Nido Vacío (Empty Nest)

 

Growing up I can’t remember many quiet moments in our household. With four kids, how can there be a quiet moment? And I can't remember it ever bothering me. Aside from my teen years when I started spending more time in my room, I hardly enjoyed being alone. I'd rather spend time around other people, even if I was doing my own thing. Then as time went on and we got older there was less noise in the house, and also just less of us. One by one my older brothers finished high school and went on to college and by the time I reached my junior year of high school I was the only kid at home. The last to leave the nest.

When I came to Peru and joined my new host family I automatically switched roles, going from the youngest in a family with four kids, to now the oldest with three-younger host siblings.

Until summer hit in January, there were few moments when we were all in the house at the same time. But when my host brother came home from college for the summer, and my youngest host sister finished high school, there suddenly came a time when all of us were under the same roof—my host parents, my host sister and her 2-year-old daughter (and occasionally her boyfriend), my host brother and youngest host sister, and then me. Eight of us all under one roof, sharing one bathroom (with days where the water would go out) and all of us sharing the same computer and internet.

During this time I almost lost my mind.

In our culture we often take for granted our privacy and alone time. Many of us grow up with our own rooms, move out at 18 and begin the process of building our own lives and ideas of how we want our lives and living spaces to be. In Peru (and in most of the world) kids don’t leave the house until they have to or until they get married (and that doesn’t guarantee they’ll leave the house). Also, multiple people will share a room, even a bed.

While I didn’t spend many years in college living alone, I was still accustomed to a certain amount of personal space, time, and above all, silence. I still continued to enjoy the company of others even if I wasn't interacting completely with them, but we all needed our own time and personal space.

 Lucky as I am to be the only one in my house to have their own room, it does not promise me an escape. The sound levels in my house can make me feel frantic and crazy. In a summer afternoon sitting in my bedroom I could more than perfectly hear the TV, music blasting from the stereo, two-separate TV’s with gunshots coming from the speakers and boys hollering at each other as they played Play Station games (remember? My house was the local arcade) and more often than not, the baby screaming and crying.

Add the heat on top of that, and there was very little keeping me sane. There was just no “happy place” to escape to.

But as time went on things got quieter. My youngest host sister moved in with our uncle in the regional capital to attend classes to help with the entrance exams required get into college. My other host sister moved out and got her own place (which was, and still is, a sore issue for my host parents) and took the Play Stations with her. For a short while a host aunt moved in, and her voice more than made up for the lack of noise coming from my host siblings, but that was very temporary. And then a few weeks ago my host brother went back college. And now here I am in a quiet household, just me and my host mom and dad. I’ve become the last kid in the house, again.

It’s quiet. And kind of weird.

This morning I woke up and the house was completely silent. Normally the TV gets turned on at 6 a.m. and left on until mid morning.

I went into the kitchen, made my coffee and breakfast and sat alone at the table. The only sounds I heard were from cars passing outside and the fruit lady calling on her megaphone. I actually felt the urge to turn some music on.

In the past when I woke up earlier (or later) than everyone and had free reign of the kitchen without the TV blasting, it was a rare and welcome moment of peace. Now it just feels…empty. There’s a difference between the silence of respite and the silence of absence.

My host dad came into the house after running some morning errands and walked by my bedroom just as I was walking out and I scared the crap out of him.

“It’s just so quiet in here,” he said, clutching his chest.

“All of the kids are gone,” he continued. “No more noise, no more distractions…you always want peace, but then when they’re gone you miss it, don’t you?”

He looked genuinely sad.

This house that at times felt like it was going to burst at the seams now feels empty.  No one even sleeps upstairs anymore; all of the beds were moved downstairs. Even my host mom’s personal arts and crafts hobby area was moved downstairs. No one wants to be up there alone.

I’m not completely without host siblings. My host sister brings la bebita over every other day to come see her grandparents and my other host sister and host brother will be coming home on weekends.

I know I’m no replacement for their real kids, but I like to think I’m helping with the transition of the empty nest. I’m trying to spend more time hanging out in common areas even if we’re all working on different things. I sit and watch TV shows I hate because it lets them know I like spending time with them.

Somehow the transition my host family is going through allows me to feel more like a part of the family. I’m not just an outsider looking in; the change affects all of us. We all miss the things that drove us crazy and at the same time reminded us we weren’t alone.

My part of Perú

I have so many things I want to tell you about, and yet I haven’t even described my site. Well, let’s change that and start from the beginning. 

My first day driving to my site I was in the back of a van that functions as a colectivo between my site and the regional capital. We passed through the capital, passed through a couple outlying towns, and within 25 minutes we were in the middle of nowhere. Or at least it felt like it. I sat slightly in shock because all I could see for miles was sand.  On the left was sand, trash, and a couple dry, jagged volcanic looking mountains. To the right, flat, endless stretches of sand only periodically marked with dunes. Beyond the sand is actually the ocean, but from where I was sitting you can’t tell where the sand ends and the ocean begins. It’s just nothingness for forever. Now, if I were raised in Middle America back in the U.S., or maybe had even visited such states, this sight maybe wouldn’t be so startling. But I’m a mountain girl; I get uneasy when the land is flat. I need the mountains to hug in close. I feel vulnerable out there in the open, the wind battling the van and mirages playing tricks on the eyes.

“What do you think?” my host mom asked, sitting next to me in the van. I was probably making that face I always make when I’m thinking. My mid-brow creases and I have a look that is a mixture of confusion and annoyance, regardless of what’s on my mind.

I fumbled with a choppy response, knowing everyone in the van had their head cocked to hear what the gringa would say. “I didn’t know very much about Lambayeque before I got here,” I said. “So, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know there was desert.”

The Panamerican highway--only paved road in my town.

Ten minutes went by. Not long, but long enough for me to wonder just how desert my new home would be. Just as I started to think it would never end, I see green in the distance. Lots of green. And suddenly we came upon palm trees, fields of corn, sugar cane, and other fruits or vegetables I’m sure I haven’t even tried yet. My site is an oasis in the desert. It is still dry and dusty, but it is surrounded by chakras (farms).  The panamerican highway was what we were drove to get here, and it actually runs right through the middle of my town. In fact, it’s the only paved road in my entire town, and it’s right out my front door. My town has a population of 4,000, and one inicial (like preschool) one primaria (like elementary school, grades 1-5) and one segundaria (jr high and high school combined). The size is closer to Salmon, Idaho, but has less stores and only a couple restaurants, like my hometown of Challis. 

My house is nice and my family is pretty progressive. As is customary in Peru, especially these parts, my house is made of concrete, adobe and brick. The first thing I noticed when I walked in my new home for the next two years (aside from the “Welcome Amanda” banner on the wall) is they have two flat-screen TV’s with Playstation 3’s hooked up to both of them. This confused the hell out of me. I have friends who were sent to Ancash where they don’t even have a toilet or shower, and I am sent to a site where my house doesn’t just have one, but two gaming systems? I was starting to think I had exited Peru. But then I found out they aren’t really there for the family. One of the family members had visited the States and bought them, and now they charge kids on the hour/per game to come and play them. That’s right—my house is like the local arcade. My living room is almost always filled with teenage boys. I have a feeling this will come in handy in the future.

Part of my room along with my banner.

The kitchen is basically open air, save for a thin plastic roof and screen ceiling to keep the bugs out. We are still in winter right now, and it is in the mid 70’s everyday. It is supposed to get over 100 F in the summer.

My room is enormous. I have a couch and a chair in it, and I still have enough floor space to work out or work on projects. My floor is cement/dirt though, and I’m still trying to figure out the best way to keep things clean. Their method is to mop with petroleum. Haven’t quite adopted it for myself yet.

Part of my house is still under construction, but there is an upstairs that mostly consists of my parent’s bedroom. Everyone has a TV in their room (normal small TV’s—no flat screens) except for me, and my host family asked if I was going to put one in mine. I said no, but they don’t know I have tons of movies to watch on my computer.

I am the most spoiled Peace Corps Volunteer in the history of time.

I’m not supposed to use real names when talking about people, but that’s going to get real confusing real fast, so I don’t think first names will hurt. I have a host mom (Jackie), host dad (Victor), host sister who is 20 (Janmarie) and married (Manuel) with a 16-month-old baby (Luanna), an 18-year-old host brother (Victor Jr), and a 16-year-old host sister (Maricielo). My host mom is basically the person who really pushed to get a volunteer in my town, which makes sense that she would be the one to offer to house me for the next two-years. She is a high school English teacher, and she is pretty active in the community. My host dad used to be a PE teacher, and now he has a night job, which I still don’t fully understand. Janmarie and Luanna live in the house with us right now, and her husband works out of town on the weekdays and comes home on the weekends. She does most of the cooking in the house since she is a stay at home mom and everyone else is running around busy. Victor Jr is also only home on the weekends, as he attends University in a different town. As I said, my family is pretty progressive, and everyone shares in the chores of the house. When my host brother is home on the weekends he cleans up in the kitchen and sweeps the floors. I’ve even seen him cooking. My host dad does a lot of cleaning, and he gets back from work at 6:00 am so depending on the day he’ll make breakfast in the morning for everyone. It’s not typical for both genders to share in household chores, as Peruvians are more traditional with women doing domestic work, and men working out of the house.

To say the least, I am having a very different experience than a lot of other people. I have hot water in my shower. My family has a computer with internet (even though it’s so slow I want to punch the screen sometimes) and a printer. And, something I recently discovered, my host family has an “at home gym”. I think they are the only Peruvians with dumbbells and aerobic steps. As I said, most spoiled PCV. Ever.

This is my own little slice of Peru. All of my compañeros were spread out along the coast of Peru, so some are in the mountains eating guinea pigs and speaking Quechua, while others are having experiences more like mine. Peru has so many extreme differences in geography, climate, traditions, and languages; there is no way for me to describe Peru in these blogs. I will only be able to tell you about my little town in this incredible country.

And while I have things like water, electricity, internet, etc, (God, I feel spoiled listing all of that out) it doesn’t mean I am not experiencing other extreme cultural differences—au contraire. Some of my best stories have yet to come. But while I can’t wait to riddle this blog with ridiculous anecdotes and observations, I hope one theme will stand true; that regardless of all of our cultural differences, we do have a lot in common.

¿Hablas Spanglish?

Hola from Buenos Aires, Lima, Peru! I just completed my first week as a trainee in the Youth Development program and my first week with my training host family, and I am happy to say I survived. And maybe that doesn’t seem like a huge accomplishment considering I am supposed to be in Peru for 27 months, but let me tell you, little could surpass the feelings of terror and dread I had on those first days in my training site. I feel like I’ve been gone months, and Monday was weeks ago.

I would be lying if I said I felt confident, secure in my abilities, happy with my Spanish, and like I had made the right decision. I felt the furthest from it. Monday during the first day of training, tears sat in the corner of my eyes all day long and waited until I was alone at my host family’s house to pour out in a bout of self-pity and fear of having made the wrong decision. I felt like I had spent a year of my life applying for a job I wasn’t fit for. I was just so overwhelmed.

They say Peace Corps will give you the highest highs and the lowest lows, and I am already starting to get a feel for what they mean. Imagine turning your life upside down and heading to a country you’ve never been to with people you’ve only just met, living with people you don’t know and have a bit of a language barrier with, and then throw culture shock, new standards of living, eight-hour training sessions, constipation, freezing-ass cold showers, and terrible coffee on top. Now, how does that make you feel?

But things have already gotten better. Everyday things get better. Poco a poco is a popular saying here; little by little.

So now that I’m past discussing feelings and junk like that, here are some things about what I’ve been doing. I think until things start slowing down, I’m going to be making these blogs mostly “highlights” of my time here. So much happens on the hour, it would be impossible to recollect it all.

Training: Training is actually pretty fun, but it’s a lot of information to handle at once. In the past when I’ve done language classes in country, I spent three to four hours max in class, two hours napping, and the rest of the time having fun in the city.  But this isn’t study abroad-- this is a job. Training is eight-hours a day with approximately four-hours of language training, and the rest of the time is split between presentations on culture/medical information/etc and job specific training. To be honest, I feel like a little kid more than someone training for a big job. Mostly because we are all a bunch of goofy, loud people who can’t sit still for five minutes, but also because we all walk to training together with our sack lunches and backpacks.

Family: I’m currently living with an awesome family who I get along with really well. They have housed Peace Corps trainees for many years, and they are pretty used to our “backwards” ways of doing things. My host family consists of Lilia (mom), Javier (dad), Ruth (23 year-old daughter), Josie (17 year-old daughter) and Diego (10 year-old son). They are all incredibly nice. Lili can be quiet sometimes, but lately she’s been hanging around me more and asking if I need help with homework. Javier works 22 hours away (still don’t know what he does) so he is gone for 20 days at a time, and comes home for eight days. I just met him today! Ruth lives next door and has a toddler (Michaela) and houses another PCT. Josie is studying to be an engineer at a University over an hour away, and she commutes back and forth everyday. I rarely see her, but when I do she talks so fast my head spins. And Diego is the best thing that has ever happened to me. He’s at that age where he still likes to play with action figures and is absolutely ridiculous without worrying about looking cool, but he totally crushes on all of his amigas and uses Facebook and Twitter like a true addict. He makes being here so much easier, because he’s patient with my language skills, he often gets me out of the house by asking if I want to play basketball or futbol at la conchita (basketball court), and he always greets me (sometimes hanging out his window) with a big grin and, “AH-MAHN-DAAAAAHHH!!!”

Health/Hygiene: On one of our first days of training we were discussing hygiene and showers, and a PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer--I know, lots of acronyms, get used to it) suggested to us, “Only wash what folds.” And that’s all you really can wash when the water comes out of the showerhead so freezing cold, you don’t even WANT to take a shower. I’ve only taken two since I’ve been in Peru.

We actually have a lot of meetings on health and hygiene, because it can get to be an issue for volunteers if they’re not careful. There’s a lot of different food, bacteria, parasites, viruses, etc. I’ve already gotten four shots, and I think I’m still getting a few more. We can’t drink the water, Peruvians like cold showers, lots of people are constipated, some people already have diarrhea and vomiting—it’s a pretty picture I’m painting, isn’t it? We also are recommended to brush our teeth at least twice a day, if not more. They don’t have fluoride in their water, and they eat way more sweet and sugary things than we are used to, so keeping teeth can be a problem (which by the way, Peace Corps won’t pay for lost teeth, so I’m planning on keeping mine). But our medical staff is awesome, and they are freakin’ hilarious! Actually, everyone is hilarious.

On a funny, but completely miserable topic, we’ve started a “70% Club” money pool. Some of us heard there is a statistic that 70% of all PCV’s poop their pants at one point in their service—our medical staff tell us the percentage is actually higher—so we decided to all put money in a pool, and the person (or people) that don’t poop their pants by the end of service (or sooner), WINS! Fun game, huh?

Speaking of poop, in Spanish you say “kaka” but its direct translation is “shit.” For two years, one of our medical staff was asking volunteers, “How was your shit?” every time he had appointments with them, until someone finally told him “shit” isn’t the appropriate term in English. I love our staff.

Otra vez, I will tell you about food, customs, culture, more about poop, and how having piel blanca gets you more attention than you ask for, and mi piso.  I want to talk more about where I live and what it’s like, but I’ll save that for another day and hopefully I’ll have a new and exciting way to present it.

Que vaya bien, y un gran abrazo y beso!