Logotipos

You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to design a logo for persons who have never before in their lives seen a logo. Or who think they haven’t. Of course they’ve seen hundreds, thousands, but they’ve never given any thought to what a logo is for or what value it might have.

Come to think of it, how much value, in fact, does a logo have?

At any rate, as part of my work as a Peace Corps small–business development volunteer, I’m now in the business of designing logos for small businesses here in Callanca, Perú. I’ve designed three very attractive logos but I’ve yet to get any response in return beyond inquisitive stares. Until my arrival, the concept of publicity in Callanca has been to cram as much information and as many images on a business card as will possibly fit and then to add 5 more images and 30 more bulleted items to that count.

I’ve designed logos for two artisans’ associations and for one restaurant. The restaurant really interests me due to the fascinating and soap opera–like elements to the story behind its existence. The restaurant is operated by three sisters, Juana, Marlene and Manuela. Their father and brother still own and previously operated the restaurant. However, two years ago they joined an evangelical church here in Callanca and, due to the zeal with which they approached their new-found faith, began to neglect the restaurant. Even worse, they refused to serve beer or chicha. In Callanca, this is roughly equivalent to refusing to offer tartar sauce in a seafood restaurant. Fortunately, the three sisters remain staunchly catholic and serving liquor doesn’t seem to violate any of the precepts of their religious faith.

So the three sisters are taking over the restaurant and changing the name from El Buen Samaritano: el Primer Restaurante Campestre Cristiano de Callanca (The Good Samaritan: the First Christian Country Restaurant in Callanca) to Las Tres Hermanas (The Three Sisters). Good move, girls.

Perú’s is still a decidedly macho society and the thought of three women running a restaurant in Callanca is mildly revolutionary. In Callanca the men love nothing better than to get shit-faced on Brahma beer and chicha and go looking for a woman to beat up. So I’m feeling good about supporting Juana, Marlene and Manuela. In addition to designing their logo I helped them come up with a list of possible names for the restaurant and suggested that they let their customers help select the name via a popular vote.

In Callanca working in small-business development generally requires this type of personal approach. I’ve tried organizing meetings of interested businessmen for the purpose of presenting workshops on basic business principles. Generally three people show up and those three show up an hour late, accompanied by scrawny dogs and a daughter or niece who opens her blouse in the middle of my presentation and begins to suckle her infant. But I’ve had very good success going to the homes or businessplaces of people who’ve expressed an interest in improving the prospects of their businesses. I’ve helped artisans determine a fair price for their artesanía by means of startlingly innovative approaches like adding together the cost of materials and the value of wages earned during the time devoted to producing an object of art, tacking on a 20% profit, and fixing a price based on these calculations. I’ve visited the workshop of a mechanic who fixes motorcylcles and mototaxis and helped him come up with a business plan that takes into account the future changes in transportation norms likely to occur in Callanca due to population increases, the lengthening of the paved section of road that traverses Callanca, and the influx of automobiles and public transportation accompanying the changes mentioned and the resulting transformation of Callanca from a comminity dependent upon one form of transportation—motos—to a community utilizing many forms of transportation—cars and microbuses and trucks and taxis in addition to motorcyles and mototaxis.

All this has been great fun since, instead of standing in front of a white board with a dry marker in my hand, I’ve been able to visit people in their homes and businesses and see how they live, share whatever they’re having for lunch, and better understand the exact circumstances under which their businesses operate. I’ve never been much of a professor type and I have a lot more success dealing with people as individuals rather than trying to motivate people en masse. Were I the epitomy of evil I’d be Charlie Manson not Adolf Hitler.

However, sometimes I wish I were an Environment or Water and Sanitation volunteer rather than a Small-business Development volunteer. There are a great number of very basic needs and there is a great deal of poverty in Callanca. People living in mud houses with dirt floors and roofs made out of sticks and straw. People drinking water they haul from ditches in buckets. People who eat rice and potatoes with boiled chicken feet three times a day. There’s no sense in Callanca or in Perú that one can start with nothing and through hard work and resolute determination rise from a less prosperous to a more prosperous economic class. Instead there’s a sense that one sure as shit better work hard and better work with grim determination or one will starve to death or die of dyssentery or cholera. Although they don’t appear much like philosophers callancanos could teach Immanuel Kant himself a thing or two about the philosophy of determinism. There’s a nearly universal belief here that nobody in power will help you, that no amount of effort will make anything better, that nothing you could ever possibly do would ever change your fate one whit. So you find very few people willing to try out new ideas or take risks or get very excited about anything at all. That’s what makes people like Barco, the mototaxi mechanic, and Juana, Marlene and Manuela, the restarateurs, so inspiring.

Complacent, resigned, beaten down, beaten up, cynical, skeptical, apathetic, inert, hurt, betrayed, cheated, swindled, bewildered, lied to, shit on, misled, mistreated, aggravated and exhausted. That’s your average callancano. And in general they feel that way for good reason. Nevertheless, they’re still able and willing for the most part to greet a newly arrived gringo—even a gringo wearing 80-dollar tennis shoes and carrying a laptop—with curiosity, respect and occasionally even a hint of optimism. Many believe that all gringos arrive with scads of money. So as a gringo it’s not unusual to find yourself in the middle of a discussion that you believed was about the weather or the relationship of your partner in conversation to other callancanos with the same last name and suddenly be asked about your “mensualidad”—how much money the Peace Corps pays you—or about how much you’re paying your host family to live with them or if the Peace Corps could provide a sum of money so that the questioner’s wife could plant and raise produce in his front yard. Not infrequently someone will just flat out ask you for cash. Fortunately, once the community recognizes that you’re not a tourist and that you’ll be living there for an extended period of time and once they see that you’re actually doing work every day, this line of questioning becomes less frequent. But it never really goes away. Peruvians think all gringos are rich. And compared to Peruvians we all are rich. For instance as Peace Corps volunteers living “under conditions of hardship, if necessary” and at an economic level “that enables them to maintain a modest but safe, healthy, and adequate lifestyle” we receive 1000 soles a month (about $300) from Peace Corps for food, housing and daily expenditures, while the monthly wage of the average Peruvian is about 550 soles a month. So as “volunteers” we’re making more than a Peruvian with a full-time job.

I’m “integrating” as Peace Corps likes to put it. That means that I’m now used to and not distracted by very natural, commonplace and necessary acts like breastfeeding during a PowerPoint demonstration or peeing in public against the side of a building. Every day I see at least one thing that shocks and disquiets me but most days I also see something that surprises and delights me. Sometimes the two things are the same thing. The two phenomena no longer seem to me to be mutually exclusive.

Cabritada

We slaughtered a goat this afternoon. It was an impressive sight. My friend Aldo sharpened a large kitchen knife and a short, blunt machete. The goat, a black one, lay on its side, its hooves tied together with a dirty, frayed piece of rope. Aldo knelt beside it and the rest of us pinned down various of the goat’s appendages. It struggled and bleated. Its brown tongue protruded from between its teeth. All of this was taking place inside a dirt patio in the house of Maximina, one of the artesanas with whom I work. Aldo’s son brought a small washpan and forced it underneath the goat’s neck. Aldo slit its throat with the kitchen knife and foamy blood from its jugular and larynx shot into the washpan, nearly filling it. Aldo kept sawing away at its neck until he’d cut entirely through the larynx and into the spine. There were puddles of blood and flecks of meat and bone in the dirt and a couple of dogs were lapping up the blood and some pullets were darting around, peeping, and pecking at the bits of bone and meat.

When the goat was completely still Aldo cut through the hide of one of its shanks and forced a short length of plastic tubing under the skin and blew into the tube to loosen the skin along the length of the leg. He did the same with its three other legs. Several other knives were brought out to the patio and sharpened. Aldo, Maximina and Aldo’s son started to skin the goat with the knives. Aldo slid the knife between the belly and the skin quickly, efficiently and expertly without puncturing the hide and without damaging the meat. The blade slipped between the meat and the skin and the skin peeled away leaving large patches of white fat interrupted by reddish gashes of exposed muscle, which continued to twitch along the ribcage, above the heart of the now headless animal.

When they’d skinned the entire carcass Aldo cut open its anus and carved out the rectal area and then split apart the ribs with the machete and pulled out the organs and the huge bloated white sack of its stomach and manhandled them into a washtub. Then he cut off the hooves, threaded a rope between the remaining bones of the two forelegs, and hoisted the carcass into a short, thick, white tree growing in the patio. He washed down the carcass with a bucket of water and meanwhile three women took the washtubful of entrails out into the back yard. First they salvaged the heart, liver, kidneys and some other organs that I was having trouble identifying. Then they unwound the intestines, cut them away from the stomach, and began to chop them into short segments. They squeezed greenish shit out of each segment and then poured water through it to cleanse it. Then they ran a stick through each segment and scoured the interior of the gut by bunching it along the stick, washed it a second time and dropped it into a washpan of fresh water that one of the women had brought from the well. As they cleaned the segments of intestine nearer the stomach the green shit they emptied from the length of intestine began to retain its solidity and texture, that of clumps of grass. Finally they cut open the stomach, which emitted a foul odor of partially digested vegetation, and emptied its copious contents into a ditch that ran behind the house. Someone kicked a dog that had been manuevering about, trying to rob scraps, and the dog yelped and skulked away. They cleaned the stomach, whose lining looked like shaggy wet fleece, and threw it into the washpan with the tripe.

When we went back inside Aldo was hacking up the carcass with the machete. The pullets were underfoot, peeping and pecking at splinters of bone. Some guinea pigs were scurrying around on the floor of a pen made of stacked bricks. In Perú we eat guinea pigs, too. The women had begun to cook the tripe and Edith, another of the artesanas, and María, a woman with several gold front teeth, were washing the hunks of meat that Aldo had hacked apart and cutting them into individual portions. Earlier Aldo had split the carcass in half and had weighed each half with a spring scale and each half had weighed 11 kilos. That meant that the goat had rendered nearly fifty pounds of meat and bone.

The goat will be served tomorrow at a “cabritada”—a fundraising effort for the group of artisans with which I’m working.

Andrea Campos Sánchez

Callanca looks like one of those towns that Clint Eastwood rode into to kill a few people in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Though it isn’t pretty and at times not even hospitable, I’m learning to love it. They tell me that all Peace Corps volunteers eventually develop this inexplicable and unreasonable attraction to their sites. It’s the same desperate state of mind that results in the phenomenon of hostages falling in love with their captors. If someone had offered me the deal I’ve got here in Callanca six months ago, I’d have laughed in their face, told them they were crazy and stayed put in Northampton, Massachusetts. But in light of what I’ve learned to expect and to appreciate since, I’m more than satisfied.

The one thing I really miss is good coffee. Judith send me a letter with a three-pack of Starbucks instant coffee inside and I almost wept with joy.

One of my friends responded thusly to an e-mail of mine that mentioned I was working in small-business development: “I wonder what you actually do all day to promote business development… “ Excellent question. There actually are some business opportunities here in Callanca. There are 15 or so “restaurants campestres” here and the restaurants need publicity—logos, signs, brochures; menus translated into English. They need training in how to keep hair out of the food and scrawny dogs and cats out of their kitchens. Handwashing 101 wouldn’t hurt, either. “Capacitación” we call that. All the businesses in town—bodegas to zapaterías—need to learn to smile at people and offer something more than every other bodega and zapateria in Perú offers.

My host mom runs a bodega (a general store with a walkup window) and when a customer comes up to the window to ask for something one of the kids screams ¡buscan! (“They want something!) and Margot eventually comes out of the kitchen yelling ¡dime! (Talk to me!) or ¿qué quiere? (What do you want!?). When they run out of a food item in the house they walk into the store and grab it and unwrap it and put it on the table. So basic accounting principles like don’t mix up your personal accounts and your business accounts are lacking. Yet almost everyone in Callanca has a cellphone and plenty of people have computers. So it’s a strange mix of the modern and the stone-age around here. As one of my Peace Corps friends quipped, “There are more flat-screen color TVs in my town than teeth.”

I’m also working with a group of artesans and we’re going to attend an art fair sponsored by the Peace Corps in November in Lima. This has turned out to be a boost for my reputation in town. It makes me look like I’m actually accomplishing something concrete. In order to raise the money for the trip we’re slaughtering a goat and selling tickets to a “cabridita” (that would mean something like “pig roast” except with a goat) for six soles each. My artesan’s group is also less than a mean fighting machine when it comes to business. Most of them are women who embroider items for traditional weddings held here in Callanca. The weddings last two or three days. On the first day the groom invites all the guests to his family’s house for a celebration of food and drink and dance that lasts from the afternoon until dawn the next day. The second day the bride invites the guests to her family’s house for a celebration of food and drink and dance that lasts from the afternoon until dawn the next day. The third day the groom invites all of his family’s friends to his family’s house and the bride invites all of her family’s friends to her family’s house for celebrations of food and drink and dance that last from the afternoon until dawn the next day. At some point in these marathon celebrations the bride’s and groom’s families and the godparents all receive beautifully embroidered alforja’s and paños and other hand-made gifts which they wear on the wedding day and then retain as keepsakes thereafter or sometimes make use of in their homes. The alforjas are hand-woven shoulder bags embroidered with peacocks or chickens or flowers or other traditional designs. The paños are hand-woven towels also embroidered with designs and commemorative details of the wedding—names and dates and good wishes.

The artesans I’m working with have traditionally produced these items on commission for engaged couples and their families but now will be producing them for purchase by the public as well. I designed the logo you see here for them (I photographed some embroidery by one of the artesanas) and am also teaching workshops on budgeting, costs and pricing, marketing, product design and related topics. Those of you who have seen the cigar box in which I kept the receipts for my own small business back in the States, rest assured that Peace Corps is helping out all of the small-business volunteers with these workshops—providing us with materials and advice. Much of the training I received during my first three months in the Peace Corps involved learning how to conduct such workshops.

That having been said, don’t let me mislead you. We’re at a very basic level of business acumen here. The two people I’m taking with me to the artesan’s fair in Lima have never traveled further than two hours from Callanca.

However, we have many positive things going for us. The group of artesans is called Asociación de Artesanas de Callanca Andrea Campos Sánchez, named for an artesana and brewer of chicha and proprietress of the first countryside restaurant (“restaurant campestre”) in Callanca. She was to have been one of the founding members of the group but on the day the group’s founding members met to draw up the papers for forming the association and registering it with the municipality, Andrea didn’t show up. Word reached the group that she’d died the night before. So the rest of the members of the group decided to name the association in her honor. For the art fair I hope to set up a series of pancartas (letter-size stand-up displays) that describes the founding of the group and illustrates how the artesanía has been traditionally used and how it reflects the rural, agricultural and family- and community-oriented nature of Callanca and of callancanos. The community has existed for nearly a thousand years so momentum is on our side.

On November 5, somewhere, Andrea Campos Sánchez will be knocking back a glass of chicha de jora in our honor and wishing us well in Lima. Assuming that she knows where Lima is.