By Gabi Logan

For travelers with itchy feet and empty pockets, WWOOFing sounds like the perfect opportunity. You can stay for free (with food included) amid such picturesque rural locations as olive orchards in Italy on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean, rolling hills covered with lavender in the south of France, and blossoming cherry orchards in Japan.

“Sign me up!” you may be thinking, and while there are few drawbacks–you’ll even get a great tan–WWOOFing is not something you should rush into.

WWOOFing essentially means having your home, job, and social life all confined to one, often isolated, place and a handful of people. Wouldn’t you thoroughly check out the situation before accepting a job or signing a lease on an apartment?

Ask these key questions before confirming your WWOOFing stay to make sure that you–and your host–are happy with the arrangement.

What do you want to get out of the experience?

This is the only question to ask yourself and not your host, but it’s a biggie. Do you want to learn a skill like how to make cheese or garden organically or prepare artisanal marmalade? Or are you just looking for a new kind of work exchange experience or free room and board for a few months? 

The WWOOF organization is very staunch about the fact that WWOOFing is a knowledge and cultural exchange, not just a work for lodging quid pro quo. The President of the Italian WWOOF association, Claudio Pozzi, relayed to me that “if there is not sharing and exchange, the relationship becomes one of subordination, and that is the domain of other organizations. I want to reiterate that [for us] work is not a form of payment for hospitality.”

If you are not keen on learning something from your experience, whether it is specifically about organic farming or more generally about your host’s language, culture, or lifestyle, WWOOFing is probably not the best match for you. Look into a more general work exchange network like HelpX (http://www.helpx.net/).

What type of work goes on when you’ll be visiting?

Some WWOOF hosts are technically on top of things, providing a Google calendar outlining what type of work goes on each week or spelling out a rough overview of the main focus of each season in their WWOOF listing. Even in these cases, and especially when this information is not available, it’s worth discussing the planned projects with your host before confirming your stay. Otherwise you may find yourself sterilizing barrels and presses at a winery for a month instead of actually learning how to make wine, or bundling hay for three weeks instead of learning to make goat cheese as happened to a fellow WWOOFer.

When will you work?

Life in the countryside begins early. Whether there are animals that need to be fed, vegetables that need to be picked and packed for the market, or difficult labors to be finished before the midday heat sets in, you’ll probably be expected to start at 8 a.m. at the latest. Check on the typical morning hours with your host so you don’t find yourself in a place where work starts at 6 a.m. when you’ve never managed to get up before 8 or 9 in your entire life. Likewise, check which days your host expects you to work. A five day work week is not the norm on a farm, though religious households typically take a day off as a matter of course. Be clear up front if you expect to travel on the weekends.

How long will you be expected to work?

Before I embarked on my first WWOOFing experience, I was bewitched by a story in the Guardian in which the writer and her friend worked in the garden each morning, enjoyed a filling lunch made from local ingredients with their hosts, and set out each afternoon to explore the Tuscan countryside–even taking advantage of local thermal hot springs to nurse their sore muscles. Imagine my surprise when my host assumed I would work 8-10 hour days six or seven days a week! Setting (preferably in writing) an expected number of work hours before you arrive gives you something concrete to point to if you feel like you are being taken advantage of.

Will you be staying with other people?

For some travelers, meeting other adventurers is a big part of the experience. But if you’re not totally comfortable sharing close quarters with total strangers–a young female having to share a small room with a 40-year-old guy for two months for instance (true story)–ask your host about the situation in advance. They’ll probably already know who will be around during that time and may have a private or semi-private option if you ask far enough in advance. Watch how you ask though; I saw a WWOOF host laugh hysterically at the presumption of a couple who asked if they could stay in a private room.

Where will you stay?

As we covered in GoMad Nomad’s WWOOFing 101 guide, accommodations can vary from a private, self-service apartment with internet, full kitchen, tv and sitting areas to a tent or sparse caravan. Before you leave you’ll want to know whether you can expect to stay inside or not, and whether your electronics will be secure (or even rechargeable) during your stay.

Can you get into town (or to other towns) on your own?

If you are just looking for a rural experience, an isolated host is no problem. But being stuck in an inaccessible part of Tuscany with no way to explore Florence, Chianti, or the surrounding towns could put a big damper on your plans to use WWOOFing as a base to see the region. Ask your host about local transportation or other options for WWOOFers; some hosts have bikes available for their volunteers or will be happy to drive you to the nearest train station or show you around themselves.

The difference between a sob story WWOOFing experience and the time of your life can either come down to chance or preparation–it’s up to you if you want to take your chances with Lady Luck. 

It can be really difficult to get in touch with hosts, but asking you host these key questions before you confirm your stay ensures that you take control of your WWOOFing time and end up with the best situation for you.

Gabi Logan is a freelance blogger and travel writer. While renovating a Ligurian farmhouse on a recent WWOOFing trip, she finally found a way to put her Italian literature degree to use: bonding over Dante with her hosts.

By Gabi Logan

For independent travelers, WWOOFing is an ideal way to travel slowly and inexpensively and learn something along the way.

But what is WWOOFing? How do you do it? Why on earth does the word have two ‘w’s?

What is WWOOFing?

Officially, WWOOF stands for “World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms,” but among travelers and hosts, the older name “Willing Workers on Organic Farms” persists, emphasizing the very human component of the organization. Volunteers work for free (sort of) for organic farms all around in the world, from Turkey to Taiwan to Tonga.

In its early years in the U.K., the organization was known as “Working Weekends on Organic Farms” and focused more on giving city dwellers an opportunity to get out into the countryside and support the organic movement. Short stays taught visitors about the movement, but weren’t the ideal situation for farmers, who were investing a lot of time teaching volunteers who were only around for one weekend.

Reflecting this need, the organization shifted away from directly organizing trips for volunteers and toward individual long-term farm stays, acting more as a resource facilitating the connections between volunteers and farms. The organization briefly adopted the name “Willing Workers on Organic Farms,” but governments took issues with people “working” on farms without work visas, and the name changed to its current form.

Today, volunteers organize their own farm stays, contributing their work to organic farms in exchange for meals, a place to stay, and training from in ecologically-sound agriculture.

WWOOFing Terminology

If you visit any national WWOOF organization, you’ll find that very specific terminology has evolved to describe these unique arrangements.

“WWOOF” is the name of the international organization overseeing all national WWOOF chapters, but is used primarily as a verb, describing the act of organizing and going on a farm stay or the work itself. For instance, in Italian, you can say you “fare lo WWOOFing” (do WWOOFing).

The farms, vineyards and orchards where volunteers stay are called hosts, similar to an immersive language-learning homestay. The volunteers themselves are known as “WWOOFers,” which may sound a bit like an onomatopoeic name for canines, but actually sounds much more charming in non-English accents.

Who Should WWOOF?

The main requirement for WWOOFers is an interest in organic farming practices. The organization emphasizes that this is not just a way to arrange a cheap vacation. Beyond that, you need to be okay with roughing it and physically able to complete manual labor tasks.

Some hosts provide nicer accommodations than others, in a guest house, private apartment, or hotel room if they run a hotel on site. But these opportunities are more the exception than the rule, and many hosts offer simple campers or tent sites for WWOOFers. If you have a real need for multiple hot showers a day and modern, indoor accommodations, you’ll need to really screen the hosts.

Likewise, the work WWOOFers perform is not equally demanding in all WWOOFing locations. With some hosts, you can work primarily in the kitchen canning jams or making herbal tinctures, but other larger farms may have odd jobs like building a shed or a stone fence that WWOOFers need to help out with. If you have any serious physical limitations, let your prospective host know in advance so they can decide if you’re compatible with the work at their farm.

What do WWOOFers do?

If you envision riding around on tractors and milking cows when you hear “farm stay,” you’ve only imagined a small part of the possibilities of WWOOFing. In some areas, hosts fit into this pastoral farm mold, but more often than not, hosts are small, independent operations specializing in a one product or type of agricultural output.

You can learn to make goat cheese in the Alps, blend pinot noir in Australia, run an agrotourism school in the south of France, harvest olives and make olive oil in Portugal, build irrigation systems in Ghana, heard cattle in Argentina, or grow papayas in Hawaii.

The basic premise remains the same no matter where you go or what kind of agricultural operation you visit: WWOOFers work roughly five to six hours a day five days a week for their hosts. Early mornings are typically the norm, so you may work from 7 am or 8 am till lunch at 1 pm or 2 pm or put in a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the evening in hot climates with stifling midday heat.

Where Can You Go?

WWOOFing is an ideal vehicle to explore both developed countries and developing destinations that are difficult to visit independently, including many countries in eastern Europe, the Caucuses, and Africa.

More than fifty countries have their own national WWOOF organizations, and another 50+ are on the independent list, meaning there is no national administrative body, and you can WWOOF there with a membership from any other country. For a full list of the countries that currently host WWOOFers, check out the national organization list (http://wwoof.org/natorgs.asp) or the independents lists (http://www.woof.org/independents.asp).

How Do You Sign Up?

First things first: pick the country you’d like to WWOOF in.

One of the main downsides for travelers looking to WWOOF is that you have to sign up for each national WWOOFing organization separately. So if you are trying to assemble a year of WWOOFing around Europe, you’ll have to sign up separately for membership in the British, Swiss, French, Spanish, Greek, and Italian organizations.

After providing your biographical information through the national organization’s online form, you send in a membership fee, typically around $30-$40. Many countries accept payment by Paypal these days, but for some countries, you’ll have to factor a few weeks for your check to arrive into your travel plans.

Once these materials have been received by the national WWOOF administration, they’ll send you a host list and a membership card. You can’t begin a WWOOFing trip without your membership card, and many hosts will ask to see a copy of it by email before accepting your request to stay with them.

***

Many national WWOOFing organizations have a list of opportunities you can browse for free before signing up for membership. Take a look through some listings in Brazil (http://www.wwoofbrazil.com/pre_host_farm.htm), Kazakhstan (http://www.wwoofkazakhstan.org/hosts/), and Italy (http://www.wwoof.it/gb/list.html) to get inspired.

Gabi Logan is a freelance blogger and travel writer. While renovating a Ligurian farmhouse on a recent WWOOFing trip, she finally found a way to put her Italian literature degree to use: bonding over Dante with her hosts.

One day last June, I went for a jog with my new friend Shannon.  She had moved to Cajamarca as part of a Fulbright grant to teach English at the university.  While she loved her life in Peru, she missed working with school-aged children and was looking for opportunities to volunteer with an under-served community.  I had been informally teaching English to several children on my street for months.  I wanted to formalize my efforts into classes, but didn’t know how to go about it.  By the end of our three-mile jog, we had decided to start a school.  It was as simple as that.

After a couple meetings, we bought some markers and a dry erase board and began teaching free English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Following the principle that you don’t need a building to have a classroom, we began to teach in the street where the kids usually play soccer.  After two classes, a neighbor quickly volunteered a few child-sized chairs and the use of a roofed patio outside of his house.  Over time, more and more children came consistently and now we have an attendance between 12 and 18 children per class between the ages of four and eleven.  With geese, chickens and dogs wandering around us, we sing songs, play games and walk these kids through basic English. 

As terrible as it sounds, for most of my life I have not been a fan of children.  In graduate school, I dabbled in Pediatric occupational therapy but quickly became disinterested; preferring to work with a my-aged or older, even geriatric population.  Perhaps I hadn’t met the right kids.  For some reason, I find myself drawn to these children, who, despite the bad hands they were dealt, manage to be seemingly happy-go-lucky kids. 

Some of our students have it better than others.  Some eat three meals a day, others are lucky to get one.  Some go to school, others don’t.  One of my eight-year-old students lives in a closet-sized mud-and-grass hut with her 13-year old sister (who raised her).  Her parents live in the countryside and don’t want her.  One of our brightest students, Pepe, can’t walk due to a congenital spinal deformity; this seven-year-old boy crawls on his hands and ankles.  The family has been given money twice to bring him to Lima for a surgery that would give him the ability to walk, but they used the money on other things.  No matter what, each afternoon the kids gather to play soccer in the street with their worn ball and smiles on their faces.  Pepe is a surprisingly good player.

Each kid has a story.  These kids are TOUGH.  These kids rarely whine, cry or ask for anything more than for me to play soccer with them after class (a disgraceful sight).  In my opinion they need so much.  I want to give each one the same opportunities I had growing up.  However, saving the world or even one child is far more complicated than one would ever imagine (trust me, I’ve tried).  So, I offer free English classes twice a week to anyone who wants to come.  The kids and parents show extreme gratitude and have graciously welcomed me into their close community.

Not only are these kids happy, grateful and tough…they are SMART!  One day as I was conversing in Spanish with a small group, I asked a question and soon realized I already knew the answer.  “Duh!” I blurted out in English.  “Duh!” I heard the kids repeat.  From that point forward, I began to hear the expression “Duh,” used commonly and appropriately throughout the children of my neighborhood.  I was proud.  Fortunately their quick acquisition of the language carries over to more useful expressions such as “hello” and “how are you?” which I am greeted with frequently nowadays.

Shannon and I have faced challenges and worked around them.  No funding and lack of materials in English has not been a problem.  It forces us to be inventive.  Originally it was hard to get the kids to show up on time (four o’clock, gringo time tends to translate to four thirty or later, Peruvian time). We nipped that one in the bud by using constant reminders, starting class at four whether all the kids have arrived or not, and teaching classes that kids want to attend.  If you ask one of our students when the next class is, they will respond in English “Tuesday at four o’clock, punctual!”

The greatest problem we faced was that of classroom management.  With a teacher:student ratio of about 1:50 in the public schools, you can imagine it would be difficult to structure things.  In the local school that our students attend, the teaching is done mostly by lecturing in the front of the classroom.  During the first few classes, when we asked a question the children would either shout out the answers or stand up and wave their hands in front of our faces pleading “please miss, me, please!”  At the end of class when I read a book, the children would crowd me, trying to all sit in my lap at the same time.  Okay, so THESE kids are tough, happy, grateful, etc. but I don’t like them enough to get suffocated.  The chaos needed to be controlled and fast. 

Shannon, being a more patient person than myself and a more experienced teacher was good at ignoring the more outgoing children and calling on the polite ones.  I, on the other hand, couldn’t focus with this disorder.  First, I tried changing my typically “fun” demeanor.  I looked at the children who were talking amongst themselves with a frown on my face and disappointed and said “what are you doing?  Listen to your teacher!”  This was effective for about 15 minutes. Eventually we implemented rule: “when my hand is up, my mouth is closed” which has had a longer lasting outcome.  Generally we structure our lesson plans to keep the kids active and engaged, eliminating opportunities for them to act like brats.

While I spent time in the States in the early fall, Shannon continued to teach classes and upon my return in October I was greeted warmly by our students.  At that point we decided to get this on paper.  Shannon and I (both being major nerds) enjoyed long work sessions during which we wrote our mission and guiding principles, methodology, a profile of the community we serve, lesson structures and more.  After a couple weeks, we had our first draft of a portfolio.  All we lacked was a name and who better to ask than our bright young students? 

The one-and-only naming session was productive.  Shannon, myself, and several of the kiddos made suggestions.  Some were stereotypical names given frequently to schools, churches, buildings, and programs in Peru. “Escuela del Corazon,” (School of heart) “Escuela de las estrellas,” (school of the stars) “Escuela bonita,” (beautiful school) to name a few.  There were a few humorous suggestions such as “escuela de las gringas” and “escuela de los monos” (after their favorite song about monkeys jumping on the bed).  While the name “school of the monkeys,” was amusingly tempting (both to me and the kids), the final decision came down to a vote.  The winner?  “Mundo Maravilloso”.  In English: Wonderful World.

We’ve got a lot to do and a lot more kids to cater to.  At least 20 children have recently asked if they can join, but with Shannon back in the States, I’m putting a pause on new admissions.  I’m developing a long-term (3 month minimum) volunteer program under the principle that children need consistency to learn efficiently.  Little by little, I’ve gathered a box full of books, scissors, markers and a few other supplies to improve our activities.  Shannon and I are working together in the upcoming months to develop a set curriculum with matching lesson plans.  But Mundo Maravilloso has a great beginning and lots of exciting things to come.

–Danielle L. Krautmann

 *If you are interested in learning more about Mundo Maravilloso or receiving a copy of our portfolio, please contact me directly via my email: DanielleLParker [at] gmail [dot] com.   

Dear GoMad Nomad,

My fiancé and I are looking into trying to teach English in Asia –our short list at the moment is Japan, China, and Korea. This is a new and exciting idea that just popped up a few days ago, so I don’t know a lot. I know that we would want to leave this summer or fall. We would like to go for a year. We want to live in a big city.

My students and I at school in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

What are your experiences – where have you gone? How did you set them up? Would you recommend them?

I found a couple programs online that help you get the TEFL certification; they set up a job for you, set up your housing, visa, and provide insurance. They have an upfront program fee, but then you also get paid through the contract they set up with the school. It kind of seems like it might be an easy option, but I wonder if it’s easy enough to set up by yourself.

Also, what do you think about getting the TEFL or CELTA certification? Is it necessary to get a job?

-Carolyn in Arizona

Dear Carolyn,

I’ve taught at a private academy in Spain, short-term contracts in Korea, a school year in Mongolia, in Palestine, and as a Peace Corps volunteer in Uzbekistan.

I never got any certification because I came out of the Peace Corps with two years experience and got my following jobs based on that experience.

Some jobs require you to have a TEFL or CELTA certificate, but many do not. Often you might get a few hundred dollars more each month if you have the certificate, but basic requirement for teaching English in Asia are simply to be a native speaker and hold a bachelor’s degree. Any education or work experience beyond this and you just increase the quality of your working conditions and salary.

As far as looking for job openings, Dave Sperling’s ESL Café is my goto site.

I have organized all my teaching contracts myself—either directly with the school or through a recruiter.  So I don’t have experience with any programs that help you get the TEFL certification, set up a job for you and handle all the logistics. I don’t think it’s especially difficult to set everything up independently, but it is more work than going through a program. You just need to know what the norms are for pay, teaching hours, and work conditions so you aren’t taken advantage of.

I’ll try to sum up and generalize theses Asian countries for teaching:

Japan: Good salary, but high cost of living = not much money saved up. I’ve never been to Japan, but nearly everyone I’ve talk to loves it there.

South Korea: Decent working conditions, good pay, reasonable cost of living, fun place to live = happy ESL teachers with money in their pocket after contract finishes. And there is an abundance of jobs.

China:  Lower salaries but low cost of living (outside Beijing and Shanghai anyway). Teach in China for the experience of living in China and a chance to learn some Chinese. Lots of job opportunities.

Taiwan: I’ve never been to Taiwan, but from what I hear, it falls somewhere in middle between China and Korea in terms of earnings and cost of living.

If you want to teach this fall, it’s a good idea to get started because South Korea, I know, has new requirements for their visa. Now you need a federal criminal background check which takes up to three months to complete. So you might want to get started in the process earlier, rather than later, no matter where you are planning to teach.

-Stephen

Have you taught English in Asia? Please comment below to add to the discussion.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did  it get to be this late?  I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca.  Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra.  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours.  When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau.  Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it.  After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color.  But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with).  I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in.  Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass.  I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet!  Stay!  Chat with me!  Just give me one more horita of your time.”  Violeta pleas.  And again, how can I refuse?  My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro.  She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one.  So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her.  A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common.  She has a child, I don’t.  My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish.  She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama.  My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom.  Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection.  Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito  and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed.  I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up.  As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party.  Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way.  After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa!  Duh!”  She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon.  She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is.  “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.”  She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie.  From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night.  You’re culture is so impressive!”  She went on with wide eyes.  “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced.  Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…”  As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit.  With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV.  After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off.  This is what impresses her?  The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.”  The Peruvian dream.  Really.  If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States.  I can’t take any more of this.  I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade.  I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.”  I tell her honestly.  I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people?  I think to myself as I run home.  I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch.  Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas.  “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious.  Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice.  “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors.  It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else.  They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct.  Ugh.  This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt.  The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small.  After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets?  The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing.  I yearn for “the simple life.”  I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them.  I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another.  Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion.  As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’  We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.”  This is true.  When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch.  The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait.  I want to show you to my children!”  I kept running.  People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know.   “Hello!”  they call.  “Gringita!” they yell and wave.  Children follow me and ask questions.  “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention.  I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”  I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime?  I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time.  I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like.  I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth.  They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through.  If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too.  Thank Pachamama we still have diversity.  People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this.  My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be.  I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids.  Turns out, I’m representing a culture.  “The gringo culture.”

Dear GoMad Nomad:

These could be your peppers drying in the sun

Currently I am living in Donostia, Basque Country, with my girlfriend. At the end of the month we are likely to move to Madrid, to hunker down over winter. My problem is that neither of us have more than a tourist visa, which entitles us to only three months in Spain. I remembered that you had lived in Madrid for some time, and wondered how you stayed in the country, whether by obtaining a visa, or making occasional runs for a border, to refresh your entry visa, or some other way. I am sick of borders, fronteras, imaginary lines dividing countries.

-Moving to Madrid

And another letter:

Dear GoMad Nomad,

I am looking into teaching English in Spain, but I will just have a tourist visa so I need to do it under the table.  I have an online TEFL certificate but no teaching experience.  Do you know of any good ways of breaking into that with my limitations?

-In new territory

Dear Moving to Madrid and In New Territory:

Unfortunately you can’t just leave the country (or the EU or the Shengen zone) and return immediately. You actually need to leave for three months, because you are permitted only 90 days in a 180-day period. This applies to those from the US, Canada, Australia, Brazil, Argentina, Japan, South Korea, among others.

Fortunately, the Spanish are pretty relaxed at Passport Control and they generally don’t check your stamps very closely. Many EU and Shengen countries don’t even stamp your passport, which may complicate things or may work to your advantage, allowing you to stay extra time.

But…sometime they do check. This is a very real risk. I have a very good friend who was denied entry into Spain because he had already used his 90 days in 180-day period in Shengen countries. He was held at the airport in Madrid for three days before being allowed to return home.

I know plenty of North Americans and Australians that were living and working in Spain illegally, having left and entered multiple times even though they were over their limit. But that was before the economic crises of 2008. Friends of mine that are still teaching English in Spain say the job availability is scarce, so it might not be an optimal time to move to Spain. Read this article for more on teaching English in Spain.

Working without a work visa

Although obviously illegal, there are plenty of US citizens working in Spain without a work permit. If you’re smart, the risk is minimal. Start contacting English schools while you’re still at home to see what kind of response you get. If you’re determined to move to Spain anyhow, just do it. If you can’t find work at a private language academy, you can try to find private tutoring gigs. They usually pay 15-25 Euro per hour.

Getting an extension

I am under the impression that you can apply for an extension to add to your 90-day visa free period. But, as of 2011, this is going to require an apostilled criminal record check from your home country. Go to your local police station in Spain to apply.

Getting a work visa

To get a work visa for Spain, you have to be in your home country to complete the paperwork and take it to a Spanish embassy or consulate. Contact Spanish schools while you’re still in your home country and try and secure a job in May or June in order in order to start work at the beginning of the school year with all the official documents in hand.

The debate continues…

There is quite a debate over all this on different forums on the web. I have read and heard stories that reveal conflicting reports to all the information I just gave you. Please feel free to comment with your personal experience or any information you might have that coincides or conflicts with my views.

Sincerely,

Stephen

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Alternative to department store.

As my taxi weaves its way through the streets of Cajamarca, Peru, things look different than they did my last visit.  Perhaps it’s because last April, I was a tourist from Lima.  This time I’m here to look at apartments.  I will be moving to Cajamarca in a month.

The taxi driver grumbles to himself about the traffic as I look out the window.  I notice that every store on this block sells cleaning supplies.  Brooms, mops, bold colored buckets and dustpans clutter the shop fronts to draw you in and deter you from the next store which sells the exact same items.  The next two blocks are filled with peluquerias (hair salons).  Each store front is covered with out-dated posters of models from the 80’s displaying voluminous hair styles.  I wonder which of these peluquerias I will go to.  Does it make a difference?

The next block is where you buy your canned foods with faded labels while the one after is filled with hardware shops.  Is this a weird dream?  What planet am I on?  Why don’t these people just go to a department store?  Finally, as the taxi approaches Hotel de las Americas, I notice every other building on this block sells nothing but cheese and yogurt.  All I can think about is how I will describe this strange phenomenon to friends and family when I return to Lima.  Then it hits me: these are the places I will shop and these are the streets I will need to learn.  Shit.  This is going to be like starting all over….AGAIN.

One of these guys is not like the others

I step out of the taxi and take a look at the locals.  When I visited in April, the people of Cajamarca (many of whom still wear traditional Andean clothing) contributed to the rich cultural experience of visiting this beautiful mountain town.  They walk the streets dressed in sandals, knee-length wool skirts with petticoats, with 3 to 5 sweaters layered over each other (never mind it’s hot out).  A tall hat made from woven palm leaves shades their dark leathered faces and covers their black hair which they wear tied back in one or two braids.  Today, these women are no longer photo opportunities, but my new neighbors.  The majority of Cajamarcanians sport modern attire as they would in Lima, but there is still something very different.  All of a sudden I become keenly aware of the lyrics to the song I’ve been humming to myself for most of the taxi ride.

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger.  Faces look ugly, when you’re alone.”

You said it Jim Morrison.  How the heck am I going to live here?  How will I make friends?  Lima is one thing, but this place is just a little too different.  I try to remember why I wanted to move here in the first place.  Something about the mountains, something about the culture, something about getting out of the city, and something about Brandy being able to run free off her leash.  These things seem trivial and I’m ready to hop back on the next plane to Lima.  Loud lonely Lima all of a sudden becomes lovely, luxurious Lima, where I have friends, and can buy everything I need in one store.   Alas, I am supposed to go and see eight different apartments tomorrow so I’ll stay the weekend.

I guess it doesn't look all that bad, does it?

The taxi driver says “gracias señorita” as he dumps me off at the hotel and drives away quickly.  I catch myself humming The Doors again, “No one remembers your name, when you’re strange, when you’re strange.”

Change is hard, moving is hard, and after moving nine times in the past five years (I’m not exaggerating), I can safely say, it doesn’t get a whole lot easier.  But I have learned there are a few things you can do to get through the adjustment period a little more smoothly.

Leave the house every day

Easier said than done.  At any given time, I can think up at least five reasons not to leave the comfort of my own home:  It’s not safe. I can’t understand anyone. I’m tired. there’s too much to do around the house. Brandy doesn’t want me to leave her alone.  There, easy.  That was five.  Stop making excuses. Even if it’s just to take a walk around the block, get out of the house.

Get your bearings

Figure out where you are. You can look at maps, but the best way to learn the streets is by walking them.  When I moved to Lima, I was so nervous about getting lost, I would only walk around the block, so that’s where I started.  Then it became two blocks, then trips to the grocery store, then I learned the bus system.

Talk to people, start conversations

Everyone has a story to tell and most have good intentions.  Of course you must keep safety in mind, so perhaps if there is a “gentleman” standing on the corner making kissing noises, don’t approach him and ask him if he wants to be friends.  Aside from that, put yourself out there, you’ve got nothing to lose.  “People look strange, when you’re a stranger.”  So don’t be a stranger, talk to everyone.

Accept every invitation

Take advantage of every opportunity, even if it’s not your thing, keep an open mind and go anyway.  If you get invited to a gathering, a Tupperware party, a trip to Gamarra to see the Shaman market, to train for a marathon, whatever, GO!  Every invitation you accept will get you more invitations, and you’ll never know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it.

Finally, go easy on yourself

Moving is hard.  It doesn’t matter if it’s to another country or the next town over.  In Peru, we use an expression, “poco a poco”  which means “little by little”.  That’s how things happen and that’s how we adjust.  It won’t happen overnight.

So now, I suppose, it’s time to take my own advice.  In a month I will move to this place, I will shop in these stores, get lost in these streets, and befriend these strangers.  Time to find an apartment, check out the local market, and find someone to talk to. Here we go again!

New Hampshire foliage

Have I ever told you how much I love the Jorge Chavez International airport?  Well, I love it so much that I try to arrive early.  If check in goes smoothly I have time to sit outside the security gate to watch Peruvians say goodbye to each other.  Entire families go to the airport with their loved ones to participate in the dramatic parting ritual.  The traveler tearfully makes his or her way through the group, kissing each person, telling them they love them, telling them “cuidate” (take care of yourself), promising to call the second they arrive, then more kisses, hugs, tears,  and handholding while exchanging longing looks.  Family members who are staying in Peru cry and hold each other for comfort.  

I love it.  I hope to someday partake in such a dramatic goodbye.  Charlie has little tolerance for the production.  He feels it’s excessive and whether the traveler is going for a year or a week, they do the same darn thing.  He gets annoyed when they block the entrance to security and you have to push your way through, which we did as we made our way through the airport for a visit home to the United States.  To Charlie’s credit, he spends far more time at Jorge Chavez than I do, and I’m sure it gets old.  I looked back as a family of seven parted with their young adult.  As they wept and held each other, I pretended they were saying goodbye to me.  “Goodbye for now, Peru,” I said to myself as I popped a sleeping pill (courtesy of a typical Peruvian pharmacy at which you can get any drug you desire without prescription) and boarded the plane.    

Charlie and I eating Fenway Franks and drinking beer at a Red Sox vs. Yankees game.

After sleepwalking my way through a layover in who-knows-where and customs, I found myself in Logan International airport surrounded by gringos.  Finding a bus to my hometown of Concord, NH seemed too easy to be true.  I had become accustomed to the simplest tasks taking at least a half day in Lima.  The bus arrived on time and the ride was tranquil.  No slamming on the breaks, no bumps, no one cutting anyone off and no horn honking.  I had almost forgotten that for the most part, in the United States of America (home of the brave), we follow traffic laws out of fear of getting a ticket.  I looked out the window and appreciated the cleanliness along the highway, allowing the grass to show its bold green color.   Here I was on the other side and the grass was definitely greener!

I looked around at the other passengers on the bus and something felt strange.  No one was looking at me.  No men making kissing noises, staring me down, or proclaiming “I lub you!” in thick Spanish accents.   I waited for the feeling of relief to set in.  After months of enduring sexual harassment whenever I left my apartment, after walking around in sweatshirts hiding my identity as a gringa rubia, after daily rants to Brandy about the perverted men in Lima, I could finally relax.  But a different feeling overtook me: disappointment.  I looked just like everyone else.  On this bus, there was absolutely nothing special about me that would cause a person to look twice.    

I must say, it was nice being home.  Autumn in New Hampshire provides an incredible display of changing seasons causing people to come from all over the country to marvel at…leaves.  Ironically, the brilliant foliage is a sign that the leaves are dying and NH will soon enter into another terribly long, excessively cold winter.  But the leaves do not accept their fate quietly.  They put on a captivating show of fiery reds, oranges and yellows before they go.

A typical American making apple pie

I spent three weeks enjoying the foliage, visiting with family, drinking savory beers from local breweries and eating far too much delicious American food.  Charlie and I celebrated our anniversary hiking in the White Mountains without need for guides or worrying about being held up or having our packs taken.  I appreciated speaking English, feeling safe, the familiarity, cleanliness, and law and order to everything.  When I’m in the States, everything makes sense.  I have never enjoyed NH or my family as much as I did this past visit.

But this trip to New Hampshire felt different.  Over and over again I found myself feeling like a foreigner.  I wanted to kiss everyone I encountered which doesn’t fly in the United States.  I had almost forgotten that in the USA, we shake hands when we greet.  After months of kissing my friends in Peru, my maid, my driver, and anyone else I got introduced to, I felt like I was being rude NOT to kiss my parents’ friends, my brother, or my best friend’s boyfriend.  There were several times I found myself going in for a kiss only to have a hand thrust in my direction for a shake.   I was constantly reminding myself “Don’t kiss strangers, Danielle.  They’ll think you’re weird.”  

My cousin Kate thought I was weird when I tried to negotiate the price of a hotdog.  This vendor wanted to charge me $3!   “Three dollars for a hotdog?” I asked.  “That’s ridiculous!  I’ll give you a dollar.”  The guy paused and looked at me, then replied “Sorry, three is as low as I can go.”  I assured Kate, “Don’t worry. I do this all the time,” then said “Two fifty, no more.”  He appeared irritated, “Sorry, these hot dogs cost $3.”  To his credit, it was a good hotdog, but I could get a whole meal for that price in Peru.  

Kayaking in Keene, NH surrounded by foliage.

Mom thought I was weird when she noticed me taking pictures of everything from cars stopped at traffic lights to Charlie doing yard work with my brother, Brent.  “Act natural,” I told her as she stood elbow deep in a bowl of flour at our kitchen counter.   “This will be a great photo.  Its so typical.  An American making apple pie!  I can’t wait to show my friends!”  Mom rolled her eyes.

After three weeks, I was sad to leave.  I sniffled my way through security checks at the airport and anticipated my return to loud, lonely, Lima.  I feared that after 3 weeks of speaking English, I would be back at square one stumbling through words like an idiot.  I filled my carry-on bag with enough magazines to last me a month, boarded the plane and popped a sleeping pill.

I woke up as my plane landed at Jorge Chavez.  As I fumbled my way through customs and baggage claim I mentally prepared to be harassed by taxi drivers who would approach me the second I exited the airport.  On the contrary I was greeted by Carlos, who of course, before anything, gave me a big kiss.  Funny enough, that was all I needed to remind me that there are a lot of things I love about this place.  

I’ve heard that life experiences that are most difficult are the ones you remember the best.  I found that the things I complain most about ended up being the things I missed while visiting the USA. The men in Lima who make kissing noises are jerks, but they sure make me feel attractive, even when I’m in baggy sweatpants and having a bad hair day.  There is much less structure, law and order in Peru, making simple things take sometimes days to accomplish, but when I do complete a task, I feel triumphant.  While my Spanish has improved, I continue to struggle to communicate all I want to say while projecting my personality, but each time I have a deep conversation in Spanish, understand a joke, or use a new word, I feel successful.  I stand out here in Peru, and for that am a target for crime, scams, and higher prices, but learning about and living in a culture so different from my own has been the experience of a lifetime.  

I got back to my apartment and took Brandy out to the park.  I looked around and noticed the grass was a lovely green.  Not the same bold green as in New Hampshire, but bright green.  Not more or less green than it was on the other side, just a different shade.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Celebrating Easter with a traditional Panetton

The other day I was taking a taxi back from work.  I negotiated the fare to be eight soles, a fair price to go from San Borja to my apartment in San Isidro.  I told the taxi driver to please not take the street Javier Prado explaining “la trafica es mierda ahora,” and asked him to take a different route.  He ignored my request and landed us in stand still traffic on Javier Prado.  He told me if I wanted to continue, I would need to pay 12 soles.  Assessing the situation to be non-threatening, I explained to him that he had two options.  I could get out of the taxi and pay him nothing, or he could take me to my apartment for the price we agreed upon.  I said I had told him not to take Javier Prado and he took it anyway, that was his problem, not mine.  He mumbled a couple swears and agreed to take me for eight soles.  I won an argument in Spanish!  Yes!

Something has changed over the past two months.  I first became aware of it when I started having difficulty coming up with blog topics.  At first, everything felt so new and different that I had a long list of topics I wanted to cover.  Then, I was so frustrated with the differences that I didn’t want to write about them.  Lately, it’s getting harder and harder to see the differences between Peru and the United States because it feels like day to day life.

Some friends over for Charlie's surprise 30th birthday party

I am currently in the process of getting my Peruvian Foreign Residency card or Carnet de Extranjeria.  Don’t be confused, this is not citizenship, it’s basically permission to stay for an extended period of time without a visa.  It’s about as Peruvian as I can get.  While I contemplate what this means for me, I can’t help but recall a conversation I had with Charlie in February when my frustrations hit the roof.  Charlie told me that I lived here now and needed to get used to the cultural differences.  At the time, it was the meanest thing he could have possibly said to me.  How dare he tell me that I live here?  I thought we were just staying temporarily until it was over!

So what’s the difference between being a resident and just staying here?  It wasn’t until my recent visit back to the States that I really felt, for better or for worse, that my home is here in Peru.  When I got together with friends or family, most people’s first question was, “How’s Peru?”  You would think that I would be a pro at answering such a generic question, but it continued to dumbfound me.  I felt like I was being asked “how is your life?” and had no idea where to start my answer.  While three months ago, I would have delved into the differences between the two countries, my answer tended to be something along the lines of “Peru’s good, how’s New Hampshire?”

I have noticed that as Peru has begun to feel more like home, situations that originally sent me running back to the apartment in fits of rage or tears are now nothing more than little annoyances.  For example, paying the monthly bills is a tedious process.  Checks don’t exist here and you can’t pay with credit card so you need to go to the bank associated with the company (for example Telefonica is our cable/internet provider and they use Scotiabank) and deposit money into their account.   Since everyone does this, the lines are usually long and since people feel the need to start every interaction with a polite conversation (taking much longer than I believe they should), the lines move slowly.  The first time I went to pay bills, I quit half way through, storming home after waiting in line for a hour and a half.  Now, I plan the bill-paying process will take at least an afternoon.  I usually spread it out over two days and go to the bank when it’s least busy.

Presenting Charlie with cake at his surprise 30th b-day party

I still get annoyed with los hombres, but have had a revelation.  About a month ago, I walked by two men, dressed professionally in business suits in a nice area of the city.  They were having a seemingly serious conversation about investments (I was eavesdropping).  As I walked by them, one of the men momentarily excused himself, made an obnoxious smooching noise towards me, then apologized to his business partner and continued the conversation.  It was almost as if he was obligated to do it.  Like if I walked by and one of them neglected to comment, the conversation could not continue or one might lose respect for the other.  Now, I get this machoism is a cultural thing and I need to try to accept it.  While it used to cause me to have violent dreams about beating a Peruvian man until he bleeds (seriously), now I just roll my eyes or turn up my Ipod.

I can speak enough Spanish to get by in most situations.  I do not consider myself fluent because I still can’t follow jokes told in Spanish, sarcasm, or quick conversation among groups, but I’m getting there.  I can get around the city by bus and know how much I should be paying for taxis so I’m taken advantage of less.  I’ve got friends in Peru who I missed on my trip back to the states.  I found work tutoring English to children and between that and Spanish classes have managed to keep my days quite full (although I still miss my job as an occupational therapist terribly).  I got sick of telling people that I moved here for my husband’s job, so I’ve begun to tell people I’m either a writer or a teacher (depending on the day and what I’ve done more of).  Although I don’t have the official card to prove it, I will soon and I think it’s safe to say that I’m not just staying here anymore.  I live here.  I’m a resident of Peru.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

We all finished! My running club from left to right: Ricardo, Gladys, Charlie, Gaby, Jorge, Pak Peng, and me.

I can’t take my medal off. It’s bronze colored with a plain navy blue ribbon to hold it on my neck. It’s the cheapest, worst quality completion medal I’ve ever received from a race, and I love it. This one says Lima 42K, 2010 on it…my first marathon. After the race I took a nap and woke up with the ribbon strangling me. I adjusted it rather than taking it off. I wonder how long I can get away with wearing this around the house.

Although I’ve done plenty of half marathons over the past five years, I was hesitant to commit to training for a full marathon. For me, running is something I do to keep fit and clear my head. If it’s a nice day, or I have excess energy, I like to go for a run. If I’m on a run and feel tired, I prefer to turn around and go home. If I’m feeling good, I’ll go further. When I need to “train” for a race, running quickly looses its appeal. Something about adding discipline to the sport makes it feel like more of a job than a pastime.

My first month here I joined a running group through Charlie’s work to meet people and make friends with similar interests. The friend-making mission was soon accomplished, but I kept showing up as the runs increased in length. I enjoyed the camaraderie of suffering through the last couple miles of a long run with friends. So really, my initial training for the marathon was an accident that happened secondary to my efforts to make friends. Although the thought had crossed my mind, it was not until about six weeks ago that I realized I was logging between 60 and 70 miles a week. So I signed up for the Lima 42K.

Me and Charlie. Although he looks like a total idiot with that mustache (grown just for the race), he was my biggest supporter.

I’ve enjoyed running for about six years now. My prior race experience includes nine half marathons, and volunteering as a pacer in three ultra marathons (100 mile races…I didn’t do the races, just helped out). Through all of this, I have learned that there comes a point during which your body tells you not to go any further. Your joints hurt, your muscles hurt, your head hurts, body parts you never knew existed hurt! You feel like you’re running as fast as you can, but know you’re only jogging at best. From here, things can go one of two ways. You can acknowledge the pain and listen to your body, stop and stretch, or walk for a ways. OR, you can remind yourself that its in you to go further and keep running despite the pain. The little engine that could powered itself through positive thinking and I’m here to tell you, it really works!

For me, it was when I reached 28 kilometers and realized I still had 14 to go that I started to feel the pain. I knew completing the race would be more of a mental feat than physical. At that point, I began to fill my head with the most positive thoughts I could come up with to distract myself. Charlie suggested that if I got to that point, I find someone to talk to to keep myself distracted. Unfortunately, speaking Spanish still takes a lot of effort and energy so this didn’t seem like the best option. Instead, I noticed a Peruvian runner with a particularly cute butt going the same pace as me. I strategically paced myself behind him for 2 km until he slowed down and I passed him.

At 32 km, I saw my friend Vanesa and her dog Inca and was reminded of what great friends I’ve made here. At 34 km, our friend Brodie rode up on his bike and chatted with me for several minutes and told me how well my rock star husband was doing (he finished in 3 hours 33 minutes). At 38 km, I passed Charlie’s boss/fellow member of my running group, Jorge, and it occured to me that I was ahead of everyone in our running group except for Charlie.

I'm sprinting across the finish line!

Jorge seemed to think he was going to beat me in the race and thus made a bet with me that if I beat him, he would bring back a People magazine and US Weekly from every trip he takes to the States. The idea of settling down with a cocktail and trashy mag in English every month or so made me run faster. At 40 km I noticed many of the “runners” walking around me. They had hit their walls. I tried to calculate how much time I would lose if I walked rather than ran to the finish, but got distracted by someone with an enormous camera taking a picture of me. In hopes of becoming famous like my friend Gladys and getting in Cosas magazine, I flashed them a huge smile and decided if I had run this far, it would be a shame to slow down.

Just as the finish line came into sight in the distance, I saw my husband running towards me, already wearing his completion medal. “Yeah!” he exclaimed. “You did it! Four hours 35 minutes! You beat everyone from running group! And you look strong!” While I was still running towards the finish, he had a friend from work take a picture of us. He began to ask me questions about our friends. “When did you pass Jorge? How far behind you is Ricardo?” Even in my exhaustion, I adored his excitement for me. I had to remind him that I needed to cross the finish line.

“Charlie, we can talk later, please let me finish,” I huffed out. Then I looked up. There is was! The finish line! My body didn’t hurt anymore and I began sprinting. In the final stretch, I passed two people and completed my first marathon with a smile on my face.

The Wheels of the Combi Go Round and Round

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A Lima bus with a cobrador hanging out

Currently Lima, Peru has no public transportation.  This restricts Limenians to use either taxis, buses, cars, or “combies”.  Charlie and I don’t plan to get a car while we’re here because it’s easy enough for us to get from one place to another.  Plus, with the plan to stay for two or three years, it hardly seems worth it.

Every person you meet has either had a bad experience with a taxi or knows someone else who has. A Peruvian friend of mine took a taxi to get from one fairly safe neighborhood to another.  When he noticed the taxi wasn’t going in the right direction, he said something to the driver.  Sooner than he could stop them, three men approached the taxi, and the next thing he remembers is waking up in a bad part of town on the side of the road.  His money and cell phone had been stolen.  A guy Charlie works with got robbed at knife point in a taxi.  One time Charlie and I were taking a taxi and the driver fell asleep…while driving.

In most of my experiences, except for the frequent opportunist or pervert, the drivers are more or less harmless.  They either charge exorbitant rates to tourists and gringos who don’t know any better, or hit on me the whole time.  They like to ask me questions about myself, where am I from, how do I like Peru, where do I live, would I like to get coffee with them?  They tell me I’m beautiful or sexy (duh), and once, the driver drove along with an obvious erection.  Gladys says not to be friendly, smile, or even talk to the driver.  Wear your sunglasses and a frown.  Every time you get into a taxi, you take a risk.

The payment system is different than in the States.  Since taxis don’t have meters, you negotiate a price with the driver. Before entering the car, tell him where you’re going, all the while scoping out the cab to assess its safety.  If it’s a station wagon, check the back for people or weapons.  If you are a gringo, the driver will give you a price far higher than what you should pay.  “Dies soles,” he might say after contemplating for a few seconds.

Gladys and I with our serious riding-the-bus faces

At this point, you have three options. 1. Take his first offer and pay “el pricio gringo.”  If you’re strapped for time, this is your best option.  2.  Decline his offer and wait for the next taxi who is inevitably waiting nearby.  I often do this before negotiating to show the approaching taxi that I will not accept a ridiculous quote.  3. Negotiate the price.  I’m getting quite good at this.  I will say something like “normalmente yo pago tres o cuatro soles.”  Then he either accepts, drives off because he’s offended, or negotiates further until we come to middle ground.

Suggestions for a safe taxi ride in Lima include:

1. Speak as little as possible to the driver.  In my experience, conversations about myself often lead to the driver either trying to get more money from me, trying to convince me to go somewhere else, or asking me on a date.  I have heard predators will use conversation to distract tourists who want to practice their Spanish.  Meanwhile they might change routes.

2. When you do speak, use as much Spanish as possible to show the driver that you know what he’s saying…even if you don’t.

3. Know where you’re going and if possible, tell the driver what route you would like to take.

4. If you are alone, sit directly behind the driver.

5. Know where the lock to the door is.  Some taxis have auto locks and lock you in when you enter.  Just make sure you can undo the lock if need be.

A quiet day on the bus with very few passengers

In research for this article, I took my first “combi”.  These are mini-vans that go hurling through the streets at top speeds sparing no pedestrians.  They are infamous for hitting people and getting in accidents.  Initially I was not in favor of how close I was squished in between two men, one of whom insisted on making kissing noises towards me for the duration of my ride.  The last of the three combies I took was lacking a floor.  It had wooden boards nailed down along the cross rails between the tires.   I rode along with my feet suspended, fearing for my life as I watched the wheel turn round and round underneath me.  Although not my preferred option, they are the fastest and cheapest way to get around town.

Personally, I prefer taking buses whenever possible.  They are cheaper than taxis, somewhat safer, and far more entertaining.  The equivalent of 40 cents can get you close to anywhere you need to go in the city.  As I mentioned previously, there is no public transportation.  The buses are all private competing companies with no schedules, websites or monthly passes.  “Cobradors” stand on the first step of the bus calling route and street names rapidly like auctioneers.  “Javiar Prado, Prado, Prado, Todo Javier Prado, La Molina,  Molina.”  As the buses quickly approach, you have very little time to contemplate which one you want to take since they rarely come to a complete stop.

Three or four buses approach at the same time, trying their hardest to cut each other off in order to be the first to pull up.  I scan them quickly as they approach, hoping to view one with an open seat.  If there aren’t any, no worries, the cobradors stuff passengers in as tightly as they fit making each journey its own olfactory experience.  You may be lucky enough to be pushed up against the chest of an older woman with musky perfume that stays on you for hours afterward.  On an even luckier day, you have less than an inch of space between you and a sweaty construction worker on his way home from work.  Just make sure you push your way to the front of the bus several blocks before you plan to disembark since, like I said before, they rarely come to a complete stop.  Be ready to jump. As you ride along, you can watch as the standing people get thrown back and forth as the bus forces its way through traffic making brief stops when it gets cut off by other busses.  If you end up standing, your best bet is to keep your knees bent, feet wide apart, with a low center of gravity.  Focus and be prepared for a quick stop-and-go at any time.

While the bus sits in traffic, vendors approach the windows selling cold beverages, snacks and newspapers.  During peak traffic, you can buy sunglasses, wallets, lighters, large maps of Peru or South America, necklaces, pens, and various other trinkets all for sale at the convenience of your bus seat.  There’s a guy I sometimes see weaving his way through traffic selling beautiful handmade pirate ship replicas.  When there are few enough passengers, vendors board the bus and ride from one to three blocks.

First they stand at the front of the bus so everyone can see them.  They sell their pitch, “Hello, my name is Miguel.  I am selling these Pilot pens for a great price.  In a store you can buy them for no less than three soles.  Because you are such beautiful people, I will sell them to you for one soles per pen.”  Miguel proceeds to work his way from the front to the back asking each person individually if they would like to buy a pen.

If you’re lucky, Miguel might be a starving musician who boards the bus to play a song on his guitar, then walks through asking for donations. Despite his filthy attire, pathetic attempt at a performance, and drunken, stumbling gait, people donate!

If you plan to take a bus, hold your purse close to you, try to get a seat, and cross your fingers as accidents are not uncommon.

An American in Peru

Charlie swimming with the sea lions

Between junior and senior year of college, I studied abroad in the rainforest of northeastern Australia.  I spent four weeks living in an open-air cabin in the middle of the forest learning about and aiding local reforestation efforts…the experience of a lifetime.  Afterwards, I spent six weeks traveling in parts of Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, my first stop being Sydney.  Accompanied by five other students from my program, I spent my first night in the city participating in a pub crawl.  The $35 fee covered a ride on the party bus (complete with disco ball), a drink or shot at seven different pubs, and a t-shirt!  It sounded ideal to a 21-year-old who had been living a sober existence in the middle of the rainforest for the past month.  Although I recall very little from this night, I am told that after the 5th stop, my friends found me sitting next to a tree alone outside one of our stops, crying.  Apparently I drunkenly blubbered about how sad I was to be out of the forest.  “The city, it’s so loud!” I slurred, “You can’t see any stars!  The trees are growing out of the cement, not the earth!  There are more buildings than animals!  The ground is so hard!”

In recent years, for reasons such as this, I have written off drinking shots under any circumstances.  Although lately I’ve found myself feeling those same sentiments.  Along with many firsts (first time not working, first time living in a Spanish-speaking country, first marriage, etc.), this is my first time living in a city.  I have always enjoyed going to cities to visit friends, tour museums, and experience a different culture, but living in one is different.  I’m lucky to live across the street from a park the size of a city block.  I frequently find myself getting as close as I can to the middle of it, closing my eyes and blocking out the sounds of the cars.  I try to pretend I’m in the middle of the woods.  Every other day I walk down to Lima’s beautiful coastline, sit in the well kept parks and imagine there is not a road behind me.

Danielle at Club del Bosque

Fortunately, this past weekend, Charlie and I had two excellent opportunities to escape the city.  I had been researching day trips and told my friend Gaby what I had found  She suggested that instead, we go to a club about an hour outside the city.  Her father is a member and with a signed letter of approval and our passports, we could spend the day.  Club del Bosque turned out to be like a mountain resort.  Everything was green!  We arrived in the afternoon and started by taking a nap on the grass under a big shady tree.  We had a late lunch, swam in the pool, then went on a short hike to a beautiful overlook. This being our first close-up look, we were surprised to see the mountains right outside of Lima so dry and barren of vegetation…especially as we were enjoying them from a beautifully green resort.  The resort is in a riparian zone, fed by Rimac River which runs all the way to Lima.  It felt like we were in a desert oasis.  The trip was a wonderful escape.  Thanks Gaby!

On Sunday, I arranged for us to take a four-hour boat tour around the Islas Palominos off the coast of Lima.  Charlie and I have been wanting to check out activities we can take our visitors to do (eh-hem) and this turned out to be an excellent choice!  The boat toured San Lorenzo Island, the second biggest island in the country, currently a Navy zone.  Next we passed Fronton Island, also known as “prison island”, which housed the most dangerous criminals and terrorists in the country until is was bombed in 1986.  We also viewed Cavinzas Island, a popular hang out for sea birds, who produce the treasured guano.  Guano is bird excrement, used in making fertilizer and gunpowder.  This is a highly sought after commodity imported by countries including France, Germany, and the United States.  This particular island is protected heavily from fishing and other disturbances and mined every eight years for its “goods”.

When I was making arrangements for the tour, I read that swimming with sea lions was a possibility, but had no idea what I was getting into.  As the boat approached Palominos Island, the guide told us it was a natural residence and refuge for more than 8,000 sea lions!  As we got closer, the smell of guano became overpowering.  Then we began to hear them…barking, roaring and screeching were thousands of sea lions covering the small island.  The guide explained that the noises they make are their way of defending their territory, then gave us life jackets and told us to jump in.

Although Charlie was, of course, one of the first ones in the water, I was hesitant.  Male South American sea lions weigh up to 770 pounds and their territorial noises felt uninviting.  Initially, I used the excuse of taking pictures to avoid joining them, but Charlie talked me into it and as usual, I’m glad.  I jumped into the freezing water to join my husband and the lions.  The guide said that if we didn’t want them to touch us, we should move our legs around.  Charlie stayed still in the water and one of them swam up against him.  I’ve never kicked harder in my life but they were still swimming within five feet of me.  Yikes!  Due to much stricter rules, you would NEVER be able to do this in the States!

An American in Peru

What time is it?

Every greeting starts with a buenos dias (good morning), buenas tardes (good afternoon or evening), or buenas noches (good night).  This is fine and dandy, but sometimes adds to my anxiety of beginning a conversation, entering a store, or asking for directions.  In addition to figuring out how to say what I want to say, I need to quickly determine what time it is.  Who pays attention to that anyway?  Usually I wait for the other person to greet me and copy them, or just say buenas and mumble the rest.

They pay for things differently

This is not one of my favorite things about Peru.  Usually the purchase of a simple item goes something like this; first you need to tell a sales clerk what you want, they print a receipt which you take to a different counter to pay.  Once you’ve paid, you get a second receipt to return to the first clerk so they can finally give you the item.  That’s how I bought my vacuum cleaner.  Buying a $15 alarm clock at an electronics store was even more complicated.  I told the clerk at the clock counter which one I wanted.  He printed the receipt and sent me to the pay counter where I waited in line and paid.  Then I needed to go to a third counter to retrieve the clock, but when I got there, the clock hadn’t made it from the original counter (which was less than 15 feet away), so I waited for the clerks to figure out the problem.  By the time I was holding the alarm clock in my hands, I could have made one from scratch!  Oy.

How much does this cost?

Unless you purchase an item at a store, or a restaurant with prices on the menu, the cost of most things is debatable.  When I ask how much an item costs, I usually get a ridiculously high number quoted to me (commonly known as the “gringo price”).  From here, I need to barter.  I laugh at the vendor and tell them I’m not an idiot and give them a more reasonable number.  We argue back and forth until we finally arrive at a compromise (which is probably still far more than I should be paying).  I have been given lines about how the exchange rate between Dollars and Nuevo Soles varies depending on what time of day it is or what district of Lima you’re in (not true).  Sometimes the vendor will pull out a calculator and begin quickly performing nonsense calculations, conversions, “discounts” and “taxes” as a part of their argument.

The tactics Charlie has given me to combat this include telling the vendor you will just go to the other guy across the street who is offering a better price, or showing him the money you’re willing to pay and telling him to take it or leave it.  The most common thing Charlie and I barter for is the price of a taxi ride.  The whole process feels uncomfortable and annoying, but is perhaps beneficial to my marriage.  I do believe that the constant bartering Charlie and I need to do throughout the day has drastically reduced the amount of energy either of us are willing to exert into daily bickering with each other.  Since we’ve been down here, I’ve heard nothing about how many pies a month I need to make to be a good wife (a common topic of debate from the past).

PDA

Where I buy my veggies

Back in the day, Charlie and I used to argue about our opinions on public displays of affection.  When we were at parties I didn’t like how he would either treat me like one of the guys, or ignore me.  I would say to him “Charlie, how are people going to know that we love each other?”  His reply was, “Why do other people need to know we love each other?”  Fine.  He had a point.  PDA is far more common here.  Every time I look around the park in front of my apartment, I notice at least one bench occupied with a couple kissing. If you get a good show, sometimes they’re making out…or even groping!  And not just teenagers, you see this across the ages.  It’s hard not to stare.    Charlie feels it’s insincere. He tells me that the men I see making out on park benches and whispering into their girlfriend’s ear probably have a wife at home or another girlfriend living in a different part of the city.  If you think about that way, it’s a little less endearing.  But for the most part, I think it’s nice to see people expressing their love for one another.  It’s better than fighting.

Kissing

Speaking of PDA, in Peru (and I think a lot of Latin America) everybody kisses everyone all the time!!!  When you are introduced to someone or meet up with a friend; most familiar greetings and partings are followed by a kiss on the cheek.  I kiss Gaby, I kiss this girl I keep seeing in the park (we talk while our dogs play together), I kiss Charlie’s boss, and I kiss Carlos, our driver.  It’s great!  Again, Charlie and I differ in our opinions of this. Charlie feels like the affection is not always genuine.  He points out that as a social obligation, you are forced to show affection to people you don’t know or don’t like.  Maybe it’s the “rubia puta” in me, but I love kissing everyone!  Oh well, different  strokes, different folks.

Dressing

If I keep walking around in workout clothes and flip flops, I’ll never fit in.  In the business district of San Isidro, Lima, where I live, people dress quite nicely.  Maybe this is a city thing as much as a Lima thing, nonetheless I feel the need to adapt.  Since my hair color, skin color and accent don’t help me, I figured if I start dressing the part, it might make me look more Peruvian.  So I went to a clothing boutique near my house and told the sales clerks I was looking for some nice pants.  By nice, I was thinking anything other than workout pants or baggy jeans.

They chose several pairs for me to try on.  The first two pairs I couldn’t get up over my thighs. By the third pair, basic black, slim hip huggers, the three sales clerks were determined.  As we faced the mirror, one stood behind me and gave instructions to hold my breath while the other two tugged the pants over my butt. Then each pulled in towards the middle until the button met the button hole to seal the deal.  Sucking in my gut as far as I could, they were able to pull the zipper up.  They all stepped back triumphantly and watched and waited for my opinion as I reluctantly studied the new look in the mirror.

Presenting it as a question, I suggested that maybe, just maybe the pants were one size too small.  The girls looked at me like I was crazy and told me to look at the fit of their pants, which, sure enough, fit just as tight if not tighter than mine. “Okay,” I thought to myself “when in Rome…” While I was talking myself into the purchase and trying to figure out how I would get the pants off, a sales clerk brought out a pair of four-inch stilettos.  Standing in them with ankles wobbling (I’ve never been very sturdy on my feet), she explained that this would make the pants the perfect height.  I purchased the pants and two nights later went shopping with Gaby to buy two pairs of stilettos: one three-inch, one four-inch.  I’ve been practicing wearing them, but keep a pair of flip flops in my purse when I go out in case I need to do any significant walking.  I must admit, the outfit is flattering.  No wonder everyone I greet wants to kiss me!

Posted by Danielle L. Krautmann, 02 Feb 2010

An American in Peru

Where I buy fruit

It’s amazing how much a single interaction, or the successful completion of a task can make my day and contribute to my happiness here.  Conversely, a failed task or misunderstanding can be devastating.  Who knew I was so sensitive?

Here’s an example. This weekend, Charlie bought me a cell phone (I had been using a temporary one lent to me by his company), but it’s a pay as you go, so I needed to go to my favorite grocery store, Wong, to add minutes. This involved reciting a nine-digit number to the cashier in Spanish three times.  She showed me the number printed on a receipt, it looked right and I walked home feeling proud of myself for doing this without Charlie’s help…all in Spanish!  Boy, I was feeling good…like maybe, just maybe I can make it here on my own.  I don’t have to wait for Charlie to come home from the mine before I take care of business.  I am an independent, Spanish-speaking traveler who will be just fine here.

I called Charlie to brag about my accomplishment and after a couple minutes lost the call and heard a message that said I needed to add minutes to my phone.  What?  After further investigation of my receipt I realized the number I recited was one digit away from the correct one.  I added $17 to some lucky person’s phone rather than mine.  How kind of me.  This deflating discovery made me feel like curling up on the couch and watching a familiar DVD in English, eating ice cream and calling home.  I thought to myself how will I ever make it here if I can’t even add minutes to my phone? Fortunately, my schedule did not allow time for a pity party, I had a girl’s night out planned with Gaby.  This morning, I humbly returned to Wong with my phone number written on a piece of paper.  Although they were not capable of correcting the problem, I was able to add minutes to my phone.

This afternoon I went to Idiomas Catolicas to buy the books for my Spanish class which starts next week.  I paid, and while I was waiting for the secretary to bring me my books, was approached by a well-dressed, bubbly twenty-something year old woman named Rita.  She asked (in Spanish) where I was from and if I spoke English.  When I answered her she became overjoyed. I was afraid she would burst into bright bubbles of excitement right in front of me!  Within 10 seconds, she had practically dragged me, by my hand, into an empty classroom.  She quickly introduced herself, asked my name, and gave me the formal greeting of a kiss on the cheek.

Rita explained to me (in Spanish) that she was taking English classes at the school but would like private lessons to help her perfect her pronunciation and compliment her classes.  We exchanged phone numbers and established that the best times for me would be Mon-Wed in the afternoon.  She asked how much I charged per hour.  This was all happening so fast, I could barely follow the conversation.  I was fumbling around with my Spanish trying to figure out how to tell her I would need to talk with my husband first.  Being an inexperienced teacher, I had no idea what I should charge.

I considered telling her that if she would be my friend, I would charge her nothing.  She seemed nice and I can always use more friends…I’ll buy them if I have to.  But the eagerness and anticipation in her face made me feel like I should quit thinking to myself and throw out a number: $15 dollars an hour.  Without flinching, she said it was perfect and she would call me this weekend.  She kissed me again and apologized, I think for being so rushed, then briskly walked off to class backwards, smiling and waving to me the whole way.  This entire interaction took less than 3 minutes and I was left alone standing dumbfounded in the empty classroom.  Do I have a job?

Posted by Danielle L. Krautmann, 28 Jan 2010