Soy King Kong

I am a giant in Peru. I am 5’9” and even for a girl in the states that puts me above average in height. Well, here I’m above and beyond average—I’m gigante.

Just ask my 10 year-old host brother Diego who is under 5’0” tall, and probably not getting a lot taller based on the size of his family members. He’s already called me everything from Godzilla or Hulk, to a “big tree”. Cause I’m just plain tall.

I shouldn’t feel bad because it is a common part of the culture to give someone a nickname, or call them based on their appearance. I’m not completely unfamiliar to this, since I lived in Costa Rica for a short while where people were called gordita (fatty) flaco (skinny) or by any other characteristic. For instance, gringa (white person/foreigner/etc). That shouldn’t come as a surprise to many. I do have a couple friends in my group that are of Asian descent, and they are all just called china. Doesn’t matter if they're from Korea or elsewhere, people call them straight out china. Some take the “nicknames” better than others, but it is difficult when we’re raised in the U.S. where not only are we more p.c. (and this time I mean politically correct, not Peace Corps) but you just don’t call someone by physical characteristics, especially if it’s “fat”. Ideas of what is appropriate or inappropriate are very different, and racism exists in just as many different forms. Sometimes it’s hard to swallow what people are saying, because back in the U.S. that person would be labeled as racists or prejudiced, and many people would speak their mind against it. But, different country, different history/culture, different ideas, and one can’t judge someone based on different standards.

We’ve been learning a lot about “filters” lately. A filter being that, I grew up in the Pacific Northwest of the USA, and I have “x” ideals, “x” morals, “x” beliefs, and I can’t judge a Peruvian based on my personal standards. It’s a constant adjustment to think, “Okay, that person isn’t being a major creeper, because personal space is different,” or “This person isn’t being rude by staring, because that’s not unusual, and I’m white and freakishly tall to them.” It messes with my head a little bit when I think that there truly is no “right” and “wrong” that can stand clear and true. To me, certain things are clear as day right and wrong, but it doesn’t work that way.

I will admit, I am having a harder time adjusting to the culture here. At first it was all kind of interesting and entertaining, but some days I’m over it. I’m over being stared at, feeling incredibly out of place, and dealing with language and cultural barriers. But then I remind myself, I’ve only been here 2 ½ weeks. It feels like I’ve been here forever. Also, I’m working at a much more intense level, what with training 8 hours a day, homework every night, weekend excursions, spending time with my host family, and trying to just relax somewhere in there. It’s a lot to adjust to at once.

Hopefully in the next 2 ½ weeks, things will be easier. Soon all of our training courses will only be in Spanish, we’ll be doing more work directly with youth in our communities, and we’ll be halfway through training. If anything, I hope the language will come easier, the stares will go unnoticed, and I’ll keep walking tall.

Pico de Gallo

Pico de Gallo, direct translation: beak of the rooster

One of our gallos on the roof of our apartment.

When I first got here, I was woken up every morning by gallos cock-a-doodle-doo-en at 4:00 am, even with my earplugs in. Now, my vecino could be rocking cumbia, my host brother Diego can be listening to Justin Bieber, and I won’t budge until my alarm goes off. I sleep hard every night. Normally I am a very light sleeper, but the days here wear me out fast. Also, I have no choice but to adjust now that I’m somewhere that goes against the grain of my own culture. That’s what every day is like here; constant adjustment.

It hasn’t been much time, and I’ve already been through so much. And when I say, “been through so much” I mostly mean feelings, like being really uncomfortable, awkward, hungry, cranky, on the verge of tears, inappropriately loud, completely overwhelmed, and an all around mess. In all honesty, I haven't actually done a whole lot other than training and homework for training. But, to add some more stress to things, I can’t speak English anymore. I'm not kidding, I had to proof-read this blog 20 times. While my Spanish has improved mucho, I'm still not that great at it. I mostly live in limbo—I can’t fully express myself in any language anymore.

So, as you can imagine, I have already experienced issues with language, sometimes being left in the dark until I come to the realization of what is being said days later.

One day I was on the roof of our apartment (our apartment is three floors, and the roof is where you do laundry, and also where the roosters are) and Diego was showing me the gallos. As he showed me them I realized there weren’t really any female chickens, so I asked Diego, “Why do you only have roosters? Do you not have any chickens for eggs? Do you eat these roosters?”

Diego responded, “No, these roosters are only for ______ with other chickens.”

Now, normally when I’m talking to someone and I don’t know a word (that’s what the blank is for, I had no idea what he was saying) I think in context. You know, 1 + x = 3 isn’t too hard to figure out, and those times when I can’t figure out what people are saying, I usually ask for a definition.

Well, in this situation, I filled in the blank as such; “No, these roosters are only for mating with other chickens.” So, I didn’t press on. I just said, “Oh, okay,” and left it at that.

A few days later there was a big block party going on down the street. I have no idea if this is a regular thing or if it was special, because I haven’t been here for enough weekends to know, but I was warned it might be a little peligroso for me because everyone was going to be drunk. So I was just spending time at home with the family when Diego came up to me at the dinner table and asked, “Amanda, do you want to go watch the roosters ____?” Once again, he used that word I didn’t know, but had figured meant mating.

“Uh, no, I don’t want to watch that, Diego,” I said.

“Please, Amanda! Please! I want to go watch!”

By this point I was starting to think that either Diego was a very strange boy, or my contextual language acquisition method was failing me.

Diego looked at his dad and said, “Please, Dad! I want to watch! I want to go watch the roosters _____.”

“Fine, okay, we’ll go,” my host dad responded, and went to get his jacket. “Amanda, we’ll be back later, have a good night.”

At that moment, the lightbulb finally went off.

Diego wanted to watch the roosters mate fight.

My host family raises roosters to cockfight.

For citizens of the U.S., animals used for entertainment in violent and cruel ways is generally frowned upon—and illegal. But here, it is part of everyday life. Having a party? Bring the gallos along! Celebrating Fathers Day? How about watching a cockfight while the women make lunch? It’s just how things are. It’s another one of those cultural things that may make our jaws drop but really there isn't anything to do about it. I’m going to pick my battles. While I don’t particularly enjoy hearing accounts from my 10 year-old host brother on how one gallo clawed out the other’s eye, or one got kicked in the spine and paralyzed, it could be worse. Menos mal in other words.

Otherwise, I don’t think I’ve made too many language faux paus yet. At least that I know of. Next week I may find out I’ve been saying something incredibly inappropriate, or that I’ve been calling people by the wrong name. Either way, poco a poco…