Independence

To my surprise, I had a common-day event in my activities this morning: I attended a parade in honor of Peru’s Independence Day. This amplifies my theory of the world as I travel and encounter people of every kind and make: people are simply people all over the world. This may seem no profound thought, but it is truer to me now than any other view I have of the world. I have come to find, I am essentially no different than my mysterious counterparts inhabiting faraway lands. We all eat, we all sleep, we all want to succeed, we want to live peacefully, we get frustrated when we don’t, we love, we lose … and we celebrate our country’s Independence proudly each passing year.
In an all too familiar scene, the kids dressed up in the adornments of their forefathers (although Peru’s history possesses a much longer timeline of history to choose from than the United States), donning fake beards and stately top hats, and delivering powerful speeches remembered from the days of their emergence from colonialism. The other toddlers donned the dress of the various indigenous Indians from the many different regions of the country: the Nazcas (famous for the Nazca lines seem from Space – look it up!), those from Lake Titicaca (highest lake in the world!) and, of course, the famous Incans.

They marched down the dirt road as the entire neighborhood eagerly cast their eyes on their prized children, and the few with cameras snapped priceless photos of the memories. The flag was hung, the anthem was sung, and just as the proud Americans did just a month ago, the right arm was raised and placed over the heart in respect to their precious homeland. No matter how much material possession, or depth of knowledge, or individual strength one may have to himself, everyone needs a place to belong – everyone needs a sense of pride in belonging, to something. 

I placed my right arm over my heart as the anthem played as well, as an emblem of my appreciation to the diligently kind and joyful people of Peru.

Vilcabamba!

Vilcabamba, Ecuador, the Valley of Longevity, the humble town trapped by lush, green mountains that forces one into a state of incomparable serenity. The last five days I have arisen to a never-ending vista of rolling hills and numerous shades of green being brightened by the morning sun peaking over the mountains. The hostel provides a quaint patio overlooking the beautiful valley as I sip on my coffee and sigh in relief at the quiet. It is not surprising that the inhabitants of this paradise live to be 135 years – the presence of something divine refuses non-spirituality; the resources of mineral water and fresh fruit provide for a healthy mind and body; and the absence of technology and modernization that confuse us helps you to stay in the present moment.

Hillsides of the Andes during our hike

It’s a small hostel tucked away on the side of the mountain with no internet, no air conditioning, and plants and flowers surrounding you everywhere! It reminds me of Manoa in Hawaii. It is so beautiful here, I even tried to get a job at the Hostel but an Australian beat me to it by a day! There are people here from everywhere – and mostly not from the U.S. (I’ve began to notice that Americans just don’t travel like the rest of the world). Especially, we have befriended an Israeli, Hagar, on her quest ‘round South America – all Israelis are obligated to two years of service in the army after high school, after which they all travel in South America or East Asia for 6 months; Israelis are everywhere! It has been interesting exchanging stories and theories on the age-old conflict in her country, and noting the irony at the difference of information we each receive from our governments or media. I always think differently about a situation once I meet a real, live person surviving it.
The three of us set out on the Izhcayluma Hike through the Ecuadorian Andes, which got Michael and I into much more than we were prepared for! The hike was about 6.5 hours and returned us just before the sun fell in the valley. The ascent was not bad and the views were, to use the cliché but appropriate phrase, truly breath-taking! Rising only about 6,000 feet, the mountains are still covered in beautiful shades of green, have wild horses roaming, and have no power lines to ruin the panorama either! However, the descent consisted of a purely ridgeline hike for about two hours on a path 1.5 feet wide, straight across and down the face of the mountain. We lost the blue rocks guiding our way at one point and went an hour out of the way only to turn around and climb straight back up. My legs were shaking in fatigue, my ankles hurt, and the equatorial sun was rough – but we made it! We trekked the Andes!

Are we in trouble yet?

Day two consisted of a massage from the Hostel and relaxation. We rode horses up to the beautiful mountain views on Sunday as well; however, I believe that will be my last horse ride for me – the pains from that 3 hour bull ride (as it seemed to me) are still piercing my back and butt as I type this message now.
We met a French couple, German medical missionaries, an intelligent Dutch couple traveling for a year (who just couldn’t understand that phenomenon we call Privatized Health Care in the U.S.), and so many more. The weekend was a breath of fresh air, literally, and I miss it already! I can’t say much more, just look at the pictures!

What do I do here, you may ask?

The first sounds I hear when I squint my eyes to let in some sunshine at 7:00 are the desperate shouts of the salesmen, beginning their daily route through the neighborhood, on their bicycle with their fruits in stowe: “Pina, Papaya, Platanos!!” And don’t you fear, if you didn’t hear it the first time, he will repeat it about 20 more times before he reaches the end of your street. After eggs, toast and Pineapplae juice for breakfast, I head off on a twenty minute walk through the market to the Church of Santisimo Sacremento, which hosts the social program that I volunteer for. SOme days, there isn’t much for me to do; however, if the construction team is out, I am eager to jump on the back of the truck and head to the “barrios pobres”.

About 12 of us – mixed Peruvians and Americans – pile into the back of a truck with ladders and tools, and enjoy the packed, rickety ride to the shanty towns where we’ll get down to business. The villages usually have no electricity, no running water, thatch houses with dirt floors, and dirty dogs running everywhere. As a team, we start by tearing down whatever structure is attempting to remain standing at the site so we can replace it; this is when all the little critters like mice and scorpions come running out of the sand to make the day a little more interesting. After teardown, we begin with the most difficult task of the day: using old, rusty post-hole diggers to dig 5-foot deep holes in the dry, sandy desert – I can only help you imagine how difficult this is. Bamboo is placed in these holes as the wall support. Woven thatch is then run from each bamboo pole to another, creating the walls, which are held together by simple wire. Rather than nailguns and levels being the most important tools in the US, wire cutters and saws are highly prized here – I would say about 20 nails are used in total. The Peruvians usually handle the roof of tin material and attach a door – which probably has the only real lock on the block. No floors, no insulation, no separate rooms, and no electrical outlets. This simple structure, however, changes the lives of every family, which come out crying when they see their new sleeping quarters, and are to provide up to 7 years of stability. The equatorial sun beats down pretty hard in the afternoon, and water is hard to come by, but it is pretty neat working with Peruvians and gazing at their almost acrobatic constructional techniques.

If I don’t go to the church, sometimes we go to the Community Center to see our roomate JA at work. In his time here, JA has noticed the lack of discipline and and lack of encouragement for creativity or goal-planning. To incorporate these important methods he has implemented the use of the wonderful game of Chess. It’s incredible to see the transformation from chaotic mayhem when I first walked into the classroom, to complete silence and concentration as the Chess boards were revealed. It helps them practice staying focused for long periods of time, and to set long-term goals – in order to Checkmate, they have to know the extended goals of their opponent and try to decipher a counter attack far in the future.

I run in the afternoons, which I wish I could say was motivated by my overly-ambitious personality (!), but truly its because I’m trying to get as sweaty as possible before stepping into the stream of icy water in the shower that causes continual shivers for the entire 10 minutes I suffer in that damn thing! Dinner is usually a satifying meal: we have Chinese, Pizza, Hamburgers, and even a little Cuban place that has traditional Peruvian food – all for around 4$ for a full plate and a beer.

We have a different bottle of wine each week (Argentinan and Chilean wine are so cheap here!), and head off to bed fairly early after reading a bit.

Next stop – the Valley of Longevity in Ecuador tomorrow!

My Piuran Life

The 12 year old professional chess players of rural Piura

We have been adopted into a family of multi-lingual, multi-cultural, multi-personae people employed by the Peace Corps. A large black man with dreadlocks from South Carolina with a generous heart simply known as “JA” has taken a liking to us, as he is our roommate, and kindly invited us into his world of Peace Corps friends. Elena, a wordy, eccentric girl with a boyfriend teaching English here is also nearby. It is nice to have friends here who speak English and can join in the celebration of July 4 with some grilled hamburgers, deviled eggs, and home-made pasta salad: a highly prized American mean in the land of chicken and rice.

It is a world of chaos here; it is the Wild West, South American style. The breath of fresh air and sigh of relief one may receive when catching glimpse of a marked police car when traipsing through a bad neighborhood is nonexistent here; the police are participators in the untamed world of drug exchange and theft, merely with a uniform to disguise their intentions. Men whistle and hiss at me no matter how conservative I choose to adorn myself. My senses peak at the presence of danger all hours of the day; whether it be fear of the children pick-pocketing me in the market, or that I may err in my taxi choice at night and receive violent repercussions, or simply that I may be trampled by a combi whizzing by.

The streets have a separate paradigm. The taxis have no obligation to heed the sparsely located stop signs or traffic lines, adhering only to their version of order: a short honk of the horn before passing through an intersection. Surprisingly, the chaos produces no extraordinary number of traffic collisions, yet each time I enter a cab I am prepared to see my life pass before my eyes at least three times, as a foreboding wreck is inches away at each intersection. Cabs are small but agile through the packed streets, but there also exists a cheaper alternative in transit with the moto-taxis: each time I crawl in and sit, I feel as though my measly 125 pounds may fall through, as I observe my only support is a wooden bench built onto the back of a motorcycle. Public transportation has not been forgotten here, a Combi, as it is called, runs routes (though where these routes are determined or publicized I do not know) and will fit as many persons as can stand to sit on top of each other. Most Combis are recycled, old buses with few remaining seats, those of which are torn and tattered; the door remains constantly open and people simply jump on and off whenever they please for 70 centicimos.

Typical restaurant/house in Piura

It is a dirty city. The dust from the desert blows in my skin, my hair, my fingernails wherever I go. The city has no definite infrastructure; the buildings lack finish, the streets are poorly paved with mixed concrete and pebbles (which evokes frequent rolled ankles while running and walking through town), and strange smells of rotten foods or uncleanly boutiques fill the polluted air.

The list of rules our government imposes upon is extensive, to say the least, and this is a more stark realization when I travel to countries in which no regulation exists! There are no city limit excitations – Chickens and goats run wild throughout neighborhoods. The FDA has no power here – family-operated restaurants flood the streets, popping up in every home with a couple tables and chairs on a dirt floor are served from the family’s kitchen in the back of the house. No Health and Human Services corps comes here to check that public places are providing safe water to drink. And OSHA would have a fit watching the construction proceed in the city, with rickety wooden ladders and rusted tools that make a standing, but not stable buildings.

Peru is...

Peru is interesting (surprise, surprise!)

In this emerging Third World Country, the trash sprinkles the barren, desert land like Easter morning – shining in the sun and longing to be gathered up. Despite the severe uncleanliness of the countryside (dirty water, dirty streets, and not to mention the dirt everywhere due to the desrt), the people have an incredible pride for their land and their people; people diligently sweep the dust off the streets with their make-shift broom made of stiff straw only to repèat their perseverance throughout the day as the wind blows it right back.

I notice the people here possess a sense of fearlessness, particularly of one another. As they overload bodies into small buses sitting on top of perfect strangers; as the elderly frail women cross the street with the assistance of their cane, completely trusting that the lawless moto-taxis won´t run them over; or as people stand outside their homes for hours (unemployment flourishes) and say, ¨Buenas Dias¨ even to the gringos. In America, we can barely get out of our car to get gas – let alone talk to another human being attendant there – how dare us!

But the people are beautiful – you can only imagine (or see in my pictures later). Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin – they lure you in with a mysterious entrapment that makes you want to know what it is about these people that, in lieu of their poverty, makes them so pleasantly joyful!