I taught her how to do Bekah's saddest face in the world.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Mas Fotos
Me and my siblings in my room. We drew robots and flies on the wall. Cool.
 |
| Me and my kids from summer school and the beginnings of our world map in the community. |
 |
| A picture of a meeting with kids and moms. We were singing a song with the kids in a circle. |
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Dar a Luz on the Mountain
On my second day at site, I was gathering alfalpha with my host mom when she got a call there had been an accident on the mountain. So we hiked to the puna where there was a mess of women wrapped in black mantas weeping hysterically. On the other side of the mountain, I peered into the ravine and saw a twisted body. One of the women in a caserio’s husband fell of the mountain to his death. Not surprisingly, he was drunk at eight in the morning. The widow is in her mid-thirties with four children and one on the way. Her source of chacra work had just died and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have a life insurance policy to help her raise the kids. I still don’t really understand how families in this type of situation survive. I wondered how that type of stress would affect her pregnancy.
A couple of weeks ago, I was hiking to a caserio with my host mom, a socia of mine, and the male tecnico at the health post. I was going to do house visits and we were going to check on the full-term widow. We reached the puna and the spot where her husband died and met a woman on the mountain path. Totally in Quechua, I found out through my translator mom that the pregnant woman was dying. I really, really didn’t want to see her and maybe her baby die as well. I thought about her other kids. The tecnico started running. I walked briskly for my clumsy American-sized feet were sure to slip on the narrow, rocky campo pass. We reached the woman about three minutes after the tecnico. She was lying in the pass with a new baby still attached at the umbilical cord. She had delivered moments before I got there. The mother looked in bad shape but then again, she hadn’t had as much as an ibuprofen. Her breathing was slow and there was enough blood that I was pretty sure she was never going to meet her new infant. The tecnico tied a piece of string from a campo hat around the umbilical cord. Then he went in there with his hands and removed the placenta. He also put in an IV into her arm. Since I was the highest point at the time at a whopping 5’5’’, I was in charge of holding the IV bag.
The baby seemed ok. He didn’t cry much and was a bit blue, but I have no point of reference with which to compare and infant’s newborn state. He was being held by one of the mother’s friends. We buried the placenta under a rock and covered the blood with mud. And then they had to get to the health post, an hour walk away. The tecnico put the mother on his back in a manta and we started hiking. I walked alongside the pair holding the IV bag. The back of the tecnico’s pants were covered in blood as we inched along the path. As we reached the part where her husband died, I knew what everyone was thinking about.
I really don’t know how he did it because the descent is difficult with the rocks, but the tecnico safely brought the mother to the health post at my site. I was holding her baby as the doctor was checking the mother out. I welcomed it to Earth because no one had spoken to the baby since it’s arrival into the world. I asked if she wanted to see him and offered to hold him near her head. She seemed indifferent, but I did it anyway. I asked her if he had a name yet. He didn’t. She didn’t want to hold him or anything and after a minute told me to put him over there on the table. After she was settled in and doing fine, she finally got to hold him. She didn’t talk to him at all and just fed him.
I guess it’s not too strange to not name a child here until days or weeks after birth. For most Americans, the baby in utero has a name and has is typically talked to by the parents. However, maybe it’s a coping mechanism here with higher infant mortality rates. Maybe not perceiving the fetus and newborn as a new member of the family until it seems healthy makes death easier. Regardless of the differences in cultures around how a baby is treated during pregnancy and birth, it has been shown that early childhood stimulation helps make smarter, healthier babies and eventually healthier, smarter adults. I’m not here to change Peruvian culture, but this experience taught me there is much work to be done educating mothers about how to stimulate their babies in utero and after birth. I’m sure any mother in the world would want simple tips on how to make their babies healthier and smarter. I look forward to starting this type of project.
Update: I visited the mother and baby a week after the birthday. Both look great and healthy. I have been present at two really huge events in this family’s life but can barely communicate with them (she speaks mostly Quechua). I hope I get to know her and her family better over my two years.
A couple of weeks ago, I was hiking to a caserio with my host mom, a socia of mine, and the male tecnico at the health post. I was going to do house visits and we were going to check on the full-term widow. We reached the puna and the spot where her husband died and met a woman on the mountain path. Totally in Quechua, I found out through my translator mom that the pregnant woman was dying. I really, really didn’t want to see her and maybe her baby die as well. I thought about her other kids. The tecnico started running. I walked briskly for my clumsy American-sized feet were sure to slip on the narrow, rocky campo pass. We reached the woman about three minutes after the tecnico. She was lying in the pass with a new baby still attached at the umbilical cord. She had delivered moments before I got there. The mother looked in bad shape but then again, she hadn’t had as much as an ibuprofen. Her breathing was slow and there was enough blood that I was pretty sure she was never going to meet her new infant. The tecnico tied a piece of string from a campo hat around the umbilical cord. Then he went in there with his hands and removed the placenta. He also put in an IV into her arm. Since I was the highest point at the time at a whopping 5’5’’, I was in charge of holding the IV bag.
The baby seemed ok. He didn’t cry much and was a bit blue, but I have no point of reference with which to compare and infant’s newborn state. He was being held by one of the mother’s friends. We buried the placenta under a rock and covered the blood with mud. And then they had to get to the health post, an hour walk away. The tecnico put the mother on his back in a manta and we started hiking. I walked alongside the pair holding the IV bag. The back of the tecnico’s pants were covered in blood as we inched along the path. As we reached the part where her husband died, I knew what everyone was thinking about.
I really don’t know how he did it because the descent is difficult with the rocks, but the tecnico safely brought the mother to the health post at my site. I was holding her baby as the doctor was checking the mother out. I welcomed it to Earth because no one had spoken to the baby since it’s arrival into the world. I asked if she wanted to see him and offered to hold him near her head. She seemed indifferent, but I did it anyway. I asked her if he had a name yet. He didn’t. She didn’t want to hold him or anything and after a minute told me to put him over there on the table. After she was settled in and doing fine, she finally got to hold him. She didn’t talk to him at all and just fed him.
I guess it’s not too strange to not name a child here until days or weeks after birth. For most Americans, the baby in utero has a name and has is typically talked to by the parents. However, maybe it’s a coping mechanism here with higher infant mortality rates. Maybe not perceiving the fetus and newborn as a new member of the family until it seems healthy makes death easier. Regardless of the differences in cultures around how a baby is treated during pregnancy and birth, it has been shown that early childhood stimulation helps make smarter, healthier babies and eventually healthier, smarter adults. I’m not here to change Peruvian culture, but this experience taught me there is much work to be done educating mothers about how to stimulate their babies in utero and after birth. I’m sure any mother in the world would want simple tips on how to make their babies healthier and smarter. I look forward to starting this type of project.
Update: I visited the mother and baby a week after the birthday. Both look great and healthy. I have been present at two really huge events in this family’s life but can barely communicate with them (she speaks mostly Quechua). I hope I get to know her and her family better over my two years.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Pictures.
See the little tiny blue thing in the distance? That's my latrine! This is taken from the treehouse ladder. Nice view, eh?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
El Diablo Está En Los Detalles
So I’ve been here long enough now that (I think) most of the shocking new stuff is probably waning. Not to say something can’t surprise me, but after seven or eight weeks in the campo now, life feels fairly normal. A few observations and events stick out.
I’m starting to get a little disturbed by how much killing, skinning, gutting, cleaning and eating animals doesn’t bother me. In fact, I get excited when I hear we’re going to slaughter another mammal. I’m learning a lot about anatomy, too. The other day, I help clean the intestines of a goat. I watched the process via the insides of the creature of turning grass into shit. It’s cool. Intestines are really fun to clean out because they’re really stretchy, strong tubes. You stretch them out, put it under the faucet and watch the pressure clean out the food/poop. I’ll stick my hand in the grossest anything you put in front of me. It’s really sweet to see how little time it takes for lungs to harden after exposure to the elements. They use every part of the goat. We skinned him, stretched the pelt on the side of the house. We ate goat head, feet and intestine soup. I’m really into intestines and liver but the head was a bit chewy for me. Couldn’t do it. Blood is my favorite part of the animal besides the meat, though. It’s so flavorful and I can almost feel my iron levels increasing with every bite. I’m gonna have to find a blood hook up in the States upon return.
So I climb a ladder to get to my room. It’s pretty much straight up, about six rungs, homemade. Typically, I ascend and descend carrying a bunch of stuff. The other day, my foot slipped and I fell straight off, backwards, onto my back and head. My mom ran over to me (she’s super sensitive) and almost started crying. I was fine, just banged up. No blood. But I had to pretend like I was better than I was because she was so worried. I had to get up, wipe the mud from my ass and tell her I’m fine. But I have a pretty deep, beautiful bruise the covers most of my lower leg on the left side. I felt like I had been in a car accident. But, living upstairs is definitely better than living downstairs in the campo. I don’t have to deal with chicken rifling through my stuff in the mornings.
However, I have started naming the mice that live in my room. I have white plastic that covers my ceiling beams to protect me from the rain. In the places between the beams, the plastic droops down a little. When my mice play on those parts, they make a hell of a lot of noise. And now they’ve figured out how to come down and play on my floor. I can tell because of the noises during the night. They’re noises of mice playing in my trash can, near my laundry bag, my shoes. I started naming them after famous mice/rats. I have Gus Gus, Splinter and Jerry. My third year volunteer told me that if I’m naming my mice already, I’m going to be ok. I was also told I had one of the toughest sites in Peru. Honestly, it’s not bad. I mean it’s a far cry from having servants (at least one volunteer has them) or cable, but I didn’t join Peace Corps to have a more comfortable life than before. I’m thinking about getting a little cat again for a completely practical reason this time.
So what the hell I am doing? Well, the kids are on summer break from school. I have two days a week of English class and two days a week of geography class. The ages range from 6 to about 15, which I tough. We play games with vocab and sing songs. My group is really too big to be very effective, but the point is more to get to know the community, let them get to know me and start gaining trust. I really hate unstructured noise. I can handle and hour or two at a time, but after that, I’m wiped. I like some kids, but in much smaller groups and with more similar ages. After the summer break is over, I’m not having open enrollment youth groups. It exhausts me. And it’s hard to discipline in a language I’m still learning. And kids here are not made to mind. I have to tell my six year old sister to say please and thank you. And I do. I don’t care if my mom or dad think it’s rude that I do that.
Speaking of my little sister, she’s a trip. Generally I like her a lot, but she whines and is an attention hog. It’s hard to get mad at her for that because most girls in the campo has such low self esteem that they won’t speak. So it’s good that she’s loud and extroverted, but I can’t stand the whining. She does whatever the hell she wants and no one (expect me now) even attempts to discipline her. Thank the baby jesus I have a door now and she can’t come in and mess with my computer anymore. ‘Unstructured six year old dirty jam hands’ isn’t covered under my insurance. She’d have to steal it before I could get it replaced. Anyway, for the first month or so I was here, she started calling me The Queen. She was a princess (did I ever like princesses? Jesus, I hope not) and mom was the cook (self-proclaimed). I hated it. It felt like white worship and I’m really not into divine rule by heredity in general. I wanted her to stop so at first, I told her the Queen orders her to stop calling me the Queen. Didn’t work. Then I had an idea. I started dropping hints that witches were way cooler than princesses. All princesses can do is wear pretty dresses and wait for some good-looking man or beast to save the day and make her a complete person. Not good messages for little girls. Also, I’m starting to wonder how much of liking that shit is in our DNA. She has no exposure to TV, the toy aisle at Target or media in ANY way. And she still likes princesses and pink and purple. And my brother still makes guns out of sticks. How hard can you fight that as I parent? Anyway… So, I started casting spells on her that she liked. It started working and now we’re all witches. It’s cool.
I feel like I look like someone else. I’m wearing the same three outfits made of knit leggings, skirts and Old Navy sweaters. I can’t stick out any more than being of gargantuan size, blonde and have blue eyes. I have to wear my glasses which I hate. I don’t wear any makeup. My legs are still covered and swollen with bug bites (and bruises). My hair looks pretty shitty and I shower once a week. However, there are thermal baths in the town down the mountain. They’re disgusting, but if you close your eyes and let the water take you somewhere else, it’s amazing. It costs 1 sole to 20 minutes. I know the water isn’t coming out of the center of the earth for me, but it sure feels like it. But, I still brush my teeth at least twice a day and floss. Sometimes when my mom gets really close to talk to me and I can smell her breath, it actually, literally, not joking, smells like shit. Not just like rank breath, like shit. It almost takes my breath away. Constant reminder to keep up my personal hygiene as much as I can here. However, two words: prison tats.
And I’ve been obsessed with American campo music lately. Lucinda Williams has been in my playlist everyday since I moved here. And Johhny Cash. And Bruce Springsteen. And Gillian Welsh. And John Mellencamp. And Hank Williams. And Nick Cave. He makes less sense except maybe that Johnny Cash loved him. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with that, but I’m letting it ride.
I’m giving a public thank you to my former co-workers/current friends. They sent me a package with a book about mullets and a newspaper clipping of 50 reasons to love Minneapolis. You guys fucking rock. It really means a lot to me. It’s spendy to send stuff back, but rest assured I will. And thanks to all of you who sent cards, too. It’s awesome getting shit in the mail here. I know my address looks fake without numbers and all, but it works. The town where I have my PO Box is that small. And thank you so much for the phone calls. I always prefer those to emails (also cuz internet is like 1998 slow here). I love hearing your voices. And sometimes, because the phones are kinda fucked, you have to keep calling back. And it the thing doesn’t beep, the voicemail doesn’t work. Love it.
I’m starting to get a little disturbed by how much killing, skinning, gutting, cleaning and eating animals doesn’t bother me. In fact, I get excited when I hear we’re going to slaughter another mammal. I’m learning a lot about anatomy, too. The other day, I help clean the intestines of a goat. I watched the process via the insides of the creature of turning grass into shit. It’s cool. Intestines are really fun to clean out because they’re really stretchy, strong tubes. You stretch them out, put it under the faucet and watch the pressure clean out the food/poop. I’ll stick my hand in the grossest anything you put in front of me. It’s really sweet to see how little time it takes for lungs to harden after exposure to the elements. They use every part of the goat. We skinned him, stretched the pelt on the side of the house. We ate goat head, feet and intestine soup. I’m really into intestines and liver but the head was a bit chewy for me. Couldn’t do it. Blood is my favorite part of the animal besides the meat, though. It’s so flavorful and I can almost feel my iron levels increasing with every bite. I’m gonna have to find a blood hook up in the States upon return.
So I climb a ladder to get to my room. It’s pretty much straight up, about six rungs, homemade. Typically, I ascend and descend carrying a bunch of stuff. The other day, my foot slipped and I fell straight off, backwards, onto my back and head. My mom ran over to me (she’s super sensitive) and almost started crying. I was fine, just banged up. No blood. But I had to pretend like I was better than I was because she was so worried. I had to get up, wipe the mud from my ass and tell her I’m fine. But I have a pretty deep, beautiful bruise the covers most of my lower leg on the left side. I felt like I had been in a car accident. But, living upstairs is definitely better than living downstairs in the campo. I don’t have to deal with chicken rifling through my stuff in the mornings.
However, I have started naming the mice that live in my room. I have white plastic that covers my ceiling beams to protect me from the rain. In the places between the beams, the plastic droops down a little. When my mice play on those parts, they make a hell of a lot of noise. And now they’ve figured out how to come down and play on my floor. I can tell because of the noises during the night. They’re noises of mice playing in my trash can, near my laundry bag, my shoes. I started naming them after famous mice/rats. I have Gus Gus, Splinter and Jerry. My third year volunteer told me that if I’m naming my mice already, I’m going to be ok. I was also told I had one of the toughest sites in Peru. Honestly, it’s not bad. I mean it’s a far cry from having servants (at least one volunteer has them) or cable, but I didn’t join Peace Corps to have a more comfortable life than before. I’m thinking about getting a little cat again for a completely practical reason this time.
So what the hell I am doing? Well, the kids are on summer break from school. I have two days a week of English class and two days a week of geography class. The ages range from 6 to about 15, which I tough. We play games with vocab and sing songs. My group is really too big to be very effective, but the point is more to get to know the community, let them get to know me and start gaining trust. I really hate unstructured noise. I can handle and hour or two at a time, but after that, I’m wiped. I like some kids, but in much smaller groups and with more similar ages. After the summer break is over, I’m not having open enrollment youth groups. It exhausts me. And it’s hard to discipline in a language I’m still learning. And kids here are not made to mind. I have to tell my six year old sister to say please and thank you. And I do. I don’t care if my mom or dad think it’s rude that I do that.
Speaking of my little sister, she’s a trip. Generally I like her a lot, but she whines and is an attention hog. It’s hard to get mad at her for that because most girls in the campo has such low self esteem that they won’t speak. So it’s good that she’s loud and extroverted, but I can’t stand the whining. She does whatever the hell she wants and no one (expect me now) even attempts to discipline her. Thank the baby jesus I have a door now and she can’t come in and mess with my computer anymore. ‘Unstructured six year old dirty jam hands’ isn’t covered under my insurance. She’d have to steal it before I could get it replaced. Anyway, for the first month or so I was here, she started calling me The Queen. She was a princess (did I ever like princesses? Jesus, I hope not) and mom was the cook (self-proclaimed). I hated it. It felt like white worship and I’m really not into divine rule by heredity in general. I wanted her to stop so at first, I told her the Queen orders her to stop calling me the Queen. Didn’t work. Then I had an idea. I started dropping hints that witches were way cooler than princesses. All princesses can do is wear pretty dresses and wait for some good-looking man or beast to save the day and make her a complete person. Not good messages for little girls. Also, I’m starting to wonder how much of liking that shit is in our DNA. She has no exposure to TV, the toy aisle at Target or media in ANY way. And she still likes princesses and pink and purple. And my brother still makes guns out of sticks. How hard can you fight that as I parent? Anyway… So, I started casting spells on her that she liked. It started working and now we’re all witches. It’s cool.
I feel like I look like someone else. I’m wearing the same three outfits made of knit leggings, skirts and Old Navy sweaters. I can’t stick out any more than being of gargantuan size, blonde and have blue eyes. I have to wear my glasses which I hate. I don’t wear any makeup. My legs are still covered and swollen with bug bites (and bruises). My hair looks pretty shitty and I shower once a week. However, there are thermal baths in the town down the mountain. They’re disgusting, but if you close your eyes and let the water take you somewhere else, it’s amazing. It costs 1 sole to 20 minutes. I know the water isn’t coming out of the center of the earth for me, but it sure feels like it. But, I still brush my teeth at least twice a day and floss. Sometimes when my mom gets really close to talk to me and I can smell her breath, it actually, literally, not joking, smells like shit. Not just like rank breath, like shit. It almost takes my breath away. Constant reminder to keep up my personal hygiene as much as I can here. However, two words: prison tats.
And I’ve been obsessed with American campo music lately. Lucinda Williams has been in my playlist everyday since I moved here. And Johhny Cash. And Bruce Springsteen. And Gillian Welsh. And John Mellencamp. And Hank Williams. And Nick Cave. He makes less sense except maybe that Johnny Cash loved him. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with that, but I’m letting it ride.
I’m giving a public thank you to my former co-workers/current friends. They sent me a package with a book about mullets and a newspaper clipping of 50 reasons to love Minneapolis. You guys fucking rock. It really means a lot to me. It’s spendy to send stuff back, but rest assured I will. And thanks to all of you who sent cards, too. It’s awesome getting shit in the mail here. I know my address looks fake without numbers and all, but it works. The town where I have my PO Box is that small. And thank you so much for the phone calls. I always prefer those to emails (also cuz internet is like 1998 slow here). I love hearing your voices. And sometimes, because the phones are kinda fucked, you have to keep calling back. And it the thing doesn’t beep, the voicemail doesn’t work. Love it.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Ode to Paneton
For those of you in the States, Paneton is this strange sweet bread with little pieces of gelatinous fruit thingies littered throughout. Peruvians go nuts for it and it’s a Christmas tradition to eat it here. It’s special because it’s kinda expensive. Nothing at home compares to Paneton. I wrote this mostly for my other Peace Corps friends because they’ll get it. The Paneton experience can only really be expressed through spoken word. Find the cadence in my poem.
Paneton, oh Paneton
Packed in your shiny red box
Your marketing pleasing
Presentation appealing
Too bad you’re kept under locks
Paneton, oh Paneton
How rico you much taste
With your cylindrical form
And dried fruit a-swarm
There will be not a crumb left to waste
Paneton, oh Paneton
You look so moist and fresh
When will it be time
To savor the sublime?
My patience is a daunting request
Paneton, oh Paneton
A thick slice on my plate
The mound has been shared
I’m mentally prepared
Entiendo this moment has weight
Paneton, MY Paneton
My teeth grind the virgin bite
But it’s dry and disgusting
My tongue forward thrusting
This shit far out of my site
Paneton, my Paneton
Bereft of anything good
I was under the guise
There would be no surprise
But the bread has the texture of wood
Paneton, my Paneton
Seriously, what the fuck?
I mean the fruit pieces reveal
More than they conceal
They’re jellied chunks which suck
Paneton, fucking Paneton
Your mocking is harsh and crude
But I have to eat more
Cuz my family adores
You and Lord knows I can’t be rude
Paneton, my Paneton
I trudge on like a champ
I consume piece after piece
But try not to release
The notion of a tradition revamp
Paneton, shitty Paneton
There’s an Xmas party in my boca
But everyone’s throwing up
New guests showing up
That perhaps will make me choke-a
Paneton, oh Paneton
Perhaps no one is enchanted
It’s just what we do
But we don’t have a clue
A custom we all take for granted
Paneton, my Paneton
Something strange is occurring
The more I indulge
The less of a grudge
I hold- the cultural lines are now blurring
Paneton, my Paneton
I don’t believe I’m not a hater
The crap in my grill
Now feels like a thrill
I wanna save some for later
Paneton, dear Paneton
Can this be a new obsession?
Is it true? ¿Acostumbré?
I was lead violently astray
To not wish you in my possession
Paneton, sweet Paneton
Can you be an acquired taste?
I don’t want to gloat
But it’s worthy to note
Next Xmas had better make haste
Paneton, oh Paneton
Packed in your shiny red box
Your marketing pleasing
Presentation appealing
Too bad you’re kept under locks
Paneton, oh Paneton
How rico you much taste
With your cylindrical form
And dried fruit a-swarm
There will be not a crumb left to waste
Paneton, oh Paneton
You look so moist and fresh
When will it be time
To savor the sublime?
My patience is a daunting request
Paneton, oh Paneton
A thick slice on my plate
The mound has been shared
I’m mentally prepared
Entiendo this moment has weight
Paneton, MY Paneton
My teeth grind the virgin bite
But it’s dry and disgusting
My tongue forward thrusting
This shit far out of my site
Paneton, my Paneton
Bereft of anything good
I was under the guise
There would be no surprise
But the bread has the texture of wood
Paneton, my Paneton
Seriously, what the fuck?
I mean the fruit pieces reveal
More than they conceal
They’re jellied chunks which suck
Paneton, fucking Paneton
Your mocking is harsh and crude
But I have to eat more
Cuz my family adores
You and Lord knows I can’t be rude
Paneton, my Paneton
I trudge on like a champ
I consume piece after piece
But try not to release
The notion of a tradition revamp
Paneton, shitty Paneton
There’s an Xmas party in my boca
But everyone’s throwing up
New guests showing up
That perhaps will make me choke-a
Paneton, oh Paneton
Perhaps no one is enchanted
It’s just what we do
But we don’t have a clue
A custom we all take for granted
Paneton, my Paneton
Something strange is occurring
The more I indulge
The less of a grudge
I hold- the cultural lines are now blurring
Paneton, my Paneton
I don’t believe I’m not a hater
The crap in my grill
Now feels like a thrill
I wanna save some for later
Paneton, dear Paneton
Can this be a new obsession?
Is it true? ¿Acostumbré?
I was lead violently astray
To not wish you in my possession
Paneton, sweet Paneton
Can you be an acquired taste?
I don’t want to gloat
But it’s worthy to note
Next Xmas had better make haste
Dirt So Good
Of all the improvements made to my room, I really wanted a cement floor done first. My family, however, had different plans. The floor will be cemented in January. This had given me much time to think about the merits of having a dirt floor.
First of all, know that game you played as kids where you had to jump from thing to thing because the ground was lava? Yeah, well, I play that all day long. One had to be mindful about where one puts one’s feet when one gets up in the middle of the night to pee when one had a dirt floor. Otherwise you track that shit back under your fort of blankets. Looks like I’m reliving at least two childhood games. Sometimes my blankets graze the dirt when I turn over during the night. It wouldn’t be so bad except that heavy wool blankets are a bitch to wash by hand and take days to dry when it rains every day. Ok. I’m comfortable being a bit dirty when I sleep. I think I can get used to this.
I used to brush my teeth in the kitchen after dinner. I thought maybe I’d set a good example to my family and they’d use the toothbrushes they have. But one day, I accidentally knocked the half plastic bottle the toothbrushes were kept in onto the dirt ground and the toothbrushes fell all over the place. I was horrified because hell if I’d put a toothbrush back into my mouth EVER after it touched the ground (the ground is lava, right?). My panicked look didn’t seem to convey the gravity I felt toward the situation. My mom sorta laughed and said ‘Don’t worry, Julieta!’ which makes me think they use them about as little as the aesthetics of their mouths portray. My six year old sister has a toothache so bad that it wakes her up in pain more than once a night. Well, her teeth are rotting out of her head. Every kid around here had rotted baby teeth. This surprises me because I don’t even see them eating many sweets or soda. That makes me think they just hardly brush their teeth. I got some work to do with the kids. Anyway, I started brushing my teeth in my room for no particular reason except that maybe if someone accidentally knocked over my toothbrush onto the dirt, they’d apply the five second rule and move on with life and see no reason to confess to me. But, because I have a dirt floor, I spit on my floor. Well, the big spit goes into my piss bucket. I’ve learned the lesson and now release the toothpaste suds from a safe distance of about 5’5’’. However, the rinse off goes right on my floor. It’s really, really fun to spit on the floor in your room.
About that piss bucket. When the cement finally arrives, it will actually matter how good my aim is. This concerns me. I mean, it’s a skill to pee in a gallon bucket for a girl and by all means I have been improving. However, the flow pattern isn’t 100% predictable. I mean it’s not like I miss and entire trip to the bucket. I might miss the first 7% or something. Sometimes my room smells a little like an old cat lady’s house but I’m sure the dirt absorbs most of the ammonia. Cement absorbs fuck all. Allegedly, my family is building a latrine closer to the house (and I must say that my Catholic Peruvian family uses pages of the bible to wipe their ass. I’ve seen it with my own eyes in the darkness of the latrine hole)… but in Peruvian time… I’m sure anyone who visits me will be learning to aim for a gallon bucket. So, I think I will miss the dirt floor. I hope I miss the cement…
And on the subject of using my room for a bathroom, I bathe here too. Not often, mind you. I can’t tell if it’s cold and rainy enough here that I just don’t smell or I’m comparing myself to folks who bathe less often than I do. At any rate, once a week or so, I take a bucket bath in my room. And as careful as I am, water gets on my dirt floor. How do you remove water from cement? I’ll need to actually buy cleaning products or something.
And about cleaning a dirt floor. It is, in fact, possible. I swear there is merit in sweeping a dirt floor. You wouldn’t want rocks getting all mixed up with dirt, would you? When you have a dirt floor, rocks are new dirt. You gotta get that shit outta there. Also, I know this sounds crazy, but you sprinkle water on a dirt floor to clean it. Seriously. You find that sweet threshold before it becomes hardcore mud. But just the right amount settles the dust but doesn’t not create a wrestling arena.
I think I’m gonna keep the dirt. I’ll get a rug.
First of all, know that game you played as kids where you had to jump from thing to thing because the ground was lava? Yeah, well, I play that all day long. One had to be mindful about where one puts one’s feet when one gets up in the middle of the night to pee when one had a dirt floor. Otherwise you track that shit back under your fort of blankets. Looks like I’m reliving at least two childhood games. Sometimes my blankets graze the dirt when I turn over during the night. It wouldn’t be so bad except that heavy wool blankets are a bitch to wash by hand and take days to dry when it rains every day. Ok. I’m comfortable being a bit dirty when I sleep. I think I can get used to this.
I used to brush my teeth in the kitchen after dinner. I thought maybe I’d set a good example to my family and they’d use the toothbrushes they have. But one day, I accidentally knocked the half plastic bottle the toothbrushes were kept in onto the dirt ground and the toothbrushes fell all over the place. I was horrified because hell if I’d put a toothbrush back into my mouth EVER after it touched the ground (the ground is lava, right?). My panicked look didn’t seem to convey the gravity I felt toward the situation. My mom sorta laughed and said ‘Don’t worry, Julieta!’ which makes me think they use them about as little as the aesthetics of their mouths portray. My six year old sister has a toothache so bad that it wakes her up in pain more than once a night. Well, her teeth are rotting out of her head. Every kid around here had rotted baby teeth. This surprises me because I don’t even see them eating many sweets or soda. That makes me think they just hardly brush their teeth. I got some work to do with the kids. Anyway, I started brushing my teeth in my room for no particular reason except that maybe if someone accidentally knocked over my toothbrush onto the dirt, they’d apply the five second rule and move on with life and see no reason to confess to me. But, because I have a dirt floor, I spit on my floor. Well, the big spit goes into my piss bucket. I’ve learned the lesson and now release the toothpaste suds from a safe distance of about 5’5’’. However, the rinse off goes right on my floor. It’s really, really fun to spit on the floor in your room.
About that piss bucket. When the cement finally arrives, it will actually matter how good my aim is. This concerns me. I mean, it’s a skill to pee in a gallon bucket for a girl and by all means I have been improving. However, the flow pattern isn’t 100% predictable. I mean it’s not like I miss and entire trip to the bucket. I might miss the first 7% or something. Sometimes my room smells a little like an old cat lady’s house but I’m sure the dirt absorbs most of the ammonia. Cement absorbs fuck all. Allegedly, my family is building a latrine closer to the house (and I must say that my Catholic Peruvian family uses pages of the bible to wipe their ass. I’ve seen it with my own eyes in the darkness of the latrine hole)… but in Peruvian time… I’m sure anyone who visits me will be learning to aim for a gallon bucket. So, I think I will miss the dirt floor. I hope I miss the cement…
And on the subject of using my room for a bathroom, I bathe here too. Not often, mind you. I can’t tell if it’s cold and rainy enough here that I just don’t smell or I’m comparing myself to folks who bathe less often than I do. At any rate, once a week or so, I take a bucket bath in my room. And as careful as I am, water gets on my dirt floor. How do you remove water from cement? I’ll need to actually buy cleaning products or something.
And about cleaning a dirt floor. It is, in fact, possible. I swear there is merit in sweeping a dirt floor. You wouldn’t want rocks getting all mixed up with dirt, would you? When you have a dirt floor, rocks are new dirt. You gotta get that shit outta there. Also, I know this sounds crazy, but you sprinkle water on a dirt floor to clean it. Seriously. You find that sweet threshold before it becomes hardcore mud. But just the right amount settles the dust but doesn’t not create a wrestling arena.
I think I’m gonna keep the dirt. I’ll get a rug.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)