On electoral campaigns at the grass-roots level

Today my English classes at Cushunga were abruptly interrupted when a trailer truck parked in front of the school. Cars are a rare sight in Cushunga, not to mention trucks, so all of the students ran outside to have a look at the vehicle. It turned out that the municipal government had sent us materials for the construction of outdoor toilets – up till now there have been no toilets whatsoever on the school premises. By outdoor toilet I mean a hole in the ground encircled by sheet metal. The parents (or rather, fathers) of the students are now responsible for putting up a row of toilets for the school.

We were not allowed to unload the truck before the authorities and a small camera crew made it to the school in their four-wheeler. Then the cameras immortalized the scene: excited secondary school students carrying sacks of cement, sheet plates and planks from the truck into the school building. Interviews with the principal and the community leader were taped. Both expressed their over-brimming gratitude to Mayor Marco La Torre, who works tirelessly for the progress of rural communities. Then the authorities addressed the curious onlookers and made sure they all understood that the soon-to-be outdoor toilets were proof of the competence of the Señor Alcalde. With the municipal elections coming up, it is important to get the message across. From my point of view as a Finn, I could not help thinking that it ought to be the mayor’s day-to-day business to see to it that all schools have a place where the pupils (and teachers, for that matter) can go for a piss.

In national elections, most people say they choose the least bad candidate, not the best one. The general population mistrusts politicians and believes they are all corrupt and self-interested. That is why politicians are eager to earn points in the eyes of the electorate. In Finland, school food is considered fruit of the welfare system. In Peru, authorities seek to insinuate that it is a gift from the elected leader and his personal merit.

Candidates campaign by painting their name and “logo” on the facades of private homes. Sometimes such electoral ads also include two or three words that sum up the candidate’s priorities, for example “better road to Chamis” or “more health clinics”. Many a candidate also reminds his electors, that he “sí cumple” or keeps his promises. I choose to use the masculine pronoun, since I have yet to hear of some woman running for mayor in the Cajamarcan region.




As a considerable proportion of the Peruvian rural population is illiterate or barely literate, the electoral candidates are distinguished between not by number but by picture. Each candidate chooses a simple drawing that serves as his logo. Many of the drawings give a hint about the candidate’s electoral themes: a spoon hints at food distribution for the poorest, a tractor means improvements in agriculture, a shovel suggests more public works, a pen promises more money for schools and literacy campaigns.




Not all pictures have a deeper meaning, though; I cannot figure what a baseball cap could mean, for instance. Illiterate Peruvians were first granted suffrage in 1979. Before that, the indigenous communities were largely excluded from voting, so the Constitution of 1979 was a major advance in reducing marginalization.