Sunday, January 7th

Today was a stellar day. I woke up disoriented because my bed was away from its usual spot, due to yesterday’s epic window installation (it still lacks glass, which comes tomorrow), got up, and made myself a bowl of corn flakes. Eating cereal here has been one of my greatest victories; sure, the milk was warm from having come from recently boiled water and dehydrated milk powder, but I enjoyed it all the same. The weavers got booted from their office in the municipality (into an office without electricity, after they just bought sewing machines. Poor Rachel), so I got out and helped some with the move.

Then the day got interesting: I wanted to start walking around Santo Domingo and collecting information for my community map before it was to start raining. There was something on the map that said “a hidroelectrico,” and, my curiosity piqued, I went to ask Humberto (conveniently, the go-to infrastructure guy in the municipality) what that could mean. He described the hydroelectric plant to me, and when he decided his description was insufficient to explain to the gringa what exactly this plant entailed, he offered to take me up there. So we went on a hike. I showed him all the stuff I needed to put on the map, including infrastructure, natural attractions, and plants.

What he and Flor failed to mention to me before starting is that, between the two of them, they could identify every single plant and tree on the 45-minute walk, and for most of them, they could also identify some sort of use. My map quickly became a mess of about 50 common names of plants, which made me happy in a way I can’t even describe, in any way except “snerdy.” (I know at least one person will get that. Brie, I am counting on you.) My favorite notation that I have found so far, in going through my notes, is “Mosquero: planta. Herpes.” According to Humberto, this plant heals cold sores. Thank goodness for cognates.

On the way, we ran into a sort of crazy older woman from the campo who babbled a lot and tried to sell us her bananas. Flor gave her a sol and told her to cook and eat the bananas herself. They then explained to me that some people in the campo are so poor that they can’t justify eating their own crops, something I already knew, but I found the act of charity refreshing.

Humberto giddily showed me all the hydroelectric infrastructure. My Spanish hydroelectric infrastructure vocabulary is, you know, a little rusty, but I more or less got it and took pictures to ask him about later. I thought we were done, but they insisted we had to go up to the caracoles and take pictures. I didn’t know what caracoles were, and if there is an English word for them other than the exact cognate I still don’t know it, but I assumed, given the theme of the hike, that they had something to do with hydroelectricity. They turned out to be deep, naturally-formed pools in the granite formation. They were pretty cool-looking, and some of them were about 6 feet deep. I tried to describe how identify granite, but again, lacking Spanish geology vocabulary, it was an inadequate lesson. So it turned out the caracoles were part of the “natural attractions” section of the map. I finally got it when they started talking about the tourism potential.

Then we came back, went to a sketchy street restaurant for lunch. A 78-year-old man was sitting there already, and after he started doing what is absolutely my pet peeve in this country, asking Flor about me in front of me in the third person (‘Where is she from? Does she speak Spanish?’), I gave him my best ‘I am positively killing you with my gringa kindness’ smile and said loudly, ‘I speak Spanish. You can talk to me.’ For once, someone actually accepted this and continued the conversation with me, in the second person. He then gave us a lecture about the evils of domestic violence, reiterating that he has been married to his wife for 56 years, “tranquila, sin golpes.” His wife cooked pork behind him and showed no signs of acknowledgement. She was, I suppose, tranquila. Sin golpes.

I got back to my room, finished off the last of the gummi bears I received in the mail (incidentally, I received “my brand” of gummi bears from three separate people, working independently. Fantastic.), and also finished off The Life of Pi, which was a pretty stellar book. Then it started to rain, and I took the greatest nap ever. And then I went to Rachel’s new house and wrote this on her laptop, as mine is still cranky.

I’m aware that Christmas, New Years, and my 21st birthday passed since the last time I wrote in this. Let it be noted that they were each, for highly individual reasons, quite wonderful.

The only one I reflected on in any sort of meaningful way was my birthday. I handwrote this the night before I left for Piura (I can never sleep when I know I have to get up at 3), and it’s sloppy, but more or less says what was on my mind.

So it’s very nearly my 21st birthday, a fact that I am excited about for obvious reasons, namely, legal brewskies! Woo! Oh wait, too bad I myself was forced to share a beer with an 8-year-old at a school party in this country. 21 doesn’t mean a whole lot.

What it does mean, however, is that I am of a less absurd age to be a Peace Corps Volunteer, which is great. I have no evidence to indicate that I am not the youngest PCV in the world (I preemptively apologize to the hypothetical 19-year-old agricultural Volunteer who reads this and knows this title is actually his/hers). This title doesn’t mean a lot, as evidenced by the Peace Corps website only providing statistics on the oldest PCV and not the lower end of the range. However, it’s a big job, representing the left side of the end of the sentence, “Peace Corps Volunteers come from all different stages in life, from…” but I consider myself pretty qualified for it. Since first-turned-into-second grade, I’ve gotten used to being a year younger than everyone “my age,” so all of my birthdays have been met with a little of “FINALLY, I’m the same age as everyone else.” Logically, of course, I wasn’t, so the feeling was short-lived. Peace Corps, where no one is even close to my age (the next one up turned 22 in November), has had the pleasantly unexpected result of making me subconsciously think, “Well, since no one is my age, everyone is ageless to me.” This has been good for my friend-making, not so good for my age self-identity issues, as “ageless” quickly turns into “basically-more-or-less my age.” This happens most often with Andrew, who I totally forget has two and a half-ish years on me, and I will say things to him like, “Oh man, this song is so High School,” to which he will respond, “Seriously? I didn’t even hear it until sophomore year of college.” Which makes sense, because not everyone was in high school from 1999 to 2003, during which, at some point, the song came out. The song in question was Dispatch’s “The General,” if anyone is terribly curious. It also happens when I think about my service, that I will be 22 when I’m done, and that seems like no time from now, because all my friends are already 23. And hey, if they can not die for 23 years, so can I.

None of this would seem terribly important if I didn’t constantly have to explain my age to new people, generally PCVs from Peru 5-7, since everyone in my training group has heard the spiel and is Over It. Still, it probably warrants contemplation. Rachel just launched into an intense contemplation about her headlamp, so I feel justified.