February 23, 2009...
“God,” my heart cried out meekly, “What is the point? What is the point of these people who come in and out of my life so quickly? In such a way that you allow me fleeting moments to glimpse my love for them. And then they are gone. Why?”
"What do you mean?" God replied. "I am opening your eyes to the world through these people, blessing you with insight and understanding. Aren't you happy?"
"Yes, I am quite happy," said my heart. "I am so incredibly happy to have known each and every one. It is stupendously, marvelously, fantastically, amazingly wonderful…meeting new people, from different places, with unknown backgrounds, speaking different languages, with strange accents, having individual stories, possessing undiscovered futures, with impassioned goals, traveling to far away places, sharing new experiences, exchanging different tales...every day. Learning new dance steps every Friday at Izakaya from Rambo, whose name is actually Alex but whose appearance earns the euphemism for the camo bandana he always wears. Smoking hookah with Benjamin, the shirtless, dredlocked hippie from California who's traveled the world for so many years, his accent is unplaceable. Talking half in English and half in Spanish with Salvatore and teaching him how to play Set while inquiring about his months spent in Wisconsin and New Jersey. Negotiating free Salsa classes in exchange for English lessons with Renato, because he wants to work on a cruise ship where it's required to know English. Ordering jugo de piña y mango from Marie, the bouyant little woman who runs The Muse, and becoming a familiar face with a name...Lana...as I return week after week. Becoming more than just an English teacher to Doris, who I now count as a friend and who I will start going to church with when I live in Cusco. Sharing an entire Saturday afternoon in coffee shops, diving beyond the surface and into warm, crystal depth with Nael, the guy from Switzerland who is working on his fourth language and is a primary school teacher...
"Lord, it amazes me," my heart thudded, "the common thread you've strung between us all. We've ended up in the same place, at the same time and can teach each other things, leaving indellible imprints on one-another's journeys. Or, at the very least, relax into easy connections. Even if only for a matter of days, an hour, five minutes. These people make me laugh and smile every day. In some way, they are a constant encouragement...but then they go away."
God had been listening intently to all my heart said. "And this displeases you?"
My heart thought for a beat. "No, it doesn't displease me. I just wish they could stay. What is the point of bringing these wonderful people into my life when I am only going to miss them in the end? What will happen to each of them? Will I ever see a single one of them again?"
God sighed, exasperated but patient. "Look out there," he instructed.
My heart looked.
"Do you see the green grass? And the rich brown land? And the yellow crops? Do you see the way they all come together like a quilt, timeless and endless?"
My heart saw.
"I wove each piece together. Do you see the hills, each with its own palate of exotic colors, and beyond them the mountains, each with its own dark peaks and rigid contours? I drew them up from flat land and shaped them all."
My heart knew.
"Do you see the snow, cradled within the curves of those peaks and those contours? I placed every flake where it fell."
My heart was still.
"And do you see the clouds? The way they play with the light of the sun, allowing beams of honey and gold to melt across the sky? I painted every cloud and every beam, just after I set the sun and the stars."
My heart could hear God's smile.
"And there's something else I created, more important than all of this...I created you, who beats within her and gives her life. I molded you especially to cherish those fleeting moments, to feel glimpses of love for those strangers, and to miss them when they are gone. Do you trust me?"
"Yes, I trust you," my heart replied with no hint of doubt.
"Then here, take this candle. Walk through this darkness, along the path I've laid. Don't try to guess what's at the end. Don't fear the dark. The twists, the turns, the obstacles, will be illuminated as you come to them. You may not see it all right now, but the light I've given you is sufficient to guide you to the end.
"Trust that I know the purpose of each stranger, what will become of them, and whether they will ever re-enter your life. As you trust the ground beneath your feet, trust that the path I've laid for you is one of my great works and that the small light I've provided is enough to see you through. Do you trust me?"
"I do." And my heart meant it. "Thank you for my candle. I love you."
God sighed again, but this time it was an enamored sigh. "You have no idea," he said. "You really just have no idea."
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
¡Feliz Dia de San Valentin!
(Pic: Top, the Royal Court; Bottom, Our class)
February 14, 2009...
It began as a normal day. Most of the class was at least a half hour late, followed by a brief lesson, and then an interactive activity, group discussion, and a game. Just before the break, I passed out the hand-made Valentine´s Day cards I´d made for everyone. The students were very sweet upon receiving these; they express so much gratitude for the little things. It made me really happy I´d spent the time doing it. Especially because of what was to follow the 10:30am break.
At about 11:00am I was using the internet at the cafe across the street from the school when Julia came running in, strung with colorful curling ribbon and covered in confetti.
¨Come, quick!¨She said, making frantic motions with her hands. ¨They are having an absolute baby that you´re not in there right now!¨
I quickly signed out of my email, threw 50 centimos at the internet cafe girl, and ran across the street and into our classroom. They´d rearranged the entire thing, so that the desks were in a U-shape, facing three lone desks that were set in the front, as if to honor the royal court. The students sprung on me as I entered, confetti fluttering from the sky like celebratory snow flakes. They wrapped the colorful ribbon around my neck and kissed my cheeks and gave me hugs and said, ¨¡Feliz Dia de San Valentin!¨
They escorted me to my seat at the royal table, alongside Monty and Julia, and served us chips and cookies and cake and coke and popcorn. They´d brought in a small radio, and with the volume pumped all the way up, a dance session began in the middle of the classroom. For the rest of class we danced Salsa, along with some other dances that were unrecognizable to me. One looked like it was mimicking a sprained ankle, limping motion. But it was so fun. There wasn't a single person without a perpetual smile on their face for that hour and a half.
Back home, being alone on El Dia de San Valentin is always a bummer. Hearts and pink and couples echo back that thought I always try so hard to ignore. But this year, I'd forgotten about the day altogether. And when it did arrive, well, I have to say, I have never felt more special on Valentine 's Day.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Lessons
February 9, 2009...
An old Arab proverb says, “Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.¨ So once I´d lost my camera and my iPod, I was expecting the third thing. Crouched in the corner, back to the wall, defenses alert, waiting for it. I still managed to get my wallet stolen.
It was two Thursdays ago that I believe I left my camera at a salsa studio (it may have been stolen while I was still there) and when I went back for it, of course, it was gone. The following Wednesday, I managed to to leave my iPod on a bus (I have a semi-excuse for this, but I won´t bother to go into it). Then, as you already know, I was pick-pocketed in Puno last Saturday, right out of my zipped-closed purse. They got my driver´s license, college ID (sentimental value), 90 soles (roughly30 bucks) and all my credit cards.
I´m not telling you all this to highlight my idiocy (although that comes naturally with this means of reflection), but to confess, again, the frustrations of being here. And to do a little thinking out loud.
So, I´ve been analyzing this; trying to gain insight as to why this has all happened and what I´m supposed to learn from it, while also trying to just let it go. I won´t allow these small losses to ruin my time here, because the great thing about material loss is that it´s replaceable. At the moment, I just thank our gracious God for my health, my happiness, for the people who love me, for my home. Maybe God is teaching me about what is truly important...
In light of these little revelations about material loss, Mother Theresa has come to my mind. During her ministry and aid, she would choose a life-style which mirrored the living conditions of those to whom she was reaching out. She and her team slept on the cold, concrete floors of empty buildings and ate meals with the homeless. In hindsight, I wonder if it may have been silly to have come here to volunteer, with iPod and fancy camera in tow. Listening to my music while fiendishly zooming in on the poverty that surrounds me (a beautiful landscape nontheless, but still...) now, looking back, seems a bit of a blind irony.
I´m no Mother Theresa. Let´s face it, I´m a tourist. I´m not even some fantastic martyr to ESL...I love the work here and my students have become friends. I just can´t help but wonder if a cultural experience is more fulfilling, enriching, meaningful, if you let go of the world you come from and fully immerse yourself in theirs. Here, the rare have iPods, digital cameras, computers. Most people who aren´t taxi drivers don´t have cars. And the fortunate seem to have just what they need. So maybe having just what I need is...just what I need.
Or maybe I´m romanticizing poverty, and theft, and third-world living. Maybe a tourist should have her camera and her iPod and should clutch her purse to her chest when walking down a crowded street because, no matter how she immerses herself in the conditions here, she is a tourist. And she knows it. And she knows that in six months she is going home.
As I live each day and pray for my safety on buses, with or without electronic devices and credit cards, my subconscious can´t help but to perpetually realize this isn´t permanent. It is a momentary "adventure"...being without my things. And when I leave, the people of this country will still be here; families of seven sharing one-room apartments with a single bed and no running water and a hole in the floor for a toilet. Families that have to employ their six-year-old children to sell knick-knacks to tourists in the plaza when they should be in school. They have what they need to survive because it´s all they can afford, not because they choose it.
Well, this may sound lame and naive, but I just hope that whoever has those things I lost, that they´re surviving a bit better now. Even if just for a little while.
An old Arab proverb says, “Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.¨ So once I´d lost my camera and my iPod, I was expecting the third thing. Crouched in the corner, back to the wall, defenses alert, waiting for it. I still managed to get my wallet stolen.
It was two Thursdays ago that I believe I left my camera at a salsa studio (it may have been stolen while I was still there) and when I went back for it, of course, it was gone. The following Wednesday, I managed to to leave my iPod on a bus (I have a semi-excuse for this, but I won´t bother to go into it). Then, as you already know, I was pick-pocketed in Puno last Saturday, right out of my zipped-closed purse. They got my driver´s license, college ID (sentimental value), 90 soles (roughly30 bucks) and all my credit cards.
I´m not telling you all this to highlight my idiocy (although that comes naturally with this means of reflection), but to confess, again, the frustrations of being here. And to do a little thinking out loud.
So, I´ve been analyzing this; trying to gain insight as to why this has all happened and what I´m supposed to learn from it, while also trying to just let it go. I won´t allow these small losses to ruin my time here, because the great thing about material loss is that it´s replaceable. At the moment, I just thank our gracious God for my health, my happiness, for the people who love me, for my home. Maybe God is teaching me about what is truly important...
In light of these little revelations about material loss, Mother Theresa has come to my mind. During her ministry and aid, she would choose a life-style which mirrored the living conditions of those to whom she was reaching out. She and her team slept on the cold, concrete floors of empty buildings and ate meals with the homeless. In hindsight, I wonder if it may have been silly to have come here to volunteer, with iPod and fancy camera in tow. Listening to my music while fiendishly zooming in on the poverty that surrounds me (a beautiful landscape nontheless, but still...) now, looking back, seems a bit of a blind irony.
I´m no Mother Theresa. Let´s face it, I´m a tourist. I´m not even some fantastic martyr to ESL...I love the work here and my students have become friends. I just can´t help but wonder if a cultural experience is more fulfilling, enriching, meaningful, if you let go of the world you come from and fully immerse yourself in theirs. Here, the rare have iPods, digital cameras, computers. Most people who aren´t taxi drivers don´t have cars. And the fortunate seem to have just what they need. So maybe having just what I need is...just what I need.
Or maybe I´m romanticizing poverty, and theft, and third-world living. Maybe a tourist should have her camera and her iPod and should clutch her purse to her chest when walking down a crowded street because, no matter how she immerses herself in the conditions here, she is a tourist. And she knows it. And she knows that in six months she is going home.
As I live each day and pray for my safety on buses, with or without electronic devices and credit cards, my subconscious can´t help but to perpetually realize this isn´t permanent. It is a momentary "adventure"...being without my things. And when I leave, the people of this country will still be here; families of seven sharing one-room apartments with a single bed and no running water and a hole in the floor for a toilet. Families that have to employ their six-year-old children to sell knick-knacks to tourists in the plaza when they should be in school. They have what they need to survive because it´s all they can afford, not because they choose it.
Well, this may sound lame and naive, but I just hope that whoever has those things I lost, that they´re surviving a bit better now. Even if just for a little while.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Puno Festival
(Pic: Top, the lorry. The Rest, Puno festivities.)
He still had some doubts about the decision he had made. But he was able to understand one thing: making a decision was only the beginning of things. When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.
-The Alchemist
February 6, 2009... 4:30am: Wake up to get dressed and pack my bags for Puno. We´re all going to witness the famous Festival de la Virgen de la Candelaria. 5:10am: Meet Sophia at the bottom of my street to catch a moto-taxi (think motorcycle-drawn carriage) to the bus terminal, where we´ll meet up with Julia and catch a bus to Cusco. 7:00am: Arrive in Cusco. Catch a cab to the main bus terminal, where we´ll meet up with the rest of the volunteers going to Puno. (12 of us total). 8:00am: Board the bus to Puno...Not too shabby. A nice, double-decker bus with reclining seats, tons of footspace, and a toilet on board. Only 30 soles for a seven-hour trip. 11:30am: Bus breaks down in the middle of gorgeous, Motorcycle Diaries nowhere. Another bus will come along to collect us in a few hours and continue to Puno. Ugh. 12:30pm: We´ve been playing Set (a type of card game) for an hour and don´t feel like waiting anymore. Conveniently, the driver of a massive lorry (a semi with an enclosed wooden bed for the purpose of transporting vegetable produce) has come along and pulled over to make an extra buck. For 5 soles each he´ll take us the rest of the way. So, in the style of illegal immigrants, we hitch a ride with him. 2:30pm: Another couple of hours and we´ll be there. I´m lying on the floor of this lorry, trying to sleep but instead staring up at the canvas roofcover, billowing in the wind like brown clouds. The clamor of loose wooden beams and steel rods banging against each other with every bump in the road fills the silence. Yet, I find this ride somehow peaceful. The air smells strongly of dirt and garlic and there are carrot bits rolling against my leg and leaves in my hair, I´m sure, but, besides the urge to pee, I´m in no rush to get there. 4:00pm: We arrive and spend an hour at the terminal trying to get our money back...Your bus DID NOT get us here and, in fact, our trip took nearly twice as long and we had to pay an EXTRA 5 soles...they would only reimburse 10 soles. We walked out of the bus terminal swollen with indignation, not for the money, but for the principle. 6:00pm: Our travel woes behind us, we´ve checked into the hostel, freshened up, and set out in seach of food. There´s a little pizzeria on Calle Lima (the main street, lit up like a mini Times Square) where we´ll eat. 9:00pm: Me and Jovana, exhausted, head back to the hostel for a shower and early sleep. The rest of the gang goes bar hopping. February 7, 2009... 7:00am: Wake up early for breakfast (included in the cost of the hostel--17 soles) and set out for a day of exploration. 2:00pm: Lunch and a game of Texas Hold´em with toothpicks as chips (Sophia brought Swedish playing cards), followed by a return to the hostel for ciesta. 6:00pm: We all head out for dinner. The festivities are beginning! Streets are filled with people, colorful costumes, and marching bands. 8:00pm: Dinner was delicious. Cream of corn soup, steak, potatoe, apple pie, and sangria for 25 soles. Pushing through the crowds of people now to get back to the hostel, where a bottle of rum and the game Big Booty awaits us. 8:10pm: Arrive at the doorstep and reach into my purse for the key to discover my bag already half-open when I knew it was closed because I had just mentioned to the other girls, ¨Make sure your purses are closed. This would be a perfect place to get pick-pocketed.¨ Don´t tell me...Yep. Wallet gone. No credit cards, no ID, no money. Shit. Call my mom from the public phone next door. Cancel my cards immediately, please. Love you. 10:00pm: We go out again, this time in search of a discotec. Everyone´s being really sweet and saying that I can borrow all the money I need until my mom sends new cards in the mail. 2:00am: Having danced the night away and now sufficiently wiped out, me, Jovana, Kat, and Michael return to the hostel for sleep. The rest stay out until 5:ooam. February 8, 2009... 6:00am: We have to get up early so we can get tickets for the festivities at Stadium and get our return bus tickets. Me, Kat, Michael and Monty collect the cash and head out on our mission (the rest of the bunch are still half dead). While at the bus terminal, I go over to the police station (conveniently right next door) to report my wallet stolen. 10:30am: We´ve all met back up and made our way to the Stadium, where the dancers, in all kinds of colors and costumes I could never dream of, put on their annual performance. It´s amazing. 3:00pm: We leave the Stadium, now scorched by the sun (even I got a sunburn, with sunscreen) and find icecream and a place to rest on the side of Calle Lima and watch the endless stream of parades. 7:00pm: Dinner. 8:45pm: We check out of the hostel and walk back to the bus station. 9:30pm: Board the bus and fall asleep immediately. February 9, 2009... 4:00am: Arrive in Cusco and sleep in the bus terminal for 3 hours since McDonald´s doesn´t open until 7:00am, and there are no hostels open at this hour. 7:00am: We catch a cab to McDonald´s, in the Plaza de Armas. I freshen up and change in the bathroom and then eat breakfast. 8:15am: We all catch a cab to work.
Good times.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Pisac Ruins
(Pic: All, The ruins in Pisac)
January 30, 2009...
I think that the magic of such a place can only reach someone who´s ventured there. Whose feet have climbed the thousand stone steps and tread across the slender grass of scrupulously constructed crop terraces. Who, with face pointed up at the sky, has opened his mouth wide and tasted the lonely drizzle that falls on this Sacred Valley. Whose ears have heard the trickling whisper of a 600-year-old irrigation system; met by the thunder of living water falls cutting a new path down the mountain. Whose imagination can recall the people of this indigenous civilization and draw them out of the dust, like ghosts bustling around you. And, not finally, because so much is left unsaid, whose eyes have seen but not understood the vastness, the fastidious care, the pride, the understated magnificence.
Someone´s calloused hands carried this very stone, this stone that I´m touching, and placed it here with exact purpose; this one stone of millions, to create steps, walls, towers.
A man, a woman, strung out on coca leaves and beer, was dragged up this cold and crumbling mountainside and into the temple...
In this very place, in this broken temple where a cieling once blocked out the rain and the sun, were countless human sacrifices to their gods.
The three of us woke up at 4:00 am because it´s free entry if you´re out of the ruins by 8:00. I regretted this choice when the alarm went off. But as we began our hike in the dark, silent morning and climbed toward a lightening sky, I realized what a marvellus choice this was. We were alone on that mountain for those three hours. Sophia, and Julia, and me, and the Ruins.
The Wheels on the Bus
January 27, 2009...
Have you ever read that poem by Shel Silverstein?...there´s too many kids in this tub, there´s too many elbows to scrub...Have you everseen a zombie movie?...the way the zombies all close in on one helpless victim before they tear him limb from limb (shudder)...Have you ever seen the ocean of people smushed into Times Square on New Year´s Eve? Have you ever seen the way paparazzi relentlessly swarm around Britney Spears after she´s been released from various institutions?
I´m beginning to like the buses less. Haha, yes, now I´m complaining, not revelling. Only a bit though, because I want to give you an honest scope of (my) Peru. I don´t want you to believe it´s all rainbows and lollipops or that, having the patience of a saint, I don´t ever get frustrated. I don´t have the patience of a saint. However, more often than not, our amazing God blesses me with his rich sense of humor, and I find myself able to laugh in those moments when there is no other remedy.
Today, my patience was too thin to support even the weightless ponderosity of laughter. The bus was that poem, that zombie movie, New Year´s Eve in Times Sqaure, and I was Britney Spears on the verge of another breakdown. Well, it´s really not all that serious. I´ll admit that I´m venting. Being a tinge melodramatic. I mean, the people on the bus didn´t eat me alive.
There was some collateral damage, though: a grudge against the bus that I´ll have to get over, and one sweater retaining the acrid imprint of BO, stamped with precision on my left shoulder. Am I being a snob? Eeek. Well, the bus was crowded to begin with, but then, at every stop, more and more people piled on until the ticket guy had no choice but to come around and begin arranging us into neat stacks of ten. Nah, that didn´t happen. Just the first part did. I sat in the aisle seat, next to a smelly man who had his five-year-old daughter on his lap. I was squashed into place with my head angled awkwardly to to the left, my shoulders angled oppositely, and my elbows crossed over my bag in a strange way, to make room for the sack the Inka woman was dangling just above me. I´ve never felt so much like a puzzle piece. And I´d never known that elbows have a magnetic pull to the back of my head. They must. A fractional movement in any direction would have meant a mouthful of hair, a breast to the eye, or another elbow. (I know, I know, waahh, waahh, waahh.)
It got better though. The smelly man seemed to try to protect me from the space invaders (and I´m truly not one who´s all about ¨personal space.¨ I find ardent, irrevocable value in touch and think that, as humans, we need more of it. But this was just ridiculous.) and we got talking. His name is Efrain and his daughter´s name is Melanie. He asked me about Barack Obama (as has been done in every random conversation I´ve come into) and expressed his own enthusiasm over this historical leap. Efrain restores churches and sculptures and is a painter and very, very kind. His daughter can count to five in English. Efrain´s imprint on my sweater is no big deal. I´ll just take it to the lavenderia. And for those reasons that have made me fall in love with being here, I won´t soon forget him.
Have you ever read that poem by Shel Silverstein?...there´s too many kids in this tub, there´s too many elbows to scrub...Have you everseen a zombie movie?...the way the zombies all close in on one helpless victim before they tear him limb from limb (shudder)...Have you ever seen the ocean of people smushed into Times Square on New Year´s Eve? Have you ever seen the way paparazzi relentlessly swarm around Britney Spears after she´s been released from various institutions?
I´m beginning to like the buses less. Haha, yes, now I´m complaining, not revelling. Only a bit though, because I want to give you an honest scope of (my) Peru. I don´t want you to believe it´s all rainbows and lollipops or that, having the patience of a saint, I don´t ever get frustrated. I don´t have the patience of a saint. However, more often than not, our amazing God blesses me with his rich sense of humor, and I find myself able to laugh in those moments when there is no other remedy.
Today, my patience was too thin to support even the weightless ponderosity of laughter. The bus was that poem, that zombie movie, New Year´s Eve in Times Sqaure, and I was Britney Spears on the verge of another breakdown. Well, it´s really not all that serious. I´ll admit that I´m venting. Being a tinge melodramatic. I mean, the people on the bus didn´t eat me alive.
There was some collateral damage, though: a grudge against the bus that I´ll have to get over, and one sweater retaining the acrid imprint of BO, stamped with precision on my left shoulder. Am I being a snob? Eeek. Well, the bus was crowded to begin with, but then, at every stop, more and more people piled on until the ticket guy had no choice but to come around and begin arranging us into neat stacks of ten. Nah, that didn´t happen. Just the first part did. I sat in the aisle seat, next to a smelly man who had his five-year-old daughter on his lap. I was squashed into place with my head angled awkwardly to to the left, my shoulders angled oppositely, and my elbows crossed over my bag in a strange way, to make room for the sack the Inka woman was dangling just above me. I´ve never felt so much like a puzzle piece. And I´d never known that elbows have a magnetic pull to the back of my head. They must. A fractional movement in any direction would have meant a mouthful of hair, a breast to the eye, or another elbow. (I know, I know, waahh, waahh, waahh.)
It got better though. The smelly man seemed to try to protect me from the space invaders (and I´m truly not one who´s all about ¨personal space.¨ I find ardent, irrevocable value in touch and think that, as humans, we need more of it. But this was just ridiculous.) and we got talking. His name is Efrain and his daughter´s name is Melanie. He asked me about Barack Obama (as has been done in every random conversation I´ve come into) and expressed his own enthusiasm over this historical leap. Efrain restores churches and sculptures and is a painter and very, very kind. His daughter can count to five in English. Efrain´s imprint on my sweater is no big deal. I´ll just take it to the lavenderia. And for those reasons that have made me fall in love with being here, I won´t soon forget him.
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