Pop! Goes My Heart

Yesterday I was outside my room and I realized someone had anonymously written “ALISA” on my wall. I didn’t see it as particularly malicious, just mildly helpful, in case I ever forget where I live or how to phonetically spell my name in Spanish.

This week has convinced me that I am at an age in between being mothered and being a mother in which I settle for just mothering myself. I went to the office yesterday morning only to realize that my counterpart was in the campo for the day (something that happens maybe half the times I try to go to the office). The second I completed the thought, “Man, there is NOTHING to do today,” I could literally HEAR in my own brain a voice saying, “There’s never NOTHING to do.” It was creepy, because it was my own voice saying this, and I am not a particularly motivated person when it comes to self-maintenance. So I reorganized my kitchen. I put plastic on my wire shelf so my fruits and veggies don’t fall down, designated drawers for spices and other things in packets, and bought a little bucket for all the bottles that need to be upright so they don’t take up room on my counter. It was incredibly satisfying.

And then it was afternoon and I’d already taken my nap, so I painted the exterior of my house. It needed to be done. There’s a Peruvian custom of political supporters painting the exterior of their house for an election, with the name of the political party, the candidates’ names, the basic tagline, and the party’s symbol with an X through it. The X used to confuse me, because it really looks like the house is saying “This political party? BOO! Put an X through that,” but it is actually showing you how to vote. “Mark an X through this political party’s symbol, like this.” The day I figured that out was probably the greatest epiphany about Peru I’ve ever had, next to the day I figured out that the people in vests on the street in the city sticking calculators in my face were not actually trying to sell me calculators, but trying to get me to exchange American dollars with them.

It was not just that the house was painted for the local election (that happened last November) that necessitated the fresh coat of paint, it was also that sometime between the election and now, I put a window in the front wall of my room. So the window was unintentionally busting through the propaganda, seemingly making a political statement. It was sort of awkward, but no one said anything about the fact that the house no longer read, “UNIDAD POPULAR SANTO DOMINGO,” but instead, “UNID------LAR SAN-----INGO.” So anyway, I took it upon myself to paint the house yesterday. The woman who sold me the paint asked if I knew how to paint, and when I asked, “Houses?” she said “Yes.” I thought that might just be something everyone kind of knows how to do, but a little girl who walked past the house told me that I paint pretty. Some old campo man just laughed like a crazy person at the site of me painting, but old campo men tend to do that.

(the rest of this entry is written a week later, at which point I realized I never finished/posted the entry)

My point about the kitchen organizing and house painting is just that Peace Corps life is (theoretically) a lot of looking at how things are done, thinking, “There’s a better way,” figuring out what the better way is, and implementing it. This is usually done toward other people’s way of doing things, but it’s a good feeling to turn it inward and fix your own life, too, even if it’s in small ways.

In other ramblings, I generally find that I can separate in my mind life in the U.S. with life here, and likewise, Spanish from English. It didn’t feel weird to be in the U.S. in May, because it was sort of like I turned on the part of my brain that expects all food to come out at the same time at a restaurant and partakes of public drinking fountains and off the part that boils tap water for five minutes and thinks nothing of streets drenched in animal poop. I also find that I can generally turn off the Spanish when I’m speaking English, unless it’s one of the following scenarios:

1. Spanish just does a phrase more efficiently than English does (i.e. “aprovechar” instead of “to take advantage of,” “demorar” instead of “to take a long time.”)

2. There isn’t a good English word for the concept (i.e. “campo”)

3. There is an English word for the concept, but I’ve had way more conversations about the concept in Spanish than in English, and therefore the Spanish word comes to mind first (i.e. “chacra” instead of “field,” “charla” instead of “informal lesson.”)

4. The Spanish word is just cool sounding (i.e. “bacán” instead of “great,” “fufurufu” instead of “person who talks a lot”)

5. I say the word so incredibly often in Spanish that I sort of forget that it’s not a word in English, too (i.e. “derepente” instead of “maybe,” “algo así” instead of “something like that”)

However, I recently had an experience in which all my mind-separation was blown to shreds. I was reading the back of a packet of apple cider mix my mom sent me, and it said, “Just add hot water. No need to boil, straight from the tap is fine!” or something like that. I stared at that packet of hot apple cider mix for a good three minutes trying to figure it out. It was like I understood that you don’t have to boil your tap water for health reasons in the U.S., but what did they mean by hot tap water? Did they mean you could mix the tap water with the mix first, and then find a way to heat it? It took me those three minutes of pure concentration to remember that in some parts of the world, you can obtain both cold and hot water from a sink.

I shared my hot apple cider with Humberto, and he enjoyed it, but not nearly as much as he enjoyed last week’s gastronomical cultural exchange. I strongly recommend that if you are ever bored in a Third World country, you find some Pop Rocks and share them with your friends. It is endless amusement for all parties involved. Jaime had sent me two installments of Pop Rocks that I had sort of forgotten about, and then I thought, “Man, if you’d never had Pop Rocks before, they would blow your mind.” So I told Humberto and his brother that I wanted to share my American candy with them to thank them for all the work they’d done on my room, but that they were supposed to put them on their tongue and not swallow them immediately. Confusion gave way to surprise, which gave way to nervous giggling, which gave way to stating the obvious (“¡Explota!”), which gave way to appreciation (“Bacán”), which gave way to scientific exploration (“¿Qué tiene?”), which gave way to lament (“No tenemos algo así acá.”) I’m considering producing a video montage of Peruvians trying Pop Rocks for the first time. I have a lot of spare time.