalameeeeee…” she continued, ignoring my question.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

“No,” she responded.

“So what makes you think you can just ask me to give you my stuff? What makes you think you should just be given something for nothing?” I asked.

I know I should probably have a better way of dealing with all of this, as I am a youth volunteer and I work with child workers in my site every week. But dealing with a child worker in the city, who has no reference to who I am and only cares about getting something from me, is a different case entirely. My questioning of the girl’s personal values was unhelpful, as for her the answer to why I should give her something is obvious: I am white, therefore rich, therefore able to give and give without thought.

The girl wasn’t moving. She wouldn’t stop whining. So I opened up a bag of candy Justin’s aunt Carrie had sent and handed her a single chocolate egg.

“There, now go away,” I said, and she finally ran off.

After sending off my postcards I walked to the main plaza in a daze. My mind was in a billion places at once, thinking of all the people who had sent me letters and packages, thinking of my favorite places back home, and reflecting on my time in Peace Corps.

I sat down on a cement wall in the plaza and looked once again through all of my letters. In the midst of rereading a letter I received a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize and when I answered discovered it was one of the directoras of a national youth program I work with in my site. Even though my Spanish has taken leaps and bounds that I am very proud of, phone conversations are still the ultimate test of comprehension. The directora on the other end of the line was explaining to me who she was and why she was calling, as a woman approached me and started begging for money. I waved her off and asked the directora to repeat herself. The woman now stepped in closer, being no more than 6 inches away from me, employing the most obnoxious Peruvian whine. I put my hand over my free ear and continued ignoring the woman. She then hit me with a plastic bottle on the arm.

She didn’t hit me hard, but I was shocked. In fact, I was borderline pissed. This woman felt so entitled to my money she found it okay to hit me in order to demand my attention; as if I had just absentmindedly forgotten she was there. By this point I covered the mouthpiece of my phone and told the lady to scram, giving her my best dagger eyes (which worked only momentarily--she returned two more times).

This is one of those situations in which I clash head-on with Peruvian culture. There are so many things about this situation that don’t just grate on my nerves, but my personal values.

It is one of those moments where I can’t help but think, “back home this would never happen,” or “how is this okay?”

The things that are asked of me on a daily basis are more than I’ve ever been asked of in my life. People constantly coming up to me, wanting “apoyo” (support, usually financially) telling me all of the things they need, all of the things they want me to fix, want me to fund, want me to teach…

And we're not even talking about people begging on the street for money, these are just the people in my town who want change, but they want me to be the one to bring it.

I have to say, “No,” all the time.

It’s a situation created by poverty and other dynamics that I may never fully understand, but it’s the reality of where I am. I can’t control how people act or how people perceive me-- as the white tourist just passing through with my vacation money, or as a middle man of a rich organization ready to fund projects—and that is something I’m going to have to get used to. By taking on this job I have taken on an image. I have stepped into a role I was unaware I would be expected to play.

But I’ll tell you, 10 months in this country and I’m still not used to it. Not sure I ever will be. I’ve gone my whole life blending into the crowd, and I have now simultaneously become a circus freak, a super model, a teacher, a psychologist, a professional, and a wealthy tourist.  No matter how much I integrate into my site I will never go unnoticed. No matter how many trips I make to my capital city I will still be seen as a tourist. I will never be able to sit in the plaza in peace; I will never be able to just blend into the crowd.

And I suppose that is all part of this wild ride; sticking out of the crowd for once, having stories like these to tell on any given day, and most importantly, being asked to become something you’ve never been before.