7 December 2009: Kirsten

My state of being.

It's interesting, this transitioning of life to a foreign country. I wish I could step outside of myself and observe my reactions a bit more clearly. But tied as I am to my emotions, I can't quite use my self as an anthropological study. Still, I try to understand the greater context of what I'm going through.

At first, you are a tourist. (We could say a "traveler"—but isn't a traveler who knows nothing of a place also a tourist?) You look through your guide books to try to know the city before you actually do. Because even though you are a tourist, you don't want to be one.

You pick up some of the language here and there, trying your darndest to understand what people are saying (and certainly trying to look as though you understand!) and regurgitating those pieces of the language you knew and used in the past. You are mildly successful.

In order to make this new place feel like home, you need to be able to take some ownership of it. So you decide to stay in this hostel for an extended period (10 days to start). You move in; you nest. Re-arrange the clothes in your suitcase in a more organized fashion, and put bath and hygiene items on the shelves provided. You find the market and start buying food, experimenting just a little at first with exotic fruits and new spices. After exploring a few restaurants, you start to frequent one. They don't yet know your name, but they know your face, and you feel noticeably good when you enter it.

Then other people start moving into the hostel. You are happy to connect with some; intimidated by others who sit in groups, taking ownership of the place as well, speaking so easily in the local tongue you are desperate to learn. You feel more like a foreigner again.

You alternately feel happy to relax and read, and restless to connect with this place and people.

Time in general is unfamiliar here. Perpetual vacation is one part of it, but the climate also has a lot to do with it. It's December 7^th. It's also in the 70's, dry and sunny, with a constant cool breeze. Christmas ornaments of reindeer and sleighs and decorated fake conifers are going up here and there. If you were home, it would all make sense and you'd be comfortably hunkering down into that winter-time speed of life and home cooking. You'd be making lists of what cookies to bake, how many, and who to deliver them to. But not here. This year you will be an anthropologist for seasons and holidays. You won't really do what you know (though the abundance of potatoes more than warrants an attempt at making latkes). You will mostly observe, and hopefully participate in, what other people do. In the end, perhaps and hopefully, as the Incas did with European culture, you will incorporate some of it into your own tradition.

But in this transitional phase, you are aware that this is merely a wish. You are somewhat in limbo—partly in control of what happens, partly a pawn that things happen to.

It's not that it's melancholy, not completely. It's a combination of excitement of possibilities, known ignorance of what some of those possibilities might be, and getting some solid ground under your spiritual and emotional "feet." You are trying in a way to figure out who you are, where you are.

How to bring you here with us?

Think of the best mangos you've ever had in the States. Now multiply that goodness by a factor of 10. It's heaven, and I sure hope I don't get sick of it! They cost ~$0.50/each. I figure we'll have up to 7 a week.

Queso helado (literally, frozen cheese), is a kind of sweet, creamy sorbet topped with cinnamon. Yum.

The market is pure sensual over-stimulation. The queso section is the most difficult for me. Surprisingly, the fish and raw meat sections are not as bad (though teaming with flies)…I'm hoping their tolerability indicates the meat and fish are very fresh. By far, though, the largest is the fruit section, with an incredible abundance of 20 or so fruits repeated stall after stall. And, an entire row of juice bars.

Here's a new one: the garbage trucks play a ghastly electronic version of Fur Elise as they drive through the neighborhood. It plays just up to the part before the song goes up several octaves, then repeats. Over and over again.

The streets are dusty and later in the day smell of diesel fumes and urine. But they are washed down each morning by shopkeepers, so the smell never gets overwhelming. The other night we passed a middle-class-looking woman with a small body who clearly had to pee. So she took him next to a building on the sidewalk and started to undo his pants as his legs worked side to side in desperation. Not exactly something you'd see in Manhattan! Though it should be mentioned that there are no public restrooms here, so for vendors on the street or little kids, what else are you to do?

Taxis and small buses called "collectivos" fill the streets, and clearly have the right of way. Before you step to cross the street, be quite sure the coast is clear or you'll be run down. Each day reveals all sorts of folk scampering across the street to keep from being hit.

One seemingly small but very important aspect about Arequipa is that people don't speak English to you. Unless they speak Quechua (the language of the Inca), they generally speak Spanish. In this way, it's a great place to really learn Spanish by "immersion."

Step aside, El Condor Pasa. I have often read of how traditional Peruvian music first garnered international notice from the Simon and Garfunkel tune El Condor Pasa (which was really an old traditional Peruvian tune with new English lyrics). The tune is beautiful, but when we happened upon an open-to-the-public performance by a group playing traditional Peruvian music, one song in particular stood leagues beyond Simon and Garfunkel's hit. At least 3 of the performers had pan flutes ranging in size from ~8" long to one that nearly reached the ground when it was played. The flutes in harmony were haunting. They stopped your heart and just about transported your soul to the wind-swept Andes.