Life Rhythms

We looked like the worst band in Perú. In the back of the dim, candle lit café, I sat behind the conga drum, a pale gringo who hadn’t touched a percussion instrument in more than six years. Kenya, the Japanese vocalist and guitarist, sat next to me, his guitar upside down because his left hand was paralyzed from a paragliding accident thirteen years ago. We were an unlikely pair, and an even more unlikely music group. We hadn’t even practiced together before this initial performance.

Upon seeing us, murmurs surged from the audience. I couldn’t understand the words, but the energy suggested scoffing ridicule. My intestines seemed to rise to my throat. I gulped down a dry swig of red wine to suppress my nerves, not sure how I ended up in that cramped café as an accompaniment to Kenya’s unplugged rock concert. I was sure to mess up, make us look bad, and ruin the show. Just as I thought about escape, Kenya began on his guitar with a swift, left handed stroke of G.

The week following the concert had been tumultuous to say the least. I finally secured clandestine work for Colegio Huascarán. My visa is still not ready yet, but the director of the school hired me on as a volunteer with a “tip”. This meant funds were on the way, and I could finally start working, after two and half months of waiting and worrying about how I would be able to sustain myself in South America. I was finally able to teach, though the conditions under which I would teach were still up in the air. Would I be hired full-time, or part-time? Would I have my own classes, or just assist other teachers? No one really knew the answers to these questions, but I had work, and subsequently, would have a paycheck. This meant the dream was beginning, in some convoluted form at least.

Before that week, I had rediscovered the joys of stress. My funds were low, I felt as if I had overstayed my welcome with my friends’ family, and I wasn’t getting any solid response from the school about work, or housing. I questioned my decision to flee from Chile months ago in an effort to live deliberately. It seemed like all it had gotten me was urges of depression and anxiety, and had whittled down my trust in my fellow man. I had been enjoying the Peruvian experience less and less, and had found myself suffering it on a daily basis. Giving up, suddenly became a real possibility. But luckily, support from thousands of miles away kept me going; kept me trusting that what I was doing was right.

Emails came with poems, words of advice, wisdoms of experience, and a few donations to what became dubbed as the “Poor Climber Fund”. When I needed it most, I was reminded that miles don’t separate people’s inherent goodness, and I found myself blessed with the compassion and understanding of friends and family members. My experience in Peru was, and is, not my experience alone. It was made clear to me that I share this experience with those closest to me, whether that experience be good or bad. Luckily, when bad, I was given strength by all those who wished to support me. They allowed me to survive the hard times, and I felt myself more convinced than ever that I was meant to be here, and that people can create power through their love.

Exhalations of relief. Inhalations preparing myself to deal with the next struggle.

I inhaled, and began tapping out, an old practiced rhythm from when I used to play the drums in High School. Kenya’s guitar strokes were fluid and melodious. The crowd hushed and listened, as his sweet voice penetrated the atmosphere, and silenced the critiques that would have blocked the crowd’s understanding of the music. The tone carried away preoccupations and fear, anger and stress. The only thing that existed was that beautiful melody.

Kenya and I play music every Thursday night at California Café. We’re more of an opening act, but the crowd love’s us. I should say rather, that they love Kenya. I am just his conga player, and he deserves all the credit for the good music. But it makes me feel good to resurrect my old musical ability, even if it is only to play out some simple beats at the back of a Café.

When the shows are over and the audience returns to their homes, Kenya and I stay late, drinking free wine and jamming with the other musicians. We sing loud Spanish pop songs, and I pretend to know all the words, even though I don’t. The experience is new, distinct to my American life, and beautifully rich in learning and discovery. I am always happy to stay up late to immerse myself in this culture, in this life. I am still meant to be here, for now anyway.

A few pics

A friend has taken a few pics of some of our excursions. I thought I would include a few, though I wish I could share much, much more of the beauty that is here in Peru. This will have to do for now.

Click the link below to access the shots.

http://jcook-onthemove-perupics.blogspot.com