WARNING

I have been angry the last few days, as per the story in my blog which you can read below: "The Value of Water". I am afraid that the story reflects that anger, and will therefore provide the reader with an impression of me that might not fit the other blogs. But I wrote to free myself of my negative feelings, and have been successful in my efforts. What you will read is an honest impression of how I felt at the time that the story takes place, but is fleeting, like any feeling. I use the story thus as a means to enlighten the reader on my experience here in Perú, and not necessarily to defame anybody, though defamtion is a likely result. Regardless, I hope it is a good read.

-Josh

The Value of Water

The protagonist of this tale will henceforth be known as Olga. It is necessary that we call her such a name, so as to capture the ugliness of her character right away. We need a name that is cacophonous; one that does not roll off the tongue, but is spit out vilely, vomited forth, regurgitated out of disgust. We shall call her Olga as a preamble to her actions, her thoughts, and her physical form.

I’ll accept that the name Olga is a round one, but our anti-heroine is by no means plump. She’s wiry, fibrous, gaunt. Her form would be fit if it was not constructed from false pretenses. She is lean, the way a feral dog is lean; out of strain from years of practicing selfishness. She would be pale if the Peruvian sun were not so strong. Instead, she is reddish pink and flakey. Her lips are cracked and her nose is wilting. She bears likeness to dead tree limbs with the bark peeling away. Our Olga is a taught and calloused Eastern European woman. My Peruvian friend calls her “Corte Asco”, meaning disgusting haircut, and with good reason. Her thin, emaciated blond hair is plastered to her scull, stretching down the back of her neck, but cut short in the front aside from a collected section of bangs that she pulls to the side of her face. She believes her features to be attractive, since the Peruvian men she has met have been showing her lots of attention. I guess the gringa mystique works as a blindfold in some cases.

But her appearance has no real point in the story. It is her character that will reveal her hideousness, and so we must move forth in order to realize the full picture of our protagonist.

Olga wanted to climb The Sphinx. The Sphinx is a high altitude granite behemoth that sits in the Cordillera Blanca of the Peruvian Andes. She traveled from France, (where she currently lives though she was born in Hungary), to climb this world-renowned monolith. Her partner, a French woman, was set to join her, until enduring a 300 meter fall while descending a 5,000 meter peak. Luckily she only broke her leg. Finding out that her partner was out of commission, Olga decided that rather than aid her friend in her recovery (there were many logistics that needed to be planned to get her back to France), she would find another climber to accompany her on The Sphinx, abandoning her former partner to cope with her condition alone.

Enter: Me.

I met Olga at what I like to call “The Gringo Meeting Ritual”: an ultimate Frisbee game. I was invited to play because, well, I am a gringo, which ensures a certain adeptness and affinity for the disc sports. On the field, Olga discovered I was a climber, and so we decided to meet up again to climb that weekend. I was still unaware of her true character at this point. I obliged, and we spent a day at Hatun Machay, climbing amazing volcanic sport routes. Two days later, she invited me to join her on The Sphinx. I accepted.

As we left for our 5 day trip, Olga mentioned something about how there was a strike near the road that accesses The Sphinx, but she was sure that we would be able to make it, because she had checked ahead of time. Not knowing anything about this strike, and trusting Olga’s information, I didn’t worry one bit about accessing the road. She guided me to a shared taxi van, called a “combi”, and proceeded to tell me not to be worried about such a mode of transportation because she knew all about them and would make sure we were okay. She failed to realize that I had been taking combis for the last month in Huaraz to get to all sorts of destinations, and that her condescending tone embittered the air and made me second guess my acceptance of her proposal. But as she was demanding a better rate for the ride (rather than bartering) I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and took my seat.

We traveled about an hour to get to Caraz, a small city north of Huaraz. Upon arriving, Olga ushered me to the office of tourism in order to clarify some things about the strike. She spoke little Spanish, and therefore needed me to translate. Javier, the tourist office representative, met us with bad news.

“There is still a strike in Parón and the people are not allowing any access past the town.”

I translated the news to Olga, and she responded, “No, it doesn’t matter. I was told that we could cross the road to get to The Sphinx. Tell him that we were told we could cross.”

I obliged her request, though translated that “She” was told that we could cross, rather than using “We” were told, because I was never told anything.

Javier responded, “Yes, we previously thought that there might be a chance, but the strike has become more serious and the people of Parón will not let anybody through, for any reason. We can go up to Parón and try, but chances are slim.”

Olga insisted that we go, and so Javier, Olga, and myself went to find a taxi that would take us to Parón, and to the barricaded road. Upon finding a taxi, she muttered to me, “these damn taxi drivers are going to charge us an exorbitant amount because we are gringos.” I just looked at her, rolled my eyes slightly, and let her argue with the taxi driver in her broken Spanish over the cost. As they discussed prices, a few old Quechua women approached me, wrinkled, frail, and with pleas that I didn’t fully understand.

“You can’t go to the lake. No one can go to the lake. They are stealing our water. You can’t go to the lake.”

The women were distressed and angry that we were making our way to Parón. I didn’t know how to respond, so I rudely ignored them and jumped into the taxi, an escape from their sadness. The taxi took off, and I felt terrible for not knowing why the women did not want us to go. I asked Javier what this strike was all about.

Duke Energy, a Canadian company, has set up a hydroelectric plant that takes water from the Parón Lake in order to produce electricity for parts of the city. The plant uses so much water that the river that is born from the lake has been reduced to a mere trickle. This river provides water not only to the small town of Parón, but to many other small towns along the river’s path. Water is life, and the people are striking because they are not getting enough water to sustain themselves, their families, and their crops. Knowing that the road to the lake, and subsequently, the road to The Sphinx, is a popular tourist attraction, the people have closed access in order to put pressure on the government to force Duke Energy to stop taking their water. The closure is peaceful and has been going on for months.

Once I was enlightened as to what exactly was going on in Parón, I felt terrible that we were ascending the road to potentially bring trouble to the people’s movement against this energy corporation. I have spent years studying civil disobedience, absorbing the writings of Gandhi, Thoreau, and King, and yet there I was, a privileged white male, partnered by a European woman, en route to try and pass a picket line against injustice. And what was our reason for believing we should be allowed passage? Was it because we were climbers? Gringos? Because Olga had been planning this trip since January? There was no part of me that felt that I had any right to pass the blockade, but the taxi continued its path up the road until we were finally confronted by the strikers.

I man, dark, weathered, and tired, walked up to the window of the taxi.

“Sorry, there is no passage through here. We are on strike.”

Olga pulled me to translate. She said, “Well I was told that I could pass, and I came all the way here from France to climb The Sphinx. I have been waiting months to be able to climb it.”

As I translated, my conscience tormented me with retorts: These people have been waiting months for water. What right do you have to make it harder for them to win this battle?

“Sorry” the man responded, “No passage for anybody.”

Olga became furious. She glared at me as if I had done something wrong in translating the man’s response for her. She opted to try and use her broken Spanish, rather that trust me to convey her right to be able to access the road. I stepped aside. Another group of men came up to listen to Olga’s diatribe. As they arrived, I decided that I was not going to be a part of Olga’s ludicrous debate. I shook each of their hands and asked them how the strike was going.

“Hard. The company is still stealing our water. We don’t have very much to live off of, and further down the river it is worse.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked at Olga, as she spoke caustically about how she deserved to be able to cross. Then I looked back at the men, who were watching her. I lowered my eyes and again said, “I’m sorry”.

Javier pleaded with me to get Olga back into the taxi. He was getting embarrassed as well. I explained to her that the people were not going to let us pass, and that we should go. Javier told her that she could appeal to the mayor for support. Olga begrudgingly accepted.

As we descended the road, away from Parón and back to the city, Olga sat in the back, tense and angry. You could almost hear her blood boiling. No one spoke.

The appeal to the Mayor was futile. Olga and Javier constructed a letter that was meant to convince the head of the strike of our right to pass the blockade. It spoke of her sponsors and fame; of how there would be climbing magazine articles and news reports in France about the strike. Lies. Olga was willing to write anything to get a chance to climb The Sphinx. She also looked at alternate routes, using subterfuge as a means of getting past the barricade. But we were told that there were other groups of strikers on different parts of the road, some of which were armed. Olga still thought this might be a good option, even though is would put both of us in very real danger.

We were in the office of tourism six hours as Olga waited for the mayor, planned different strategies, and tried to convince Javier of her right to pass the blockade (she complained to anyone that would listen). I sat back, and patiently awaited the inevitable moment when Olga would realize that she would not be able to get to The Sphinx. Watching her selfishness and fury, I reflected.

At what point does a person become so completely self-centered that they are blind to plights far greater than their own? The gravity of the misfortune of the people in Parón cannot be any clearer, yet this woman believes her wants are more important than the needs and rights of these Peruvian people. Is this racism? Or is this just a sick manifestation of ignorance? Here we have a woman of European descent, who makes enough money to travel the world and rock climb (though she claims she is poor); who has a home, a job, a child, and can provide herself with food and water daily, and yet she feels like she is being unfairly treated because she is not allowed to climb a rock. It is unbelievable that she should feel offended by this strike! She would rather that people who are fighting for their right to have water go another day without it so that she can mark another ascent of a granite wall. What pure insanity!

My frustration peaked. I have rarely felt as angry as I did with Olga and her ridiculous desire to get to The Sphinx.

Javier finally told me I would have to tell Olga that there was no chance of getting to The Sphinx. I reluctantly translated and watched our 37 year old protagonist have a tantrum. She kicked a light post, reiterated in a loud yell that she had been planning this trip since January, and then sat on a curb, sulking for five minutes. We walked back to the combi station in silence.

Getting into the combi, Olga verbally attacked me.

“Oh, I know you don’t care anything about this. You haven’t been planning this as long as I have. This isn’t important to you at all.” She continued, “I’m sick of this country. I’m sick of Peru and of how stupid the people are.”

I could think of a lot of things to say in response, but I just let her vent, paid her fare on the combi and happily rode back to Huaraz.

I saw Olga again a few times after the affair in Parón. I even let her use my climbing rope for three days in Hatun Machay, though I didn’t climb with her. She never apologized for her behavior, or for attacking me. She never thanked me for trying to help with translations, or even for letting her use my gear. She hated me after Parón, which is fair enough, because I didn’t feel too great about her either. When she finally left to return to France, I tried to give her a hug as a means of some sort of reconciliation. She didn’t accept it, keeping her arms to her side. I was left with feeling insulted and shocked. But the experience with Olga has provided me with a plethora of thoughts and reflections that will definitely help to make me more conscious. May I never become so wrapped up in myself that I lose all grasp on the real suffering of other human beings. Once someone has crossed that line, the world becomes distorted and impure, as it is constructed in a realm of personal wants and desires; a world that is ugly if it doesn’t fit your wishes. There is too much beauty in the new, the surprising and the unknown; in challenge and reflection. If we become selfish, if all our experiences must fall in accordance to our wants, we eliminate true beauty, true adventure, and the possibility of real empathy and understanding of others. Take your selfishness with you Olga, I have no use for it.

A Walk Through Huaraz

My calluses have been worn down to a pink, soft flesh, close to bleeding, but not quite there yet. When I examine the damage done to my fingers, I notice tiny droplets of sweat, almost the size of needle points, swelling up from where I once had fingerprints. It is time to go.

I have just finished another, solitary bouldering session in the fields of Huanchac. Three boulders sit just off of the dirt road that takes you through the campo outside of Huaraz. There is enough to keep one busy here, especially if you are still awaiting work, and are looking for a way to distract yourself. But after a few hours, the granite begins to wear down skin and break muscles, forcing me to pack my things and head back into the city.

Leaving the boulders I pass houses constructed of mud bricks and corrugated metal roofing. It seems that the most basic materials suffice, some coming from the very earth where the home is to be erected, others are imports from foreign lands. Either way, the homes are shelter from rain and relief from heat. More often than assumed, an electrical line hangs down from a pole, and slithers into the homes via holes in the brick. The existence of modern technology can be heard reverberating inside the walls of these simple homes via radio rhythms of cumbia and salsa, or through the static of a television station barely coming through:

Llámanos ahora para recibir ésta oferta.

Te cuidaremos con nuestro producto.

No tengas miedo, amor, así pasa.

The road is dirty. Dust arises from every step and settles in my pores, the corners of my eyes, and gathers gently in my sun-lightened hair. I walk a steep decline, a serpentine path, the sides of which are littered with trash. Plastic bags, Styrofoam, old clothes, rotten foods, tires, wrappers. You can smell the refuse. The sight is an unwelcome culture shock, but an element of culture. In my disgust, I realize that judgments arise, prejudices, blame. I try to stop my conditioning in an effort to see the filth for what it is: a disconnect between my American life, and this Peruvian life. Nothing more. The prejudice says that the people must be disrespectful, careless, cruel. But as I descend my path I realize that I harbor no such conception of the people.

When I first took this road I was afraid. It was clear that gringos did not belong in this part of the campo. I walked as a lost tourist, a trespasser, or worse, a voyeur of poverty and grief. I thought that the people would be angry at me, and that that anger came from their shame. Such sad homes. Such poor living conditions. So I averted my senses. No eyes to see the people. No ears to hear them speak. No thought other than left foot. Right foot. I walked quickly; intentionally. What ignorance.

When I finally learned to pick my head up and experience the path, I began my journey in Perú. The first time I made eye contact with a campesino, he smiled.

Buenas tardes.

I hadn’t expected a greeting, and so left him with an impression that gringos were closed, silent people, who walk intentionally. Left foot. Right foot.

I couldn’t help but laugh at my own condition. Here lies a man who believes himself conscious, deliberate, and open, yet he has closed himself to a gentle campesino who has offered him a greeting. What baseness. What disillusion. But with disillusion comes resolve.

Now as I walk I greet the people. There is a field where four men work daily constructing there home. Every time I pass they wave and ask me how I am doing. Bien. I return the question and upon finishing the conversation I return to walking and they return to work. There is an old woman who wears a worn out, mud stained dress, and sits on the ground, straddling a big red pale, washing her other dresses. She always smiles at me and says, Buenas tardes. I smile and ask how she is. Bien. Families returning from the city look up at me as I pass. We nod to each other, smile, and go about our business, but I am left feeling welcomed.

The dogs hate me, of that I am certain. But they hate everybody. They are, however, a testament to the old adage that their bark is worse than their bite. If I pass too close, or if they are just having a bad day, I am received with snarls, teeth gnashing, and a close, ferocious pursuit that lasts until they lose interest. I have yet to actually be bitten, but I still expect to have to reluctantly, but forcefully kick one of them if the occasion arises.

There is a small shop about half way down the road that has no signs or advertisements. Its peeling walls and door-less entryway hardly hint at it being a place where you could buy anything, but I stop there occasionally and order chocho. The bean salad gives me enough energy to finish my walk back to the hostel, and starts developing my appetite for dinner later on. The señora that makes the salad clearly does so with care, as it is always delicious, and presented as well, if not better, than as a chef would prepare it.

The entrance into the city is subtle. I still find dirt roads and mud brick houses, but the traffic increases and pavement and concrete mixes with the dirt and rocks of the other streets. Vendors appear on the sidewalks, and the incessant cacophony of honking taxis makes me eager to get off of the street. There is one particular fruit vendor who always grabs my attention. He has added a megaphone to his mobile fruit cart, and as he pedals around the city you can here his call. But his voice is so distorted from the megaphone, that he sounds like a ninety year-old smoker, exhaling a raspy, sick, advertisement to buy his fruits.

naranja-mandarinas-naranjas.

naranja-mandarina-naranjas.

The other venders fill the city with smells of cooking meat, and burning oil. If I am still hungry, I will buy an anticucho de corazón, grilled cow heart on a stick; or cachanga, deep fried dough; or a papa rellena, cooked potato with meat, egg, and vegetables stuffed inside. Each cost about thirty cents, and all are delicious.

The people in the city are a mix. The Quechua women wear traditional clothes: tall hats embroidered on the side with shapes of fans, or flowers; dresses which puff out to the side; white leggings; and bright pink or green sweaters. They carry rainbow colored sheets with them that are used to carry the goods they intend to sell in the city, or if not goods, then babies that accompany them, sleeping soundly despite the chaos of the streets. There are also business folk, dressed in suits and shiny shoes with finely combed hair and cell phones pressed to their ears. The mountain guides are easy to point out because they wear boots and fleece jackets. They make up enough of the population that they are a common site. The cosmopolitans are also out walking the streets in their name brand jeans and shirts with ironic English statements plastered across the front. There are beggars and snobs, gringos and natives. I often find beautiful women with olive colored skin, but they quickly pass, leaving me to daydream.

As I arrive to the center, I find more plazas and churches, shops, and signs of a more commercial culture. But regardless, I am an American in Perú, and the amount of learning and acculturation to be found is endless. No matter how many times I walk the road from Huanchac, I discover new experiences, meet new people, and am immersed in new things. It is a walk of discovery that I shall try to walk consciously, with eyes open and ears ready.

Momentous Occasion

This doesn't deserve a mass email, but I believe it to be an important date to remember. Today, I ate my first guinea pig (cuy). It was very crunchy.