When You Gotta Go...

I have peed in many strange places in my life.

Once, in the outhouse of a shaman in the Amazon jungle during a ceremony.

Once, in a bathroom in a cave in the side of a hill

(what is this, a potty mouthed children's song?)

in Kiev, Ukraine.

Once, in some ancient Peruvian ruins, part of which can be seen below.

Yeah, you wish you knew what ruins these were...

but I wouldn't want to get in trouble with the Ancient Peruvian Ruins Police now would I?

Often times, in the woods. Especially as a camp counselor.

I never peed in the above outhouse,

which is a reconstruction from a Depression era one....

in my Grandpa's backyard.

And now, I can say that I peed in a bathroom whose floor was completely flooded

(with WATER from the SINK, ya nasty)

during an ancient Incan festival

with a bunch of chattering, arguing Peruvian women standing around.

I was desperate.

And this picture is just to let you know that sometimes I can be classy.

We were drinking wine. And discussing music and literature.

Shakira, actually...but still...

(Oh, my homework still hasn't gone away?)

“How will we find it?” “Just shout - donde esta Shakira!?”

(Another Weekend Story)

Venders in Lima, and the informal economy in general, astound me. There are people selling anything you could imagine anywhere you could imagine it. Want a book to read while on the beach? Someone will be walking around selling it. On the beach. Maybe your pen broke while on the bus and you desperately need to write down the number of the chica sitting next to you? Well, it wouldn’t be strange for a pen vender to walk on your micro. My favorite are the ice cream venders (or ice cream ambulantes) – they are my new Starbucks. In DC, it felt strange if there wasn’t a Starbucks on every block. In Lima, there is an ice cream vender on every street. Thank God. Of course there are also the children selling candy and the women with babies begging… but that is an entirely different blog. (My GWU blog in fact.)

There is an ice cream vender on his bike!

Selling books on the beach. He had the new Mario Vargas Llosa!

When we arrived at the Shakira concert (that is linked to my fave Shakira song. Con letras!) it was like an Atlanta Braves game times seventy. The venders were out in full force. While standing in line we were presented with beer, candy, ice cream, chaufa (fried rice) in huge pots rolled on carts, binoculars and Shakira themed everything. Venders had set up makeshift restaurants and it seemed like half of Lima was at the concert to either attend or sell. There were also women who, for 5 soles, would help you get ahead of the line. In the US this would be a VIP pass. In Peru, it is a women who simply guided you into line ahead of (now angry) people. Essentially, you were paying them for their chutzpah. (Until someone would complain to a cop and they would make you move.)

I bought some ice cream and carried my trash for half an hour looking for a trash can. Once I got to the gate the man told me I couldn’t bring it in. “It’s trash – where is the trash can?” He took it from my hand, made a point of looking around, and tossed it on the ground next to the sidewalk. Well then. No wonder Earth Hour didn’t go so well in Lima.

We passed through the gate and were each handed a few packages of pads. That’s right, feminine items. So the concert was mostly attended by women and their boyfriends but still – did they think that much estrogen might be an issue? The concert itself was amazing; Train and Ziggy Marley played and then Shakira came on and definitely lived up to her reputation. (Let that mean what it may.) It was a great show. We left a little early to beat the crowd and exited the stadium to be met with an absolute mob of venders, crowding the exit, along with riot police on foot and on horseback. It was a gauntlet, and I’ll admit that it was nerve-wracking to be the first to forge the path through the stands of meat and stacks of posters shoved into our faces. And really – riot police? Come on guys, we have our pads to keep all the woman-crazy at bay. As much as Shakira’s abs may dishearten us, someone somewhere is selling chocolate.

For 37 seconds now, I have been thinking over whether or not eating the un sol (around 30 US cents) chocolate ice cream every day is worth giving up ever having abs like Shakira. Tal vez, my friends, tal vez.

Weekend Stories Part 1

I woke up one Sunday morning and realized it was now the longest time I had ever lived abroad– one day over a month. I also realized that I had no idea where I was. Not that I was in a confused, half awake state (which is the norm for me in the mornings) but that I actually did not know where in Peru I might be located.

Let me back track - I was with my host sister and I knew that I was in a friend of a friend’s house where we had crashed for the night after being out late for birthday celebrations. But I had no idea where that house might actually be, and I knew I wasn’t in Lima anymore.

Let me back up yet again. I live for the weekend. It’s the weekend when I have adventures, true intercultural experiences and a lot of fun and sometimes a lot of awkward. And I do really learn a lot about the culture.

Waking up not knowing where you are is a shaky way to start the day. To follow that with a trek through the desert, an hour long micro ride on what felt like unpaved roads and a delicious but incredibly rich ceviche almuerzo was a lot to take. That weekend ended with going to bed at five in the afternoon. And it was still fantastic. Y todavía estaba chévere. Here are some weekend stories.

(I could put them all in one big weekend story post, but large blocks of text can be scary, so I’ll break them up.)

(Does anyone remember the show The Weekenders? It used to play on Saturday morning cartoons. I am the "American in Lima" version of that show.)

Telenovela: Una Noche de Melodrama

At one point in time I thought it was crazy when two boys wanted to sit with me on the couch at a party. That was before I met Peruvian men. One Saturday night I unwittingly found myself in the midst of a small telenovela as I attempted to keep the peace between two Peruvian chicos that both seemed determined to get to know this particular gringa. There were dramatic sighs, there were sudden turnings away, there was showing up around corners unexpectedly, there was leaving without (very pointedly) saying goodbye. Hands were clutched and questions whispered: “¿Te gusta de él?” (Do you like him?) There was even, at one point, a moment when one of the chicos pointed to my number in his phone and said (in Spanish) “This is your number. I’m deleting it.” The horror! He seemed shocked that I didn’t swoon. (Somehow though, he still managed to call me multiple times after this dramatic occasion.) It was all very traumatic and no matter how I attempted to still the waters, nothing worked. I should have slapped one, ran out of the room crying and then invented a secret lover that was actually cousin to both of them! Unfortunately, I tried the ridiculous solution of ignoring all of the intense gazes. Still, I got some really good salsa lessons out of the whole mess.

This is in the Parque del Amor. Yup, melodrama in a statue.

Fiesta de Cumpleaños

I was invited to a birthday party. I pictured an apartment, a bunch of Peruvians I didn’t know, and the Peruvian equivalent of beer pong. I ended up at an exclusive discotech with an absolutely insane dance floor and was immediately offered whiskey and then asked to dance by an incredibly energetic Limeño. No one ever mentioned a birthday to me and I am still not sure who the birthday girl was. Maybe it was a secret. I've given up trying to understand everything going on around me. All I know is that Peruvian men never cease to amaze me with their sly salsa dancing.

Fiesta de Cumpleaños part 2

The day after the raging discotech I attended an informal family gathering for a four year olds birthday. She showed me how to dance Shakira's Waka Waka dance and we ate cake and drank wine (she didn’t drink the wine, Peru’s lax drinking laws don’t extend that far.) It was adorable. For well over 37 seconds I just enjoyed being with a family, parents and siblings and cousins and nieces and nephews. There is such a different atmosphere when with family. The best parties are family parties. I just soaked in all the conversation about the upcoming elections, food, customs, and traveling. I mostly stayed quiet, but I was content to be so. It was nice to just sit in that atmosphere.