November 23
About a week ago I was visited during dinner by a young-twenties journalist/radio host who was in-charge of promoting the anniversary of Pacaipampa, our district neighbor to the north. She was confirming the reports that some gringo living in Chalaco wanted to participate in the upcoming mountain bike race. I was taken aback by how good looking she was for someone from the sierra, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to give the cheek-kiss hello, only the safely-distanced hand shake, and kept using the formal “you” in every question. Anyway, she told me that the race was on Sunday, a few days earlier than I expected. We parted ways and I began my training immediately, warming up and stretching in our restaurant while my host bro made lofty but convincing promises to accompany me on his motorcycle for the race, carrying water, snacks, chain lube, his tire pump and enthusiasm.
The next day was the test. I’d been told that if I could bike from Chalaco to Piercas up on the Meseta Andina then the race would be a piece of cake. I had attempted this a couple times before but could only make it a pitiful distance up the merciless inclines before I was holding my knees on the side of the road, trying to recover my breath and cursing my occasional cigarette habit. Now was my last chance to prove that I was healthy enough to do this race. I ate an extra breakfast, packed a lil pouch of trail mix, poured some oral rehydration solution (ORS) into my water bottle, vested myself in spandex biking shorts, kicked the jams and hit the road. I didn’t expect to make it, but the race fervor had taken me over. After a couple hours in the lowest gear I finally reached the ever-expanding plains of the Meseta. I popped it into 2nd and took off cruising down the smooth dirt road, rolling and winding past the occasional horseman or sheep herd, laughing and grinning all the way to Piercas. When I got back to Chalaco I swiftly moved on to my next mission—strictly adhering to my sister Alaina’s training advice. I stopped biking from then until the race, stayed as loose as possible [by breaking into my site-mate Chelsea’s high-ceilinged room to practice yoga while she’s away on vacation], put ORS in every drink, and began eating double-meat and extra rice with my meals.
On Saturday I hopped the bus to Pacaipampa, arriving several hours earlier than the competition. I wandered the streets a little but received some pretty scrutinizing looks and soon became paranoid that everyone thought I was a miner, so I went back to my room in the municipal hotel and relaxed, looking out over the plaza as the sound technician tested the limits of the fifty foot speaker towers for the party that night. Eventually the other bikers showed up and an over-zealous bike race organizer laid out the plan. We were to buddy up in the small hotel, try to get a few hours of sleep, wake up at 3 AM, cram into some pick-up trucks and drive out to Totora, the starting point 60K away. In the freezing pitch dark, sharing a front seat with some random friend of the driver just along for the ride, AC on blast, delirious from dramamine and having barely slept through the booming Cumbia music, I found myself questioning whether this was really happening. A sense of aimlessness and passive introspection drifted in and out as I gazed tiredly at the sierra night sky. I awoke to my head hitting the passenger-side window and slight shades of light outlining the impressive, distant peaks. We crossed over tropical valley floor and steadily climbed the ridge that defines Perú from Ecuador, up to the highest caserío on the very fringe of the district.
The riders de-thawed in morning sun as local folks passed the time commenting on some of the professional bikes from Lima and Cajamarca, comparing them to the rigid fixed-gears from the zona as their kids peeked shyly at the strange gathering. Still focused on my eating regimen, I passed on the traditional breakfast of fried tortillas, cheese and lemongrass tea and instead ate some bread and avocado I’d packed, not minding my impoliteness or having satisfied their preconceptions of foreigners.
The first half of the race was pure downhill, an amazing ride through some absolutely incredible landscapes. In twenty minutes the riders had spread out it was just my bike and I, bumpin along to some tunes. Occasionally I’d pass through a small village of ten or so houses and some campo spectators either yelling “Dale! Dale! Dale!” or just standing their quietly examining the sight. After fording the river at the valley floor I began the slow ascent up the other side. The shady palm trees soon vanished, the road dried to sand, and the midday equatorial sun bore down. A couple of times I shared the climb alongside a few others, but they each fell back and later passed me on the back of pickup trucks. Then I was alone again, about ¾ the way up I’d guessed, with a few sips of water left in what felt like the middle of the desert. I was beat; overheated and dehydrated, back and legs throbbing, chain bone dry and full of dirt, head spinning. I found a small patch of shade off to the side and took five, then resigned to hop on the next passing truck. But looking down the mountain I could see no life, and figured I should at least walk on a bit farther in case nothing came by. A hundred yards ahead a truck did come by, but it was completely full with bikes and their owners, so the driver convinced me to keep going. He stole me some water from a passenger, poured some brake fluid on my chain, and assured me there wasn’t much left until the top, and that from there it was all downhill to Pacaipampa.
I made it into town, dodging tied up mules and kids playing soccer in the street, and pulled up to an empty finish line, fourth place in four hours. Nearly everyone had already gotten back by truck and was lounging in a restaurant with the mayor and other local authorities, drinking Inka Cola and eating ceviche.
And that was it. I almost felt a withdrawal from the race, but knew that it was about time I balanced out. In that short time leading up to it I was all nerves, overly aware of every sore muscle and preoccupied with my health. My Spanish took a concerning dive and I started to involuntarily throw in English fillers, as if the energy required to think about words was reserved for some other body function. I’ve since recovered and am happily back to work. The latrine project encountered a major hurdle the other day that I thought would cancel the whole thing and waste the past year of my life. Just some destructive rumors spread like wildfire by unsatisfied beneficiaries that want to swap the composting latrines for the more socially desirable pour-flush latrines. Luckily the engineers at the municipality and my socio from the health post dominated in the community meeting tonight and everything’s been smoothed out. Day two of construction is tomorrow, Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t ask for more.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Estrellita
19 October
About three to four months ago my little sis Crhis (real spelling) began dropping daily hints about her fifth birthday. It’d go like this: “Daniel, guess how many years I have,” then, “When do I complete five years?” I’d tell her to answer her own question and she’d always reply with the 28th of October, ten days after her birthday, as a test to make sure I knew the real date. When her cousin turned five in August she tried convincing everyone that it was really her birthday and not Emily’s, then when no one bought it and she realized how much longer she’d have to wait she cried until she fell asleep that night. And in September there was a week or two when each day she would ask everyone she saw if they were coming to her party later. For all the hype, I expected something similar to the 1-year-old’s party I went to during training in Lima—60 guests all sitting along the border of the room waiting quietly for their portion of rice and chicken (to be served overflowing on tiny disposable plates and eaten with impossibly small plastic spoons), hired “entertainers” dressed as sexy clowns shaking their tush to booming reggaeton as little girls followed suit, drinking in circles and dancing until midnight when the cartoon-themed three layer cake that cost a good month or two’s earnings could finally be eaten and everyone could go home—but thankfully my family is a bit more modest.
A quote by Crhis, overheard on Nov. 2nd while typing this up: “Papi, cuando es mi cumpleaño?” It’s begun again. Ok, back to the entry.
The party was low key though very high pitched, and increasingly so as these tiny bodies became hyper saturated with the 10 course dessert and candy menu: masamora (goey purple stuff), jello, flan, arroz con leche, popcorn, ice-cream, yogurt drink, lollipops, cookies, caramelos, and finally the cake. I’ve got a funny picture of this one kid that was straight tweaking out. He wasn’t even saying words anymore, just screeching and running, eyes popping out of his sticky face. Aside from the set of coloring markers I got her, Crhis’ only other present was a little doll that sings the English version of “Estrellita, Dónde Estás?” (“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”). Skipping and jumping everywhere she went, I realized that she was mostly just excited about the attention. It was the one day that could shut down her grandma’s restaurant/bus agency, take both her parents out of work, and warrant her ordering every passerby to wish her a happy birthday. The fam was hoping to do a little something for my birthday as well, but I don’t think I could handle another sugar bender so soon. Instead I’ll be camping out with my buddy Chris (-topher) who lives nearby and goin on a much anticipated pilgrimage to a small village named Keirpón to retrieve a former volunteer’s long-lost guitar.
Some fond memories of the Great Amazon River Raft Race (GRARRR): passing to the other side of the Andes and seeing from the plane a forest that stretches on endlessly, untouched and indifferent, and then, the incomprehensibly massive serpent river calmly locking it all in place; being engulfed in flash storms while on our balsa wood submarine in the middle nowhere with no other team in sight, only rain; observar-ing la naturaleza with Birdman and the rest of Team Macho Man on the Slim Jim and passing time with top-5 lists; dripping sweat while watching an epic Perú-Paraguay game on an ancient TV in a creaky cantina packed to its max; being so exhausted but still drinking enough each night to get a few hours of refugee-style sleep in smelly elementary school auditoriums; walking around forever at 4 am with Droch and El trying to find some street food and eventually settling for candy bars out of some guys briefcase; standing on the malecón in Iquitos and saying to myself “Holy Moses, we did it.”
26 October
There are a few people here that live at the very edge of society, in a small adobe house nested on a steep mountainside deep in the dry forests that transition the tropical sierra to the barren desert. Reached only by foot or horseback, noticed only by those who are lost while searching for a fabled guitar, or, more commonly, by those who also dwell on the fringe, simply passing in this case to continue their path towards their own small piece of settled, claimed earth. Static, silent, barely found at hours walking distance from the nearest isolated village of thirty families, a link that appears to break when the rains come and the river washes over their slight foot prints, drowns the huge boulders and floods the riparian sprawl, splits the valley into islands for almost half a year.
Do these remote families live so as an innate or natural conclusion to survival? Is it the result of an inheritance without escape or one that contently resists change? Would they want those health services that I’ve been calling important and basic, that is, enough water of adequate quality and improved sanitation? Does that only matter when we share common resources, the trade-off for sharing common experiences?
About three to four months ago my little sis Crhis (real spelling) began dropping daily hints about her fifth birthday. It’d go like this: “Daniel, guess how many years I have,” then, “When do I complete five years?” I’d tell her to answer her own question and she’d always reply with the 28th of October, ten days after her birthday, as a test to make sure I knew the real date. When her cousin turned five in August she tried convincing everyone that it was really her birthday and not Emily’s, then when no one bought it and she realized how much longer she’d have to wait she cried until she fell asleep that night. And in September there was a week or two when each day she would ask everyone she saw if they were coming to her party later. For all the hype, I expected something similar to the 1-year-old’s party I went to during training in Lima—60 guests all sitting along the border of the room waiting quietly for their portion of rice and chicken (to be served overflowing on tiny disposable plates and eaten with impossibly small plastic spoons), hired “entertainers” dressed as sexy clowns shaking their tush to booming reggaeton as little girls followed suit, drinking in circles and dancing until midnight when the cartoon-themed three layer cake that cost a good month or two’s earnings could finally be eaten and everyone could go home—but thankfully my family is a bit more modest.
A quote by Crhis, overheard on Nov. 2nd while typing this up: “Papi, cuando es mi cumpleaño?” It’s begun again. Ok, back to the entry.
The party was low key though very high pitched, and increasingly so as these tiny bodies became hyper saturated with the 10 course dessert and candy menu: masamora (goey purple stuff), jello, flan, arroz con leche, popcorn, ice-cream, yogurt drink, lollipops, cookies, caramelos, and finally the cake. I’ve got a funny picture of this one kid that was straight tweaking out. He wasn’t even saying words anymore, just screeching and running, eyes popping out of his sticky face. Aside from the set of coloring markers I got her, Crhis’ only other present was a little doll that sings the English version of “Estrellita, Dónde Estás?” (“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”). Skipping and jumping everywhere she went, I realized that she was mostly just excited about the attention. It was the one day that could shut down her grandma’s restaurant/bus agency, take both her parents out of work, and warrant her ordering every passerby to wish her a happy birthday. The fam was hoping to do a little something for my birthday as well, but I don’t think I could handle another sugar bender so soon. Instead I’ll be camping out with my buddy Chris (-topher) who lives nearby and goin on a much anticipated pilgrimage to a small village named Keirpón to retrieve a former volunteer’s long-lost guitar.
Some fond memories of the Great Amazon River Raft Race (GRARRR): passing to the other side of the Andes and seeing from the plane a forest that stretches on endlessly, untouched and indifferent, and then, the incomprehensibly massive serpent river calmly locking it all in place; being engulfed in flash storms while on our balsa wood submarine in the middle nowhere with no other team in sight, only rain; observar-ing la naturaleza with Birdman and the rest of Team Macho Man on the Slim Jim and passing time with top-5 lists; dripping sweat while watching an epic Perú-Paraguay game on an ancient TV in a creaky cantina packed to its max; being so exhausted but still drinking enough each night to get a few hours of refugee-style sleep in smelly elementary school auditoriums; walking around forever at 4 am with Droch and El trying to find some street food and eventually settling for candy bars out of some guys briefcase; standing on the malecón in Iquitos and saying to myself “Holy Moses, we did it.”
26 October
There are a few people here that live at the very edge of society, in a small adobe house nested on a steep mountainside deep in the dry forests that transition the tropical sierra to the barren desert. Reached only by foot or horseback, noticed only by those who are lost while searching for a fabled guitar, or, more commonly, by those who also dwell on the fringe, simply passing in this case to continue their path towards their own small piece of settled, claimed earth. Static, silent, barely found at hours walking distance from the nearest isolated village of thirty families, a link that appears to break when the rains come and the river washes over their slight foot prints, drowns the huge boulders and floods the riparian sprawl, splits the valley into islands for almost half a year.
Do these remote families live so as an innate or natural conclusion to survival? Is it the result of an inheritance without escape or one that contently resists change? Would they want those health services that I’ve been calling important and basic, that is, enough water of adequate quality and improved sanitation? Does that only matter when we share common resources, the trade-off for sharing common experiences?
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