To return, remember, reinvent, re-do. To return is to rejoice in consistency, as well as to doubt your own memories, confronted with the innumerable details that have changed.
To return to a place that you spent two months explaining, dreaming of, and justifying to your nearest and dearest.
To return to a life that, this time around, has no endpoint...
Insomma... the pressure is great, and this blog-induced process of distilling, writing and sharing seems impossible.
And yet, here I am, a month into my second stint in Peru, and I think I'm ready.
I arrived back at Mosoq Runa a month ago, to a whole range of welcomes, some exactly like my dreams--children running towards me with open arms, shouting my name--and others... One girl declared that she didn't remember my face, but this punishment lasted only a day before she returned to hugs and "Rebequita"s.
How surreal to walk up our hill, laden down with bags filled with clothes for the kids and parmigiano for the volunteers; how strange to wake up the next morning in my dear old house, to the sounds of roosters and the song, "Eres un mentiroso."
As to the differences: Francesco and Manu moved into a house round the corner shortly after I left in November, and I have felt their absence, even though I still see them daily. There are two new volunteers, Rita and Omar, so the ratio of girls to guys in the house this month has been 3 : 2, quite a change!
Furthermore, my first week back, Mario moved the Italian cooking workshop, which had previously operated out of the volunteers' house, into our ceramics studio down the hill. (All this musical chairs nonsense comes from a profound lack of funds, which prevents us from continuing with the construction of the Italian workshop's own space.)
For about a week, we were all too busy to fix up the volunteers' house, and so lived in this empty, dirty space-- a real war zone, with no more bread or lasagna to munch on. We don't even have drinking water anymore, so we have to fill pitchers at the kids' house and bring them home!
Finally, though, we painted... and stole a few furniture pieces back from Mario, so now our house full of colors (albeit clashing ones) and some cheese and Nutella here and there.
The kids' house, too, has had its own dose of newness. The three siblings who live next door moved back home after Christmas, seeing as their mother is really well enough to take care of them, which has allowed us to accept three new, more needy children. First, there's Ronald, the 5-year-old half-brother of Rodrigo and Edgar. Their mother is a drunken, broken woman with yet another child strapped to her back. The father (step-father to Rodri and Edgar) spends most of his time working in Puerto Maldonado, and the mother is wont to disappear for weeks on end without notice, to be with him. She, like so many of our mothers here, has been formed by a cycle of abuse and alcoholism that is virtually impossible to escape from; with no teeth, a glass of chicha and a penchant for looking for a man, any man, who will be with her while her husband is away, this thirty-five-year-old woman looks fifty.
The other two new additions are cousins of Karen and Edith, an adorable pair of sisters from Calca named Nely (8) and Mariluz (5). While Ronald, coming from a home where he, at age 3, would walk into town by himself, presents innumerable problems with discipline, Mariluz and Nely are always eager to please, washing their socks and brushing their hair, led by a proud Karen, who has taken them entirely under her wing.
One reason for these differences is home life; the sisters come from a very poor family with many siblings and no father, and as yet I don't know whether they've suffered physical abuse. Ronald's family, on the other hand, has a very violent history; of course, though, we know far more about them.
The other reason is probably gender. We've had girls arrive in the past who follow the rules perfectly at the beginning, only to rebel later on. Furthermore, Ronald is one of four boys...
imaginate.
The last new addition is Rosita, a sister of our biggest family who used to live in the hogar but had to return home for 3 years to pacify her crazy mother. Finally, though, the mother is calm enough to allow Rosita to live with us, and we are currently getting her papers in order, behind the mother's back. Rosita's joy at being once again a full-time member of the hogar is obvious, and she continually asks me if she can do her math homework. What a dream!
I suppose that the biggest change for me has been that I'm now teaching two workshops, English and Music. This amount to 10-12 hours a week, on top of my regular duties, so I'm a busy girl. The first day, a complete mess during which no one listened to me, was indicative of the relationships I've formed with these kids over the past few months. How could their buddy, their friend, be a teacher too? (Bear in mind that "teacher" here holds none of the positive associations that I, a Brearley girl, have always counted on.)
Unfortunately, the only way to fix the situation was to run to Ada, who yelled ("Those who do not learn English are ignorant!") and punished them all with dishwashing and no videos. Since then, they've been much better, although a
castigo here and there is still necessary.
Within the class, my way of disciplining, predictably, is to play and joke as much as possible. I made a rule, at the beginning that if they wanted to talk about
potos,
pedos, and
caca, they have to say "butt," "fart," and "poop." Or, for the older kids... actually, for the older kids, it's the same thing, although I've also taught them "breasts," "vagina," and "penis," along with the classic "Pen 15 club" joke. We also dance the Hokey Pokey with some regularity.
So I'm finding a way to push forward... But how to justify all this to myself? It's their summer vacation (though they all have to go to summer school in the mornings), it's only 6 weeks, and English isn't immediately important to most of them. And yet, at times, I feel I have the power to change something for them, to teach differently, to re-do some of their awful, school-induced habits. For example, if I ask a question to a kid who doesn't know the answer, another who does will
always butt in. I've said time and time again--and I think they're beginning to understand--that I don't care if you answer badly, or incompletely, that it's important you try.
Two weeks ago, we had our first conversation about "Imagine," the song I'm teaching them in English class. I spoke about 'Nam, about peace and love, even about the 'Nam of today. They got it, or at least they know that a nice man named John wanted a united world and got killed. I was satisfied. After class, I spoke with the 22-year-old mentally retarded girl, who was painstakingly copying down the lyrics of the chorus. "Did you understand?" I asked. "Yes," she replied, "but... where is Iraq?"
So, as you can see, they all continue to blow my mind. My current worry is how to accomodate everyone in one class, as numerous personal problems have cropped up. Rosita, forever terrified that she will be made to leave the hogar again, is impossible to discipline. Distracted and full of those bad Peruvian school habits, I find myself grasping at straws to get her to listen and focus. The other day, I sent her outside to calm down for two minutes--far from a punishment--and she lost it. As she sobbed, then stared silently at the mountains, I stroked her hair and tried to explain to her that she is safe. Incredibly bright, she needs to learn to concentrate, to calm the innumerable questions that are forever popping into her head and out of her mouth. After our talk, she went to do her math homework to calm herself down. A girl after my own heart.
This past Thursday, Ada organized a multiplication contest for the kids, and decided to add English as well. How nervous I was, hoping my kiddos would do well! They did, for the most part, even though contests hardly demonstrate the reality of the situation. One of the girls who came in second place has been a disaster in class: not concentrating, continually farting and giggling... So I said to her, "You see how well you do when you concentrate?" And she hugged me and said, "You know, just as the contest started, I think a lightbulb went on in my head!" Sure, darling. The lightbulb that wants to impress Ada.
Unfortunately, a negative result of the contest has been that one of the boys, who's my buddy, did badly in the contest and has been giving me the silent treatment ever since. This week, I'll see what I can do to boost his English self-esteem.
As for music, there isn't much to say, as I'm co-teaching with a girl who is totally incompetent and mostly crazy, if endearingly so. And so, I continue to give private guitar lessons and sing the kids to sleep.
Happy Carnival! I know Fat Tuesday has passed, but it really doesn't matter here. For the last 3 weeks and, as far as I can tell, for the foreseeable future, Urubamba is doomed to constant water attacks and drunken women stumbling around in their heavy
faldas. I've been enjoying myself thoroughly. My first attempt to play
carnevales (the water-chucking game) gave me a cold and a high fever, but never mind; since then, I've been far more successful, dumping tubs of water on the heads of tiny children and behaving myself just like a good teacher should.
Yesterday, I went to Ccotohuincho's big carnival celebration, where we danced in circles round the Carnival tree, which was subsequently cut down so as to shower the kids with presents from its branches. Sophia and I went with the two Marias and Bertha, girls who work at the hogar and have siblings there and children on their backs. Our merry group cooked
rocoto relleno (delicious hot pepper stuffed with vegetables) and
choclo (corn) and brought it down to the field, where we were doused in colored flour. We washed down our meal with
chicha, the alcoholic drink made from flour, poured from a 5-liter container into a single glass, which each of us had to finish every time, shot style.
Needless to say, I had some stomach problems last night.
Habitat, our corner of Ccotohuincho, is unchanged and charming as always. The teenage boys who hang out at the
cancha found out my name and started calling to me, with so many "Rebequita te quiero"s that the little ones started to ask me if I had 10 novios down at the cancha, and even Ada mentioned something. Ronald, of course, was my valiant knight, and started shouting "Te voy a pegar!" ("I'm gonna beat you up!") every time there was a disturbance. Finally, I talked to them, and explained that I was 3 times their size and could they please shut up, thank you.
They did, but, the following weekend, four of them robbed a house in the neighborhood. Four of the 13 year olds.
On Friday night, there was a blackout. It was dark, so dark, and we all sat outside with candles and I got out my guitar. Mario, Rita and I sang our new cross-cultural musical piece- "Wagon Wheel" at the same time as "Piero e Cinzia," by Venditti. Shortly thereafter, all the kids broke into "Imagine," with a whopping YouHOO! I positively swelled with pride.
Love to all.
