I have promised myself that my next post will be dedicated to the time spent with my parents, but right now I want to write about something that is fresh in my mind. I spent the last week in Huaraz, the regional capital of Ancash (about 2 hours from my town), studying Quechua. 4 days, 6 hours a day, alongside my fellow Ancash volunteers and taught by Orlando, one of Peace Corps’ finest. Orlando was born and raised in Huaraz, and has essentially dedicated his life’s work to preserving the Quechua language and culture. Across Peru, there are more than 80 indigenous languages and dialects. Over hundreds of years, many indigenous languages have disappeared, and many others are shrinking as we speak. Of those remaining, Quechua is the most widely spoken, and there are four variations: Central (what I am learning), Northern, Amazonian, and Southern.

Part of being a volunteer in Ancash means learning Quechua. Since the day we were assigned our sites in pre-service training (PST), the 8 of us began weekly Quechua lessons with Orlando. Every Saturday, we would come into the training center for 4 hours to learn the history and basics. Once in our sites, we could take it upon ourselves to find our own Quechua tutor, for which Peace Corps would reimburse us. So, since March, I have been taking weekly lessons with a Quechua tutor in the nearby town of Caraz.

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In Pueblo Libre, essentially the entire population speaks Quechua. Almost everyone also knows Spanish, and everyday I am surrounded by both. In the health post, appointments are many times done bilingually. The patient speaks Quechua, and the medical professional responds in Spanish. Despite speaking in different languages, the two understand each other, and it is a fascinating thing to see. The house visits I attend to mothers and pregnant women are also almost entirely in Quechua. While volunteers in non-Quechua speaking sites may be able to contribute more to house visits, I essentially turn them into a Quechua-learning opportunity. And, it has paid off. Each week, my Quechua is advancing. I am still at the stage where I am too shy to really speak it, but I know enough basic phrases that I blow the socks off of any man or woman that has never heard a gringa speak their language. And really, I see their eyes and energy change when I speak it. I truly want to learn it, and I can see that it means a lot to them.

The language itself is unlike anything I have ever heard. It is mostly a spoken language, so you’ll never see signs in Quechua, and native speakers have a hard time spelling something out if I ask them (so I’ve just given up on that front). Here are a few examples:

• Nuqapa Luciem shutii. = My name is Lucie.
• Nuqa Estados Unidospita kaa. = I am from the United States. (you’ll find a lot of Spanish/Quechua mixing)
• Ayka watayuq kanki? = How old are you?
• Nuqa akata mikuyta munaa. = I want to eat guinea pig.
• Qam inglesta palanki? = Do you speak English?

Little by little, I will learn the language. By the end of 2 years, I hope to be able to chat with all the old ladies here.

In terms of Quechuan culture, it is full of color, legends, family, superstitions, and food. If you hear an owl hoot, or the fruit tree behind your house gives a lot of fruit one year, that means someone is going to die. In June, you’ll see people burning parts of the mountainside to call the rain. When someone passes away, you lay their clothes out on a table to welcome their spirit back inside their home. Today, our last day of Quechua class, and my first day back in Pueblo Libre, was full of ancient tales. Orlando sat us down for half an hour and retold ancient stories: The Achikay – basically Peru’s Hansel and Gretel; Qilqa – a godmother that has an affair with the father and who’s head ends up bouncing around town (some things may have been lost in translation there); and my favorite, The Pishtaco – a gringa/o that goes around cutting Peruvian’s body parts and taking the fat (to do what with, I didn’t quite catch). I had heard of the Pishtaco legend before in Pueblo Libre, and how many children are afraid of white people, as they assume they’ve come to cut them up and steal the fat off their bones. I’m hoping I’ve proven to the kiddos that I am not here by such motives.

Tonight, after coming home from my week away, I sat at the dinner table with my host parents and went over my Quechua notes. They corrected everything to Pueblo Libre Quechua, as even some words and phrases change between Huaraz and here. Naturally, we began sharing the Quechua stories we know, and they recounted their experiences with almas (spirits) in their lifetime. Once many years ago, Yoli (my host mom) was walking home when she saw a white figure, which she knew was a spirit. She remembered what her mother had always told her: if you come across a spirit, sing and nothing will happen. So, that night, Yoli sang all the way home.

She recounted another story, which reminded me so much of my Oma. When she was 8 years old, Yoli’s grandfather passed away. So, as the custom goes, they put a set of his clothes on the table one night to welcome his spirit back inside. Yoli and her cousins slept on the floor that night, beneath the table. They were as quiet as can be, as it is known that the spirits get scared if too many people are nearby. In the middle of the night, Yoli remembers seeing the door open, and her grandfather walk in, arms bent at a 90 degree angle at his sides, palms up. He walked past all of the children, brushing his hand across them as he went. Yoli was scared to death. I couldn’t help but think of “The Crooked-Foot Man”, a legend Oma used to tell us in the dark basement. Once the story reached its peak, a banging on the window would commence and we would hear the dragging of a limp leg outside. The bravest of us would run outside to catch The Crooked-Foot Man, to no avail. While we always suspected it was Opa outside, we never caught him. And we were always so darn scared. Now, I’m not saying it was Yoli’s grandmother playing with them, and I certainly would never propose that idea. But either way, it reminded me of my own childhood, scared as can be alongside my cousins.

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Across Peru, Quechua-speakers have faced a lot of discrimination as it is associated with more rural, poorer, areas. Check out this 2017 Economist article to see how the Peruvian government has tried to reverse the stigma – including testing grade school teachers to ensure they have a basic knowledge. Multiple times, I have been told my teachers at my school that I speak more Quechua than them. My host aunt, who is fluent in Quechua, also wants to review my written Quechua notes, as she is pretty rusty in that realm (like I said, it is a mostly spoken language). One of my favorite things is whipping out some Quechua in the classroom. My students always go wide-eyed.