Aventuras de las Americas

2009-04-10T15:08:00.000-07:00

I’m writing this blog in a situation I promised would never happen again: A bus ride from Cusco to Lima. To my faithful readers, you will remember the exquisite detail spent on bowel movements. I will spare you these, as they were not nearly an issue during this trip. The past week has been a fun one, but lacks any monumental activities that would be blog worthy. Consequently, I’ll just delve into a few random subjects…

Soccer. I made my return to the concrete field this past weekend. Although not completely absent from my life, competitive games were put on hold due to the fight that almost occurred a couple of weekends ago. I was woken up on Saturday morning with that reggae-loving dude (for the sake of the blog, we will call him “Tio” which nomenclaturally speaking, was like calling Ernesto Guevara “Che”) inviting me to a game. We hung out at the local field, which is a relatively high-quality one. The cracks are ridded of weeds, the pitch kept clean, and there are usually at least a few spectators. As we were only two and our others were surely sleeping off a hangover, we headed to another field. The other field sucked, but the competition was lower. Which makes me think of the natural selection forces in order. The best teams stay longer on the best fields, while the others are left to scrounge for soccer leftovers. Regardless, we met up with some other guys, and held the field for 4 straight games. First to two stays, the losers rotate. I finally found my touch (given it against lousy competition), and had some goals and plenty of assists. We returned to the higher in the food chain field, warmed-up and ready to play. Our team (which by the way was a damn good one) lost our first game against a bunch of jokers. We weren’t playing serious, but we swore revenge. We won the next game, and the next few. As goalie, I held my own, and started doing the Tymon-show, where I would start dangerously dribbling out of the box. It went well, I had an assist, then volleyed one home, then went took on a bunch of players, passed it off, got it back, and nutmegged the keeper. In tribute to Totti (and salt in the wounds of the bitchy opposing teams) with a thumb in my mouth, we left the field champions, and a couple of soles richer. Peru’s national team was playing (and loosing after the 3rd minute), which we watched with a couple of free chichas bought from our winnings.

Tio showed me a couple of fruits that were great. Maracuya, red banana, and straight cane, all of which were really good. Tio is a great guide in this regard, knowing a surprising amount of biodiversity and their usage. When we went to the Incan ruins located only 10 minutes walking from my house he showed me a lot of plants that are used for local teas. He also shows a great interest in the difference in our cultures, which I don’t mind talking about at all. The only problematic issue that arises is that he uses such an abundance of foreign slang that often I find myself guessing at interpretation. I’ve pleasantly found myself to be a social butterfly here in Cusco. Jesus, that sounds gay. I see Guiver and Jose (Pepe… by the way every common Spanish name has a regulated nickname that is completely unrelated) almost on a daily basis. Jose, despite his tacky piercings and druggy shell, has proven to be a stand-up guy. One night, when drinking Chicha mixed with caño, I was getting a little static from the elderly patrons. They spoke quetchua, I looked confused, and they shook my hand abundantly and then laughed. He stood up for me a bit, and even provided some interesting insight in foreign relations. Thanks, bro. Hanging out with him, Guiver, and two of their friends on the streets was my Saturday night. We didn’t need to spend our money on outrageous drinks, we had orange juice and caño mixed for us in plastic bags and sold clandestinely at the shop around the corner. These guys were really fun to hang out with. I find myself getting the same jokes I have in English across in Spanish, which goes well. Guiver first, then his friend, started falling victim to the juice. When standing against the wall, waiting to see if his body would expel any more poison, we would shout, “look at my friend, with his broken heart…” A second round of puking, and I said “Salud!” The others laughed and said, “this guy is more Peruvian than potatoes!” A strange, but wonderful compliment.

Street food. I’ve experienced the sin of street food, and I don’t think I’m going to ever be able to turn back. It’s a dangerous vice, and I find myself trembling like a heroin-addict at odd hours. It started with these apple pie fuckers. No matter what, now I will detour slightly to go by the panaderia. If there are warm apple-pie treats (like the McDonald sized ones of my obese adolescence) I’m in. Sometimes a real sweet tooth will lead me to the same place, but buying other flakey wonderful pastries. Down the street a bit there is a lady that serves sheep or beef skewers. Three little pieces of meet, with a potato on top, with additionally added penuty-chimichuri sauce… these are what I convince myself are needed when little meat is in dinner. Down even further are the tea ladies. They have about 8 flavors to be mixed with their warm water. One of which is a glucose-like, slimy, sweet substance that gives the tea a pleasant mucous consistency. These can be specialized if you have an upset stomach, are getting a little sick, or have troubles getting to sleep. If I find myself a little tipsy downtown, there is a great sandwich guy. Beef (real cuts of beef, not shit ground beef) thrown on the grill with onions, cabbage, and an egg. That fried egg, mixed with the grease of the meet, seeping into the bun is preventative medicine for the next morning. Or so I tell myself once again. Next to the mega (gringo-like supermarket necessary for a few things) there is an “artisan hot dog” place. It’s well decorated, and so are the dogs. They are one of the only places where you can find good hot sauce. Speaking of, Peruvians are pussies when it comes to spicy food. Seriously, I always ask for the extra hot additions. If you’re not sweating when you’re eating, you’re not having fun, right? The fact that not a single one of the mentioned foods cost more than US$1.0 doesn’t help the addiction at all. I often break my self-made rule of only one street-food item per day. Did I mention the apple-quinuea (the Incan grain) warm drink that you can start your day off with? Damn this bus trip, I need to get off and get something to eat.

The kids. The kids are going well. I have found a nitch that I am quite comfortable with. It’s a strange mix between an older brother, a teacher, a class-clown, a tutor, a Dad, a couch, and a friend. During evening English classes the kids pay attention and respect me. Classes start as straight instruction, and usually turn into a game that the kids have fun with. An optional class that the kids strive to finish their homework for in order to attend. Once a week we will translate English songs. Yes, the kids of Hatun Sonco Wasi know the words to Bob Marley, Neil Young and Lou Reed. My boys at one point this past week were a bit problematic. At times they are a roudy group with little respect for private property. At one point of three boys were changing the music on my iPod stereo and broke one of the buttons. Although I fixed it, the fuckers were lying about it and just being punks. I had to lay the law down, and now they know better. But they lied to me, which felt strangely familiar in a bad way. To my Mom and Dad: I’m sorry you guys for my delinquency. During meal times, I add comic relief. Everyone pleads for “Proffe Timon” to sit at his or her table. I make funny jokes, steal a little of their food, and generally just lighten the mood. At times the hogar feels a bit too much like a prison for my taste, and needs someone to insist on a positive mental attitude. Tutoring goes well, especially in math and science. All in all, living with the kids has been a great experience.

Producing some art. I’ve been really trying to push myself artistically, but have found it limited to my ideas. Dreams of gel transfers have been put on hold as no local Internet shop can print on thick, photo-like paper. Also, I’m getting sick of pixilated bullshit adobe photoshop. I need the infinite smoothness of vector-based graphic design! Someone help me and illegally download CS3 for mac and send it to me on a DVD. Work in the carpentry has gone well though. For Jo’s arrival and birthday I made her a pretty cool, transportable artist’s easel. It was quite an adventure, with obvious first-time explorative router work. It turned out well, and based on recent phone-conversations with her, I think she will really get some use out of it. This trip to Lima will serve as an opportunity to get some silk-screen materials to start on some t-shirts. I was thinking about just making the designs, then if people want a shirt they can bring their own and pay like US$4.00 to get it printed on. Just an idea. Hopefully Jo’s presence will motivate and she can teach me in some areas I’m clearly lacking.

These are just some random thoughts I’ve had sitting here in route to Lima. The girl next to me lacks social grace, but the Israeli couple at the next seats over is pretty cool. I’ll let everyone know how Lima goes hopefully pretty soon… oh, and Tio's name is Beto.

Cusco, after 1 month?!

2009-03-24T08:33:00.000-07:00

The four-hour wait at the airport was eventually found to be superfluous as they were waiting inside the whole time. Apparently they thought that like their luggage, were supposed to be collected in the baggage claim, not right outside where groups with signs waited. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but the direct sun and two hours of sleep were beginning to take its toll. Regardless, four new volunteers were eventually collected and taken to the Hogar. They included two 19-year-old freshman girls (Hope and Katie), and two women (Tara-27 & Carol-37) who although traveled and scheduled their visits separately, work for the same evil drug company. After handing the volunteers off to Rocio I retired to get some much needed sleep. That evening, without even asking, I was assigned to gringo nightlife guide. All five of us (which makes public transport very difficult I must add) gawkingly strolled around Plaza de Armas. I would normally hate being in such a pale and obvious gringo group, but that’s all there is in the Plaza during the evenings, so whatever. I showed them Illapas, Fallen Angel, 7 Angelitos, and we stopped in KmO for a drink. Carol, the older Chinese lady, and one of the 19-year-old girls explained that they don’t drink. It was going to be a long week. Tara, whom quickly was recognized as the coolest (and cutest) member of the group and Hope had a Pisco Sour while I had a spiked tea. We talked for a while before heading home fairly early. I didn’t complain though.

The next morning I was debating on going on the fieldtrip with the volunteers. Rocio convinced me, which I later appreciated very much. If you wake up early enough on Sundays then you can go to the main cathedral without paying the tourism entrance. Inside there are a couple notable aspects. One being the last super mural that uses native Cuscan food items: with a huge Guinea Pig laid in front of Jesus Christo, obviously lots of potatoes, and the apostles drinking chicha. Also there is an impressive painting regarding the earthquake that took place during the colonization of the city. In the plaza we witnessed the military procession of the raising of the flags and marching around, literally the same old song and dance. This was the third time I’ve seen the process and could really do without it from now on. The parade started and we got in our nice, new, private combi for a tour of the Sacred Valley. Our first destination was a llama and alpaca refuge right off the highway. There we were able to get up close to the relatively humanized (non-spitting) camel cousins. Seeing all of the different species was pretty crazy, especially the black longhaired one. The path then led us to an acted out process of how alpaca fur is turned into yarn, died with natural herbs, and made into artesian crafts. Finally, the path deposited us in an extremely overpriced gift shop. We were on the combi again, traveling through lush hills of varying shades of green patchwork. Eventually arriving at Pisac, a town and Incan monument set within the neighboring mountainside. We didn’t have enough time to do the ruin hike, but instead spent an hour of consumerism in the market. It was actually a pretty cool market, with sectors for the thick-walleted tourists, and other families selling or trading their crops. The quality of the crafts though was a bit higher than found in Cusco, and I bought a bag (some would call it a purse I guess) that really completes my ever-increasing Latin hippie style down here. I also ran into a guy, or rather he pointed to me from across a crowd, who was the artist behind the necklace I’ve been wearing for the past couple of years. Jo brought it back as a gift, and it’s been repaired and restrung multiple times. He was stoked to see his craftsmanship make the journey south once again. There was also an art and t-shirt store that was pretty rad. They had a sweet shirt that said Brichero (which is a guy who basically uses women for free stuff) that I dug, as well as one that said “Kachi Kachi all night long” (Quetchan for sex). They were US$15 a piece, which is outrageous for Cuscan standards, and for which we declined. Some great empeñadas right out of the stove, a piece of banana bread from an English traveler chick, and some grilled choclo made for a satisfying lunch. Then we drove through more gorgeous countryside until we arrived in Moray. This was the Incan laboratory, characterized by squash-shaped series of levels dug out of the land. Each level was structured with precise stone-made terraces, and has its own microclimate. The Incans experimented with agricultural techniques, and were able to create the thousands of varieties of corn and potato that are apparent today. Its grandeur was impressive, and really shows the diversity of Incan knowledge and society. Although we were all pretty tired, the long ride home was spent looking out the windows at the gorgeous scenery. If the Sacred Valley wasn’t named for its ancient religious connotations, it could just have easily been named for it’s breathtaking views. That evening we introduced the kids to the volunteers and played the “which gringo can guess who is brother and sister here.” This game is ridiculous and near impossible, but Rocio sure gets a kick out of it.

That week the volunteers were working on sanding, painting, staining, and cleaning the fourth floor room. It has become quite a cool little place, with a personal bathroom and great view of the city. I helped out a little bit, just because I would feel guilty if I claimed the room as mine eventually and had not participated at all in its renovations. The English activities in the evenings were based on a pen pal project started recently from a past volunteer. She is a 1st grade teacher and sent a bunch of letters her kids wrote. It was our turn to reply, which was set up in a three-day curriculum. We first talked about writing a letter, the kinds of English sentences we would be writing, and so on. The kids said their favorite activities, and then we translated them and wrote them on the whiteboard. Then we played charades, where the kids would have to guess the kids’ activity in English. The next couple of days we worked on rough drafts of the letters, which we will hopefully finish and send pretty soon. A lot of the kids hadn’t finished their homework when English time came, so there are still a bunch yet to write theirs. This week (present tense being a week after these events took place) we are going to finish the letters as well as start a little computation work in getting brief bios put on the website. Also one of the volunteers was a club soccer player and helped out in the English/Soccer classes. I sat back and let her play with the girls, which provided an excellent role model and example of a good female footballer. Tuesday was Saint Patrick’s Day. This was a tough one to explain to Peruvians, as it was a Saint’s day and I knew absolutely nothing about the religious connotation. All I knew is that it was big with Irish immigrants and college students. You have to wear green or you get pinched, and generally speaking it’s just an excuse to get really drunk. Also, there might be leprechauns, which are like dwarfs, but use rainbows to map out their hidden treasures… they said it was ridiculous, and after writing it just now, I think I agree with them. Regardless, Tara supposedly has some Irish blood, so her, Hope and I went downtown. There is actually a little corner of the Plaza de Armas that is English/Irish Pub central. We tried to get into one place, but found it to be way too crowded. The next Irishy place was less populated, so we had a drink on the balcony over looking the center. We considered this authentic enough of a celebration for Saint Patty’s Day, and headed up to San Blas to 7 angelitos. Tuesday night, which meant reggae night… you could call me a regular now. We danced and sang, or rather I danced and sang for a while. Happy hour is from 11:00-11:30, and is a deal compared to their overpriced normal menu. So when the hour comes, everyone gets four drinks a piece. Perhaps we over-ordered because at one point I looked at our table to find it littered with full drinks with the waiter rearranging them to put down more. Monique may also consider herself a regular at 7 angelitos and after meeting up, we all headed over to Mama Africa. Mama Africa is a popular dance club with a DJ, strobe lights, sweaty coeds grinding away, etc. Things started to get blurry, Hope started making out with a thin-mustached man, and our concept of time was pretty much fucked. That’s I think what happens with strobe lights. They only illuminate moments of time. Consequently, those dark periods of vision act as lost moments in memory. We headed home and when arriving at the hogar, I used the keys Rocio lent me to open the front gate, then lock the front gate, then open the main door, and enter. This I write very detailed as it were a series of events that I replayed in my head for the next few days. Somehow in the morning, I had no idea where Rocio’s keys were. It was temporarily okay though because in middle school, and high school for that matter, I perfected the art of procrastination of explanation of bad news.

The next morning we (all of the volunteers, Rocio, and I) were off to Yarkakunka to build a stove for a school. The scenery was once again gorgeous, but the combination of awful roads and the desire to sleep off the night before made for a long 2-hour combi ride. We arrived though to find that much of the town was scattered around the soccer field. Given it was a Wednesday morning I was quite confused. Don’t these people have to work or something? No, for today was a feria, the equivalent to a 4H fair where you bring your animals and vegetables and you determine who has the best of each. There were bulls being escorted around, guinea pigs being handled with inspective eyes, vegetables cut to the center and measured by finger length. It all seemed rather civil and fun, but we had work to do. We headed to the school, met the adorable children (which I think they introduce first for proper motivation) and started to work. Most of the actual work that we helped out with consisted of stomping around in the mud. We had to mix it all up with our feet, put in fine straw, and walk around like we were squishing grapes at a winery. The mud was crazy cold, but we had fun doing it. Next we collected bricks from around the school grounds and built up the base of the stove. The mud we prepared was used as adhesive for the bricks and was applied with masonry skill. The man who was helping us was in a particularly good mood, as his guinea pig placed third in the day’s events. At one point the kids came, sat on the edge of a hill and sang us some songs. I’m not sure what they teach these kids in school, but it must include a class to be unbelievable cute. We all took turns helping play in the mud, and within a couple of hours the school had a new “two burner” (they use wood) stove. We headed down to the fair, which by that time had turned into the chicha-induced drunken mess that I have now grown accustomed to. Within minutes I had my bowl of chicha. No, glasses are for pussies, this was a bowl of chicha that was not to be returned until drunk. I immediately impressed the locals with usage of the ceremonial first sip of chicha: You put your finger in it, give a little to Pachi Mama (mother earth), then another finger for the mountains at one side, then another for the mountains on the other side, then a large gulp. This was not my first time being handed a large amount of chicha, and immediately I knew how the next couple hours were going to be spent. We ate some choclo, danced (willingly this time) with the oldest drunkest lady, tried to understand slurred Spanish/Quetchua, took cap full-shots of what had to be rubbing alcohol, and basically were guests of honor at another typical fiesta. For these volunteers it was the first time they’ve ever seen anything like it. The food was different; the chicha was even stranger, and the numerous marriage proposals to the volunteers breathtaking. I loved it, and even encouraged these local suitors. “Who cares if you can’t speak the same language… the language of love is world wide…” The best proposal came from a man who actually had laid it out pretty well. In drunken Spanish, “you girl, come with me to my house, you will try the milk from my cow. You have never tried fresh milk? You will love it, and we will be married. My cousin also has a car.” Fucking great! The best was when one of the guys was trying to force feed kernels of corn to Tara with his narly hands. The highlight of the festivities came when it was time for the soccer game. They started (they lacked anything resembling team strategy or organization) and each team scored a couple of goals (awful, awful goalkeeping). Then, five minutes into the second half, a fight broke out. I busted out my camera and started filming. A bull of a man was swinging his arms wildly, while trying to be held by back anyone brave enough. Another, shorter guy emerged from the crowd, shirtless, mouth full of blood, yelling nonsense. Mothers came down and started beating their kids aggressively. Drunken fathers didn’t like this display of violence, and consequently started pushing and hitting their equally drunk wives. Oh, the madness! It went on for a while, with the volunteers retreating to the combi with eyes filled with fear and me getting closer and closer with my camera. Finally we all got in the combi and headed back to the hogar. At first, these strange local events were tough to swallow, but like the chicha, I’ve developed a taste for it, and now love it.

Thursday we did some solid tourist consumerism after lunch and in the evening had our customary goodbye party. The kids again danced and sang. This time though, much more in harmony and choreographed with obvious practice. The boys did their Latin sleezy, N-Sync-esque moves, while the girls mimicked the cumbia videos on TV. One of the girls, Estrecey, at the age of 11 was dancing rather provocatively. All of the adults recognized the problems that will begin in just two short years. (please let me have boys, please let me have boys) This girl was going to be a handful. Oh, let me fill you in on the key issue. By this point, I had told Rocio that I didn’t know where the keys were. I felt awful that I was causing drama at the hogar, but didn’t know what to do. She was reminiscent of angry ex-girlfriends, and refused my offer to help set up the stereo for the party. It was my fault, and the location of the keys was the last thing on my mind in the evening, and the first thing in the morning. But screw her, she doesn’t have to hold a grudge, ya fue. Anyways, Thursday night was fun “partying” with the kids, and the volunteers took their pictures and said their goodbyes.

The next morning, 3 of the volunteers left for Machu Pichu, while Tara and I headed to Occupata. It was a crowded combi ride, but I got in a few minutes of sleep on the neighboring stranger’s shoulder. The classes went well. Tara participated in the girls’ classes, and hung out at the elementary school while I played with the boys. The toughest thing will be giving grades, but I think I have a pretty decent system. We go over vocabulary from last week, and then have a mini-quiz. If you know the answer, you raise your hand, and you get a plus next to your name. Also, at the end of each session we have another quiz on the new vocabulary. It gives everyone a chance to say a few things they know. There are a couple of problems though with the whole Occopata thing. One is that they don’t pay me, although I need to spend 12sol (US $4) just on transportation every day. The other problem is finding a ride home. The first time, as I explained, was in the homemade bed of a large truck. This time Tara and I waited for a couple of hours until the other professors went home. It’s pretty much an all-downhill ride, so I want to investigate bringing a mountain bike up there and just mobbing down hill in the afternoons. I think it would be fun as hell, plus I would be able to get home in less time than it takes to wait there. Eventually we arrived back in Cusco, and we decided to go to Saqysuman. It’s a quick hike if you are fit, and bypassing the rather expensive entrance is always fun. I explained all of the history that I knew, including the local legends of dwarfs and dead students. By the way, dwarfs exist here. Anyways, we chilled in the head of the puma for a while and headed downtown so Tara could go to a BS orientation meeting about the Inka Trail hike that left the next morning. That night we just relaxed and watched the second part of the Che El Argentino movie. It’s kinda funny that they just cut out the whole middle part of his life, but whatever, Benicio del Toro kills it.

The next morning the boys got up to do there weekly migration home and I made sure Tara caught her taxi to start her hike. During the day I went to the craziest market ever. They literally sell everything; used clothes, food, old computer circuit boards (who buys this stuff?), coke bottles, stereos (Hector the Collector’s paradise for sure) and mostly, what I was after: a stolen cell phone. The deals weren’t that good, and each one had something sketchy going on with it. So Rocio took me to a friends place and I got a cell phone. It’s been great living in freedom, but it’s tough to meet up with locals and do business without one. Basic phone, rechargeable minutes, no contract, US$22.00, that’s what I’m talking about. That evening I found myself in a forgotten predicament. There were no volunteers to escort around, and I was left to explore and meet new people by myself. At first I was hesitant, but then remembered that I actually love this game. I started walking downtown and immediately heard my name called from a local bar. I went in and hung out with a few of the guys in there. That place was closing and the problem with the next place was there was no music. I quickly gathered my supplies and continued the party, introducing new reggae and even new Latin music that they have never heard. We all walked down to a local’s bar (the first I’ve visited by the way) and listened to a rockish cover band. Their song choice though was old, but not in the good way. More like in the 80’s Guns n’ Roses way. We left, and I walked home with some new friends I made. One guy was really chill, loves reggae music, plays soccer, lives real close, and is hella funny. The guys more or less accept me, but show the extra courtesy of walking me to my door, which I find funny. We all made plans to wake up at 5:00am and hike to the nearby Incan ruins. I even knew that these were the typical Latin plans that never really planned out. Then I got my first incoming phone call from Rocio, telling me she was at a bar downtown. Waved down a cab, walked into the place, got my free drink, realized it wasn’t for me, and quickly bounced. Outside I went to a few places, but the real party was made by nothing more than a drummer, some freestylers, and some hot women dancers. I danced carnaval style a bit, and was even able to sing along to ya se ha muerto mi abuelo, the popular cumbia song of the month. The small crowd dug my dancing and they all were excited to talk with me for a while. One guy, Gilbert, who was doing some of the singings was really friendly and down with what I was doing here in Cusco. He rocks the keyboard in a group that plays six nights a week. Also, Gilbert is studying music and topography (random combination, I know) at the university. I cruised back to the bar Rocio was at to find her almost fall-down drunk. Ahh, the keys again. So Thursday night I found the keys (stuck between the wall and my nightstand), but told her that there was no need for her to be a bitch about it. She apologized, we made up, and everything went back to normal. It seems like no big deal, but it was quite the ordeal for a couple of days at the hogar. Anyways, so I went in there for a bit, but quickly left… just not my scene. What was my scene was the street sandwich place a couple doors down. God I’ll miss having a fried egg on my sandwiches when I return to the US, because they are great. Outside of the little sanducheria I met some more locals who once again befriended me. I can’t emphasize how much locals love to hear gringos speak solid slang Spanish. I gave out my number, said my goodbyes, and went once again to Rocio’s establishment of interest. I danced a while with her and her friends, and then we all took a cab home. It wasn’t the drinking, the girls, or the dancing (well, the dancing was fun), but more the success in putting yourself out there and being well received. That’s not only what I love about it here (being so well received), but also what I love about myself (that social confidence), here in Latin America.

The next day was a lazy Sunday, sadly lacking the spooning companionship that normally accompanies though. Of course no one woke up and called anyone regarding the 5:00am Incan hike. I caught up on the blog stuff, worked on the website, read a while, and just took it easy. Gilbert, from the night before, called and met me at the condor here in San Sebastian. At his house we hung out, he played some music, and introduced me to even more. This kid knows the music scene here in Cusco and will be a valuable resource, especially considering my rehashed interest in the drums. This time, a single, bongo-style one. The children at the hogar would soon be arriving, and I had to depart. After another combi ride (ya, combi is the way of local transportation, screw cabs) I was walking up to the hogar when I ran into that cool reggae loving guy I met the night before (what’s his damn name). We walked around San Sebastian for a bit, and finally found myself late for dinner at the hogar. It’s not a big deal, just that I would much rather eat what the house mom makes than buy something else on the street. Luckily the boys of my room were similarly tired and we all hit the sack pretty early. Falling asleep was easy, I had a found the lost keys, had a successful social weekend, made some new friends, and there are no volunteers to care for in the upcoming week.

By the way, new pictures! check out the link at the right ---->

Gringo Guide, Pt. I (Cusco)

2009-03-23T08:08:00.000-07:00

Things are a bit more hectic with the volunteers around, but it’s a good craziness. During the week, the volunteers would work on the fourth floor of the main building. They helped out renovating the bedroom, and building a new bathroom. During the days, I was busy with some website stuff, as well as planning out my first non-soccer related children’s activities. The first theme of the week would be portraits and self-portraits. In the evening, after the kids completed their homework, everyone gathered in a common room. I explained the theory behind portraits, and went over the English vocabulary for hair, eyes, mouth, nose, ears, etc. I also introduced the concept of proportions, which was tied into fractions for the older students. The kids would then draw a mini-portrait of who was sitting across from them. Everyone had a lot of fun, and there was some apparent talent in the crowd. The next day’s activities were similar, but this time we played a game I created called gringo loco. When gringos come and volunteer at the hogar, they often get a lot of attention for their unusual appearance. Whether it is red hair, green eyes, strange piercing, or crazy haircuts, they get a lot of attention. So I drew out a bank of possible characteristics, different colored eyes, piercings, hair-dos, anything you could imagine. The kids would chose from these knarly characteristics and make their own gringo loco. Then we would play the equivalent of bingo, where I would draw a paper describing one of the characteristics. The kids would have to listen to the English, and the student with the most consecutively picked characteristics would win a cookie. Things started getting a little crazy, with everyone drawing over their original drawing to claim victory. The last night of the project was really fun. I listed all of the English vocab words we had been learning, and played pictionary. Two groups would shout (later turned into raising their hands) out what a chosen member was drawing at the board. Rules constantly had to be modified to lessen the near-violent nature these kids brought to the competition. Although it ended in literally a brawl with kids wrestling on the floor with markers in their hands, everyone had fun and I think learned a little.

Although I came for the kids, time with the volunteers was actually pretty fun. I would constantly (perhaps too much) add in little actually… and explain all of the interesting (to me at least it is) information that I have learned thus far in Cusco. One night Jenny and I went to 7 Angelitos again. Reggae night otra vez, with the same band, but this time there were less people, and thus more room to dance. There were some crazy, cocky Argentinean guys there that were really going at it: dancing, chanting, pushing, harassing the little rasta employee, and just having a great wild time. I got into the music and joined in with the craziness. They may have been leery of the new gringo incomer, but after singing along to their favorite Argentinean bands I was granted entrance into their circle loco. They asked me where I was from, and I responded, “Sho? Sho soy de Quashaquillll, vos!,” They cracked up, and we all went to another bar. More and more dancing. It might be the altitude, or perhaps the music, or just being in Latin America in general, but I fucking love to dance here. I’ll fake it at cumbia and rumbia, grind my way through reggaeton, and jump around in rhythm for everything else. I think Jenny also had a great time, and was beginning to learn what great craziness Latin America really is. We were getting tired and said our goodbyes to the Che’s, only to find ourselves running back in when a new great song began. Eventually we got home and passed out. The next day the volunteers went to a rural community to help build a clay stove for a family. I didn’t want to do everything with the volunteers the first week, as there would be other groups, and thus many opportunities to come. Plus, I liked the idea of sleeping in on that given morning.

Thursday was Carlotita’s birthday as well as the last evening the volunteers were going to see the children. The kids took turns singing, dancing, and conceptually just getting used to presenting in front of groups, as awkward as it may have been. We ate some cake, danced with the kids and had a sober, yet festive evening. The next morning both the volunteers and I had to wake up fairly early. They left for a long day at Machu Pichu, while I had my first day of work in Occupata.

Occupata is a very rural town that is about an hour microbus ride outside of Cusco. It probably consists of no more than 50 families living in the most basic of lifestyles. Houses with dirt floors, some with electricity, holes in the ground as bathrooms, mixed flocks of sheep, alpaca, dogs, chickens, cows and llamas were led by small indigenous women. We made our way to the school. There I met the children and the other professors. I am the new English and PE teacher. Every Friday, five classes, each with about fifteen students gathered at a concrete soccer field for lessons. This was a bit more formal than the classes I was giving at the children’s home. I had to submit a curriculum, vocabulary list, learn names, take roll, and give grades. When talking about the details with the Principal the week before she explained the formal concept of my volunteer work. Almost immediately I realized I was tied in for the trimester, or three months. I was leery at first, but after a day in the community, I realized how much I am going to love it. The kids, in ages ranging from 13-18 years old, seemed to enjoy what we were learning. The last group, the 17 & 18 year old boys turned into a double period of just straight competitive soccer. Everyone in the community came around to watch their girls learn English and soccer from a Professor from the US. Yes, I am now Profe Tímon. At times I caught myself just looking around in marvel at what I was actually doing and where I was doing it. I couldn’t stop smiling. Rocio had escorted me to Occupata for my first day, and it was time to head home. Apparently, our bus wasn’t going to come that day, so we hitched a ride in the back of a rather large and dusty flatbed truck. It was a bumpy and long ride home, but all in all, the kind of adventurous transportation that I love, and cannot be done with the other volunteers.

That evening the volunteers returned with stories of the great Incan empire. I was somewhat jealous, but knew that I would have my time. I’ve decided to hold off on the rather expensive journey to Machu Pichu until I was well studied in Incan history. This education is going well. I’ve started off with the basic information about the sites around Cusco. Now I am almost finished with an Incan philosophy book that has the Quetchuan name of “The Inka Path to Wisdom.” I think that having a fundamental theory of how the Incans thought would be appropriate to apply to all future readings. So far, it’s been an interesting and amazing read. Some of my favorite themes and quotes: When talking about their recent assimilation to modern Western civilization: “being products of a process of domination, colonization, resistance, were maintained in our communities and recreated in accordance with their needs… once were sustained on principles like reciprocity and complementarity. This marked a constitutive difference from the urban white-mestizo life determined and characterized by values of capital, individualism, and violence.” When speaking of the Andean order, “which will permit freely reestablished relations between equals in order to build together a society and political organization that accepts the other and teaches us to live in diversity.” In relation to Pachi Mama, mother earth: “the imperative necessity of reestablishing links with nature… broken by consumist and plundering societies that threaten life on the planet.” More Andean way of thought: “our thinking always seeks the pair and that our cosmic order is a pair-verse not uni-verse. The principles that govern our lives are proportionality (a shade of this could be western equity), reciprocity (connecting relations and redistribution), and complementarity (nothing functions with just one element).” The Quechuan word yanapakuy is the alternative to consumerism-based societies; it is the “reciprocal cooperation, of the helping and working at the service of the other… the obligatory form of existence and co-existence of humans with nature.” Excuse the excessive quoting, but are these not values that we must respect or even strive to include? It brings me back to an international conversation in Montañitas with our fumona friends: There are different concepts of time, the unidirectional one being the most accepted in modern societies. And for those who are skeptic of the Mayans science (yes, often used for power control), and are waiting for the world to not end in 2012, I must speak for a moment to clarify some things. The Mayans, as well as the Incans, and other cultures, believed in a cyclic concept of time. 2012 does not mark the end, but rather a new beginning. This beginning may not be sudden, it may not physical, but rather a change in consciousness. Perhaps 2012 will mark the general change of the mentality of our “advancing” world. Hopefully this is when the people of the world will begin to think more responsibly, in terms of reciprocity, proportionality and a respectful co-existence with the earth. Hopefully.

That night, to my surprise, both Jenny and Steve had energy enough to hit the town. So, we hit my favorite little 7 angelitos. That great guitarist did lead vocals, showing that he spent his adolescence in adoration of the Doors, Led Zepplin, and the Rolling Stones. I preferred him to stay with his guitar, but it was impressive none-the less. We met up with Monique and some of her friends. Monique is from the US, but has obvious roots in India. She works for Hampi, a volunteer program based here in Cusco. It’s exciting to meet fellow philanthropists that will be here in Cusco for a while. She’s a super cool girl and we were able to talk for a while before we all left. Also, to be frank, she is straight up gorgeous. “This may sound kinda Wu-Tang clannish, but this butter-pecan honey was not Spanish.” Sorry, it’s rare you get to appropriately quote Masta Ace… Anyways, we all headed over near the Plaza de Armas to a bar called Illapa. Great little place. You name the medium, and they have that type of art. Stencil pieces, murals, t-shirts, live music up stairs, politically themed badges, and even the quintessential crafty jewelry. We kicked it there for a while, and to my surprise Steve did a very adequate job staying clever and cool enough to hang with the younger crowd. Jenny insisted on checking out the kernie-kernie of Peru, and so we stepped out for a bit. A bit turned into a while, and we returned to find Monique as well as Steve and the others gone. We wondered around a while, looking for my first lost volunteer. Finally, assuming he was at home we took a cab back, and luckily found him lying contently in bed. Jenny and I, somehow unable to sleep, took a hike straight up the mountains behind the hogar to watch the sunrise. Apparently there are some small Incan ruins close by, but all we found was immediate exhaustion. Jenny has been literally all over the world, but I think (with my help) she got the Latin American experience that turned me on a few years ago. After a couple of hours of sleep I took Steve to the airport and waited around for the new group of volunteers. Steve and Jenny were the first of the group of volunteers to visit, and I enjoyed it. They were fun to talk to, kept a positive mental attitude, wanted to experience as much as possible, and were just generally nice people. Also, it was cool to be a tour guide, but a bit tiring. Now a new group of volunteers, and a new week in Cusco, a town I’m beginning to love calling home.

The 1st Volunteers (Cusco)

2009-03-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase the last part of my blog, “I miss friends my age…” and even earlier, “its strange how things have been falling into place so well here…” Well, things have changed for the better once again. On Friday, I met up with a few local friends, and drank a couple of beers. **YOUNG READERS STOP READING HERE** They are really cool guys, university students, who all live really close. It was also a night of celebration, or mourning, depending on how you look at it. One of our male comrades had recently been dumped, even harsher, replaced by another man. Fuck that guy, right? “And fuck that girl, she was always a bitch…” this was the common conversation of the evening. We casually drank, perhaps with the newly single man drinking a bit more than everyone else. We were hanging out, my Spanish was great, and they were talking about going somewhere else. I wasn’t really familiar with the slang they were using in describing this destination, but given that we were at the same place for a while, I agreed in going with them. After a short taxi ride we arrived at a taxi-filled parking lot surrounded by concrete rooms. Probably around 30 doors, half of which open, showing scantily dressed women, backlit in a dirty red light. Yes, my friends, a Peruvian whorehouse. I was shocked, “this isn’t illegal?” No, was the answer, and regulated my friends explained. There was the price of $15sol on each door. Yes, $5 dollars, and apparently that’s all-inclusive. We each put in a few sol, and bought our drunken, heartbroken friend temporary relief that was chosen by the collective group. While window-shopping, I had a look inside this dim lit dorm room of lust. Concrete walls with minimal pornographic posters, lousy reggaeton music, a low bed that cries for cleaning, or rather, burning. We returned to the taxi, joked around a bit while our friend indulged in services I’m proud to say I’ve never paid for. During this time, taxis came and went, drunken men arriving and leaving physically satisfied, but what’s going on in their heads? Can they not feel guilty in using these women, in paying for sex, even grossed out in being in such a place. I felt like I needed to go to church on Sunday just for being at the place. Our friend emerged from the musty cave, and we all cheered. We all refused to shake his hand, or give him high-fives. Upon asking how it was, he said, “Fuck that girl, she doesn’t know what she’s doing.” We got in the taxi, and headed home. Apparently our friend had drank a bit too much, and our money was used only as catalyst to a failed experiment of temporary console. They invited me to soccer the next day, and we said goodbye. I took a shower, which I found necessary after the evening, and went to sleep.

The next day, a couple of volunteers came in. As mentioned before, Globe Aware places American volunteers to live and work at the hogar for week long periods. I should probably introduce Rocio at this point. She is the volunteer coordinator, and has been out of town the past week. It was a great surprise to find that she is 24! And not a tyrannical bitch like other female associates of this institute. She’s cool, has a passion for the kids, and is a great example of another way that things have changed for the better. So Rocio and I head to the airport on Saturday to pick up the new volunteers. Steve, from Arizona, is a 40-something year old guy that works in the banking system somehow. With a willingness to improve his basic Spanish, and an openness to see new things, it’s what you hope for in volunteers. The other is a Notre Dame sociology-major girl. Her Spanish is decent, and similarly, loves to see new things. We took a taxi home, showed them around, drank some coca tea, and they took a brief nap. Later, Rocio took them to some markets, but I had other plans in mind: soccer. Although there are games during the week, the weekends are what matters. My friends from the night before knock on my door, and we walk down to the closest school to use their fields. My friends are young and good at soccer, and one is actually the best juggler/dribbler I have met in my life. They already had a set of 5 players, so I offered to play on the other team. This consisted of a 50-year old goalie who was either drunk, or just awful. All distributions were lost as he just threw the ball as hard as he could. I could not replace him in goal though, as I was the youngest player on the team, and consequently the workhorse. All in all, my team sucked. To play, every game every player had to put in $.50sol, or like 17cents. Then the first team to two goals takes the pot. The losing team retires, and another team pays and plays. We lost our first few games, with my friends making a run on the field, winning the first 6 games they played. Finally we beat them (with my goal), and were allowed to stay on the field. We lost the next few again; all the while our communication had reduced to directive swearwords and displacement of responsibility. There was no positive mental attitude here. As the gringo (and the player with half of our goals), I somehow became the scapegoat. Really? I was responsible for marking that player on the corner kick while our ENTIRE team was already in the box? I started yelling back, showing them that I too was a master Peruvian curser. Everyone loved it, and given that my points were logical, and similarly articulated, I received due respect. Regardless, at the end of the day, I was ready to fight that stupid goalie. The young, winning team, retired, and gave me back the money I lost, and invited me out for a beer. Cool kids, great players, and new friends.

That evening, given it was one of the only weekend nights the volunteers had in Cusco, we went downtown. All four of us. We went around San Blas, went over to the Plaza de Armas, and did the tourist thing. There is an amazing gallery/bar called Fallen Angel, that I am yet to take a picture of. It’s amazing, each room abundantly adorned in sculptures, murals, portraits, and other pieces all with a more or less angel feel. Not gaudy, not religious, but more sexual, alternative, kitsch, and just amazing. We had a few drinks and headed to my favorite bar: 7 Angelitos. There is a group that I saw the week before that has a reggae night. In fact, they play almost every night, with different themes. An amazing guitarist! I’m talking well trained, unbearably talented, great steez, and a diversity that you could only imagine. The band recognized this star, and gave him at least one great solo per song. The bassist, with collared-shirt and tie, sported a trendy-hipster, I-cut-this-myself-in-the-dark-hair thing. In the back though, a mullet of dreads that went almost to his waist. The drummer kept right along, and the leadsinger was animated and incorporated the crowd well. Bob Marley, Los Cafres, Sublime, Manu Chao, Gondwana, Los Pericos, REM (they love that song, loosing my religion), Los Fabulosos Cadillacs. If you know some of those groups, then check out the others. This lineup has become the soundtrack of my life here. Jenny and I danced and sang a long. I’ve downloaded most of the tracks, and at least know the chorus and could jump around. Great time, decent happy hour, fun music, more dancing, and that was Saturday night.

Sunday, it was a long one. It was women’s day. Like mother’s day, but for the girls too. I guess you can give the whole gender a day when the other 354 reign supreme in a still machismo society. One drunken uncle said, “If there were men’s day, the women would have to clean, but use the hair on their heads as mops.” Anyways, the four of us went down to the Plaza de Armas again to watch the festivities. In route we saw a parade of typically dressed people. The word typical or traditional finds the same confusion when talking about environmental conservation… at what point is typical, and what point in history is that you are trying to preserve? When the Spanish arrived? When it was colonial times for the Spanish? Before US intervention? Regardless, these are classical (established in colonial times) dress and dances performed by neighborhoods, organizations, schools, and friends. In the center, we watched the national anthems, the military demonstrations, and the commencement of a daylong parade. Women’s movement for peace, union of female construction workers, mothers for indigenous rights, the groups went on and on. Then came the neighborhood’s display of devotion for their local saint. Costumes, live marching music, memorized dances, all with a very festive overtone. These groups went to their first Mass at 6:00am, and had been going at it all day. Rocio’s family was in on the fun as well. We went up to their house in the neighborhood above San Blass, and met her aunt. She explained that their group, which would become our group, is at another Mass, and will be marching through the square soon enough. Their Saint, San Juan de Dios was a doctor and the man overlooking San Blas. We hiked up a couple hundred stairs and some hills to get to Jesus Blanco. There is a huge white Jesus overlooking Cusco. It was built when the Catholics were afraid of the moral integrity of the town after an influx of Palestinian-Arab immigration. It was built on serro rojo, or red hill. In the times of the Incan, it was a sacred place where dirt of the entire empire was brought and spread. Lima, Colombia, Bolivia, Brasil, Ecuador all have tierra here. After a little nap, we all headed downtown to find our group of musicians and dancers. They did their thing, with a man dressed as a girl leading the show. This person is nicknamed the equivalent of a woman who doesn’t know how to cook or clean. Eventually we all made our way to the top of San Blas where the parties began. Chica, the indigenous corn-based alcoholic drink, ran like a river. Actually, a better metaphor could be used: In the Incan times, in the monuments of Saqsywoman, there are groves in these 100-ton rocks. These groves served as pathways for Chica to run in times of ceremonies. So, if you were to say it runs like chicha, there is historical connotation involved. The main point is that people were drinking A LOT. Women, 60 years old, CHUGGING booz like veteran frat boys. Structures of wood and firecrackers assembled only to be destroyed in a loud and smoky demonstration. People started gathering in a large room where there was a small shrine in the corner. Chairs were placed in the borders, providing dancing room in the middle. A room literally filled floor to ceiling with bottle of warm beer was beginning its distribution. A hearty soup, and pork was passed around. Beers and more chicha. At one point I opened a beer with my shoe, and the neighboring older woman loved it. She gave me a hug, a couple of kisses, and took me by the hand to be the first of the dancers in the middle. It was tough to dance with this woman without cracking up. She had this amused look on a head, which was always at a slight angle. The Incans were well aware of the earth’s tilt; was the placement of her head in similar tribute? It was embarrassing, but you just kinda have to embrace it. The other gringos were eventually swooped up and similarly made public displays of attention. I met some great people, although everyone’s Spanish is not like mine: When I drink, to a certain point, it improves. Theirs on the other had, deteriorated to levels of mumbled incomprehension. Finally, after a long day, we returned home. At the hogar, we introduced the kids to the volunteers, and Steve and I brought a couple of cakes home in observance of women’s day. A long weekend, but with some solid tourism, and a granted entrance into a really unique cultural celebrations.

Cusco, Week 1

2009-03-06T10:13:00.000-08:00

It’s Friday, and with the first real week of the hogar completed, I have to say things are going better. The kids are great, now that they leave me with a little bit of free time during the day. My boys, the four eldest are really cool. They are like most 14-year-old boys, and every night ask me about girls and sex and just teenage things. I helped them study for their placement tests and I think they did pretty well. The adults at the hogar are impressed that I can help with their English, Spanish (their second language), Math, Biology, and Chemistry. In the evenings my room has a supplemental history class. I talk to them for about fifteen minutes about Che Guevara and then we watch a pirated copy of the new movie about him. The boys dig it, although they are mostly confused with my anti-imperialistic stance given that I am from Babylon myself. The girls are quiet, but are really cool when they aren’t around the boys. It’s probably a cultural thing, to maintain the docile gender role, but they seem to really open up during the English/Soccer class. The class, by the way, is a hit. I decided to break it up by gender instead of age for the reason just mentioned. Both the boys and the girls are learning the weekly vocabulary very well, and are having a great time. It’s great to see the girls play, as they are constantly just giggling and screaming with excitement. All in all, I am loving my time here at the hogar. Carlota, the bitchy manager, is rarely involved in day to day activities, and usually just comes around for a couple of minutes in the evening to let everyone know she’s still as mean as the day before. After a fairly long tirade of whatever was on her mind she left, and I turned to my table and said, “If she’s here, then who’s in charge of hell?” They loved it. Carlota doesn’t need be involved in daily actions, as she has trained her daughters to be equally degrading. I have now relocated my hatred to her daughter who insists on yelling at everyone on my floor every morning. Although I have a lot of fun with the kids, and especially my boys, they respect me as well, as I have to be a hard-ass sometimes with them to do their homework and keep the room clean. This by the way is a welcoming change from the past. I have now have four roommates that are less messy then in the US, but even better, I can tell them to clean up and they have to. It’s an amazing feeling.

The food has been surprisingly good. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it in the blog, or in emails, but apparently the volunteers rarely eat what the kids do. I, for one, believe that not only does this alienate the visitors, but think it’s crazy because the food is pretty good. We start every morning with that warm, ricey oatmeal drink and some bread. Around 2:00, when the kids return from school, we have our main meal. It always starts with a soup of some sort. Sometimes it has a grain, sometimes it is dark and stewey, and always it has potatoes, onions and carrots. Then another course of a rice, lentil, pasta or grain based with some sort of potato, onion soupy sauce. It sounds rather repetitive and simple, but I dig it. I went to the store and bought some ground chili powder, which I occasionally use to spice up some of the blander dishes. Finding this ingredient was rather difficult, by the way, as many Peruvians do not eat spicy food. In the evening, it’s usually leftovers in a smaller portion. You, a faithful reader I’m sure, have probably realized that food is an important aspect of my day-to-day life. That being said, I am very happy with its simplicity, cost (free), and the fact that everything we eat comes from the local earth.

My free time consists of some CADA | CASA planning, reading (right now, the Ground Beneath Her Feet, and El Tunél), some web design for the hogar, sometimes some extra soccer, Spanish grammar exercises, and exploring the city. I met up with a guy named Will that I met in Montañitas. He’s a pretty cool guy, and has been doing the whole tourist thing in Cusco for a couple of weeks now. We went up to Saqseywuman (spelling is definitely not there), and snuck in. It costs something like $20 to go into these Incan ruins, which is really expensive considering I’m living on honestly $1 a day. Anyways, we found a trail bypassing the tourist entrance and toured around. It’s really amazing that these sites of grandeur exist, and even more amazing how little we really know about them. Because the Incans didn’t have a written language, and also due to the destruction of the Spanish, most of these monuments have multiple interpretations. One very known and common characteristic is the presence of the Condor, the Puma, and the Serpent. The Serpent represents the underworld and the past. The Puma represents man, as it wonders the earth like ourselves, and also the present. The Condor signifies the future, the above, the gods, and hope. When entering San Sebastian, my neighborhood, there is a huge metal condor. Also, the original city of Cusco (now it has outgrown these boundaries) was marked by a surrounding wall in the shape of a Puma. The head of the Puma is where we stood and overlooked the valley. A young local guy approached us and offered a tour. He explained that he lacks 6 months of English training in order to graduate university. In the mean time he is practicing his profession, which is giving tours. He offers a free tour to us (which means a tip at the end), which we take. Will doesn’t speak much Spanish, and our guide doesn’t speak much English, so I did the translating, and it was pretty cool. He explained how this specific site was used, the underground tunnels, the astronomical significance, some of the nomenclature, and it was all very informative. More so though, it made me realize that I was living in the middle of an area filthy rich in history. I will make it a goal to visit a couple of these monuments every week, and more so, educate myself on the history that surrounds me.

So, today I write you all in good spirits and with newfound optimism and motivation to learn and do good work. Although the time with the kids is great, I am really looking forward to the weekend to begin. The only thing that I really lack, and that I miss, is Diego and other friends my age. People to talk, relate, and hang out with. This weekend though, hopefully the extra free time and lack of 6:30am wake-up call will provide me with an opportunity to meet some new people. Anyways, take care everyone, and thanks for reading.

The kids arrive (Cusco)

2009-03-03T07:53:00.000-08:00

On the first Sunday of the month there is always a parent’s meeting. This being the first of the year, it is an important one. The parents and children started to arrive at 9:00pm. I was up and ready to greet them. Unfortunately, I found that neither Carlota, nor any other adult figure was. So I answered the door, introduced myself to the kids and parents, and made some coca tea for everyone. After about 5 families have arrived, I went up to check on Carlota, to find that she was just waking up. She told me to tell the parents to clean the green house area. Although I felt somewhat uncomfortable asking these people I just met, I helped out and helped clear the beds. More arrived, but only about half of the families. We started the parent meeting with a prayer and introductions. It was lead by Carlota, with Lucia and I acting as assistants. Carlota then embarked on a 20-minute tirade about the irresponsibility and poor-job the parents were doing. I’m not sure what the histories of the families are like, but she definitely laid in to them. She somehow blamed the parents that were there, for the lack of attendance of the others. Carlota accused each family of being alcoholics, not providing for their children, as well as other random criticisms. I’m sure she had a point to get across, but this was a little harsh. Then she said that on the weekends I was going to go around to each house and take notes on the living conditions, and report back to her. WHAT? This was news to me, and I immediately began feeling uncomfortable with this responsibility. She continued, talked about fines, punishments, expulsion, consequences, and so on. After an hour of this, I realized I was no longer needed, asked permission to leave, and hung out with the kids. We talked for a while, grabbed a soccer ball, and started to play around. The ball was kicked over the back wall, and within the 30-seconds it took to retrieve it, the ball was stolen and never be seen again. I helped the kids get moved in while the parents meeting went on and on.

The parents left, and the kids and I basically just hung around. Things were pretty much ready for the school day to begin and there was no homework to be done. Outside our front gate festivities were underway celebrating yet another carnival. This more typical type of carnival was described to me in Lima. A bunch of guys were decorating a tree (that was in the middle of an intersection) with streamers, and colored pails and buckets. They were taking their time, drinking Peruvian sweet wine and an Incan corn-based alcohol. The guys invited me to join in for a bit, and I tried a bit of each. A couple of hours later the party was really going outside. Speakers were brought in to play typical Cuscan music while kids had water and paint fights and the adults continued to drink. By this point the tree was well decorated and a group of about 20 adults held hands and danced around the ornamented centerpiece. Couples would then take turns taking a couple hacks at the tree with a bejeweled axe. The kids of the hogar stood at the entrance and watched the festivities without engaging. Around this time, Carlota came around and told everyone that they couldn’t watch any longer and had to come inside. Everyone was pretty disappointed, so I went to have a word with our repressive ruler. She explained that it was dangerous and that the adults were drinking. I said I would take responsibility and that we were only standing at our entrance watching. She granted us permission, and we returned to watch the continuous decline of the poor tree’s trunk. Despite multiple offerings, I resisted the Incan drink of festivity in good example for the kids. Around 7:00, just when the tree was beginning to quiver and the crowd was holding their breath in anticipation with every chop, we left for Sunday mass. Mass was, well like any Catholic mass. I am a firm believer in trying anything once, and decided to attend. The local church was under a lot of renovation, and was somewhat of a sad sight. I listened, picking up about 50% of what was said, and stood up and kneeled when appropriate. We returned to the wreckage site of where a tree once stood, and a party was still underway. One could only imagine what happened when the tree fell. Were children hurt? Did women cry? God doesn’t even know, for he was busy listening to our prayers. Everyone gathered in the cafeteria to eat a small plate of leftovers and ponche, a warm, sweet rice drink. I bought a package of cookies, as it was carnival and our first night together, and a reason to celebrate. After the kids were in bed, I went to the Internet café and called some of my family and friends from the US. Tomorrow was the first day of classes, and even I needed to get my sleep.

The next morning was a rough one. A couple of my boys were in charge of making breakfast and needed to get up a little extra early. They didn’t want to leave their warm beds, and neither did I for that matter. 5:30am mornings are cold, and one needs to get dressed asap. In such altitudes your warmth depends on the presence of the sun. This morning it was raining, and the wetness just added to the cold. Far gone are the days of the warm South American coast. We had our typical breakfast of basic bread (non-dairy) and ponche. I then helped Cristofer get to his first day of school. We took a microbus to an intersection about 10 minutes away, and then climbed a muddy hill. Cristofer has the privilege to attend the nicest school in Cusco. He receives a full scholarship, which is necessary considering this is an elementary school for the rich families. The school is incredible. It has huge garden areas with a river running between them for classic irrigation techniques. There were farms with alpacas, chickens, ducks, fish, and of course guinea pigs. The classrooms were gorgeous, wood-based buildings with every necessary accessory. There were mini-kitchens, play-areas, and beautifully kept common areas. This wasn’t the nicest elementary school in Cusco; this was the nicest elementary school I have ever seen. After the little bus ride home, I met up with the rest of the group that was studying. I helped the boys with some math review, a couple girls with some English, and a few others in science. We took a break, and a couple of the boys and I went downtown to buy some soccer balls for the English/soccer class. The first few lessons had been planned out, but I decided to split the group by gender, not age. The girls are much more comfortable playing soccer without the aggressive and skilled boys present. It went well, we learned parts of the body while stretching, basic soccer vocabulary, and some basic English fraises. Trying to impress the boys, I volleyed the ball too hard, it went over the fence, and once again was taken into hidden possession before we could find it. From now on, we were going to the soccer field a couple of blocks away for class. The girls loved the class for they don’t often get the chance to play soccer by themselves. We ate our segundos, which this time was a bit different. The food has been good so far. Before coming, I was informed that the volunteers rarely eat with the kids, as they find the food too strange. It usually consists of a soup based in root vegetables; potatoes, beets, carrots, and onions. These soups, (today was actually more of a stew) are based in some type of grain that I am unfamiliar with, but is pretty good. They are a bit bland, so I add a little pepper, and some hot sauce I found at a near store. We cleaned up, and everyone, myself included, was in bed by 9:00.

A Cusco Commencement

2009-03-03T07:47:00.000-08:00

With a couple of phone calls, I found Hatun Sanco Wasi, the children’s home. I briefly explained this earlier, but will go into a bit greater detail now. Cusco is the central city in a very mountainous region that gets very rural, very quickly. The mostly indigenous people that live in these rural areas speak the native language Quetcha, and their towns and villages do not have schools. Consequently, the children of the families attend primary and high school in Cusco. Both of which, for the sake of the blog is considered collegio. Because the commute is long and tough, these children live at Hatun Sanco Wasi during the week. These children are not orphans, but do live well below the poverty level. Sometimes the families can afford the microbus o combi (van used for public transportation) to go home for the weekends. Often though, the kids will remain at the hogar de niños (children’s home) for the entire semester. There are 32 kids, whose ages range between 6 and 17 years old. Their families are asked to pay 1 sol per day, which is around US$.30. For this minimal tuition, the kids receive a bed, clothes, three meals, and some wonderful facilities, which I will elaborate on in a bit. Everyone attends collegio during the day, and returns in the afternoon to do homework, recreation, and chores. I will be assisting in these hours when the kids are at the hogar. The hogar also houses visiting volunteers from around the world. When the kids are at school, I help the volunteers do miscellaneous projects around the hogar. You can definitely see the impact past volunteers have done, as the facilities are great. There is a carpentry shop (which I am extremely excited to get my hands on) to assist in such improvement programs, as well as teach kids in their recreation time. There is a sports court suited for soccer and basketball, a play structure area, and lots of garden area that the kids help maintain. There is a cafeteria and large kitchen where one woman cooks for all of the kids. Above the kitchen and cafeteria are a couple of bedrooms for the adult workers, and a couple offices. Hatun Sanco Wasi is associated with Globe Aware, a supposedly non-profit company that places the volunteers. As with many non-profits these days they charge an incredible amount for volunteers to come and assist. From what I’ve gathered, unfortunately a small percentage of this money reaches the hogar. Regardless, work is being done, and the kids are benefiting. The other principal building is 3 stories. The first includes the bathrooms, a common room where the kids do their homework, and 4 dormitory rooms where the boys stay. Similarly, on the second floor, there is another common room, and dorm rooms for the girls. On the third floor lives Carlota Cruz, who is basically the manager of the children’s sector. She lives with Lucia, Carlota Cruz (ya, another), and Carolin (a baby of 10 months). Rocio lives on the second floor and is in charge of the volunteers, and acts as a secretary. Leonidas is a tutor (which is basically my position as well) and lives on the first floor with the younger boys. There are a few other adults, the cook, the guys that help in construction, but it mostly consists of just a few of us that live with and take care of the kids.

I arrived at the big blue door of the hogar to find Estreisi anxiously waiting with a big smile on her face. “Timon!” she enthusiastically shouts. She gives me a hug, takes me by the hand and leads me inside the hogar. I meet Carlota (the adult), Blanca (her niece), and Cristofer. Estreisi and Cristofer live at the hogar year round, as their parents have either passed or are just not part of the picture. Both Estreisi and Cristofer are of the younger group of kids and are 7 years old. It’s amazing how affectionate these kids are. Hugging, holding hands, it seems that they are starved for affection. They show me around the grounds, and to my dorm. I am to share the room with four 12-15 year olds. Although I have my own locker and everything, I was at first somewhat disappointed. After a while though, I think it will be a good thing. It will keep me honest, to a healthy schedule, and truly living with the kids. After a bunch of coca tea, and hanging out with the kids, I retired to my room, and was asleep by 9:30pm.

The next couple of days were spent organizing and preparing for the kids’ arrival. Most of the kids will be arriving on Sunday, some of which will begin classes on Monday, while others have placement tests to prepare for. The rest of the kids will come the following Sunday. I worked with Lucia to create the general schedule. Working with a bunch of Latina women definitely brought me back to the OCDC Head Start days, and I realized that I was going to need to take the initiative to get work done efficiently. My daily schedule will go something like this:
6:00am Wake up, get the kids cleaned and dressed and clean the room
6:30am Breakfast. Kids rotate on preparing a warm rice drink and and buy some simple bread from down the street.
7:00am Clean the floors, bathrooms, rooms, and cafeteria.
8:00am Make sure the kids leave for school on time.
9:00am A few kids have afternoon classes. At this time I will give the English/Soccer class to them.
1:30pm Lunch with the kids. A house “Mom” comes in a cooks lunch, and either prepares enough for left-overs for dinner, or prepares something else for the evening.
4:00pm English / Soccer class. I split the group into two and teach English by playing soccer. Every week has new vocabulary and lessons that I’ve been planning out.
5:00pm Tutoring. The kids work on their homework and I go around and help them.
7:00pm Dinner. Basically left-overs from lunch.
8:00pm Tutoring and freetime. Make sure all of the homework is done, and get kids ready for the next day.
9:00pm Get ready for bed. Make sure the kids take their showers (the water is warmed throughout the day by the sun, so it’s better to take their shower in the evening).

So, there is a decent break there between 9:00am and 1:30pm, which is my free time. When there are volunteers working, apparently I will be escorting them around the city until 7:00pm, and my class will be cancelled and substituted with activity time with the volunteers in the evening. There is a paid position through Globe Aware for someone to coordinate and work with the other volunteers that come for the week, and I think it’s BS that I have to act as tour guide while the kids’ English class is cancelled. On Wednesdays, I am to wake up at 5:00am, and take an hour bus to a small town and basically be a PE teacher for a small school. I can choose to spend the night there, or take a bus home that evening. Other than the brief explanation I just provided, I have no other information regarding this commitment. Also, if volunteers are in town, I am to cancel my Wednesdays as well for them. Complete BS. But whatever, as I like to teach the kids: keep a positive mental attitude, and see what happens. In reality, these are the plans, and the kids haven’t arrived yet, so who knows how things will go.

One thing that will take some adjustment is my indirect curfew. I asked about getting my own key, and basically was told “No.” I could always ring the doorbell, and there should be someone at the center to let me in. If though it’s the evening, and the kids are sleeping, then I don’t really want wake them, or disturb Carlota. This leaves me with the option of sneaking in (climbing a 12 foot metal door, surly to rouse the loud dogs) or making sure I’m back at 9:00pm. For the majority of the days, I don’t foresee this being a problem. Getting asleep at 9:00pm will be necessary to wake up at 5:00 or 6:00am. But on the weekend, when most of the kids go home, and I have my free time, something has got to change.

There is one more point that I kind of want to bitch about, and that’s Carlota. She is basically in charge of the organization here, with the help of Lucia. Carlota though rules with an iron fist. She speaks to the kids as if they are dumb, and scolds them for the smallest things. I can see her striving for optimal table manners, but when she hypocritically engages in the exact same behavior as they do, and then yells at them in a demeaning manner, I see a disappointing contradiction. My philosophies of positivism are replaced with the opposite, and I can’t help but feel like I, like the children, are at the hands of a cruel dictator. Furthermore, these aggressive and demeaning habits are brought to her demeanor with everyone. Perhaps running a 30-kid orphanage requires such discipline, but she doesn’t need to explain things to visiting adults and myself in such a demoralizing manner.

It seems that the later part of this post is focusing on the bad aspects of what’s going on. In reality, the majority of the time, the time with the Estreci and Cristofer is fun and rewarding. There are just a few issues that I will have to fix, and others I will have to adapt to. Although things aren’t ideal, things are good. I enjoy what I have been doing thus far, and am looking forward to spending the next few months here. Also, please email. I have a bit more free time these days, and would definitely email anyone who takes the time to email me.

Route to Cusco

2009-02-27T15:09:00.000-08:00

Everything was prepared for my departure. I bought the tickets earlier the week before, so I had a great seat. On the second story, in the front row on the right window, which means I had a great view of in front, and of the coast on the west. Also, tons of legroom. I had eaten very little, and had pooped twice before boarding. My iPod was fully charged, I had a few new DVDs, I was ready. Or so I thought. It started fine, with a great ride down the coast. Great view, great sunset, everything went okay. After dinner (a better one than previously provided on such buses), we started to make our climb in the sierra. I tried to fall asleep, but found little success. At this point my stomach wasn’t agreeing with the dinner, that or some the windiest roads of my life. This stomachache turned into a full-formed sickness that would accompany me for the rest of the evening. More windy roads, up and down these hills of torture. Around midnight is when things started to get worse. A little background information, I was traveling from Lima (sea-level) to Cusco (11,000 foot elevation). If you haven’t heard of altitude sickness, let me describe some of my symptoms: The stomachache now turned into sharp pains, with a dash of nausea. I couldn’t tell what my body wanted to do, sleep, shit, or throw up. Oh and then the dizziness, and blurred tunnel vision. I couldn’t fall asleep; I would try moving around like I was trying a bus version of the karma sutra. I just kept telling myself to hold on, you will survive. Perhaps daylight will bring relief. At one point I couldn’t take it any more, I got up, at 3am, and tried to lie down in the aisle. Maybe just stretching out was the answer. No. I staggered my way down to the bathroom. A mocking, “for urination only” sign was ignored, as well as the pre-departure instructions from the stewardess. Ya, that’s right… to the person who entered the bathroom after me, I did it, I pooped where I was not supposed to. And it helped a bit. I returned to my seat, took some more coca homeopathic medicine, and after a while, fell asleep. In the morning I awoke feeling better. A slight headache, no bowel problems… thank god. We traveled along crazy, gorgeous mountainsides on roads only a trembling drunkard could have mapped. At one point there was a muddy stream that needed to be crossed. Out of the thick brush, came these umpa-lumpa (what? They had matching fests and indigenous Peruvians are short), fellows with shovels, and although they worked hard, I saw no progress what so ever. The trucks and other cars passed as we watched. Apparently our driver was a pussy, and we waited until another tourism bus came and crossed safely. We crossed (very unprofessionally, sin huevos), to find that 100 meters later, we were to cross the same river. More umpa-lumpas (why weren’t they singing?), this time with a tractor, and another 45-minute wait ensued. Later we had a few more slight delays as landslides were being cleared. Based on the prevalence of umpa-lumpas, I figured this is common for the route. And, at 3:30pm, after exactly 24 hours on the bus (4 hours late), we arrive in Cusco. What a gorgeous town from above. All houses made of red clay in the middle of gorgeous green mountains with a looming fog. I got shivers from the anticipation and excitement. This is my final destination; this is the mystical ancient city of the Incan people. This is where I’m going to call home for the next few months. This is Cusco!

Last Days of Lima

2009-02-27T15:06:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, Sulma invited Diego and me to lunch in a restaurant called Puerto Mancora. Diego’s sister spent the night before, and the four of us went to a nice part of town, close to Diego’s university. Puerto Mancora is an elegant, yet relaxed, open-air success. Diego’s sister went to high school with the primary chef, whom we were introduced to. I’ll emphasize this paragraph describing the lunch, as it was definitely the best food I have eaten in South America: We started with a fresh salad of vegetables, slightly cooked seafood, and this type of orange potato that is kind of like yam, but smoother. I ordered a dish that is basically, a seafood mash. Instead of potatoes, they use plantains (the less sweet banana), which were barbequed, then mashed like potatoes. The grilled oysters, shrimp, scallops, calamari are added with a bunch of other herbs. Definitely, some of the best seafood of my life. Sulma had the daily special, which was rice, beans, and baby goat in a green sauce. Unbelievable. Peruvians have no moral qualms whatsoever about eating the baby versions of our favorite beasts. And who can blame them? They are so delicate, oily and so suave. Diego’s sister had the civiche. Pay attention Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, and Ecuador, because this is the best ceviche. Gold medal for sure. Huge, gorgeous cuts of shashimi like fresh fish, with an amazing variety of other seafood. All of the freshest quality, served not like a soup in other countries, but just the flavoring of the leche de tigre. Diego had a similar mash, but with baby pork, and was somehow even better than mine. Oh, and to drink, we shared a pitcher of chica and mayacuya juice. All in all, this was the food that gives Peru the opportunity to consider themselves some of the best of the world.

Diego went to the stadium to watch La U play again. I decided to stay at home, catch up on my blogs, and talk to the mom a bit. Plus, I know it must be tough escorting a gringo around all the time, so I’m sure he appreciated the break from explaining so much. It was kinda a bummer, because La U went on a scoring fest, and won 5-1. That night we took it more or less easy, because as Diego said, we needed to do “some responsible tourism shit,” the next day. We woke up rather early, had a quick breakfast and headed downtown. We went to the catacombs first. Ancient Catholicism has always been somewhat scary for me. It feels there are just so many dark secrets, and perhaps deaths related to a secret society of sorts. The basement of this sacred church was used as the cemetery of the city, and the bones of the deceased were organized by type, and stacked in trenches said to be 15 feet deep. This combined with the ominous, graphic depictions of the death of Jesus Christ, and the musky smell of death was just straight creepy. We also visited Diego’s university, which was surprisingly unwelcoming to tourists or anyone without a student ID. Also, the other museum of history was, well, pretty similar to most museums of the history of Latin America… Indigenous people that accomplished this or that, with these tools. The Spanish came, and killed them all. Sometimes they tried to convert them, but mostly, just mass genocide. But now look! They are educated; they speak Spanish, they have proper manner to keep track of time and they praise the word of our lord and savior. Halleluiah!

That evening Diego and I went over to the house of a friend. It was the birthday of the cousin of Loco. She was at the carnival with us for a bit, and although I like to think that every girl wants me, I really think she was interested. Let me digress a bit and explain some things I have learned about dealing with girls in South America: 1) The common cues that express interest in the US are irrelevant here. Physical contact: a normality, shit, you meet by kissing. So when a girl touches you a lot, this means nothing. This also goes for general proximity when talking. 2) Dancing is talking. You can dance in a manner as close to sex with clothes as possible, with cheeks touching, and fall victim to another misleading cultural norm. That being said, a really good male dancer, as Chavo says, conquista las chicas. For the most part though, consider dancing to be like shaking hands. 3) The impact of being a gringo. This is a weird one… Gringos stand for a lot of things; modern fashion, more European influenced blood (which equates to a lesser ability to deal with the sun, and thus burning, but whatever), money (perhaps a green card), privilege, or perhaps the opposite; spoiled, irresponsible, cocky. Some girls love gringos; you don’t even have to show a picture, just say Norteamericano, and they are pretty much in. This leads to an interesting and perplexing relationship. There you are, automatically getting more attention then the other guys, because of your genes, your nationality, your stereotype, not who you are. Anyways, Loco’s cousin was similarly interested. We talked, and she invited me to go dancing the next day, which sounded very tempting at the time. The party was a hit… amazing house, huge pool overlooking the city, once again, great sandwich makings, friends that I’ve been hanging out with the whole time in Lima, a really fun time. I explained Burning Man to an enthralled group, each of them promising to come in August for the spiritual spectacle of a lifetime. My Spanish was on fire, and everyone loved the usage of all of the slang I’ve learned in the past two weeks from my professional instructor, Diego.

The next morning I woke up fairly early again to get some random stuff done. I went around the town buying some art supplies that I think would be difficult to obtain in Cuzco. When I settle, I plan on doing some gel transfers, and I think the kids would get a kick out of it as well. Diego and I did a little more sightseeing, and more or less took it easy the last day. That evening, Diego’s Dad Willy was coming home from out of town. He had been out of the house for about 8 days now, and wanted to go out and drink one of the bottle of wine I brought. We went to an elegant, typical Argentinean restaurant that was very nice. The place was lined wall to wall with wine, and I could see why he chose this place. With a combination of typical Argentinean cowboy décor and fancy tango memorabilia, it was defiantly different that what I’ve seen thus far in Peru. We opened the bottle (a little shout out to my Dad, much thanks and appreciation from everyone for the Quasilda Creek 98’ Cab) to let it breathe a bit and snacked on some really great rolls. The Dad basically just ordered for everyone. Generally speaking, it is more common for restaurants to do family serving. So basically, all he ordered was estilo Americano, which is like just saying I want me meat cooked medium. The beef came, and came in gusto. There were two sizzling pans with 4 different cuts in each. It was accompanied with a rather coherent salad, and fried potatoes. I choose to use fried potatoes as to distinguish these from French fries. There is also a pesto-like chimichuri sauce, and an adequately spicy orange sauce that you can use for flavoring. Although we arrived around 10:00pm, we ate and ate and ate. Seriously, the four of us finished our bottle, plus two more, and everything on the table. We told stories, talked about the mysticism of Peru, told jokes, and left the place stuffed, at 12:30am. What a wonderful time. We were a few hours late to meet up with the Bend Peruvians one last time, but who cares. We arrived to find most of them there, plus a couple new people. One of which, Rocio, is one of the girls with an apparent affixation for carne gringo. She said later that evening “I knew I wanted you from the moment I saw you.” And for the romantic female readers of my blog: I really don’t think she was talking about love at first sight. Meza and Loco stopped by for a drink, which was really nice. Everyone hung out for a while, said our goodbyes, and Diego and I returned home. It was a great last evening: a wonderful meal with the family, and a sincere goodbye from my friends.

I woke up very early on my last day in Lima. I met up with Rocio to run some errands. Went to the Homeopathic pharmacy to buy some medicine for the trip, coca. Seriously, that is the number one thing you can supposedly do for altitude sickness, is drink tea from coca (yes, what cocaine is synthesized from). Picked up a few more things, said goodbye to the comegringo, finished some laundry and packed up. I said goodbye to Sulma and Willy, both of which expressed sincere invitations for my return. What a wonderful house they provided, for which I am extremely grateful. We went over to Meza’s house, exchanged some more music, and Diego and I headed downtown to pick up a few more supplies for my trip. Remember, “first thing you learn is you’ve always got to wait,” so in the mean time I said goodbye to his sister and ate half of sandwich from apparently the best sandwich place in Lima. As I was consciously preparing for my 20-hour bus ride to Cusco, I was careful and had the vegetarian option. It was actually, one of the best sandwiches in Lima. And Lima is big on their sandwiches. Also there were 12 different sauces available, which was cool. And as we were waiting for the bus to depart, Diego and I said our goodbyes, with mutual agreement that we would see each other in the near future. Diego is a great friend. It’s tough spending 21 consecutive days with anyone, but I feel that we did it fairly well. In emails prior to my trip to South America Diego said, “Everything you did for me in the US, I am going to repay here in Peru.” Well, he did, and surpassed me. Gracias, Loco.

Meido y Asco en Lima

2009-02-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

The next day we had all planned to go downtown for a little family tourism. We picked up the Mom at her in downtown. Apparently, she lives alone and has a live-in nurse. With Diego’s sister living out of the house, and the grandmother as well, perhaps this family is the exception of the difference I noted in my first post. After helping the grandmother into the car, we headed to the centro de armas. Whenever the grandmother spoke, the father would like freak out and basically tell her to stop talking. Apparently she has a tendency to ramble. But she never had a chance to ramble, for whenever she started to talk about anything, she was told “shut your mouth, or I will take you home.” It was sad, but at the same time, really funny. It happened like a dozen times. We walked around the center, with Willy continuing his history lessons. The place was super crowded, but with locals. It is popular for families to visit the center during the weekends, although, as Willy explained, most don’t know anything about the history that surrounds them. We went to China town for some chifa. The Chinese food buffet was good, and again excelled when it came to the Chinese/Peruvian fusion. After being adequately stuffed, we walked around a bit more, and dropped the hushed Grandmother off at her house. Within minutes, everyone in the backseat, myself included, had fallen asleep. Too much chifa, and too much partying from the day before.

The next week was spent pretty much just hanging out in Lima. More parks and hanging out with Diego’s friends. After a while I felt although visiting was becoming too easy. With Diego doing the driving and the most of the talking, I needed some time alone, and did some of my own exploring in the city. Miraflores, although very commercial, is a fun district. The huge Kennedy Park is the prototype followed by the rest of the city. I met up with a couchsurfer who had contacted me, and we walked around in search for a new moleskin journal. It was fun talking to someone new, and exploring the city. Unfortunately, Diego and I got in a habit of staying out till too late, and waking up a bit late. This lead to a more pressing problem: I would wake up, and immediately be offered pancakes, pastries, or eggs for breakfast. After indulging, two hours later it would be time for lunch. Here, and for the most part in Latin America, lunch is the main meal of the day. Which physiologically makes much more sense. Anyways, there I would be, full from breakfast, about to eat lunch. And the lunches were great. It isn’t the saddest of predicaments, but for a food-lover, I had to learn after making this mistake a few times. The maid would usually make seafood, chicken, or beef of some sort, a vegetable side, a salad, and usually a potato concoction of some sort. In the evenings I would try to find a soccer game to work off these somewhat voracious habits. I keep telling myself that in Cusco I will live a bit healthier, a lot more sober, and much, much more thrifty.

On Tuesday night we went to an art exhibition kind of thing in the barrio of barranco again. It was an open house of sorts. Actually, it was a building that at one point could have been a house like 15 years ago, or before a war. There were holes in the walls that served as doors, 15-foot skeletons, art-deco spider webs, huge Halloween like installations, latters that went no where. In the back room there was a jazz-psychedelic-fusion group provided similarly strange and dark mood music. The base player played from a homemade electric bass guitar. The percussionists beat a plethora of medal, glass, and plastic garbage items. Kids climbed and played, stoners gawked in marvel, and plenty of youth milled around until everyone was basically kicked out.

One night, Diego helped me in accomplish one of my life’s goals. That is to go to a soccer game, in a soccer specific stadium, in a soccer country, with all of the craziness that accompanies it. So Diego’s team, la universitaria de deportes, or La U, had a big game on Thursday. La U was playing in La Copa Libatadores, which is basically the South American Champions league. It was against an Argentinean club, which automatically meant it was an important and challenging match. We arrived at the stadium a few hours before the game, to find thousands already preparing. At the base of some rather depressing and lifeless hills that surround Lima laid the stadium. It is basically carved out, so when you enter, the field is below ground level. We drank some beers, and wandered the streets in pre-game festivities. A few times groups of punk kids would rob merchandise salesmen and run around. It was a great craziness, and the game hadn’t even begun. A huge line to enter the stadium controlled by cops on horses, and patrons drunkenly yelling at them both… great! We entered, briefly encountered the worst urinal system of my life, and found our seat. I use the word seat loosely, as we spent very little time actually sitting. And at the sound of the whistle, the place went crazy. Huge flags, flares, smoke bombs, chanting, drums, jumping, complete locura. Everyone was into it, and Diego brought me to the second best party area. The best, the north section, was somehow even crazier. In the 20th minute, La U had a breakaway, the attacker was brought down, the opponent shown the red card, and the PK went in. The score stayed the same, and the home team won. It was crazy, and the fact that it took an hour to leave the stadium was okay, because it was a constant party, even in the car. Even non-soccer lovers have to marvel of the passion of such a spectacle.

On Friday, the group from Bend got together, but this time in Chavo’s house. He lives way out there. It took about 2 hours in total of taxis to get there. I emphasize the plurality of the word taxis, because no taxi would take us all the way there, we had to take a few. In a previous post, I said that Lima has it together. Well, it does, but let’s just say it also has its slums. We got there, and started to drink a few beers while the girls arrived. The parents were grateful to have us in our their house, and they barbequed some food for everyone. We danced a while, drank some more beers, did a little Karaoke, and just had a great time. At one point, considering it was my last time with this group, it was time for speeches. Jose Luis started, thanking me for everything I did while in Bend. Eventually, everyone said a few words, and it meant a lot to me. We all crammed into a taxi for the long way home, which wasn’t so bad considering there was little traffic. Another great night with old friends…

Saturday night though was the real party: the carnival of borranco. It started at 2pm, a few miles from the beach. There was a huge parade, with you know, parade shit: guys on stilts, clowns, etc. But this isn’t a carnival, this is carnival. Everyone has chalk and paint, and you throw it around, and paint everything and everyone. You shake up your beers and spray them everywhere. Forget societal norms, here you live as animals. The beat of the drum tells you where to go and how to act, not the man and his repressive system. The parade continued down to the sand, where it concluded in the fisherman’s beach. It was a fishy area, but once filled, was a great party. Electrocumbia-hiphop, reggae-rumbia-fusion… who comes up with these genres? They are geniuses. And between sets, shit, even during sets, music is played all around. Clapping, cheering, animalistic behavior, “no one should be asked to handle this trip. This is what the whole hep world would be doing if the Nazi’s had won the war. This was the Sixth Reich” Forget cleanliness, forget clothes! forget rules, THIS IS CARNAVAL! QUE BUENA LOCURA!!!! The craziest people I’ve seen since burning man, going nuts. It’s all around, even when you close your eyes and try to forget that you are in a mass lunatics fueled by god knows the locura doesn’t leave. The music ends, momentarily, to be replaced by a new beat somewhere near. Finally, after 9 hours of such festivities, we march back, the blind leading the blind; later redefined as the drunk leading the stupid. With a guy and his flute, playing the same few parts of, ya se ha muerto mi abuelo (the quintessential of cumbia). “Lanzame, huevon” he pleads for payment. Oh, and our drunken comrad. Shouting English slang he must have picked up from awful rap videos, which eventually just turned to blatant racism” That guy doesn’t know how to drive. $#!^ &*^#$@ He is an INDIAN. HE IS AN INCAN. He thinks he is driving a llama. Que buena racisma! We eventually got a cab back up to the original street, because that’s where the party had to continue, right? The great thing is that a well-equipped corner store and a group of drums can keep a party going for hours enough. Our trip though had lasted half a day, we were hungry and ready to head home. After a filling meal of potatoes, choclos, baby goat, and like tubular intestine things (buenasos), we took the cab home. By the way, when choosing a cab: don’t take the super small one’s; the drivers think they can go everywhere, and when hit “fly like a pieces of trash.” Also, you need to look for the old or fat ones, because they won’t try to cheat you. At last we arrived home, tired, quemado, with jaws aching from smiling and feet hurting from dancing. What pure and bestial pleasure this strange night of carnival!

A Lima Wedding

2009-02-22T18:52:00.000-08:00

We woke up relatively early, had a small breakfast, and got dressed. After only a few days in the house, I felt comfortable enough to walk from the bathroom to my room in a towel. Likewise, Willy walked around the house in his dress shirt, socks and underwear. The sisters came over, and we all headed over to the barrio of Barrancho. The wedding took place at the home of famous Peruvian sculptor, Víctor Delfín. His house sits on the cliffs overlooking the bay and is basically a gallery. With cabinets of pottery, large metal sculptures, paintings, great retablos ayacuchanos, and wonderful front and back gardens, it is the optimal location for a classy wedding. The back was delicately decorated with flowing white tapestry, bright flowers, all with an overtone of modern elegance. I met the family, the extended family, the extended family’s dates, and everyone in between. The bride is Peruvian, and the groom Dutch. The both live in Barcelona right now, so this was already a very international wedding. At every table there was an open bottle of wine, and a nice bottle of whiskey. In addition, the open bar, and servers with Pisco Sour, Mayacua juice, and champagne kept everyone well lubricated. The live band (three violins and a flute) started up, and the ceremony began. It was all rather Western, with the typical walking of the bride, flower girls, exchange of vows and everything. The silence of the band for the ceremony left the obnoxious blaring reggaeton from the beach below alone to damper the almost serene event. The appetizers started to circulate: (here is a rather extensive list of the food served for the gastroaficionados) spinach and cream cheese wraps with mango marmalade; raw octopus with a cream sauce; slightly fried potato puree with a spicy hollandaise sauce; chicken wrapped in a wonton with a typical Peruvian sauce (an example of Chifa); leek and a different potato puree in a light pancake; tempura shrimp sauce (by the way, double dipping is totally okay in Peru). And those were just the starters. The first real course was a shot of Bloody Mary and oyster. Next an artichoke heart with salmon, mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. Finally, a pork chop in port sauce, with mashed potatoes and asparagus. Obviously, Peruvians love their diversity of potatoes (well actually, they have a lot, but it’s been a public propaganda project to get the people to reconnect with their historical food). All was very well prepared and professionally presented. While we are on the subject of food, I’ll comment on this Peruvian source of pride. It was mentioned at the wedding “although we only won a single bronze medal at the Olympics, we deserve the gold in food.” Similarly, heated debates may ensue between Chileans and Peruvians regarding the best Pisco. And the Peruvian people have some things of which to be proud. One is seafood. Considering there is so much coast, and a range of warm and cold water, there is always plenty of civiche, and other salt-water delights. Also, leeks, potatoes, and other tuberous crops are extremely varied and abundant. Chifa, is their version of Chinese/Peruvian fusion, and although it is basically just the same Chinese food we have in the United States, it’s pretty good. Their street food is pretty good, mostly because it is much more varied than in Ecuador and Colombia. Anyways back to the wedding…

During dinner, I talked to a guy who was sitting next to me at our table. We were talking about the difference in Latin and American parties. I said that in Latin America people drink more casually, and put more importance on dancing, conversing, and having a fun time with family and friends. While in the US people just drink to get drunk. He turned to me, looked at me somewhat seriously, and responded in English, “Just wait an hour.” The speeches ensued, with a well written one delivered from the groom’s parents who weren’t too proficient in Spanish. Their first dance, then joined by the parents of both sides, then the bridesmaids, and soon everyone joined. It was all very festive and for the first hour nobody was allowed to remain seated. And within that hour, as my neighbor predicted, everyone was trashed. Uncles falling while dancing, mothers slurring their words to near incomprehension, many, many, “I love you mans,” etc. Randomly a bunch of balloons and confetti were distributed and the dancing started up again. More drinking, an adequate chocolate buffet, a great sunset, more dancing with Mom’s and Sisters, and again, more whiskey. Then a song was put on, and the dance floor cleared way for a Peruvian traditional dance. Diego’s two sisters took off their heels, picked up a scarf, and showed everyone how it is done. You could see the pride in Sulma’s eyes. Around 10:00 (the wedding started at noon, by the way), everyone started to head home. Diego drove, with his Dad coming in and out of consciousness only to criticize his driving and argue about his choice of route. It was a great cultural experience, a wonderful wedding, a pleasure to spend time with Diego’s family, and I feel privileged to be a part of it.

Lima, Pt. I

2009-02-22T16:36:00.000-08:00

The 5:00am bus from Montañitas was uneventful, as was the connecting bus in Quayaquil. A quick joke that you probably had to be there for… in Montanitas there was this Argentian guy. All of these Argentines have the sha for y or ll thing going on. So this guy was in Quayaquil, and a cop stopped to ask him and his friends some questions. Their friends said where they were from, and he said, “Sho! Sho soy de Quashaquilll”… obviously he wasn’t, just based on the accent… okay, like I said, maybe you should have been there. Anyways, Quayaquil to the boarder, balmy customs office, and another bus ride to Punta Sal. There we stayed the night at Diego’s parent’s beach house. His uncle and new girlfriend are living there. Punta Sal is super low-key, and without the party atmosphere of Montañitas. These were all vacation homes, that were left unoccupied during the week and winter. We were exhausted, and after a dinner (seafood rice pancake thing called tacu tacu), we went to bed. The next morning Diego and I woke up, went for a quick swim, as it would be our last in North Peru, and took a cab to Mancora. Mancora is like an overdeveloped, traffiky, dirtier Montañitas. If I haven’t had visited Montañitas I probably wouldn’t have found Mancora a bit disappointing. One thing that’s pretty cool is these little motorcycle buggy things. They are open air little taxis built around a motorcycle. These little guys account for about 75% of the traffic, and are fun if you need a quick ride. Generally speaking, motorcycles are more prevalent in South America. They make commutes quicker, and are often part of the freedom and exploration of one’s youth. It makes Che’s Motorcycle Diaries more understandable. Then a 16 hour bus ride to Lima. It was spent in a luxury cruiser, with fully reclining leather seats, awful movies, and a bitchy stewardess. Finally, at 11am the next day, we arrived in Peru’s capital, Diego’s home, and one step closer to my final destination… but for now, the big city of Lima.

Although I prefer the smaller-town life, it feels as though I have been spending a lot of time in big cities. Which, generally speaking, has been a surprisingly pleasant experience. Each has is it’s varying levels of culture, arts, traffic, dirtiness, beggars, etc. Lima has its act together. The streets are very clean, and the houses well presented. Diego’s family lives in a neighborhood called Surco. It seems that in every other block there is a very well maintained park. Each has its floral garden, perfectly cut grass, and small Catholic altar in the middle. Kids and parents play during the day, couples make out in the evenings, and youth hang around in the evening. I thought this might be a characteristic of their neighborhood, but Diego explained that this is pretty much standard in the city. Diego’s house is a nice one. Once again, great woodwork, a few stories, a back patio, hot-water shower (first of my travels), internationally decorated, and immediately I felt comfortable. I met his Mom, and she was immediately very excited to have me in the house. Diego’s Mom, Sulma, was a mathematics teacher, and a private dance instructor. She has a little studio in the basement of the house, where she used to teach traditional dance for competition. Sulma explained she will try to speak English, as she doesn’t get very many opportunities. She also speaks Italian, and a little bit of German. Such polyglots really bring my pride of a second language down a notch or two. Everyday I usually eat breakfast with the Mom while Diego is still sleeping. She asks me a lot of questions about my perceptions of the world, and loves the openness. Sulma explains that Peru is changing, but is still too conservative, too narrow-minded. Recently though, especially in the younger generations, it has become much more popular to travel outside of the country. This exposure to new things helps diversify and open the minds of the proud Peruvian people.

The following day was Diego’s birthday, so that night was the party. We took a nap, helped prepare some food, and I went and played a soccer game. I love and hate Latin soccer. It’s great because there is little structure, defensive technique, and lots of dribbling. This helps me in a few ways: if I’m goalie, the players take far too many touches and I can cut down angles well. Also, solid passing and moving goes a long way. On the other hand, there is such common disregard for the rules of the game, which is frustrating. Regardless, after a slow start I ran the field. A few goals, lots of assists, some sick moves; again representing the USA well, in my opinion. I returned, took a quick shower, and was ready before the first guest arrived (9:00pm). At first it was just the family, Diego’s sister Isset, and then his father returned home from working out of town. His other older sister and her husband also came. We hung out for a while and drank a couple Pisco Sours. Diego’s father, Guillermo, or more commonly known as Willy, began on his first of many national history lessons. He is a big history buff, has been to every part of Peru, and loves to talk about it. Willy explains that Lima, and Peru, is very diverse, and how: the Olmec and Incan empires, the Spanish conquest, to the Chinese immigration/enslavement about 160 years ago. Then the food famines and grand wars in Europe provided even more lighter-skinned blood to the country. Every region has its own mixture of these cultures integrated with their agricultural and environmental diversity. Diego’s friends started arriving, generation segregation ensued, and we all hung out in the back porch. I met Meza, Wolfy, and Loco; Diego’s closest friends. A bunch others, a couple of Chileans we met in Montañitas, some more family, a bunch of random girls. They were all very welcoming, and receptive of their host’s guest. Sulma cooked a roast a while before, and now with rolls, pickled-like onions, and a spicy, herbal-mayonnaise. Later, I realized this is the standard post-dinner party food. It was a fun and relaxing party, with great conversation and warm friends.

The two weeks that I spend in Lima reminded me of how I would live my life in the US. Although there were moments of pure turismo, Diego sought to show me Lima from the inside. We hung out a lot with his friends in the many, many parks surrounding in Surco. After a while, my story telling picked up a bit, as well as my ability to speak Spanish intoxicated. I was able to joke around with the guys, make fun of douche bags with loud cars, comment on the universal craziness of women, etc. Meza is a funny guy with great taste in music. We spent part of an evening exchanging songs. I introduced him to Janis Joplin, Buddy Guy, Sketches of Spain, the Supervillians, Lou Reed, DJ Shadow, and a bunch more. In return, I received the essential in Cumbia, electrotropical, beatles-esque Argentinean classics, Venezuelan reggae, and psychodelic rumbia. So much life, passion, and history in this music. Why don’t our youth listen to as much Jazz/hip-hop fusion? Why don’t we incorporate our history into day-to-day lives? Woolfy is a bit more reserved, with great taste in art. He brings an alternative commentary to things. Loco, well, is loco. This guy is constantly moving, constantly smiling, making gross jokes and gestures. It is impossible not to be smiling around this guy. It took a couple of days to get used to their Spanish, but I’ve learned a ridiculous amount of slang. We played soccer a couple of times. It’s tough to judge players without watching them play first here. For instance, if a players shows up in the US in swim trunks he has no idea what he’s doing, here though, he can rip it. Also, there are a bunch of great fat players. All in all, I owe this great feeling of comfort in Lima and this house to Diego, his family, and his outgoing friends.

After meeting a lot of the family, talking a lot with the Mom and Dad and other family members, Diego woke me up on a Friday with news that his family extended an invitation to me to the cousin’s wedding. Because it is both their second marriages, it won’t be religious, and typically is much more private. I got a suit together, and although it’s not mine from home, I have to say that Diego and I looked damn good. That night (the wedding was on Saturday), we met up with a few of the Peruvians that had lived in Bend the year before. It was good to see the group again. The girls were playful, and just as much socialites as they have ever been. We casually drank some beers, reminisced of times in the snow, and were about to head out when Chavo came over. He was about 3 hours late, and apparently had spent such hours drinking heavily. It was great to see this ex-roommate in full-form. Diego and I left somewhat early, as we had a wedding to prepare for.

Montañitas Pt. II

2009-02-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

The next few days in Montañitas seemed to blur together. We would wake up, check the waves. If they were good we would go down and rent a couple of boards for the day or a couple of hours. At the beginning my surfing was sheer frustration. Not being able to pick up where I left off in Costa Rica nearly three years ago, and coming to the realization that I had no business at the advanced break and was the equivalent of a gaper was all tough to swallow. I spent the next couple days in a chiller area, and although not as perfectly formed, was still consistent and fun. Bit by bit it came back, first with the timing, then the bottom turn, then just trying to stretch those few seconds on your feet for as long as possible. Oh, and I must mention how amazing it is to have balsa wood boards available at all sizes and shapes. And although the surf wasn’t spectacular, it was the time in the water with friends, getting stoked on each other’s waves was the experience in itself.

Once again, the week seems to blur together, and tonight I find myself at my supposedly last night in Montantitas. Originally, we were supposed to leave, tomorrow, err… actually, in about 15 minutes, but we cannot. There are still too many good vibes and fun nights to leave as of so soon. Tonight, we joined with an amazing traveling comrade, Juan from Colombia. This man lives and speaks with exuberant positivism and openness. So much so, that it is impossible to not include this brother in our subjective awareness. We watched the sky rain blood at sunset while gathering wood for our fire. After ignition, I made designs (van-gogh-esque) in the sand while others joined in our creation. Bamboo, when separated correctly, makes for such trippy fire word, as tubes bellow with flames and soul. We galwked at this for a while, then headed to a jam session. There is a club/bar/amphitheater at one end of the town called caña grill or something of that nature. The gate was loosely chained, and inside was a funk-rock medley setting and warming up. We were granted permission to a private show. The group worked on a couple of songs, led by a revolutionist of a musician. He played every instrument, showing each comrade the chord progression and beat. It was a loose jam session, with plentiful distractions, but the group pulled together a new track, which was great to hear. Street food, Spanish pick up lines (the best: “Hola chicas, como estoy?), fruit juices, trying not to laugh at the singing religious zealot, more corn-on the cob (choclos), and just hanging out with amazing people. Juan was such a great presence to have on the trip; he brings a warming, optimistic aspect to the whole pelicula (as they say in Colombia).

The night though was without complete impaired waste. I made some great contacts, and with diligent preparation was able to write down such valuable information. CADA | CASA grew in philosophy a bit tonight. The modern education system may be broken, or at least flawed. The philosophies of old ritual and stationary demeanor do not work in today’s society. Children must learn to explore with open eyes, be exposed to more opportunities, not limiting career choices instilled at a far too young of age. Although the wave of my generation is not as specifically notable as that of the love generation, it still exists. There is a new identity, and is not of my limited community in the USA. It is of all the Americas, and perhaps the entire world. That change is inevitable. That our scope must broaden a bit in all ways. The conservatives may call it socialism, but we think of it as community-ism. The drive for personal finance is no longer the primary drive. It is the new American dream: the drive for freedom in a responsible and respectable fashion. To create a community of peace that can coexist in the international and yet still economically free world. There is consciousness of the environmental and societal levels that will hopefully permeate more than unfulfilled promises. These are the waves that I have been riding tonight.

But, to put modern societal philosophies beside, I met a great French woman tonight. She needed to practice her English and relax a bit while her 8-year old played. We talked about such changes; the ambivalence/innocence of Americans, ignorance is bliss perhaps out weighing knowledge is power at times, and the unlikely hood of true change. Regardless of such skepticism, we agreed that change must obviously start with ourselves, and but equally if not more so importantly, change must stem in our youth. She put me in contact with a man who was also tired of the status quo of education and started teaching his children out of his home.* He has land, heart, compassion, and most of all, aspirations for más. It is through the centro educativo that I could make CADA | CASA a more valuable tool for the community. Think of educational classes in all areas. We will offer multi-lingual courses for all ages in all areas. Gardening, music, surf classes, local-cooking instruction, LANGUAGES, soccer, biology, history, self-sustainability, recycling; the topics will come from the community. Our education system will be different. It will promote education through exploration. Knowledge will become the child’s choice through personal interest based on explorative direction. As it will be out of the state’s education system, funding will be based on a community concept. There will be a very affordable tuition ($10 a month), but also required familial participation. Every week, one parent of every family will have to donate an hour of lesson and a prepared meal for the class. Thus the program supports true communalism in and outside of the school. It also separates the traditional concept of education as information provided by an institution, to a concept based as a tool used in which to live by. And in this, will lay the change. Albeit a small group of children, these kids will be conscious of their social and natural environment. It is the general conciseness, mentality, and perception of life that much change, not specific laws or governors; these will hopefully come in time. These topics inspire me to educate myself in alternative education. It has been one too many sunsets, and now sunrises, that our system of child upbringing has been flawed systematically, not by the teachers. This can be true community volunteerism, with the ability to change lives, but also families, a community, and a system.

* The education center’s ideals and concepts came after meeting Jose and talking with him for a couple of hours. This clarification is noted as it puts the blog slightly un-chronological, but more thematic.

Another day spent in paradise, another departure date pushed back once again. We hung out at the point today, diving off cliffs and playing around. Ceviche served on the beach, and even more girls arriving by the busload. The city is at about maximum occupancy this afternoon with backpackers in door-to-door search for a place to stay. The subtleties start to come out though. Families that have chosen to live in this town, and have done so because the system didn’t appeal to them. These families are international ones, where the kids speak at least two languages from the start. They wander in the safe streets, playing with tide pools and watching the fire dancers. Throughout this last day, and another day-delay, I started to meet these families. They were great people, with wonderful children, all with a refreshing openness and willingness for such a project. My last couple days were spent almost entirely talking with the locals, with willing ignorance of the partying and Latinas on all sides. The last few hours were tough, with Mom’s with unmistakable hope in their eyes, and Fathers with solid, lasting handshakes of compassion; all agreeing that I should and need to do this.

Montañitas is a little paradise and hard to leave. Hard enough to keep families at bay, and but everyone in the family happy. But any caring parent knows the limit of education they can provide (or rather the lack of interest for their child to hear it from them), and recognizes that their separation from the system might have unfortunate consequences with their children. For now, my travels must continue, but now with a directed energy. Although Project Montañitas may be a bit out, there are things to be done now. I was told of an alternative, agriculturally based elementary school in Cuzco, and non-religious conscious-strived schools outside of Lima. Mostly, I need to educate myself thoroughly in all sorts of alternative education. For this, I ask my brother for his UCSC internet-library information, and perhaps a package of books from my parents. Please? CADA | CASA has been based in good intention, but now has a tangible direction. I write you all in route to Lima filled with a great energy, drive, and hope.

Montanitas! Pt. I

2009-02-05T19:39:00.000-08:00

Both Diego and I had spent far too long in on buses in the past two days, and decided to splurge a bit on a car ride to Montañitas. We were grateful for this decision, as it took two hours, opposed to four, was far more comfortable, and only set us back an extra $7 each. Montañitas is a paradise. If you are a reader though over the age of 30, you may want to reconsider coming. It is a Mecca for South American, and generally speaking, worldwide youth vagabonds to live the bohemian, roots life of their increasingly less-innocent dreams. We found a hostel on the beach at a reasonable price, but now in hindsight, I would have picked something a more simple and comforting. People come to visit, and end up living here. And in my opinion, it’s impossible to go without considering it. It truly is a dream. Simplistic development, consistent surf breaks, lack of gringo kankles, perfect weather… simply strawberry fields forever. There is one characteristic that was immediately mind-boggling, and still is: The women. Groups of six to ten Argentinean and Chilean women travel together to this place. And where are their counterparts? There are some bros, but these gaggles of olive-skinned, European-infused beauties populate the town in an overwhelming presence. And with such heat, they cannot torture themselves with ordinary clothing, and thus resort garments of the most scandalous nature. On the first night, Diego and I found two Argentinean fumonas (stoner-chicks) that made for good companionship for the next few days. They similarly arrived that day, with hopes of finding a job and riding this wave for a while. I was skeptic, but later found that there are jobs to be found. This is simply because no one really wants to work. This is an understandable predicament that has led me to little writing and no Internet usage whatsoever. It turns out these girls had worked the past two winters in Copper Mountain, but couldn’t return this year as it was much more difficult to get a visa. Their Argentinean Spanish was refreshingly pleasant to listen to: “sha” for ll, new vocabulary (que flash), and just a bit more elegance with their tongue. Although there was, and still is, little to no romantic interests in the two, they make for good playa camaraderie.

Quayaquil

2009-02-04T19:48:00.000-08:00

25 hours of bussing. No matter how you cut it, I don’t recommend it. Ipales was fine, the border was disappointingly simple, the taxis that bring you to and from the border a necessity, and the immediate departure from Tulcán, Ecuador to Quito was quick and efficient. This all occurred around noon. So another five-hour bus ride: where feelings of entrapment begin to creep up your spine and ones members fall asleep in a crippling fasion. Ecuadorians all have these cell phones with their favorite songs as ringers. From what I could gather, there were at least six of these low-storage noisemakers, which made for continuously repeated anthems of annoyance. From Tulcán a cheaper bus was used, with stale seats and sub-par ventilation. I was also about 12 hours in on an enduring battle with my bowels. You have roughly 15 minutes every 6 hours to empty them, and getting used to this requires lets just say, a lot of awkward movements in your seat. Quito’s terminal was an unfriendly concrete monstrosity. I was going to meet up with a couchsurfer, maybe spend the night, but with no internet, or little desire to deal with the pursuing rain, I said fuck it, and got ready for another 9 hour bus ride to Quayaquil. Arriving in Quayaquil at around 2:00am, I was pleasantly surprised with the economically independent, well-maintained second city. Diego said he was at the October 9th hotel, and I just hoped he still was. Got a taxi, found the place (right in the middle of downtown), called his room, and met up with my good friend. Diego lived in Bend last year, and was of a different mentality than the rest of the Peruvians. We hit it off immediately at a reggae show, with similar interests in related activities.

Diego and my sleep patterns were similarly fucked, so we went downtown. It was a Saturday night and we were basically in the center of the city. Immediately I was reminded of the kids who wait outside of the club Aura in Portland. Punks and sluts dressed up for the evenings. Awful reggaeton music, pushup bras with boobies sticking out of their turtlenecks; I was glad I had avoided this scene in Cali and Bogota. Finally we got some sleep, both agreeing that we needed to get out of this city.

Popoyan

2009-02-04T19:33:00.000-08:00

After a leisurely breakfast of beans and rice Suzanna and I split the cab to the bus terminal. We said our goodbyes, bought our tickets, and each headed on our different ways. It’s pleasant how so many wonderful paths cross here, albeit for only moments. An uneventful bus ride of a few hours, and I was in Popoyan. I could only stay the day in Popoyan, as I had indulged excessively in both Bogota and Cali. It’s just tough leaving places here. I met up with another couchsurfer named Freddy, and his mom made us lunch. Actually, his mom makes lunch basically for a living. Popoyan is a university town, and many students or professionals will come over during the lunch hours for a more comprehensive meal. It was great, with soup, salad, rice, and chicken; I can see how it is a realistic business. Freddy went to class, and I caught up on some Internet stuff (how do you guys like cadacasa.com??). When Freddy returned, a couple of girls came over and we toured their colonial town. It’s so much more tranquillo and right away I got a great vibe from the town and the people. I have never seen a college town so filled with students. Once the sun went down there were hundreds of them in the streets. The city is small, and Freddy was a great guide. We saw the necessary historical monuments of the city (the two bridges, cathedrals, centers, etc.) and best of all, he took me to a restaurant de los pobres (of the poor). We split a huge tamale, as well as empanadas, and potatoes. The place was filled with the most indigenous people I’ve seen yet in South America. They had wider, low-forming noses; Incan-designed brightly colored vests and hats; redder skin; people more from the earth it appeared. Freddy and I talked about some business ideas, and how cadacasa might be able to help out some of his dreams. It appears he is a devoted student, at least more serious than those I’ve met so far, and his idea to start a skate-park in Popyan seemed like a good one. He walked me to the bus station, where I bought an 11:30pm night ticket to Ipales, the border town.

Cali (Dias 7 y 8)

2009-01-30T14:21:00.000-08:00

The rest of my time spent in Cali, Colombia was rather relaxing. It mostly consisted of waking up rather early, helping out in some of the baking, going for a run, and then exploring in the afternoons. Cali is an interesting city. Although still big, the tree lined streets and single story houses allude to a smaller-city settlement. It seems more culturally diverse as well, at least with a greater amount of darker skinned inhabitants. Shirley, her niece, Suzanna and I walked down to a park on the other side of town. I brought the soccer ball in hopes to find a pickup game. Unfortunately, the rain came moments after leaving the house and this dream, as well as the plans to meet with other couchsurfers in the park was abandoned. The couchsurfing group (often a city will have a group, and they will occasionally meet) decided to see a movie instead at the local mall. Although I had little interest in the movie (7 pounds, Will Smith), I decided to go just to hang out with other couchsurfers. The movie was all right, and afterward we all just kind of stood around and talked for a while. There was an Australian traveler Drew who had been in South America for some time now. He has been DJing a bit, and had that great Aussie sarcasm. Also, it was the first time I’ve spoken English all trip, which was a nice break. All of these surfers were so nice and interested in your traveling stories leading up to Cali. I’ve found that after the first 3 minutes of conversation, people could hardly believe I’m from the US. This is due to the fact that I’ve explained my travels, my plan, and basic conversation pieces so many times by this point, that it appears my Spanish is flawless and naturally Colombian. After that 3-minute point though, conversations tend to vary a bit, and although my Spanish is quick and getting better, you can tell that it’s a work in progress. Obviously, Spanish comes from the brain, but I didn’t realize how much of a muscle the brain is. After a long day of exercise (speaking Spanish) I defiantly feel mentally fatigued. After a little rest though, the muscle recovers, and is stronger than it was before. After the mall, we all headed home and Suzanna and I found a street volleyball game. It was fun hanging out with a very mixed group of locals playing volleyball in the street for a couple of hours. Afterward, the group invited us to play in another barrio the next day, but we said we were planning to leave.

The next day was a busy one in the bakery. Another baker came in to help, the motorcyclist delivery man was in and out of the house all day, and Suzanna and I found ourselves happily contributing where we could. It started to rain even harder, and we were more or less forced to stay inside. After a lot of the baking work was done, and I asked Shirley if she had any interest in a website. So I spend the afternoon creating www.cadacasa.com. Hopefully she can get a few hits and her name out there, maybe even some business contacts. Also, it is a good basis for offering a different kind of community tool while abroad. Feel free to check it out. Also, it has a better picture slideshow going on than the one associated with this blog.

Although my original departure was pushed from Wednesday, to Thursday morning, to Thursday night, I decided to spend one more in Cali. Shirley has provided such a comfortable home that it’s really tough to leave. Thursday evening we met up with some people from couchsurfing again and went to a coffee house. Actually, the literal translation is 'coffee house'. There was a presentation of storytelling by two guys, that although was very hard to understand, was still very interesting given how animated they were. Apparently, no visitor can come to Cali without at least one night spent embarrassing his or her uncoordinated selves dancing the Rumba. People move from all over Colombia to Cali so they can dance Rumba in little hole-in-the-wall bars every night at all hours. As this wasn’t my first time, I did okay, but there were veterans there that could definitely move. It’s amazing how much passion everyone could have from their necks down and keep a straight, almost bored, face at times. We returned home, prepared our bags for the mornings, and went to bed. Tomorrow, I must find a way to say goodbye to Shirley, Cali, and my comfort in another Colombian city.

Cali (Dia 6)

2009-01-28T08:18:00.000-08:00

Helping Shirley make the bread was very rewarding and educational. She explained that very few people use whole grains and make healthy bread. Her clients are boutique natural food stores that mostly serve the wealthy. We helped out, and earned our breakfast. Shirley stayed at home while Suzanna and I went to explore the city. Starting at the centro, we waited around for an art demonstration. Twenty art students walked out in white painter suits, with bug sprayers. They started spraying Jazmine perfume on the ground. Next came the 5 clarinet players, and then the rest with signs, reading “Close your eyes, this is art,” and the like. Then there were more painter-suited students with boxes with pigeons inside. An older Argentina lady was leading the group with the megaphone, and was talking about how what we were watching is art. A guy with an intense blowing fog machine also spread the essence. They stopped at a busy cross-street, held up by police, and let the birds go. It was all pretty amazing. We followed them around for a while, getting a mini tour of the city. We then walked down the river path to the museum of modern art. There was some work displayed by an artist from Cali that was Chinese ink on paper. Some of the pieces had the disfigured faces of Ralph Steadman. Then there were a lot of pieces critiquing the concept of Colombia nationalism. Also, a lot of print on gold plated squares talking about the installation of the Panama Canal. In the annex, there were pieces about the architecture of the city, and how it is related to the cartel involvement. More so, these pieces were directly speaking to the American’s support of the destruction of a country.

We walked for a while in what appeared to be the rich sector of the city. We found a garden that was ran by the police (?) that grew seeds of plants that are used in the city and the zoo. There is also a little exhibit with a bunch of randomly decorated cats. It reminded me of the Portland cows that we had at some point. Suzanna was a great partner, as each of us was willing to split any street food we could find. Well, any fruit, I haven’t been so aggressive with the meats. We walked for a while and found a colonial municipal building that is now being used for an art exhibition. Right now Cali has an art campaign that lasts until the 30th, which features thousands of artists. Each of the 50+ rooms of this building had very modern art. Installations varied from very random film to a classroom filled with sand, and everything in between. To be honest, I didn’t get most of it, but there were art students trained and willing to explain a lot of the concepts. If Jo were here, she wouldn’t have left, but after 3 hours of wandering we had to meet Shirley downtown. Shirley escorted us, and showed us a few cool spots. We met up with one of her friends, had a beer, and ate a little food. We were all pretty tired, so we headed home, had a couple more beers, did a little baking and went to sleep. I’m beginning to realize it’s not just Bogotá and Tote; it’s Colombia. The people and the culture is all amazing. I can only hope that Ecuador and Peru are half as great.

Bogota a Cali

2009-01-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

The next morning we got up, with my again, unnecessarily large bags, went to the bus station. Tote escorted me the entire way, making sure no one ripped me off. We said our goodbyes, and I was off to Cali. Cali is a more temperate, smaller town south of Bogota. It is known for it’s former drug smuggling and love for salsa and rumbia dancing. Notoriously, the women are a bit more prone to plastic surgery, and when combined with a hotter climate, and thus less clothing, it makes for fun sight-seeing. Somewhere in the infinite hills leading to Cali we encountered ridiculous traffic. I had planned to arrive by 5:00pm and meet up with my new couchsurfing host, Shirley. We arrived though at 9:00pm. I gave her a call, and to took a taxi to her house. She lives with her grandma, sister, and her two nieces. In the back she has her own natural bakery, where she provides for the family. In the back patio there is a bed with mosquito netting. With the breeze and night sounds of bugs (and cars), it was perfect. There is another couchsurfer who randomly needed a place to crash who had beaten me there. She is a 25-year old Austrian girl named Suzanna who has been traveling around South America for 6 months now. Her Spanish is super fast, which makes me jealous. I could hold no contempt for this woman though, as she was so genuinely sweet. We sat around and chatted in Spanish for a while with Shirley in the back porch. Shirley is super rad, and a great couchsurfer. She has had over 60 foreigners (mostly Germans) stay at her house. She loves showing around her city, and insisted on making me some rice and eggs although it being very late. This by the way, as simple as it is, is very Colombian, and very good. I think it’s the fifth time I’ve eaten it now. We got to bed early, as Suzanna and I both wanted to help Shirley make some pan integral in the morning.

Bogota (Dias 4 & 5)

2009-01-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

After recovering a bit form the night before, Freddy and I ate some tamales the grandfather brought home from the store. They were very suave and had a bunch of random ingredients, like bananas and papaya. Mexican’s don’t have a thing on Colombian tamales, that’s for sure. I spent a while talking with Tote’s Mom about really random things. She brought in her daughter and tried to get her to speak some English. Daniela was embarrassed, and I realized that the Mom was just proud of what her daughter can do. I also realized that it goes the same when my Mom asks me to talk with any random Mexican couple. After getting an address from a friend, Freddy and I played a game where I would lead the way to the party. I got us almost there, but the house number wasn’t right. We found a punk guy who was looking for the same party and finally found it. It was a surprisingly nice apartment, with new wood floors and in a good part of town. There was a DJ and a few people sitting around drinking. The back patio though is where the action was. The owner painted all the walls of the patio white and there were 6-10 graffiti artists all working on their pieces. One girl had a cat themed thing (not as lame as it sounds) that was okay, but made up for it with supplimental little finger painting. A guy with knarly dreads was working on a big piece and was taking his time setting up his layers. Watching him work was great, as his posture was very unique: with his right hand always behind his back, and tongue out the side of his mouth. Each artist had his own style and technique. Another guy came in, who would spray a little then go over it with a brush very quickly, another would draw in charcoal, another a bit more abstract. Paola and Gigio met up with us again, and the company in general was great. I met two anthropology students who were really interested in some early rap stuff. After some talk, they wrote (deliberately, public enemy style): “Party for your right to fight.” Such witty, well-educated, open-minded, perfectly sarcastic friends I made that night. Paola and I talked about art and film and everything, and she even mentioned personal favorites: Bruce Springsteen, Guayasamin, City of God, etc.

So there we were, watching a bunch of different graffiti artists going at it, drinking gin and ginger ale, and then the music arrived. A jazz quartet consisting of a drummer (who started a bit harsh), a guitarist (who played high notes that were synthesized to sound like jazz clarinet), a saxophonist who killed it, and a stand up bass set up and began. They were a bit rock-fusion, with elements of Colombian Rumba, and played an hour set. Silhouetted against the streetlamp-orange and passing-car red metro background, I couldn’t believe where I was. In the middle of THE art scene in Bogotá, listening to great progressive Jazz, with amazing new friends… and what, this was day five of six months? Unbelievable. All of Tote’s friends from Thursday night came to the party, and we just hung out and talked for a while. Tote posted up on the wall and took like 50 pictures of a new artist who showed up. I thought he was a bit obsessive, but in reality he was standing dead still taking pictures for a stop-motion video. These kid’s are such better hipsters because they actually produce things, not just talk about it. We went back to the barrio of that first night, ordered a box of wine that delivers booze in 20 minutes or it’s free, and talked till sunrise. It got kinda cold, but we needed to wait till 6:00am to take the metro-bus home to avoid the pricey taxi ride. It was one of the most extraordinary and wonderful nights of my life, and I owe it all to Tote. Si lees esto: gracias por todo huevon…

Bogota no tiene mar, pero tenemos ciclodia! Bogota doesn’t have the ocean, but it has ciclying day. All of the major streets are closed until 5:00pm so everyone can ride their bikes. You just ride around, grab a coffee with friends, watch some street performers, and enjoy the Sunday. Cristian, Tote´s 17 year-old brother invited me to play some microfutbol. His friends are all pretty good, and maybe it was the hangover, lack of sleep, unfamiliarity with concrete soccer, but I got worked. I was nutmegged 6 times in a 45-minute game. It was awful, one kid, who was the best, made it a point to basically embarrass me. When it came down to next point wins though, I pulled an elastico (inside-out, not Ronaldihno style), some how nutmegged him, hit it off the post, and a teammate put it in. A bit of redemption for a generally poor gringo representation. We came home, ate some Chinese food that the Mom picked up and met her boyfriend. He is pretty cool, and says he is a professional athlete: bowling… jajaja. We talked about a lot, mostly about the differences in parenting and everything in the United States. She is worried that Tote is unmotivated, and more importantly, that he just doesn’t care about making money. She has worked hard, and provided a lot for the family, and he just doesn’t even care about showering to look presentable. I consoled her and said she has done an amazing job… her children are all well educated, respectable, and very courteous. I prepared my bags, and went to bed early for the morning’s departure. Bogota is an amazing city, with so much culture to be seen. Once again, I have to thank my guide Tote for everything.

Bogota otra vez! (Dia Dos)

2009-01-24T10:15:00.000-08:00

We went downtown again and randomly ran into a girl named Paula and her friend Jigio. Paula has these crazy colored Reeboks, with purple nylons, short ripped mini skirt, multi-colored shirt, and short dark purple hair. Jigio wears a sick fedora, stylish pea coat, and has a series of increasing gauged earrings. Needless to say, these were hip kids… Thus, I wore a somewhat offensive Funkadelics shirt try to keep up. We hung around the office reading a magazine that’s like a Bogota culture and arts thing, but with nudity, I learned some cool new fraises. After walking to the area where Freddy and I visited the day before, we went in to a bar for a couple of beers. We hung out for a while, Jigio practiced his English a bit and we all sang along to a bunch of songs. They love American music, but only the most random groups and songs: Madonna, Coolio, Blondie, REM, Bon Jovi just random songs that I somehow knew. They knew the songs phonetically, so I explained a lot of the lyrics. Paula was great, so animated and open. She studies film (doesn’t everyone?) and art, and you can tell just by being around her. The place we were drinking was a total local’s secret; a grungy basement in a shitty sandwich shops, but made up for it in spirited young patrons.

We stepped outside, and walked around the city. It was rainy a bit today, and they explained that in an hour in every direction, it’s super hot, but not in Bogota. We bought a little juice boxed thing of liquor that is made of fermented black liquorice. It was surprisingly good. We met up with a couple more friends and went to a dance club in the touristy district. It was mostly Colombians though (actually not many tourists at all in Bogota), and we danced for about five hours. Manu Chao, reggaeton, random rap, it was amazing. His friends were so cool, and I could dance like a fucking idiot and they loved it. The more obscure the American dance (especially thug-life mimics), the more they loved it. I picked up some salsa and meringue, and Paula said I was a good dancer. A Colombian said I was a good dancer! I was stoked. It became apparent that there was so much music from Bogota, and the locals went crazy whenever it was played. There were some Domican Republicans and Koreans there. I love how un-politically correct the Bogotans are. Seriously, they don’t think twice about asking to take a picture with the Koreans, then making squinty eyes with their fingers during the picture. The same goes with the adjectives they use for each other, slogans, and everything. They just don’t take offense to the things we United Statsians do, and you can get away with a lot more. We danced and danced and danced, and finally came home. It was an amazing night, and I had so much fun just fucking around and being silly with these kind, warm, accepting new friends of mine.

Bogota con Feddy (Dia Uno)

2009-01-22T22:36:00.000-08:00

Oh the pleasures of airline traveling. Everything started fine, with necessary preparations attended to, up to the boarding of a multi-aisled plane. After settling, I almost immediately fell asleep, only to awaken nearly an hour later still stationary on the ground. Apparently we were waiting for a part from the technical group. The plane was filled with Colombians, with wide-eyed whites sprinkled here are there. I borrowed the cell of a neighboring girl and tried to call Freddy and tell him of my inevitable tardiness. It went to voicemail, and when trying to leave a brief message, it cut me off after my 5th uhh with speedy, unrecognizable instructions. We left, watched a boring movie, like an English romantic-comedy version of the sixth sense, and arrived in Bogotá. I would have preferred to talk to a Colombian, but she fell fast asleep, and I was left to writing this…

I have learned that if you want a quick trip through immigration and customs, bring a soccer ball. They will be amused and ask if you play, and that you are sure you don’t mean American football. Regardless, it was very painless and pleasant. After waiting until the last bag circulated the moving track of baggage claim, I went to the customer service center to explain my dilemma. Thinking, at least I have some toiletries and a soccer ball, they explained that my things arrived on the flight before. Picking up my unnecessarily heavy backpack and box of soccerballs, wine and clothes for Peru, I headed to the last stage protected security. Through the window I saw Freddy, with a big sign saying “Tymon.” He was almost as excited as I was, given he had waited there for about 2 hours. I was so relieved that my host had waited, and was extremely grateful. We took a cab to his house, which wasn’t our original plan, but worked just fine.

Freddy lives in a quiet barrio (barrio just means neighborhood, not just hood) in the northern sector of the city. It feels metro, but safe, with the typical locked gate on the outside of their front patio. Like a lot of Latin homes, it is of a small footprint. The house is made of painted white cement, with beautiful contrasted black wood. All of the doors, beams, and cabinets are the same dark stained wood. The floors are made of dark tile and there is art on every wall. Mostly horizontal pieces, themed in deep reds, all well placed. Freddy did two of the pieces himself, and the family personally knows the each of the artists of every piece. There are multiple levels, with rooms strangely placed. Freddy and I share one with similar style, but with two stencil-graffiti that he did on the walls. The whole house is simplistically cohesive and very warming.

I spoke previously about Latin families, but Freddy’s seems a little different than standard. Freddy lives with his Mother, younger brother and sister, and grandfather. He explains that it is a very independent household. I don’t feel comfortable asking about his father, but maybe it will come up later. When I met the family, they seemed rather perplexed by my presence. I asked Freddy in an email if it was cool with his family, me staying there. I guess Freddy never really told them, and when he presented the longhaired gringo they were a bit surprised. Immediately though the grandfather, dressed in jeans, a short-sleeve dress shirt, tie, and ball cap, began telling me about Colombia. He was very happy to have a foreigner living in his house. Later the Mom asked about my travels and was very welcoming. She said I reminded her of a friend she had when she was younger. Freddy, his brother, and I went down to the corner, where there is a little plaza with a deli, bar, a nicer bar, and some closed shops. The nicer bar was really cool… red and black themed, with an amazing published menu. Each cocktail had original artwork associated with it. I forget the name of what I had, but it was a rum mixture with strawberries and a pulpy fruit with large seeds. It was interesting. We talked a lot about his and my culture, about the changing of mentalities, and world perceptions. Colombia is synonymous with drugs, violence, and danger I explained to my host. He said that it’s unfortunate, but United Statesians (trying to stray away from the term American) are viewed as Yankees, exploiters, murderers, and hypocrites. We basically came to the agreement that humanos son humanos, humans are humans, and each should be judged individually. Freddy by the way is a cross between a Portland hipster (tight purple pants, fake leather jacket, home-made shoes, awkwardly skinny) and the Bob Dylan on the cover of Blonde on Blonde.

Regarding politics, we both agreed that there is a separation between what each perspective government does and what their people believe in. Unfortunately, it’s quite different how: As a citizen from the US I do not feel that I am responsible for the recent international endeavors of our past presidency. I do not agree with many politics, and understand the negative perceptions received almost worldwide at this point. For Freddy though, he says it is the change in the people’s mentality that has improved the conditions for their country. He says it is not the president, nor his politics, but rather the people that is tired of living in fear of violence. In a post-cartel world, the majority is of peace, and does not support the drug trafficking that has provided Colombia with a worldwide stigma. Similarly, it is the citizen’s responsibility to pick up his trash, to care for their community, and the government is not necessarily responsible for this. Maybe we, as United Statsians can learn something of this. Let us not expect a change in life stem from policies, but rather from ourselves. I think this change has already taken place, a more conscious form of living that isn’t so Machiavelli. Leaving the day after a new president, I have hope in what we, as citizens of the USA can accomplish. But back to the amazing country of Colombia.

Spending time abroad, you notice the differences. Some focus on how this or that is better in the United States. I though tend to side on the other end of the spectrum; that these differences are unique, clever, and really fun to somehow be a part of. I will describe some of these quirks: Traffic, you’ve got to love it. It’s like how you would want to drive in the US if laws weren’t enforced. Freddy, his Mom (who by the way is gorgeous) and I went down to see the Mom’s new office. She works in real estate, and her new office is in a building themed from Miami. It’s pretty swank, and she is proud of it. Getting there the Mom navigated the city with excellence and reckless grace. Oh, and we had to take the smaller car today. You see, they have this system called pico plaka or something like that, where you can only drive during the day half the time, based on the last digit of your license plate. It’s a program to reduce traffic, but Freddy’s mom is well off, and just has two cars, one for each day. Doubling the speed limit, quick swerves to avoid pit-like holes, creating lanes from no-where, ignoring certain stop signs (remember, they are just suggestions), relaying on quick breaking, and we were there. There is no right of way for the pedestrian, and you must cross on your own accord. The state started a program where they would paint stars on the ground where people have died. They don’t say, don’t cross, they just point out that people die if you do. I like that, it’s not so demanding, just informative. Freddy sometimes crossed streets, where I stayed for a moment, stating: no quiero ser estrella, amigo (I don’t want to be a star).

What a wonderful host Freddy is, we walked around so much of downtown. Went to the National Park, which had a great topographic installation of Colombia, gazebos, and many young people just standing around. We continued to the centro, an area more diverse in people. This is his favorite area, where his fashion isn’t as strange, the people are younger and more out-there, and there is just a different feel. Immediately, you notice the amazing stencil graffiti art. Great political statements as recent as Palestine issues were on benches, funny political characters on buildings, all very clever and insightful. We went to this building covered in graffiti, all of which the most radical in statements. It’s a youth home that was donated by a family of a teen who was killed by police in a peaceful rally. The house has become a refuge for homeless children, but thought of as a house of terrorists by the government. The city is trying to close it, but it’s complicated. We were able to go a little inside, and it was really amazing. There were some of the people that ran the place inside, and out of respect and not wanting to look like such a tourist, I didn’t take any pictures.

We had a lunch at a cafeteria type place where they have basically a buffet of local food. I had three new fruits, all of which amazing, some yuka, and a rice mixture thing. It was all very good, especially the fruit. Next, we headed to an area called La Candelaria. The buildings are more colonial, the streets are narrow and of cobblestone, only trafficked by pedestrians. There are lots of university students, but also the only tourists I’ve seen. This is the only place where streets have names, and they are beautifully inscribed in bright colors on the buildings. There is a little plaza where kids practice juggling and hang around. There are so many different barrios in Bogota, each with its own style, and this being my favorite.

We walked down to an interactive art exhibition, which was pretty interesting. You could listen to soundtracks of the city, which are basicly random recordings at different events. In another room there was a group of students and instructor about to watch a short film. Freddy, and a lot of his friends, are big into film, and so we stayed to watch the film. It was a weird US government propaganda film from like the 50’s about the end of the world from aliens. It was super weird, and although in English made no sense. The theme of the class was about how such random images can bring subjective interpretations… I think. The instructor was Spanish, and I somehow understood more from the film than from him. The most interesting thing about the experience though is that it had no university affiliation. This was a free class, with a random group of kids interesting in film, taught voluntarily by a professor. Freddy explained how this is common in the arts in Bogota. He’s a very hip kid.

We took the bus to another area where his girlfriend lives. It’s no secret that you need to haggle a lit bit when you’re abroad. But Freddy is a pro. Whenever we take a bus, he basically asks if they will do a two for one deal and waits for the next if they don’t accept. The same goes with cover charges, food prices, and we even shopped around for the best exchange rates. These neighborhoods become towns within the city. You have to pass through a security gate, which basically just keeps out the bums. This town is of big apartments, but it has a shop and a bar, a plenty of steps for the youth hang out. His friends were really cool, a lot of them excited to talk to me about just about everything. All of his friends were super scenesters, with crazy hair and clothes and everything. One thing I love is the physical contact when you are conversing. I first noticed it when we Freddy and I were in the Taxi to his house. He was explaining the layout of the city, and using my thigh basically as a map. I quickly questioned his sexuality. After hanging out with his friends, always hugging and kissing, throwing their arms around when their talking, it became normal. Watching a Colombian talk on a cell phone is funny, because these para-verbal habits don’t go away, they’ll be acting out what they are saying with someone who obviously can’t see them. The night was really fun; boxed wine, impersonations of other types of Spanish, random singing, just doing what the kids do on a typical night.

We came home to a fully lit house at 1am. We walked in the door to find the mom chain-smoking (haven’t met anyone yet who doesn’t smoke), with three empty bottles of wine, and a passed out guy on the couch. She explained the guy was a friend of her friends, and that she doesn’t want to get older because then you sleep too much. We hung out for a while and drank some wine with the mom. She tried to teach me some dancing, but it didn’t work out so well. Ya, Colombians can’t dance… jajaja.

Introspective Ramblings

2009-01-22T22:32:00.000-08:00

"Not all those who wander are lost." - JR Tolken

…and although this may be a path guided by heart, without insight, traveling (experiencing) may be lost to sightseeing. So as I depart the United States, I must ask myself of the reasons why I leave family and friends, comfort and stability. There is no simple explanation, but rather a lust for life that drives me. Regardless, like any practical experiment, I suppose specific objectives are necessary:

The comforts of day-to-day life often, or at least for me, leads to a rather reclusive lifestyle. As I begin to settle into tradition, less and less mental capacity is needed for tasks seemingly becoming more and more mundane. And without the challenges of academia, laziness settles, and is only consoled with literature or brief projects. Regardless, the feeling of floating from job to leisure requires no thought or drive, no personal growth. Perhaps this is a sign for a more challenging career, but of which route, I am still unsure. These day-to-day tasks that are taken for granted in the USA suddenly becomes adventurous abroad. Buying breakfast requires a pleasurable leap across a language barrier. Social norms of bargaining for most purchased items replace dull grocery store encounters. The dangers require awareness, the idiosyncrasies of locals require attention to detail, and the pleasure of at least partial assimilation is priceless. Maybe traveling abroad is a lazy form of solving a laziness problem, or maybe it’s an addiction, treated only in indulgence. Whatever the reason, the feeling of being out of one’s comfort level and pushed in new ways makes one feel much more in-tune with their capabilities and limits.

There is a more tangible goal that I briefly mentioned, that of the career sorts. I’m sure there are some readers that are interested in this goal far beyond any of the personal growth sorts. I’m not sure where it fits in my list, but nonetheless, it is an important subject to keep in mind during my travels. It has become apparent that my interests in pursuing occupation in a broken medical system have dwindled significantly. There are reasons for such disenchantment, but I don’t think this is the venue for further elaboration. There has been a passion present far before any pre-med classes and that is for working with children. They’re always intriguing, beautifully blunt, and constantly exploring. The later of assets has always interested me: their constant pursuit of knowledge through experience. Only upon writing that last sentence I realize that perhaps traveling maybe a reconnection with childhood, I think it’s called regression. But done so without the negative psychological connotations. Guiding children in that pursuit of experiencing is what I think I want to do. Through coaching, instructing, mannying, I have been able to do this in some forms. The children though of Hatun Wasi may provide a completely different opportunity. Oh, perhaps some background information on the volunteer work I will be doing in Cusco, Peru:

Cusco is the major city of the very high Peruvian Andian mountain range. It is a major tourist destination, but it also provides schools for the rural out-laying towns. During the school year (which begins in March), children from these villages will come to Cusco and stay at a children’s home while attending classes. It’s like a boarding school, but replace any sense of privilege with poverty not allowing for weekend visits home. So, I will be in charge of creating programs for the kids, making sure they get their homework done, coordinating activities for visiting volunteers, and basically pursuing any form of their development that I seem fit.

Back to how this relates to that whole career thing… Being able to help kids that truly need it, in many forms that aren’t restricted to 50-minute SoccerTots class, may expose a path of true interest. Maybe it’s to be an educator, a counselor, or maybe none of these things. Regardless, I think that this opportunity will be a good one for me to learn about myself, and my life’s passions while helping children that need the help.

There are other reasons while traveling abroad is so amazing, especially in Latin America. There is a passion for life, a sense of community, love for family, willingness to help that sometimes gets lost in the fast-paced, materialistic United States society. Time moves slower, coffee is never served to go, life (in the career form) isn’t taken as seriously. The concept of family is entirely different. Not to say that mine has a lack of love, or anything of the sorts. In reality, I am grateful for my family. My parents are supportive of my vegabond lifestyle, at least temporarily. My brother is my best friend in the world. We can all communicate freely, and although there are rough patches, I feel that there is amazing and unconditional love between everyone. In Latin America though, the concept of family is a bit different. That sick grandmother isn’t sent to a nursing home, but is kept and cared for in the house. Our society may ask why we treat our elders so coldly, but it’s not limited there. After high school graduation it is often thought as required for the son or daughter to leave the house, via will of their own or of their parents. In Latin America though, the child isn’t forced to fly so early, is cared for usually until (or even after) marriage. Examples don’t do the difference justice. Family is family, friends are friends, and everything else is a far third.

So, these are some of my thoughts as I begin my adventures. They are optimistic, but I’m okay with that. Although it’s a strange insight into an almost journal like entry, I think I will continue to post these. I will miss a lot of people back home (baby Jo), and maybe this, and their responses, will keep everyone a bit closer. I suspect future entries will be more descriptive, and less introspective, and probably more interesting for you, the reader.

With half an hour left on my last leg of flight, I am about to arrive in Bogota, Colombia. Freddy “Tote” Ruiz and family is going to pick me up at the airport. He is a complete stranger that I met through the service www.couchsurfing.com. I provide a profile of myself, offer a couch for someone to crash on, and relay on humanity. I had my first surfing experience last night. Upon arriving at the Dallas-Fortworth airport I saw those individually arranged seats that prohibit bum-like sprawling, and anything reminiscent of a comfortable sleep. So I got online and posted on the website a need for a couch. Within half an hour, a couple emails, and a call, Linda picked me up at the airport. She was a wonderfully warm person, going out of her way so many times to make me feel comfortable. We pleasantly talked (probably until too late), and she woke up at 5:00am to take me back to the airport. If this is an omen as to how my trip will begin, I cannot think of a better one. Yes, I will be careful, but being positive (PMA, rush boys) and having faith in kindness and humanity will be my compass for now.