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?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Suspiros
September 12
Let me write this down. Some times:
I walk up to my café, Señora Luz’s house, to find a skinless pig on the sidewalk, on it’s back, chest being broken into by a small machete and the internal organs being scooped out, along with handfuls of blood, into pots and pans.
Another day I’m drinking coffee alone with Idelma in Tía Luz’a kitchen as she signs to me and tells me something that happened recently, maybe about her son playing in the street too late or her teenage daughter moving back in with her. All the while she mercilessly hunts pesky house flies, rejoicing in each kill, impressively swatting over 30 before I finish my cup.
Later, from the same seat, sipping coffee, I try not to glance at this heavy set mom who took a moment away from making bread and cookie dough to breastfeed her adorable baby girl. Her older daughter is preparing suspiros, or lil’ breaths of whipped sugar and egg with a dusting of sprinkles on top, when the baby abruptly looses thirst and pulls away, exposing the breast completely. The mom just hangs out for a while and tries to entice her kid back to the teat, but baby’s uninterested, so the older daughter dips her finger in the suspiro mix and puts some on the nipple as an allure. Then we all have a fine laugh over it for a good couple minutes, the baby too.
Sometimes I take pleasure in cursing excessively at rocky soil, in English, while digging out bathroom foundations, then in eating two portions of soup in dark kitchens with elderly folks that believe they’re about a century old, that still haul wood to light the stove to make heavily sweetened coffee and that same soup every day and keep the smoke billowing up to soot the walls and dry the cheese, who cry softly and confide in me their life’s sadnesses and physical pains because I’m the only young person around helping them out; because their sons and daughters left to work in the jungle or in Lima and don’t even call.
One time the preschool kids surprised me by singing a song about taking care of the environment at the end of a charla on throwing away trash and the 5 R’s of recycling, reducing, reusing, repairing and rejecting. And other times the other grades got the idea, too. That spells success in my book.
To celebrate Santa Rosa de Lima my buddy Chris and I went camping by this small stone church up on a cliff that overlooks all of Chalaco and Santo Domingo, the town where Chris lives. We climbed on top a skinny pillar and stood with our arms the span of the full rainbow facing us just before night fell. Then we hiked up to the Meseta Andina (Andean Table) and wandered around that strange, wind-swept and barren country among alpacas and their quiet, estranged herders while passively looking for a lake at the end of the river to practice fly fishing, in order to prepare for the real deal, on the Amazon in October.
I got to see my 22-year old socio, Gino, read a poem about self-esteem to a group of about 25 high school students, and then, on a separate occasion, explain to them the difference between sex and gender. I lent him 8 bucks a while back, so he owes me. This week he’s talking about myths and beliefs surrounding the act of sex.
Back in mid-August I spent a day total on busses to get down to region Ica. It was totally worth it because I learned how to build a cocina mejorada and some other neat stuff, and then ride in a beast dune buggy that took us sandboarding in an endless desert. On the way back to site I stopped over in Huanchaco to visit my buddy Eliot and go surfing. We were the only ones out there, getting destroyed by gnarly storm waves and a killer rip, but it was much needed.
Y’kno what’s funny—Dancing. Like when you’re at a club called Bongos and your partner unexpectedly throws herself into a dip and you try to hold her up but the balance is too far gone, so with no choice you give in and fall down with her and stay on the floor a second just laughing about why people do this stuff anyway.
Let me write this down. Some times:
I walk up to my café, Señora Luz’s house, to find a skinless pig on the sidewalk, on it’s back, chest being broken into by a small machete and the internal organs being scooped out, along with handfuls of blood, into pots and pans.
Another day I’m drinking coffee alone with Idelma in Tía Luz’a kitchen as she signs to me and tells me something that happened recently, maybe about her son playing in the street too late or her teenage daughter moving back in with her. All the while she mercilessly hunts pesky house flies, rejoicing in each kill, impressively swatting over 30 before I finish my cup.
Later, from the same seat, sipping coffee, I try not to glance at this heavy set mom who took a moment away from making bread and cookie dough to breastfeed her adorable baby girl. Her older daughter is preparing suspiros, or lil’ breaths of whipped sugar and egg with a dusting of sprinkles on top, when the baby abruptly looses thirst and pulls away, exposing the breast completely. The mom just hangs out for a while and tries to entice her kid back to the teat, but baby’s uninterested, so the older daughter dips her finger in the suspiro mix and puts some on the nipple as an allure. Then we all have a fine laugh over it for a good couple minutes, the baby too.
Sometimes I take pleasure in cursing excessively at rocky soil, in English, while digging out bathroom foundations, then in eating two portions of soup in dark kitchens with elderly folks that believe they’re about a century old, that still haul wood to light the stove to make heavily sweetened coffee and that same soup every day and keep the smoke billowing up to soot the walls and dry the cheese, who cry softly and confide in me their life’s sadnesses and physical pains because I’m the only young person around helping them out; because their sons and daughters left to work in the jungle or in Lima and don’t even call.
One time the preschool kids surprised me by singing a song about taking care of the environment at the end of a charla on throwing away trash and the 5 R’s of recycling, reducing, reusing, repairing and rejecting. And other times the other grades got the idea, too. That spells success in my book.
To celebrate Santa Rosa de Lima my buddy Chris and I went camping by this small stone church up on a cliff that overlooks all of Chalaco and Santo Domingo, the town where Chris lives. We climbed on top a skinny pillar and stood with our arms the span of the full rainbow facing us just before night fell. Then we hiked up to the Meseta Andina (Andean Table) and wandered around that strange, wind-swept and barren country among alpacas and their quiet, estranged herders while passively looking for a lake at the end of the river to practice fly fishing, in order to prepare for the real deal, on the Amazon in October.
I got to see my 22-year old socio, Gino, read a poem about self-esteem to a group of about 25 high school students, and then, on a separate occasion, explain to them the difference between sex and gender. I lent him 8 bucks a while back, so he owes me. This week he’s talking about myths and beliefs surrounding the act of sex.
Back in mid-August I spent a day total on busses to get down to region Ica. It was totally worth it because I learned how to build a cocina mejorada and some other neat stuff, and then ride in a beast dune buggy that took us sandboarding in an endless desert. On the way back to site I stopped over in Huanchaco to visit my buddy Eliot and go surfing. We were the only ones out there, getting destroyed by gnarly storm waves and a killer rip, but it was much needed.
Y’kno what’s funny—Dancing. Like when you’re at a club called Bongos and your partner unexpectedly throws herself into a dip and you try to hold her up but the balance is too far gone, so with no choice you give in and fall down with her and stay on the floor a second just laughing about why people do this stuff anyway.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Busca la bonita
July 31st
July saw me at great heights—snowboarding with my dad on Chile’s incredible peaks—and also at a scary low—being beaten up and robbed in my capitol city of Piura. I’ll start with the good and hopefully make peace with the bad.
I arrived in Santiago, Chile a couple days before my dad and immediately hopped on the next bus for the port town, Valparaiso. There the salty arctic breeze, meaty chicken soup, apples and churrasco sandwiches carried me on and aimless wander through a vibrant maze of streets and alleys decorated with huge murals and eccentric graffiti, on ascensores as they creaked and crawled up the ancient faces of hills with names like “Joyful” and “Beautiful View,” through the breathing house of the late poet Pablo Neruda, and at last into a lively smoke-filled bar to watch the Chile-Bolivia soccer match.
I met my dad at the airport with an unabated happiness of familiarity and an unyielding grin that held months of anticipation. What followed that week were habitual outpourings of the thoughts and sentiments accumulated over ten months united by shred sessions down powdery slopes; growing closer in friendship to my dad than ever before. There are quite a few stories I could tell about rental boards, a fierce storm, an icy cook-out, chains and a car named “Betsy,” an Incan Lake, a lude Canadian, a cute Chilean, and a kind Haitian, but they wouldn’t come out right here. Best wait for Eddy’s faithful account over a couple glasses of wine. I will write one particularly memorable quote from the old man, said to a couple Brazilians and accompanied by arm and hand gestures: “Me speak very little Spanish, mucho English.” And I will take this space to thank my dad for the trip of a lifetime, his untiring optimistic outlook, and all the support he’s given to allow me to be where I am now and do what I’m doing. It was tough seeing him off at the airport. I hadn’t realized until then just how much I missed him and the rest of the family.
After Chile I made my way back up to Chalaco where I was soon visited by my dear friend and mentor, Frieda, and guided through the final patches of my grant application. Then it was a week of more house visits to site latrines, a series of community meetings here and there in the district, polishing the new composting latrine design with Wilse in the municipality and sending in my grant for approval. Sighing in relief I set back out on the road to spend Peru’s Independence Day vacation in the sierra town of Huancabamba, known for its gorgeous mountain lakes and hallucinogenic healing rituals performed by shamans. I passed on tripping balls in a dark room while some guy spits in your face and opted instead for a hike with some buddies to Laguna Shimbe, where we camped shoreside in a small cow barn that we swept free of its many patties. Soaked clothes and shoes made keeping warm tough, and the driving mist and soggy ground made starting a fire absolutely impossible, despite expert efforts, but eventually the weather cleared and we settled into sleep beneath a brilliantly star-lit sky. We awoke to passing birds over a glass lake, under blue emptiness. After cleansing our souls in the purifyingly cold waters we were joined by a shaman and his two apprentice sons and watched on as he sang verses to the earth (“busca la bonita”) and turned in circles spraying elixirs and liquors into the air. Then it was it was a pleasant hike back to Huancabamba and on the late bus to Piura to head back to site for a meeting in Naranjo with the volunteer Matt who did the latrine project out there, while my buddies went on to hike and camp in Chachapoyas.
I arrived around midnight at the bus terminal in a fairly sketchy part of town, where the safe taxi I had called was to be waiting for me out front. I brushed past the mob of drivers trying to give me a lift and out to the sidewalk, and then watched in exhaustion as my safe taxi drove away with another passenger. Did it occur to me to call the taxi company again, or that maybe I wasn’t the only passenger who requested the service? In hindsight, yes. But in that moment, tired from the hike and delirious from Dramamine and an 8-hour uncomfortable bus ride, these thoughts did not come to mind. In that moment a lone taxi driver asked me where I was going and I responded. And despite the steps I’m used to taking to make sure a ride is safe, I felt that looking into the driver’s eyes and asking him directly was sufficient. I don’t know what allowed me to let down my guard so foolishly, but as sure as it’s told we took a wrong turn, onto a dark street where two men quickly got out of the moto-taxi driving in front of us and were on either side of me before I had a chance to make a move. They pinned me down and strangled me as I let out reflexive bursts of protest, and then began punching my face and gut. They dug into my pockets and then went to my wrist. As they unfastened my watch I yelled that it was a gift, and was immediately contested by an elbow to my left eye socket and more blows to my nose and forehead. The driver took us out to a part of town called Nueva Esperanza (New Hope)—a very poor and dangerous “young” neighborhood of Piura without electricity or paved roads. We slowed down and as they tore my jacket off I managed to get out the car, before they could take the rest of the clothes off my back. I lost everything I had taken camping with me, but all told I got lucky. They drove away, leaving me battered and bleeding but alive and without any serious injuries. I followed the lights of the taxi out to the main road where I stumbled about looking for anyone who could help me. An older woman gave me water and a shirt to clean the blood, and then her two sons helped me back into town where thankfully a friend of mine had been staying. I spent the rest of the night turning in bed with a head full of regret, fear, anger, and throbbing pain. The couple hours I did sleep were nightmares, and the next day I found nervous trauma in every thought and on every corner of Piura.
I escaped the city that afternoon have since begun the slow process of putting myself back together in the tranquility of Chalaco. I found myself smiling again today—when making house visits to check up on the latrines in Naranjo, being hugged at random by some little boy in a Spiderman shirt who I had complemented on his saltazo (big jump) from the bathroom stairs. Anyway, I think I’ll grow from this experience, another facet of affliction that I now somewhat understand. From here I move on, get back to work, and try my best to seek out the beautiful.
July saw me at great heights—snowboarding with my dad on Chile’s incredible peaks—and also at a scary low—being beaten up and robbed in my capitol city of Piura. I’ll start with the good and hopefully make peace with the bad.
I arrived in Santiago, Chile a couple days before my dad and immediately hopped on the next bus for the port town, Valparaiso. There the salty arctic breeze, meaty chicken soup, apples and churrasco sandwiches carried me on and aimless wander through a vibrant maze of streets and alleys decorated with huge murals and eccentric graffiti, on ascensores as they creaked and crawled up the ancient faces of hills with names like “Joyful” and “Beautiful View,” through the breathing house of the late poet Pablo Neruda, and at last into a lively smoke-filled bar to watch the Chile-Bolivia soccer match.
I met my dad at the airport with an unabated happiness of familiarity and an unyielding grin that held months of anticipation. What followed that week were habitual outpourings of the thoughts and sentiments accumulated over ten months united by shred sessions down powdery slopes; growing closer in friendship to my dad than ever before. There are quite a few stories I could tell about rental boards, a fierce storm, an icy cook-out, chains and a car named “Betsy,” an Incan Lake, a lude Canadian, a cute Chilean, and a kind Haitian, but they wouldn’t come out right here. Best wait for Eddy’s faithful account over a couple glasses of wine. I will write one particularly memorable quote from the old man, said to a couple Brazilians and accompanied by arm and hand gestures: “Me speak very little Spanish, mucho English.” And I will take this space to thank my dad for the trip of a lifetime, his untiring optimistic outlook, and all the support he’s given to allow me to be where I am now and do what I’m doing. It was tough seeing him off at the airport. I hadn’t realized until then just how much I missed him and the rest of the family.
After Chile I made my way back up to Chalaco where I was soon visited by my dear friend and mentor, Frieda, and guided through the final patches of my grant application. Then it was a week of more house visits to site latrines, a series of community meetings here and there in the district, polishing the new composting latrine design with Wilse in the municipality and sending in my grant for approval. Sighing in relief I set back out on the road to spend Peru’s Independence Day vacation in the sierra town of Huancabamba, known for its gorgeous mountain lakes and hallucinogenic healing rituals performed by shamans. I passed on tripping balls in a dark room while some guy spits in your face and opted instead for a hike with some buddies to Laguna Shimbe, where we camped shoreside in a small cow barn that we swept free of its many patties. Soaked clothes and shoes made keeping warm tough, and the driving mist and soggy ground made starting a fire absolutely impossible, despite expert efforts, but eventually the weather cleared and we settled into sleep beneath a brilliantly star-lit sky. We awoke to passing birds over a glass lake, under blue emptiness. After cleansing our souls in the purifyingly cold waters we were joined by a shaman and his two apprentice sons and watched on as he sang verses to the earth (“busca la bonita”) and turned in circles spraying elixirs and liquors into the air. Then it was it was a pleasant hike back to Huancabamba and on the late bus to Piura to head back to site for a meeting in Naranjo with the volunteer Matt who did the latrine project out there, while my buddies went on to hike and camp in Chachapoyas.
I arrived around midnight at the bus terminal in a fairly sketchy part of town, where the safe taxi I had called was to be waiting for me out front. I brushed past the mob of drivers trying to give me a lift and out to the sidewalk, and then watched in exhaustion as my safe taxi drove away with another passenger. Did it occur to me to call the taxi company again, or that maybe I wasn’t the only passenger who requested the service? In hindsight, yes. But in that moment, tired from the hike and delirious from Dramamine and an 8-hour uncomfortable bus ride, these thoughts did not come to mind. In that moment a lone taxi driver asked me where I was going and I responded. And despite the steps I’m used to taking to make sure a ride is safe, I felt that looking into the driver’s eyes and asking him directly was sufficient. I don’t know what allowed me to let down my guard so foolishly, but as sure as it’s told we took a wrong turn, onto a dark street where two men quickly got out of the moto-taxi driving in front of us and were on either side of me before I had a chance to make a move. They pinned me down and strangled me as I let out reflexive bursts of protest, and then began punching my face and gut. They dug into my pockets and then went to my wrist. As they unfastened my watch I yelled that it was a gift, and was immediately contested by an elbow to my left eye socket and more blows to my nose and forehead. The driver took us out to a part of town called Nueva Esperanza (New Hope)—a very poor and dangerous “young” neighborhood of Piura without electricity or paved roads. We slowed down and as they tore my jacket off I managed to get out the car, before they could take the rest of the clothes off my back. I lost everything I had taken camping with me, but all told I got lucky. They drove away, leaving me battered and bleeding but alive and without any serious injuries. I followed the lights of the taxi out to the main road where I stumbled about looking for anyone who could help me. An older woman gave me water and a shirt to clean the blood, and then her two sons helped me back into town where thankfully a friend of mine had been staying. I spent the rest of the night turning in bed with a head full of regret, fear, anger, and throbbing pain. The couple hours I did sleep were nightmares, and the next day I found nervous trauma in every thought and on every corner of Piura.
I escaped the city that afternoon have since begun the slow process of putting myself back together in the tranquility of Chalaco. I found myself smiling again today—when making house visits to check up on the latrines in Naranjo, being hugged at random by some little boy in a Spiderman shirt who I had complemented on his saltazo (big jump) from the bathroom stairs. Anyway, I think I’ll grow from this experience, another facet of affliction that I now somewhat understand. From here I move on, get back to work, and try my best to seek out the beautiful.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Magia y Amor
May 19th
How did a mountain crab climb into my room?
May 30th
Each day the valley takes a deep breath and fills its belly with Pacific fog, rolling the water into white pillows that invite me to dive onto and sleep within. It’s my safety net; makes me shrug off aimless anxiety and small failures. Sifting through piles of mixed garbage—rotting fruit and vegetable peels, grey ash and brown dirt, soiled diapers and toilet paper, chicken feathers, tuna cans and soda bottles—dumped on the front step of the recently inaugurated waste management site on the first day of recollection was not how I imagined my day when I awoke, but I also didn’t think I’d be laughing about it tonight.
June 2nd
Slow motion and changed plans, courtesy a rusty nail in the bottom of my right foot. While waiting for a lift back from Naranjo, head swimming in shock and blood loss, I grinned and giggled at a piglet fighting a small dog, exhausted of the drama unfolded and welcoming the absurdity. Everything has been overwhelming and rushed lately, and what for? The rains have eased up and hiking is less muddy, but there is only a small window of opportunity to significantly work in between the presidential elections this weekend and when the municipality begins pre-gaming the anniversary. Either way I’ll be reclined in my room, coloring drawings of our newly designed composting latrines.
June 29th
It started with paint, removing the political facades that mostly just served as token of pride or disappointment, replacing them with fresh coats of lime green with mud brown trim, sky blue hanging over a darker deep sea base, a hot pink valentine’s surprise, or a sandy tan dripping onto a speckled walkway. The rind of the auditorium ripened maroon and protected the charming duos that showed up to spin on the walls of its cream core. Then they unlocked the swings in the kiddie park, slapped a tutti frutti suit on the monkey bars, and invited a party of childhood buddies—Bart Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Whinny the Pooh. Then they set up a dozen speakers on 30 foot tall bamboo scaffolding and had a dance off. The little man and his two cows tilling soil got makeovers for their illuminated plaza water fountain debut. The dried up mold on the stairs of the municipality was laboriously scraped away and the rotting, drooping ledges of the building scoured and reinforced with concrete. Harmless animosity arose as Chalaco divided into three soccer teams—Cultural, Leyrita, and San Fernando. A queen was elected based on qualities that ranged from caring about the new solid waste program to looking good in “swimwear” fotos while soaking in a freezing waterfall and then being willing to smile in “campowear” fotos taken up in the cloudy llama refuge. Portable tent restaurants/houses set up shop to dry cow meat above pans of juicy raw fish and inside-out popcorn while shoe, DVD, and foosball emporiums camped out down the street. And as expected, most real work in the municipality came to a halt, pardoned by the upcoming festivities.
It kicked off with a late night march of the farroles, or candle-lit figurines made of thin paper and popsicle sticks, resting atop wooden poles. My winners: 1st place – the bull fight that looked more like two cows kissing; 2nd place – the dragon that was bigger than the kid holding it; 3rd place – the life-sized Señor Cautivo de Ayabaca (a rasta jesus-looking, saint-like holy guy that people from all over Perú honor every year by journeying on foot to Ayabaca and praying or something). Then the turn of the anniversary was marked at midnight by burning a wooden castle filled with fireworks and bumping cumbia music through the frigid sierra air. The next night the covered futbolito court was converted into a bright disco as Sensual Karicia kicked the jams until the wee hours when someone started throwing bottles. The real battle of the bulls was missed for some honest chamba preparing a small patch of a veggie garden on the weathered, rooted face of land left mostly to grass over by Don Otto, whose back and hands have been hurting him. Few people ventured into the foggy rain on the third day to attend the artisan and traditional foods fair, and a few were jealous of the sweet hand-knit coin pouch I picked up there. Less were jealous of the humitas (tamales) I ate there, chowing on the tasty and abundant corn breaders as I excited told them about the find. The last night was a wet mess, when hasta the most campo campesinos gathered in the dark, grassy soccer field to drink in circles and dance their hearts out to Magia y Amor, the Alto Piura huayno kings guilty of the two best songs I hear five times a day, “¿Porqué mujer?” and “Mirame a los Ojos.” Then it was over. The wind swept away the visitors and left their trash behind.
We took advantage of the first municipal work day in weeks to meet with the mayor and his crew and convince them to opt for our new and improved composting latrine design instead of the expensive pour-flush latrine in caseríos that go days and weeks without piped water in the fall. And it worked! He’s [probably] giving my latrine project in Chimulque some more soles and hooked me up with the Department of Infrastructure so that its one of their top priorities and an evenly shared responsibility. “Hey can you work on these CAD drawings and that technical report for me while I go snowboarding in Chile?” “Wow, thanks…the latrine is gonna be earthquake proof, eh?” “I guess I’m cool with that as long as you dudes pay for it.” “Nice. Oh and I’m shooting for an August 1st start date, ¿es factible?” “Awesome, and can you add monitoring and evaluation of my project to the job description of my primo hermano Gino here so that he does something better than make copies all day?” “Righteous, nos vemos in a couple weeks.”
How did a mountain crab climb into my room?
May 30th
Each day the valley takes a deep breath and fills its belly with Pacific fog, rolling the water into white pillows that invite me to dive onto and sleep within. It’s my safety net; makes me shrug off aimless anxiety and small failures. Sifting through piles of mixed garbage—rotting fruit and vegetable peels, grey ash and brown dirt, soiled diapers and toilet paper, chicken feathers, tuna cans and soda bottles—dumped on the front step of the recently inaugurated waste management site on the first day of recollection was not how I imagined my day when I awoke, but I also didn’t think I’d be laughing about it tonight.
June 2nd
Slow motion and changed plans, courtesy a rusty nail in the bottom of my right foot. While waiting for a lift back from Naranjo, head swimming in shock and blood loss, I grinned and giggled at a piglet fighting a small dog, exhausted of the drama unfolded and welcoming the absurdity. Everything has been overwhelming and rushed lately, and what for? The rains have eased up and hiking is less muddy, but there is only a small window of opportunity to significantly work in between the presidential elections this weekend and when the municipality begins pre-gaming the anniversary. Either way I’ll be reclined in my room, coloring drawings of our newly designed composting latrines.
June 29th
It started with paint, removing the political facades that mostly just served as token of pride or disappointment, replacing them with fresh coats of lime green with mud brown trim, sky blue hanging over a darker deep sea base, a hot pink valentine’s surprise, or a sandy tan dripping onto a speckled walkway. The rind of the auditorium ripened maroon and protected the charming duos that showed up to spin on the walls of its cream core. Then they unlocked the swings in the kiddie park, slapped a tutti frutti suit on the monkey bars, and invited a party of childhood buddies—Bart Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Whinny the Pooh. Then they set up a dozen speakers on 30 foot tall bamboo scaffolding and had a dance off. The little man and his two cows tilling soil got makeovers for their illuminated plaza water fountain debut. The dried up mold on the stairs of the municipality was laboriously scraped away and the rotting, drooping ledges of the building scoured and reinforced with concrete. Harmless animosity arose as Chalaco divided into three soccer teams—Cultural, Leyrita, and San Fernando. A queen was elected based on qualities that ranged from caring about the new solid waste program to looking good in “swimwear” fotos while soaking in a freezing waterfall and then being willing to smile in “campowear” fotos taken up in the cloudy llama refuge. Portable tent restaurants/houses set up shop to dry cow meat above pans of juicy raw fish and inside-out popcorn while shoe, DVD, and foosball emporiums camped out down the street. And as expected, most real work in the municipality came to a halt, pardoned by the upcoming festivities.
It kicked off with a late night march of the farroles, or candle-lit figurines made of thin paper and popsicle sticks, resting atop wooden poles. My winners: 1st place – the bull fight that looked more like two cows kissing; 2nd place – the dragon that was bigger than the kid holding it; 3rd place – the life-sized Señor Cautivo de Ayabaca (a rasta jesus-looking, saint-like holy guy that people from all over Perú honor every year by journeying on foot to Ayabaca and praying or something). Then the turn of the anniversary was marked at midnight by burning a wooden castle filled with fireworks and bumping cumbia music through the frigid sierra air. The next night the covered futbolito court was converted into a bright disco as Sensual Karicia kicked the jams until the wee hours when someone started throwing bottles. The real battle of the bulls was missed for some honest chamba preparing a small patch of a veggie garden on the weathered, rooted face of land left mostly to grass over by Don Otto, whose back and hands have been hurting him. Few people ventured into the foggy rain on the third day to attend the artisan and traditional foods fair, and a few were jealous of the sweet hand-knit coin pouch I picked up there. Less were jealous of the humitas (tamales) I ate there, chowing on the tasty and abundant corn breaders as I excited told them about the find. The last night was a wet mess, when hasta the most campo campesinos gathered in the dark, grassy soccer field to drink in circles and dance their hearts out to Magia y Amor, the Alto Piura huayno kings guilty of the two best songs I hear five times a day, “¿Porqué mujer?” and “Mirame a los Ojos.” Then it was over. The wind swept away the visitors and left their trash behind.
We took advantage of the first municipal work day in weeks to meet with the mayor and his crew and convince them to opt for our new and improved composting latrine design instead of the expensive pour-flush latrine in caseríos that go days and weeks without piped water in the fall. And it worked! He’s [probably] giving my latrine project in Chimulque some more soles and hooked me up with the Department of Infrastructure so that its one of their top priorities and an evenly shared responsibility. “Hey can you work on these CAD drawings and that technical report for me while I go snowboarding in Chile?” “Wow, thanks…the latrine is gonna be earthquake proof, eh?” “I guess I’m cool with that as long as you dudes pay for it.” “Nice. Oh and I’m shooting for an August 1st start date, ¿es factible?” “Awesome, and can you add monitoring and evaluation of my project to the job description of my primo hermano Gino here so that he does something better than make copies all day?” “Righteous, nos vemos in a couple weeks.”
Friday, May 13, 2011
El Avion
13 April
A couple snapshots of my life: it’s pretty normal here to clean out your ears with keys or matchsticks. I tried it once just to see what the big deal was. It wasn’t very comfortable. I also tried some sort of smoked meat today, just a bite, and couldn’t help but show my distaste and gave the rest back. All the more for Señora Luz. For breakfast she gave me a type of potato called a carrot in castellano because of its shape. It was served with cheese that had a crusty shell from being kept out so long, but was surprisingly agreeable at first. That was right after the breakfast of fish stew, potatoes, and oatmeal that I ate at my own house. Around 7 tonight my stomach body slammed me onto the bed. Then I ate a couple bananas and was fine.
Ykno they do that same airplane trick to make kids eat their food? And they also say "numero uno" y "numero dos" for going to the bathroom. Are these customs that humans create in isolation; natural habits all cultures will inevitably arrive at? Or are they birthed from one culture and borrowed from the others, flown across oceans in media to arrive on foreign tongues.
11 May
Since then I soaked in the throes of a sierra winter, floated and tumbled in the rocky waters of Máncora for spring break 96, and took my campo project president buddy to a workshop in Lima where he indulged in ample electricity, toilets, showers, water taps, colored pencils, and action movies. He ended up staying four days extra.
A couple snapshots of my life: it’s pretty normal here to clean out your ears with keys or matchsticks. I tried it once just to see what the big deal was. It wasn’t very comfortable. I also tried some sort of smoked meat today, just a bite, and couldn’t help but show my distaste and gave the rest back. All the more for Señora Luz. For breakfast she gave me a type of potato called a carrot in castellano because of its shape. It was served with cheese that had a crusty shell from being kept out so long, but was surprisingly agreeable at first. That was right after the breakfast of fish stew, potatoes, and oatmeal that I ate at my own house. Around 7 tonight my stomach body slammed me onto the bed. Then I ate a couple bananas and was fine.
Ykno they do that same airplane trick to make kids eat their food? And they also say "numero uno" y "numero dos" for going to the bathroom. Are these customs that humans create in isolation; natural habits all cultures will inevitably arrive at? Or are they birthed from one culture and borrowed from the others, flown across oceans in media to arrive on foreign tongues.
11 May
Since then I soaked in the throes of a sierra winter, floated and tumbled in the rocky waters of Máncora for spring break 96, and took my campo project president buddy to a workshop in Lima where he indulged in ample electricity, toilets, showers, water taps, colored pencils, and action movies. He ended up staying four days extra.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I´m the Trash Man! I eat garbage!
3 March
We broke ground on the “waste management plant” on the 1st, a nice piece of land that the municipality is planning to use to bury trash that isn’t useful and recycle or compost the rest. A tree nursery is even in the plans, and it all seemed too good to be true, being only a month after we began talks about the project. A bulldozer cut a new road to access the plant and cleared the mess of blackberries on site. Although the preliminary environmental studies were deemed unnecessary, the mini-diagnostic rapid and inaccurate, and the general planning process haphazard—a build first, talk later approach—I must say that I felt proud of the direction our little pueblo was heading in; a few steps ahead of dumping the trash off a cliff that sits just above our poorly installed and aging water supply lines.
Yesterday I got back to work on the first draft of a monster diagnostic report on Chimulque, the small caserio in which I’m planning to do most of my work this year, and later on I had to pull a late nighter making a presentation on best management practices at the waste management plant; a small but arduous request of Lucho “Coche” (translates as “pig”), the engineer from the municipality in charge of the trash project. I didn’t mind this extra task at first, since I saw it as my big chance to let Lucho know all about my little inquietudes and make sure the project proceeded in an environmentally safe manner. I would even get to plug the inclusion of women in the project, campaign against Styrofoam, and make a case for cleaning up the current dump.
I remember waking up so hopeful. But it all faded around the second slide of my presentation, as Lucho began running in and out of the room, talking on cell phone, smoking cigarettes, and playing around on his computer. Things went downhill from there when I took a walk to the plant after lunch and found a massive pig chowin on the big mound of yesterday’s trash that had been dumped there about 2 months before the site was ready to receive it, and little kids trying to use the site as a short cut. Supposedly Lucho gave the orders, but the trash guys could just be covering themselves. I was past disappointment, legitimately upset for the first time in my service, but luckily the trash guys were good sports about helping clean it up, psyched to be using gloves for the first time ever and pumped to flex their muscles in front of a camera. I guess the lesson is that with this trash business I gotta be more like a fly, on top of things.
29 March
It’s been a really long time since I last wrote, and maybe that’s because I’ve been busy finishing up the community diagnostic and trying to guide this cannonball of a trash project as it barrels down a hill, but I think it also has a little to do with getting settled and comfortable with my life here. It’s something I can manage and wake up to every day ready for, unlike the confusion I felt when I would open my eyes in the morning during my first couple months here. The tranquilidad is pretty distinct from the party week I just spent in La Libertad for Early In Service Training, chilling with friends in Trujillo, surfing and back alley dancing in Huanchaco, a visit to the large sierra town of Otuzco, and a surprise foamy disco thrown in the mix (turns out they are as gross as everyone says). I kinda feel guilty about traveling, something that the folks here in general don’t really do, and also bit negligent from being out of site…
Our dog Bobbi is dying. He can’t move and just whimpers softly say and night outside my window, sounding like a human who’s been crying so long that tears won’t come. My family can’t decide whether or not to put him down.
31 March
At some time today, maybe while I was enjoying a pretty hike, listening to the Kurt Vile album for like the tenth time in two days, inspecting a composting latrine, or getting served liquor, bananas, lemon-oranges, a couple fresh eggs for the road or pig skin soup (complete with hair), our dog Bobbi passed away and was buried in the backyard under some roses.
8 April
Elections are whats up and Peruvians are certainly not afraid of their political opinions. If it’s not corn or the rain savior they’re talking about, it’s either the commy militant Ollanta, the old white dude PPK, the privileged daughter of the Japanese former president Fujimori, or the corrupt liberal party addict who was taught English by a PC volunteer and later became president of Perú. Noone says much about the other dude running, Cateñ-something or other.
In other news I recently got to be counselor for a couple days at this leadership and self-esteem camp dealie
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