Strange Occurrences: 7/10/07

Strange Occurrences: 7/10/07

I hiked up to Doña Maria’s Bodega to buy some fruit the other day and we began talking about my short time left in Carata. She tried to convince me to stay, and because this wasn’t the first time someone has pulled this one on me I used my rehearsed line (“I’d really like to stay…”) But the fact is, “I miss my family and need to return to them”. Surely any Peruvian would understand that since family means so much to them. Doña Maria listened contently, until I finished and than casually said, YOUR PARENTS ARE MILLIONAIRES. It wasn’t phrased as a question, nor as to clarify a doubt, but as fact! My parents are millionaires. I stood there on her dirt floor, stunned. How do you answer that? Mustering a thoughtful response, and at the same time, withholding my laughter, I told her the truth. “Actually, they aren’t millionaires.”
Shit. This Town. Wow.
In the same day, just a few hours later, I went with the nurse to visit the public school. We needed to coordinate a few upcoming dates. The second grade teacher “Grober”(pronounced grover-like the Muppet) whom we wanted to talk to, was not in his classroom but his students were. We stood outside his room talking with the 3rd grade teacher “Eder” who was the acting principal in his absence. Attendance is obviously a problem for teachers and the principal. When Grober didn’t return, Eder sent one of the 2nd graders to find him. 10 minutes later the kid came back and explained that Grober was in a saloon-but would be right back. As we waited, I became impatient and entered the 2nd grade classroom. The kids were out of their seats, pushing each other, yelling my name and leaving in big groups for the bathroom. What chaos. I was immediately reminded why I didn’t go into education. And yet as a nurse I always feel like a teacher, especially in the Peace Corps.
Grober never came back, so I asked the student who went out to look for his teacher. “What could he possibly be doing, why hasn’t he returned to class? And the student replied, “Esta tomando”. (He’s drinking). It occurred to me later, that I was the only one surprised. The second graders were used to the idea of being left alone for hours while their teacher spent the morning in a bar.
Shit. This Town. Wow.
The following day, would be extremely busy, with two meetings in the morning, and one in the afternoon. I woke up early, ate breakfast and headed down to Nuevo California, walking. Our camp was planned for that Friday and I was struggling to get everything in order for the four campers I had chosen as participants. One of the assignments we arranged as camp directors was a written letter from each parent to their child. This was to be done secretly so that on the 3rd and last day of camp, the campers would receive a letter of encouragement from their parents. It was an activity that the self esteem committee had planned. Generally speaking, few parents congratulate their kids for their successes. Even fewer parents praise their children in this culture. We decided it would be a meaningful activity for both parents and campers.
Since I agreed to bring four kids from Carata (and neigboring villages) that meant four letters from four different parents. I walked to each of their houses, which are not in close proximity of each other, and having visited two houses the day before I left the other two for this morning. Yesterday’s visits went well, I reviewed the camp details with the parents and completed the letters with the mothers. It was a little difficult to explain the concept, "write a positive letter of reinforcement to your son/daughter". But don’t tell them we’ve written this letter, they will receive it at the end of camp. !?!?!!? I gave the two mom’s examples, What would you like to tell him/her, that you never say? One of the moms was illiterate, so as she spoke the letter, I dictated. The other mom didn’t want to write (so I offered to write for her) fortunately she understood the concept and was quite eloquent in her letter to her daughter, Edith.
When I arrived in Nuevo California, I found the other two mothers working with a committee of other locals. They were behind the soup kitchen digging up an open space. It was obvious that this was a community effort, each family was required to do their part of the labor. Knowing this, I hoped to pull the mothers out for a few minutes to write their letters and let them get back to work.
I called “Diva” and “Zoila” from the crowd and they came over to a bench were I was sitting, one at a time. I reiterated the letter writing activity for their son/daughter. Both gave me the same response, “Don’t you see we’re busy, in the middle of work?”. I told them I understood, but that they knew about this assignment, and if they wanted their kids to attend the camp, this was a requirement. “But Mateo, if we don’t get back to work, their going to deduct us. We’ll be fined.” “You write the letters.” I said, “Listen, this is suppose to come from you, as a parent.” “I’m not asking you for a lot here!”

Yesterday, the first two mothers, sat with me. They thought about the letter, they expressed interest. They imagined their kids receiving the letters, and the smiles on their faces.
These women returned to digging, and I sat on the bench, fuming. I couldn’t believe that these two  couldn’t even help me with something so simple like a short letter. It wasn’t even for me, for Christ's sake, it was for their own son/daughter. Maybe they didn’t know how to write either, or maybe they could, but didn’t want to. I thought the threat of being fined for not working was a pretty lame excuse.
I wanted to say, “You’ll be fined, so be it.” “ Do you know how much Peace Corps is paying to invite your kid to this retreat?” “ It’s considered a scholarship, all expenses included, they won’t spend a dime!” “And your telling me you can’t even write your child a note about why you love them, and that you support them!”
Shit. This Town. Wow.