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.