Condor

A 60 trip. 38 hours on buses. One night in a $5 hostal. All to see this guy:



The Andean Condor. If you are around 5' tall, stretch out your arms. The distance between your finder tips is the about the size of one of this guy's wings. They're big, kinda ugly, and seem to defy physics when they fly.

I got to watch them by myself for a couple hours, before the tour buses started arriving. I took public transportation and therefore left the closest town, about two hours away from where this condor lives, at 4 am. It was amazing.

The ride back to town, however, was memorable for other reasons. There were 48 seats...and at least 80 people. I wedged myself under the vent in the roof so I could stand up staight. The kid next to me puked a couple times.

Paleas de Gallo

I went to a cock fight. That's what "Paleas de Gallo" means in Spanish. I was a bit uncertain about going. Here are some thoughts from before and after.

The Cons for Attending
-It's violence and death for the sake of entertainment. That's a biggie.

The Pros for Attending
-There was an invitation. That meant a lot and I wanted to honor the inclusion.
-It's part of this culture and I want to experience this culture.
-For anyone who has ever spent time around roosters, you know they are pretentious, aggressive, and stupid. If there's one animal that I can stand to watch fight and die, it's roosters. Dolphins are a close second.

What I Expected
Seediness. A dark, smoky back room with a naked light bulb hovering over a makeshift ring. Men of uncertain character leering at each other while betting on demonic birds hell-bent on killing each others. Cock fights of both the avian and human variety.

What I Saw
Women breast feeding infants in the front row of a large, well built arena. The venue had a high ceiling, tons of fluorescent lights, and a concession stand. Men tenderly carried their birds from a spacious waiting area to the well groomed ring with a chain-link fence and separate doors for each contestant. There was a judge. The roosters' owners gave them a great deal of attention. They cleaned their beaks, smoothed their feathers, and spoke calmly to them. When the actually fight began, most of the time nothing happened for a minute or so. The birds were more interested in finding food in the sand than attacking each other. When the mayhem started, there were spurts of activity that often ended in the chickens sitting and panting. Eventually, a chicken would stop moving and the judge called the match. The loosing chicken became dinner.

Technology

Luddite - A person who is averse to addapting to technology.

I am a bit of a luddite. I approach technology with reservation, especially technology that claims to make it easier to stay connected with others. For example, I don't really like Facebook. It creates a false sense of intimacy and I don't think it brings any real value to relationships. (Yes, I recognize the hypocrisy of sharing this sentiment via a blog.) Skype, however, is kinda nice. I'm a fan. Last night, while in Peru, I talked to my brother in Kosovo and then my parents in the States and it didn't cost any of us a cent.

In other news, there were two earthquakes yesterday. The first one was big enough for me to jump up from my chair in anticipation of needing to run into the street. The second, a 6.6, made the walls sway for a few seconds. I'm thankful for the technology in this new building that makes it structurally sound.

Kids

These two young gentlemen are Luis, who I call, "monito," and his older brother Diego. Luis is one of the funniest kids I've ever known. We wrestle with each other, he'll cling to my legs or I'll throw him in the air. He loves to be read to and gently leans against whoever might be reading. Those are the few times when he's not moving and instigating.




Carlito. He may be the front runner for the kids I want to sneak back into the States. Remarkable aware and intuitive for a boy of 10 years old, he is quick to help and always has a smile. While it may look like he's just playing in a pile of dirt, he's actually preparing food for all of his friends. He uses old plastic bottles, stick, leaves, broken pieces of tile, anything he can find for free. I don't think it was a coincidence that he created this game the same day his family didn’t have enough money to buy breakfast.

Gratitude

Within the past 18 months of my fairly nomadic life, I've learned a few things. One of the most potent revelations is that the world is much smaller than I once thought, and so am I.

There is something, however, that has become grander, more impressive. There is something, someone, that continues to grow ever more amazing: my mom. During the times when I've needed someone, homesick in Rwanda or juggling grad school applications in Peru, she is without fail the first person I think of and the person I trust the most. She works the hardest to know about my life and believes the strongest in my potential. There is unshakable certainty in her love.

Yes, I've learned a great deal. I've learned, or at least have come to a better understanding, of how incredibly blessed I am to have my mother.

More Language Shortcomings

1.) I am learning a very particular sort of Spanish. Because I'm dealing with kids, most of the phrases I've learned are something like, "Why are you shouting?" or, "Please let go of my leg," or, "Stop dragging your sister across the floor." Although not the most versatile expressions, they will equip me well when I adopt a few of these little buggers.

2.) I'm pretty sure I ate some deep fried chitlins the other day. The women in the kitchen were enjoying a bowl of these crispy, ambiguous treats and Señora Maria offered some to me. I asked what they were but couldn't understand her explanation. Partly to live up to my own standard of trying new things and partly to defy the women’s expectation that I wouldn't eat them, I threw a few in my mouth and chewed for a long, long time.

3.) Last week, a mother was dealing with her irate 2-3 year old son during lunch. While she tried for a good while to change his mood, she eventually gave up and he remained agitated. He kept hitting her. As a three year old, he wasn't doing any harm, but the situation was still very distressing. Not so much because of the child's anger but by the mother's indifference to it. She never told him to stop, never blocked his hands. She just sat there and took the punches. At one point, when she had her head bowed, her son swung at her and she flinched. She couldn't have been afraid of him or of potential harm. I think she recoiled out of habit. She recoiled because that's what she knows to do, what she’s accustomed to, that’s how other men in her life treat her.

As I stood and watched this scene unfold, different desires tore through me. I wanted to wedge myself between the mother and child, hold his arms at his side, look him squarely in the eyes, and say, "Nunca. Nunca. Nunca." Never. Never. Never. However, I didn't want to appear to be the know-it-all American who tries to impose his values on others, although domestic violence is unacceptable in any culture. So I made eye contact with the boy whenever I could and shook my head. It didn't help. There have been very few times when I have every felt as inept as in that situation.

Shake It...Eventually

African dance came to the comedor. Chincha, the neighboring city, is the center of Afro-Peruvian culture. Tonight, I partook in my first class.

There was one instructor and a two member band, both playing percussion - a set of bongo drums and a wooden box. While the musicians set the rhythm, the instructor demonstrated the moves and then went to each student to ensure they knew the steps. He spent a lot of time with me.

This class confirmed two things. First of all, I'm a sweater. Not the wool kind you wear on chilly days but the kind of person that sweats easily and prolifically. Not knowing what was to come, I started the class in khaki shorts and a nice t-shirt. 30 minutes in, I was dripping with sweat and I ducked into my room to change clothes. At the end of the class, just 30 minutes later, I had to hang my second set of shorts and t-shirt up to dry.

The second confirmed fact was that my dancing capabilities have been hindered due to my wonderful and fairly middle American upbringing. For the first 25 years of my life, I learned that under no circumstances am I to ever shake my hips. Sure, I felt allowed to dance, as long as that dancing was in a strict side to side motion, my full body remaining in a vertical line. Therefore, when I try to move my hips in a Latin motion today, they are a bit hesitant, they don't quite comply, as if they're asking, "Is this really a good idea?"

Luxury

I've been sick the last few days. My best guess is that the bug came from eating some already peeled fruit from a street vendor. The turbulence continued as a result of eating a bowl of rice and bean when I was starting to feel better. Bad idea. Awful, terrible idea. My stomach freaked out and swelled to twice, maybe three times, its usual size. No exaggeration.

Thus, I have spent much of the last 72 hours in bed, trying to find a position in which it didn't feel like a baby alien was going to pop out of my belly. I stayed away from the morning food preparations and kids couldn't use the computer lab in the afternoon. I have been pretty much useless…and everything has been fine. I was removed from the daily equation and all has gone smoothly. The kids got fed and the comedor proceeded without missing a step.

That is a high form of luxury. I wasn't feeling well so I rested. I had an option. I could take care of myself. Señora Maria has been fighting a chest cold for over a month. It's gotten better but her cough has only diminished from a heave-inducing fit to a manageable annoyance. She's never taken a day off. She's never even slowed down. She can't. Remove her from the equation and the comedor encounters major problems.

Luxury lies the ability to choose. It's the difference between,

"I'm sick. I'm going to stay home today."

and,

"I'm sick. I still have to go to work because if I don't, my family won't eat and they'll give my job to someone else."

Babel

Recently, we opened up the comedor for kids to use in the afternoons to study and do their homework. A boy came in yesterday and asked me to help him with his English assignment. He had to practice speaking and translate a conversation.

Now that I’ve been working to learn Spanish for 7 weeks, and spending a good deal of time translating things from English into Spanish, it was interesting and a bit comical to switch that process with this young man. When trying to speak with him, words shot out of my mouth haphazardly, of one language or another, or even a mix of the two. After a while, we came close to getting it right, and that was good enough for both of us.

I owe my previous language teachers an apology: Dr. Sella for high school Latin and Prof. Anderson for college Portuguese. I was not the ideal student in either of these classes. In fact, I could be uninterested and disruptive. I didn't learn much...I didn't really try to. Being here and learning Spanish has shown me that I can acquire a language. I just need to see it as useful and necessary. Latin and Portuguese don't really fit that bill.

A few of the Characters

David – Some days, he has shoes. Other days, barefoot. He wears a heavy canvas belt wrapped around his torn and smeared dress shirt. Visible through the open collar, a plastic rosary hangs with homemade necklaces. Beautiful graying hair frames a dark, wrinkled face. He looks a disheveled prophet, like the Peruvian Robert Pirsig; not very composed but aware and appreciative of his insanity. He eats in silence but always says thanks.

The Twins – Boys, around 11 years old. Stick thin and well mannered. They sit patiently at lunch while other kids lunge for plates. When I hand them their food, their bodies jump slightly, hands shoot upwards an inch, almost involuntarily, until their conscious reels them back. They are hungry enough to be impatient but polite enough to fight the urge.

Simon – Physically and mentally handicapped and incredibly expressive. He walks in the door of the comedor everyday at 12:40, stands, looks around like he’s not sure if this is where he’s supposed to be, and then catches a familiar face. Exuberance erupts. When eating, his mouth has one position: full bore. A single grain of rice could be on his spoon and his jaw almost becomes unhinged.

The Shouting Brothers – When they enter, they shout. When they talk to the person sitting next to them, they scream. They shout a goodbye as they run out the door. They do not, however, shout when I bring trays of food from the kitchen. They might start, might take a sharp inhale, rise out of their seats, maybe even open their mouths to start yelling, but I give them a quick look, raise a finger, and they reply with a silent nod.

The Crazy Talker – She’s crazy and she talks to me, in rapid, incessant Spanish. I’ve told her numerous times that I don’t understand what she’s saying. She’ll pause in her story, look at me like I’ve said something entirely impossible, and then resume her anecdote.

Prayer

A few weeks ago, I helped take a group of 20 kids to the beach, most of which had never been before. Señora Maria came along and she was obviously nervous. For the first two hours, she stood as a centurion at the shoreline, never taking her eyes off the kids. In her right hand she clutched the wooden cross she normally wears around her neck. As she stood there, keeping constant vigilance directed towards those children, I think her every breath was a prayer.

I’ve been thinking about prayer, about its power. I don’t know how it intercedes or affects external events, but I do like something that Kierkegaard said:

“Prayer does not change God, but it changes him who prays.”

It’s remarkable how much time I can spend thinking about the most ridiculous and selfish things. Perhaps one of the greatest powers of prayer is in its ability to make people think outside themselves, to spend time focusing on the needs and wellbeing of others. Call it whatever you’d like, there is power in that. Power to change the person praying, to make them more aware, more considerate.

Maria is one of the most selfless and steadfast people I have ever seen.

Her every breath.

A Brief Exposé on Modes of Public Transportation

In Africa, it was the matatu, the bus teeming with people, or the moto, the small motorcycle with just the driver and passenger. In Central America, it was primarily the Chicken Bus, so named because live chickens were often passengers.* Here in Peru, there are two preferred means of getting from one place to another: the “colectivo” and the “taxi.”

A colectivo is a mid 90’s model Daewoo hatchback. There is an innumerous amount of these vehicles here but they are all the identical model. There must have been some "buy in bulk" package.

Because all the cars look the same but are all independently owned, the drivers add the most random assortment of stickers and decals. An outline of a kid peeing on something sits right next to “dios es amor” in large, decorative lettering. Anything American is popular: Nike, Marlboro, brands of speakers and surfing gear. The same decorations appear on the “taxis,” which are modern day rickshaws. Basically retrofitted two stroke motorcycles, they have a small cabin that covers the driver and backseat. They are also known as, “Tuk Tuks,” due to the sound made by their exhaust. That name is universal.

Have you ever driven a go carts? Remember that feeling of wanting to take corners at irresponsible speeds and weave through oncoming traffic? Now imagine that you own the go cart, use it to make your living, and therefore want the same thrill of risky driving but don’t necessarily want to wreck your vehicle and demolish your livelihood. Daewoo hatchbacks must induce the same euphoria as go carts. The drivers whip around turns, floor-it during any straight stretch, but don't get too crazy because if they crash, they don't eat.

The doors stay shut more out of habit than thanks to a latch. None of the gauges work. Anything that can be unscrewed or pull off has been missing since the first week of the car's service. I’ve seen huge canisters of propane tied to the back of taxis with a piece of old, frayed rope. And that cargo doesn’t make them slow down. They bounce over the potholes and cut through lanes just as fast.

When I first rode a moto in Rwanda, I feared for my live. In these colectivos, I worry about change falling out of my pocket. Acclimatization is a funny thing.


*Quick note about chickens. If you hang them by their feet, they become completely docile. I’ve seen vendors carrying half a dozen chickens in each hand, all held by their skinny legs, and they didn’t make a sound. They let their wings hang loose and enjoyed the ride.

Plants

The water here, like in many poor areas, is unsafe to drink. I can, however, eat an orange or a pinapple, which are mostly composed of water, without negative consequences. So a plant has the ability to purify water. And not just the unsafe tap water, but the nastiest gutter water full of trash and other junk. Isn't that amazing?

Did you know that the chlorophyll in plants and human blood are almost chemically identical? The only difference is that chlorophyll contains magnesium and blood has iron. That's it. The stuff that keeps plants alive and the stuff that keeps people alive are pretty much the same thing.

Bill Nye is my hero.

A few pictures.

Walking around with a camera feels intrusive but I've managed to steal a few shots.


This was taken from the roof of the comedor. It's directed towards the central park of the town where most of the businesses are located.



Meet Kathy, one of Señora Maria's grandchildren. She started the day with a shirt but lost it somewhere along the way. She's a delight; friendly and rambunctious.



Vendors on the beach hustle their products all day. They walk up and down the shoreline selling caramelized peanuts, frozen fruit popsicles, small baked goods, and popcorn.



Carlita is on the left and Luis is on the right. Carlita and her brother, Carlos, are two of my favorite kids. They are full of intelligence and charisma. Luis has earned the nickname, "monito," which means, I think, "little monkey." He loves to hang on my arms, shoulders, anything. I recently had to pin both of his arms to his chest because he wouldn't stop trying to tickle me. The pale man in the middle should have some color in his face soon.

Laundry

I hand-washed all my clothes today. Everything, including what I was wearing. (No one was around and I kept on my underwear.) It took two and a half hours and I've come to some conclusions:

1.) Armpits deserve the most attention and vigor.

2.) Socks are disgusting, difficult to wash, and I'm resolved to wear them less frequently.

3.) Listening to Jack Johnson makes a menial task more enjoyable.

4.) This sun dries t-shirts in 30 minutes.

5.) I felt good when I was finished. Not relieved - accomplished. There was a sense of independence, of self-reliance, that came with the pruned fingers, tired forearms, and tight back.

6.) Washing machines are nice.

Señora Maria

She's been here, volunteering, for 27 years. She cooks in huge metal pots over a gas stove. Due to her height and the height of the pots, she has to extend her arms straight out in front of her in order to stir. She never stops moving, never stops quickly shuffling her feet over the concrete floor. She gets here by 5:30 in the morning and she rarely leaves before 6 at night.

She's been here, cooking two substantial meals a day, for hundreds of kids, for almost three decades. Do the math. How many millions of plates of food is that? How many millions of washed bowls, cups, and spoons? How many kids who would have been hungry?

Catholicism prevails in this area, along with honoring Saints. Canonization usually implies some kind of tremendous and instantaneous miracle. There is a different, subtle kind of miracle, the kind that happens over a quiet lifetime. In Maria, it is the consistent, fearless giving of an kind and compelling woman.

Welcome Surprises

Here are just a few of them:

The dance classes taught by Raul. The boys fight to be in the front line as they shake their hips like Beyonce to, ¨Single Ladies.¨ A warm and extroverted boy named Carlos excels and the teacher tells the other students to watch him for the correct moves. He covers his face with his hands to conceal his embarrassment and enormous grin.

There´s a fan in my room. That is a marvelous comfort.

The guard at the comedor plays a mean Spanish guitar. His name is Lorenzo and we sat together for almost two hours the other night as he taught me a song. He seemed thrilled at the chance to play with someone. I hope the lessons continue.

I've been translating children's books to help me learn Spanish. "The Giving Tree," is just as beautiful and powerful in another language.

The Peruvian wedding reception I attended. It didn't start until 9 pm and the food wasn't finished until nearly midnight. Old women sat in fancy dresses next to young mothers swaying their babies. The bride and groom's godparents were presented with gifts, including whole roasted ducks and loafs of bread 2 feet in diameter. After everyone ate, they cleared the tables, handed out balloons and masks, and stared dancing.

Although not much of a surprise, the fruit here is wonderful and inexpensive.

Children grab my hand and laugh when I don't let go.

Ways to Learn Spanish

Take a class. Hire a tutor. Use a computer program. Or, you could teach an anti-violence class to groups of Peruvian boys in a small town where no one speaks English.

Starting next Saturday I will be doing just that. Domestic violence and general aggression are common here. Being a male with experience working with kids makes me a candidate for taking on this endeavor. It´s thrilling. There´s a good bit of truth in the adage, ¨Neccesity is the mother of invention.¨ It looks like I´m going to have to invent a way to learn Spanish in a little over a week.


A hearty breakfast is a must when confronting such a challenge. Good thing there´s Maria.

Maria is in charge of feeding the 200 or so kids that come to this ¨comedor¨ every weekday. She raised 9 kids of her own, is in her late fifties, stands about 2 feet shorter than I do, and has undisputed authority. Today at breakfast, she made a mixture of oatmeal, quinoa, other grains and spices. After she fed the kids, I went to get mine. Instead of the little cups she used for the children, she grabbed a serving pitcher, poured in over a liter of this hot cereal, and handed it to me with a smile. Not knowing enough Spanish to politely refuse, I took it, sat with the children, and ate to the verge of nausea.

One Way Hiccup

Monday morning, 8:15 am.

I am in the process of checking in for my 10:45 flight. Because it´s an international flight and I´m checking bags, the attendant for Air Canada comes to my kiosk. (Yes, you read that correctly. I flew Air Canada from Pittsburgh to Lima with a layover in Toronto.) She wasn´t the most chipper airline employee.

While in the process of entering my information, she becomes puzzled and without looking up from the computer asks, “Where´s your return flight?”

“I don´t have a return flight. I bought a one way ticket.”

Now she looks at me. Looks at me like a second head just sprouted from my right shoulder.

“You need to have a return flight. I can´t let you board the plane if you don´t have a return flight. You need proof that you´re coming back. Immigration won´t let you into Peru if you don´t have a return flight.”

“My good word isn´t enough proof?”

A third head must have popped out of my left shoulder because her look went from puzzled to disgusted.

“Sir, you need a return ticket. Here´s a number you can call.”

I didn´t need a return flight. There is no way immigration was going to check for my return ticket. Who even carries their return ticket months prior to the flight? But, I was paired with this woman at the counter and therefore needed to call Air Canada to get a seat on a north bound plane months in advance. Which I did. For almost twice as much money as I got when I sold my Chevy Malibu.

After getting off the phone with Air Canada, I went back to the same attendant, proudly displayed my new ticket number, and she let me leave the country.

The ticket is fully refundable, which is why it was so expensive. First thing tomorrow morning it´s going to be refunded.

Bemelsa

I'm starting my time in Peru, in a town about an hour from the coast, a few hundred miles from Chile. The organization is called Bemelsa. Here's their website: http://www.bemelsa.org/