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Oh Perú. Perú Perú Perú. You have wiggled your way into my heart, you know. Sigh.




Santa lives here, so it must be pretty great.




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Peruvians are amazingly friendly. To a fault. To the point that it freaks most people out at first. Anytime you get in a cab or sit next to someone on a bus or order food at a restaurant, you could easily be asked questions. “Stranger” seems to be “a person I haven’t talked to yet” here.

There is a fairly standardized set of typical questions, though. I have dubbed them the Peruvian Litany. It usually goes something like this, with lots of warm smiles and friendly enthusiasm:

Peruano: De donde eres?
Peruvian: Where are you from?

Dinosaurio: Los Estados Unidos.
Dinosaur: The United States.

Peruano: Que parte?
Peruvian: What state?

Dinosaurio: Michigan.
Dinosaur: Michigan.

Peruano: Mee-chee-gan. Esta circa [alguna lugar que no espera, como Newark,
Washington, etc.]?
Peruvian: Mee-chee-gan. Oh, is that near [insert place you didn’t expect, like Newark,
Washington, etc.]?

Dinosaurio: No, Michigan esta en el norte, circa Canadá y las lagunas grandes.
Dinosaur: No, Michigan’s in the north, near Canada and the Great Lakes.

Peruano: Ahh, sí. (a veces conoce Detroit y pregunta si esta circa de mi casa.)
Peruvian: Right. (sometimes knows of Detroit and asks if I am from near there.)

Peruano: Este es la primera vez in Perú?
Peruvian: Is this your first time in Peru?

Dinosaurio: Sí.
Dinosaur: Yes.

Peruano: Que te parece la comida Peruana?
Peruvian: What do you think of Peruvian food?

Dinosaurio: Esta maravillosa. Me gusta mucho.
Dinosaur: It’s great! I like it a lot.

Peruano: Has probado cebiche/lomo saltado/arroz con pollo/pollo a la brasa/chifa/arroz con mariscos/estofado de pollo/Pisco…?
Peruvian: Have you tried cebiche/lomo saltado/arroz con pollo/pollo a la brasa/chifa/arroz con mariscos/estofado de pollo Pisco…? (They usually ask about every single one. No joke.)

Dinosaurio: Sí, y me gusta mucho. (…cinquita veces cuando pregunta de todos los platos)
Dinosaur: Yes, I like it a lot. (…x 50 as they ask about each dish)

Peruano: Has estado en otras lugares de Perú?
Peruvian: Have you been to other places in Peru?

Dinosaurio: Sí, fuimos a Machu Picchu, y Huaraz.
Dinosaur: Yes, we went to Machu Picchu and Huaraz.

Peruano: Y que te parece Machu Picchu?
Peruvian: And what did you think of Machu Picchu?

Dinosaurio: Esta magnifico.
Dinosaur: It’s magnificent.

Peruano: Bien preservado, sí?
Peruvian: Very well preserved, right?

Dinosaurio: Si, de verdad.
Dinosaur: Yes, truly.

Peruano: Y Arequipa/Mancora/La selva/etc. Todavía no has visitado, si?
Peruvian: And Arequipa/Mancora/the jungle/etc. You haven’t visited them yet?

Dinosaurio: No, todavía no, pero lo espero.
Dinosaur: Not yet, but I hope to.

etc…

From these interactions, it becomes evident that pretty much all Peruvians genuinely like Peru. They think it’s pretty great and has a lot to offer. Cab drivers, waitresses, and even friendly passers by want to make sure you don’t miss anything.

This type of pride in Peru—in Peruvian food, the sights in Peru, and being Peruvian in general—is new, as of the last 15 years or so. My friend told me that maybe 20 years ago, a Peruvian visitor to the US might not even admit to being Peruvian.

Ouch. That hurts my little Peruvian heart.




artist reenactment of my little Peruvian heart




There is a second script, which I usually get from people who’ve lived outside of Peru, in Europe or the US. It goes something like this:

Peruano: Cuanto tiempo estas en Perú?
Peruvian: How long have you been in Perú?

Dinosaurio: Un año.
Dinosaur: One year.

Peruano: Un año! Demasiado tiempo! Que tal Perú?
Peruvian: One year! Too much time! What do you think of Peru?

Dinosaurio: Me. Gusta. Perú. De verdad.
Dinosaur: I. Love/really like. Perú. Really.

Peruano: *mirada escéptica* Sí?
Peruvian: *skeptical look* Really?

Dinosaurio: Sí!
Dinosaur: Yes!

Peruano: * mirada escéptica* Que gustas de Perú?
Peruvian: *skeptical look* What do you like about Peru?

Dinosaurio: Todo!
Dinosaur: Everything!

Peruano: … Como…?
Peruvian: … Like…?

Dinosaurio: Como la gente, la comida, la clima—pero no ahora porque esta lloviendo y esta muy frío—hablar Castellán… Todo!
Dinosaur: Like the people, the food, the weather—but not at the moment because it’s rainy and cold—speaking Castellán (South American Spanish)… Everything!

Peruano: Estarás cuanto tiempo mas en Perú?
Peruvian: How much longer will you be in Peru?

Dinosaurio: Seis meses mas.
Dinosaur: Six more months.

Peruano: Entonces mucho tiempo en Perú.
Peruvian: So a long time in Peru.

Dinosaurio: Sí. *una sonrisa grande*
Dinosaur: Yes. *big smile*

Peruano: Que bueno. *una sonrisa*
Peruvian: That’s good. *smiles*

These are the same people who are then eager to show you Peruvian five-star cuisine. It’s as though their understanding of first-world customs/standards/excess makes them worry that Peru won’t pass muster for us—that a lack of first-world comforts or infrastructure or planning or transportation or sanitation makes Peru lesser somehow.

For example, Dylan’s coworker took us to a bar recently, called Ayahuasca. This bar is a huge old-style mansion in Barranco (neighborhood of Lima) which has been converted to the swankiest most impressively-decorated bar you could ever imagine. We went in, clearly a hundred times outclassed by the clientele, and took a tour of the place. UNREAL. We ooooh-ed and aaaaah-ed our way through the tour of the private VIP rooms in the basement. When we were ready to leave, they told us that it had been named one of the best 75 bars in the world.

“Not too bad, right?” they asked, in all seriousness, waiting for our response.

Keep in mind, the coworker who asked is fluent in English, and lived in England for about 2 years. As in, for complicated reasons I won’t get into, she took an English fluency test at a very highly touted university on Thursday and scored at a level of Advanced 5. The highest level is Advanced 6. So, I speak at Advanced 6, and she speaks at Advanced 5. And she aksed, “Not too bad, right?” and waited to hear our answer.

I’ve discovered that Peruvian pride really is fledgling. There is some part of them that is hesitant, waiting for confirmation that Peru really is great. I find it really endearing but also really surprising.







Dear Peru,

I love you. Really. And I love you for exactly what you are. You already impress me. So don’t worry. I don’t need to see all-dressed-up-for-prom Peru because I already love unshowered-in-sweatpants-reading-a-book Peru. I know you clean up nice.

Relax. Really.

Love,

Sandra.




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Peru’s soccer team has historically always been sort of a figurehead. They just…haven’t been very good. They haven’t seen a major cup victory or world cup participation in 27 years. Yeah. So Peruvians, who are totally into futbol, tend to focus mostly on local teams, which are their own brand of crazy:




 Universitario  The university team, except that it’s not a university team at all. The players are professionals without any affiliation to a particular university. Also, their symbol is the symbol for Kosher in the US:   but their colors are kind of heinous (cream and fire engine red anyone?).

 Alianza Lima  The Lima Alliance, who represents the most dangerous district of Lima, La Victoria, and changes their colors to purple and white in October to celebrate the Saint of Lima celebrations. From what I remember they usually win the league title.

 Sport Boys  this club is generally considered the worst in the league. Sigh.

 Sporting Cristal  named after a beer. Before that they were called Sporting Tabaco, so you can guess who used to own them. I just can’t get behind this team.




Everyone has their favorite, and games are CRAZY. I’ve been repeatedly warned about hooligans (yes, they actually use the word hooligans to describe them) who riot around the stadiums after basically every game no matter the outcome. Lima Futbol is a big deal here. And usually no one pays much attention to the national team, the way I don’t pay much attention to the Detroit Lions. They exist, as a figurehead team, but I’m not holding my breath.

BUT! Recently the Peruvian National team has been working really hard to improve. And the battle for the Americas cup started this week. Peru was placed in a bracket with Uruguay, Mexico, and Chile (arch nemesis, Pisco rival, historical war foe…). It’s generally believed that Mexico and Chile and Uruguay are all way better than Peru. Way. (They all advanced to the World Cup last year… and as we know, Peru didn’t.)

BUT! Five of Mexico’s soccer stars were suspended for positive drug tests (steroids) and Chile has had major coaching issues as of late.

Last night was the Peru vs. Mexico game. I had heard it was going on, but we’re not really into futbol. We were hanging out in and around the apartment (typical Friday night) playing nerdy board games. Time came to take Floyd for a walk.

We went outside, and the streets were PACKED with parked cars, but everything was almost eerily silent. Enjoying an oddly quiet Friday street but not thinking too much about it, we started on our normal route with Floyd. And then, from the quiet streets of Lima rose a huge and loud and distant cheer. I’ve never heard a whole city cheer in unison before. The whole city, 10 million people, seemed to erupt together all at once, and then it died out just as quickly! It seemed choreographed. It was an amazing sound. I don’t know what happened—a near miss, an almost-goal, a bad call—but what I do know is that the collective sounds during Peru National games in Lima are spectacular.

We hurried to finish our walk and then sought answers online. Standing on the balcony, listening to the collective roars as the game came to a close, I felt magic in Lima.

So, futbol Peruano, it seems you have won me over. Well played.

.

They're totally doing cartwheels and waving.

.

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Dear Ann Arbor Public Schools,

Hi! I’m Sandra and my entire K-12 education was in the Ann Arbor Public School System.

I remember sometime in my early education at Bryant Elementary I participated in a pilot program involving Spanish lessons. I only remember one, which means there were probably a few, and if I recall correctly it wasn’t a very long or detailed lesson, and I bungled my way through the whole thing. We learned how to greet people, introduce ourselves, and count to 20. I never studied Spanish any further, choosing other languages instead.

I’m 28 and last year I came to Perú. And I remembered everything you taught me in the pilot program. Set in stone in my memory.

Just wanted to shoot you a note to say, officially in writing, that the program worked! Probably nice to have a real answer more than 20 years later, eh?

Respectfully and gratefully,

Sandra C. Larson




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I think I finally realized why the middle class is important.

I mean, I was always told that the middle class needs to be strong. And I understand how important it is not to have a huge income gap—the income gap in Nambia was the largest in the world and by all rights nearly created two different cohabitant countries.

I was at the organic farmer’s market in Lima (La Bioferia) when it hit me. The middle class has the means to do what is right.

Okay, so what do I mean by that? Let’s look at the organic farmer’s market.

So, organic farmed vegetables cost more than conventionally farmed vegetables, and that’s because it costs the environment nothing. I’ll use cow poop fertilizer and orange extract as an insect repellent. They take some time to make, but they work well and don’t hurt anyone. This bell pepper costs $3, and the environment wins.

Conventionally farmed vegetables cost less because some of the costs of doing things responsibly are shoveled onto the environment to bear. I’ll use these cheap chemical fertilizers and this cheap chemical pesticide and get more bell peppers, but in the future the water will be polluted and farming will be harder in general. This bell pepper costs $1, but the cost of cleaning up the environment, which conventional farmers don’t do, is probably $5. You shoveled $5 of damage onto the planet. You are basically pissing in the face of mother earth for $5. You’re also making your food costs higher in the future because of the damage you’re doing.

By all accounts, organic farming is extremely important to EVERYONE WHO EATS FOOD. In terms of sustainability and future arability of lands and “fertility” of other resources, like rivers and oceans, it’s pretty much key. These things should be important to everyone. But the people who shop at the Bioferia are overwhelmingly members of the very small middle class in Lima. So why is that?

I have an idea. It might be crap, but here goes.

The poor are really busy struggling to survive and are too economically strangled to have many options. They spend their time finding ways to survive. They will buy the pepper for $1.

The wealthy are culturally too busy making more money to care. They really really want to stay wealthy. They want to minimize spending in most areas and maximize spending in areas that will enhance image or assets (acquisition of appreciating property). In terms of their business transactions, there aren’t a whole lot of profitable trades and acquisitions to be made when a farmer uses his own cow’s poop as a fertilizer and his own orange tree as a pesticide. What could they sell him? Not specially altered seeds, pesticides, herbicides, fertilizers, application equipment, harvesting tools… He’s not a big market. They have no business interest in promoting the organic farming process itself.

Then comes the middle class. The middle class isn’t struggling to survive and they aren’t constantly thinking about money. The middle class has the means for choice and the time to choose. The middle class will vote with their dollars about what is right and what is important.

And that’s when businessmen turn their heads. There IS a market for organic. It’s the consumer, not the producer. And that’s when organic becomes common, and less expensive, and accessible to lower classes.

I’m starting to think that the middle class could easily be responsible for major change in a lot of policies and practices worldwide (at least where the income gap isn’t too large).

Am I full of it?




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For those of you who are still reading this, you might be wondering how my research is going, which is actually a very difficult question to answer. See, what I do here is…complicated. It’s nebulous, and frustrating, and confusing, and very eclectic and often slow. But that also makes it great, and very Peruvian, and often hilarious. Turns out, most people who ask me how it’s going aren’t ready to listen to how it’s really going.

It’s like my friend pointed out to me during study abroad–she said that when Americans ask how you’re doing, it’s a cursory thing. Most people are not really asking how you’re doing. They’re not really waiting and ready to listen and discuss the current state of your life. When they say “Hi! How are you?” they are really saying “Hi!” and “Hi again!”

Over the years, I’ve realized that listening is a real investment. It takes time and attention and thought and effort if you do it right. And sadly most people aren’t very good at it. It’s amazing when you do it well, you learn a TON and relationships grow.

My answer doesn’t fit into a tidy 20-word box, and I hate watching peoples eyes glaze over when I try to explain even one tenth of how my research is going here, so I usually just answer “good.” I’m just not ready to waste my personal life and time with people who aren’t willing to be investors, you know?

But let me give credit where credit is due: you good listeners out there–those of you who took the time to know me well, and can look at my face and know what I’m feeling, and still get me even though we may not have talked for ages–thank you. Thank you a million times because you are the only thing that gives me the strength to deal with all the bad listeners. If it weren’t for you, I’d live  with 50 cats and only come out to buy odd groceries (chocolate and corn meal) and occasionally yell enough weird things that all the bad listeners would stay away.

Anyway, I digress. I think probably the best way I can explain to you what my research life is like is through this comic I was sent by my fellow Gilman researcher and housemate Fanny:







So, I am always somewhere in this mess we call the scientific process, which means science is happening. Which is “good.”




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