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
Monday, September 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 5, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
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.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Iron Shirts
I hate ties and dress pants, tucked in shirts and polished shoes. I hate formalwear as if it were a parasite sucking out all of my personality and eliminating all hopes of comfort. The button down shirt is a leech; the pleated khaki a bloodthirsty tick; and the dress sock, an annoying associate who believes that you are friends and subsequently hits you up for money. It is with this kind of disgust that I found myself embarking on a cultural experience far more difficult than any I have yet encountered in South America: the act of ironing.
Now ironing may seem simple to those who have grown up with starched collars and pleated pants. But for those of us who buy clothes with the soul purpose of covering up our nakedness (reluctantly at that), the iron and ironing board present themselves as daunting foes.
I took the task worse than I took the challenge of leaving Chile. I knew I had to do it. I had to be presentable for my job interview and the dress clothes I bought had suffered greatly en pasaje from La Serena. The shirts had more wrinkles than an old folks home and the pants took the permanent form of the bottom of my backpack. Despite my reluctance, I knew that an outfit in that state would not serve my goal of finding a job.
I handled the iron as if it were a mangy, disease infested Chihuahua that spewed steam instead of frothy, rabid saliva. I wanted to keep my distance from the ironing board too, but knew I had to get close to work out the thousands of creases and folds that inundated the fabric of my VanHeusen cotton polyester blend. I laughed a bitter, cynical laugh when the iron pushed across the tag that said “Wrinkle Free”.
“Wrinkle Free my ass” seemed like the most appropriate response.
I ironed laboriously for two hours, completing three shirts and two pair of pants. During the epic, I managed to soak one pair of pants with water, and slightly singe the collar of one of my nicest shirts. I also found, in review of my tiresome effort, that on two of my shirts in very obvious positions, rather than eliminating wrinkles I had permanently folded down creases that could not be uncreased no matter how long I sat the iron on top of them (hence the singeing). After two hours, I learned that I had failed, and willingly sulked for a few brief moments.
But an outfit was saved!
I had recovered from the ironing mishap with one good pair of pants and one good shirt. Luckily they matched (my friend’s mother informed me that they matched, I assure I have no aptitude for that skill either). It was with that outfit that I entered a taxi the following day and went to my first interview in Huaraz.
The school was aptly named after my protector and guide here in Peru: Huascarán. I had been in contact with the Director while I was still in states. He had made me an amazing offer but never followed up. Discouraged, I paid the TeachingChile fees and, well, we know how that story ends. But now that I was in Huaraz, I decided to try again. I had arranged an interview, and in my newly, and begrudgingly ironed clothes, I entered the school and began the gauntlet.
The process of interviewing for a job in a foreign country is more trying than any other work related experience I have ever had. I was interviewed by two different people in the course of an hour; was offered a job, offered a different one, then offered a combination of the two; was formally tested psychologically and emotionally through questionnaires, drawings, and story writing (some of my favorite questions were: What do you need to finally be happy? What do you hate most about women? Fill in the blank: My sexual life is __________.); I was given a tour of the campus as if I was going to work there, but without any confirmation; was told I would have to start tomorrow, then told to wait because I would need a work visa (again without confirming that I would take the job); and all of this was done in Spanish. My head swam with translations, cultural rules and norms, and currency conversions when we discussed a salary. In the U.S. they offered me a specific job with an amazing salary. That job had since been taken and would not be available again until February, but meanwhile they offered me something I could live off of. Upon leaving, they told me they would call me the next day confirming I had passed all the tests and that my interview went well. If everything fell into place, I would have a job.
The job will be one sixth of the pay they originally offered, but it will be enough to live off of. Come February they promised I will get the original salary I was offered. So I have to bide my time now and make do. Despite having expected more, I like that I am being challenged in this way. I don’t ever want money to dictate the worth of an experience, and with the current salary I’ll be making, I will be closer to living a Peruvian life. I wouldn’t really know what to do with a lot of money anyway.
Another addendum to the job offer was getting my residency and work visa. Turns out that that will take about 25 days to process. In the meantime I have found a few jobs tutoring English from the Hostal. But my surrogate family here is being amazingly generous and making it so that I can live off of what I make while also helping me with ever possible road block that has come up. Their generosity has been unparalleled to any other I have experienced (and I have same very generous friends) and I constantly note that they are imparting on me a virtue I shall always try to practice myself. I am being looked after: by Huascaran, by the Blanco’s, and by my family and friends who supported me on the sudden change of plans. This is truly an amazing gift, and I thank all of you for being a part of the support.
Now ironing may seem simple to those who have grown up with starched collars and pleated pants. But for those of us who buy clothes with the soul purpose of covering up our nakedness (reluctantly at that), the iron and ironing board present themselves as daunting foes.
I took the task worse than I took the challenge of leaving Chile. I knew I had to do it. I had to be presentable for my job interview and the dress clothes I bought had suffered greatly en pasaje from La Serena. The shirts had more wrinkles than an old folks home and the pants took the permanent form of the bottom of my backpack. Despite my reluctance, I knew that an outfit in that state would not serve my goal of finding a job.
I handled the iron as if it were a mangy, disease infested Chihuahua that spewed steam instead of frothy, rabid saliva. I wanted to keep my distance from the ironing board too, but knew I had to get close to work out the thousands of creases and folds that inundated the fabric of my VanHeusen cotton polyester blend. I laughed a bitter, cynical laugh when the iron pushed across the tag that said “Wrinkle Free”.
“Wrinkle Free my ass” seemed like the most appropriate response.
I ironed laboriously for two hours, completing three shirts and two pair of pants. During the epic, I managed to soak one pair of pants with water, and slightly singe the collar of one of my nicest shirts. I also found, in review of my tiresome effort, that on two of my shirts in very obvious positions, rather than eliminating wrinkles I had permanently folded down creases that could not be uncreased no matter how long I sat the iron on top of them (hence the singeing). After two hours, I learned that I had failed, and willingly sulked for a few brief moments.
But an outfit was saved!
I had recovered from the ironing mishap with one good pair of pants and one good shirt. Luckily they matched (my friend’s mother informed me that they matched, I assure I have no aptitude for that skill either). It was with that outfit that I entered a taxi the following day and went to my first interview in Huaraz.
The school was aptly named after my protector and guide here in Peru: Huascarán. I had been in contact with the Director while I was still in states. He had made me an amazing offer but never followed up. Discouraged, I paid the TeachingChile fees and, well, we know how that story ends. But now that I was in Huaraz, I decided to try again. I had arranged an interview, and in my newly, and begrudgingly ironed clothes, I entered the school and began the gauntlet.
The process of interviewing for a job in a foreign country is more trying than any other work related experience I have ever had. I was interviewed by two different people in the course of an hour; was offered a job, offered a different one, then offered a combination of the two; was formally tested psychologically and emotionally through questionnaires, drawings, and story writing (some of my favorite questions were: What do you need to finally be happy? What do you hate most about women? Fill in the blank: My sexual life is __________.); I was given a tour of the campus as if I was going to work there, but without any confirmation; was told I would have to start tomorrow, then told to wait because I would need a work visa (again without confirming that I would take the job); and all of this was done in Spanish. My head swam with translations, cultural rules and norms, and currency conversions when we discussed a salary. In the U.S. they offered me a specific job with an amazing salary. That job had since been taken and would not be available again until February, but meanwhile they offered me something I could live off of. Upon leaving, they told me they would call me the next day confirming I had passed all the tests and that my interview went well. If everything fell into place, I would have a job.
The job will be one sixth of the pay they originally offered, but it will be enough to live off of. Come February they promised I will get the original salary I was offered. So I have to bide my time now and make do. Despite having expected more, I like that I am being challenged in this way. I don’t ever want money to dictate the worth of an experience, and with the current salary I’ll be making, I will be closer to living a Peruvian life. I wouldn’t really know what to do with a lot of money anyway.
Another addendum to the job offer was getting my residency and work visa. Turns out that that will take about 25 days to process. In the meantime I have found a few jobs tutoring English from the Hostal. But my surrogate family here is being amazingly generous and making it so that I can live off of what I make while also helping me with ever possible road block that has come up. Their generosity has been unparalleled to any other I have experienced (and I have same very generous friends) and I constantly note that they are imparting on me a virtue I shall always try to practice myself. I am being looked after: by Huascaran, by the Blanco’s, and by my family and friends who supported me on the sudden change of plans. This is truly an amazing gift, and I thank all of you for being a part of the support.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Beginning the Adventure
I am not a man of any religious conviction. It has been many years since I prayed to any kind of a god and I am not sure if I will ever return to any belief system that is dogmatic and rule driven. I realize that I do not know if God exists, and that is all I need to know. However, when times become hard and I am at a loss to understand why I have found myself a part of such times, I do turn to something that I know will be constant and that has ways of offering its own advice.
Last winter, having graduated college and finished my student teaching, I found myself wondering what my next step should be. I knew I had a desire to teach abroad. I knew I wanted to perfect my Spanish. And I knew that I felt like I was holding on to a great amount of potential that would slip out of my hands if I could not use it soon. This prompted a time of unrest and anxiousness, and in an effort for answers I went to Eldorado Canyon to get my head together. I spent the day soloing routes on the west ridge and upon finishing up the day I sat next to the frozen river that splits the canyon, and thought to myself, “What next?” In that moment of thought, I glanced over at the ice and saw the form of South America. I knew that Eldo was right, and started making my plans to leave that night.
Whether my faith in the voices of the mountains is some hippy nonsense, or tree hugging, pagan stupidity is irrelevant. I believe in the mountains because I have had direct, poignant experiences with them. Ask any believer in God why they have faith, and they too will tell you of their direct experiences with Him. I am simply living my experiences, and believe that the mountains wish to usher me into those experiences with good tidings. It is with this in my mind, that I found myself making perhaps the biggest decision I would make while in South America. Funny, because I have only been here two weeks.
Chile was an amazing way to arrive into this new continent. My friends in Santiago have a knack for making a foreigner feel welcome in their country. I had hardly arrived when I was met by my friend Yael, who I had originally met in Spain and who visited me in Colorado about two years ago. She welcomed me with open arms, a kiss on the cheek, and a readiness to give me a tour of Santiago. We stepped out of the hostel into the congestion and pollution of downtown. Almost as soon as I had decided that I would hate to live in such a gigantic, fast paced city, we turned a corner, and I found myself in a quaint, quiet part of town, that was almost European in its architecture. I found myself reassured that even big cities have their finer parts.
The day was spent at museums, La Moneda, a small restaurant with amazing food, and walking tours of various parts of the city. The highlight was watching a group of men playing chess in a plaza. I decided that if I ever lived in Santiago, I would like to join those men for a few games, though I knew I could not match their intensity and speed. The day turned to evening quicker than I expected, but the welcome was not complete. We ate dinner at Yael’s house with her family. It was a delicious meal with conversation and laughter and Shabbat prayers. I felt very much at home with her family despite being in a foreign country and at a table with religious customs very different than any others I had experienced. My fatigue grew as the hours went by. I struggled to recall all the Spanish I knew, but I did not feel ignorant, or uncomfortable. I simply existed there at Yael’s house, happy to be beginning this new adventure.
We had one more stop before the night was over. Another Chilean friend I had met in Spain had recently gotten married and there was a celebration at her apartment in honor of the signing of the legal documents. Although tired, I was happy to go and see Magda and meet her new husband. There were a lot of people at the party, and I found myself stumbling through the Spanish language to be able to keep up the conversations. There was no amount of piscola (a very strong local drink) that could bring my language skills to fluency, so I did as best I could. When we left, I struggled not to fall asleep as Yael drove me back to the hostel. It had been an incredible day, the best welcome I could ask for, but my whole body begged for a bed and I was eager to comply with its wishes. I said goodbye to Yael, and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next week was filled with random events, which at this point in my journey are hard to recall. The rest of the group staying at the hostel were all hired through Teaching Chile to work around the country. I got to know a few people and enjoyed their company over the course of the week. Jon Mark, another teacher from Tennessee, and I both shared a similar passion for travel and the mountains. We joined forces one day to try and walk to the base of the behemoths that stood just outside of the city. After walking about two hours, we realized we were probably still 15 miles away, and we decided to turn back, but the trip led us through some very cool neighborhoods outside of the center of the city.
There were many nights that week where I found myself hanging out with the other teachers in the hostel, making jokes and drinking a bit too much red wine. When I wasn’t with the other teachers, I was being led around to restaurants, Jazz bars, and Pablo Neruda’s house (amazing) by my local friends. Despite the tours from Chileans and good times spent with the other teachers, I was getting anxious to part ways in order to live out my own individual adventures. I was set to leave for La Serena, the city I was contracted to teach in, at the end of the week and tried to wait patiently for my turn to leave the group.
The day before I left, Yael, and two other Chilean girls (both I had also met in Spain) Yipsy, and Maca, took me to the mountains. We took to the highway and made our way past small pueblos in order to arrive at Cajón del Maipo, a beautiful area nestled in the Andes outside of Santiago. Although there was too much snow to do any hiking, being in the mountains with friends refreshed my spirit and breathed life into me. It seemed like all of us were in need of the reprieve, and we took it in as fully as we could before heading back to the city. I was gracious for the opportunity to be in the mountains, and before saying goodbye, thanked my friends and made promises to see them again soon, even though I would be a 6 hour bus ride away. Little did I realize, the next few days would take me a lot further away than I had thought.
Upon arriving in La Serena, I was disappointed. Although the man I was staying with, Ricardo, was exceptionally kind and welcoming, the city itself in no way met my expectations for a place to spend my stay in South America. I was promised beautiful beaches, mountains, and a very “special” city. I found myself instead in a suburban neighborhood with cookie cutter homes. The biggest highlights of my tour were the Híper Lider (Chile’s equivalent of a Super WalMart), the mall, and street after street of chain restaurants and stores. I had been looking for an experience that would be very culturally different, but was shocked to see that I had landed in a place that reflected the things I loathed most in American culture. I was also told at the same time that I was not going to be hired as a teacher, but as a teaching assistant, despite my qualifications to teach on my own. Everything about La Serena seemed wrong and I thought that maybe I could find hope in the local climbing area, but when I got there, it was covered in graffiti, trash, and was being used my several homeless people as a favorite place for defecation. This was not what I had been promised and could not see myself living in La Serena for more than a few days.
I called the Director of Teaching Chile, told him of my disappointment, and he gave me an encouraging response, telling me I should “follow my heart”. His promise of a full reimbursement made me believe that I could manage to escape with the funds I would have, and his support made me believe that I could leave in good standing with the program. I would later find out that he was lying and would turn vindictive and spiteful, but at the time I was confident that I could leave La Serena without any hard feelings and with enough funds to get me safely to my next destination.
I bought a bus ticket to Peru. I had made a few contacts in the city of Huaraz a couple weeks before leaving for Chile. There was one job in particular that seemed perfect but that didn’t come to fruition in time. I thought that I could give it another chance, and so booked a ticket to Arica, the closest Chilean town to the Peruvian border. I had no idea what I was getting into, but knew that I could not stay in La Serena. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t where Eldo had called me to be.
The voyage from La Serena to Huaraz lasted 60 hours. Most of the time I was crammed in overnight busses where I could not manage to sleep. Occasionally I would have to change busses or go to different bus terminals. Crossing the border into Peru, I found myself sharing a ride with 5 others Peruvians, all of us crammed into an ancient, beat-up Oldsmobile. I couldn’t help remembering what Ricardo, my would’ve been roommate in La Serena, said about crossing the border: “You’ll know you’ve made it to Peru because all of your stuff will be gone.” The shared car ride tested my nerves, but I quickly befriended another passenger, Yolanda, and realized that Ricardo didn’t know what he was talking about. Both the driver of the car and Yolanda, genuinely wanted to help me out. After getting dropped off in Tacna, Peru, Yolanda showed me how to get to the right bus terminal to get to Lima, and bid me farewell without any false expectations of payment or reward.
The bus rides through Chile and southern Peru spanned huge expanses of some of the most barren landscapes I have ever seen. The bus was dwarfed by mountains of sand and rock that held no green spaces and made the soul colder and quieter in contemplation of why such harsh lands exist. I have never felt so scared and alone purely by looking at a landscape as I did while crossing those deserts.
My final, 8 hour ride landed me in Huaraz. Three days had passed since leaving La Serena. My neck was stiff, my stomach ached from starchy bus food, and all I wanted was a place to lay down horizontally to rest. I arrived at 6 in the morning, grabbed a taxi to my friend’s parents’ hostel, and was once again welcomed with open arms despite the bags under my eyes and complete inability to speak Spanish from such a strong fatigue. I was told that my room was on the fourth floor. I made my way up the stairs and before collapsing on the bed I looked out of the window to see that Huaraz was going to provide me with another protector. I barely got a chance to introduce myself before falling fast asleep.
Huascarán was there as I awoke. He made me feel comfortable and convinced me that Huaraz was the place I needed to be. From my fourth floor window, he stood out perfectly visible in the clear day sky, the second tallest mountain in South America, a picture of beauty that can only be inhaled through ready lungs and seen with willing eyes. He would be who I called after for help in these unknown times. He would provide comfort and advice. He was there to watch over me.
I am convinced that Huaraz is where I need to be at the moment. Though I have no job, very little funds, and am also coping with all the elements of culture shock, I feel comfortable here. My friend’s family who is watching over me has been a lesson in generosity and kindness and the people I see on the street reflect a potential for me to learn and grow that I could not imagine finding anywhere else on this continent at the moment. I feel happy, and I know that if that feeling wavers I will only have to look out my window to know that I am being taken care of.
Last winter, having graduated college and finished my student teaching, I found myself wondering what my next step should be. I knew I had a desire to teach abroad. I knew I wanted to perfect my Spanish. And I knew that I felt like I was holding on to a great amount of potential that would slip out of my hands if I could not use it soon. This prompted a time of unrest and anxiousness, and in an effort for answers I went to Eldorado Canyon to get my head together. I spent the day soloing routes on the west ridge and upon finishing up the day I sat next to the frozen river that splits the canyon, and thought to myself, “What next?” In that moment of thought, I glanced over at the ice and saw the form of South America. I knew that Eldo was right, and started making my plans to leave that night.
Whether my faith in the voices of the mountains is some hippy nonsense, or tree hugging, pagan stupidity is irrelevant. I believe in the mountains because I have had direct, poignant experiences with them. Ask any believer in God why they have faith, and they too will tell you of their direct experiences with Him. I am simply living my experiences, and believe that the mountains wish to usher me into those experiences with good tidings. It is with this in my mind, that I found myself making perhaps the biggest decision I would make while in South America. Funny, because I have only been here two weeks.
Chile was an amazing way to arrive into this new continent. My friends in Santiago have a knack for making a foreigner feel welcome in their country. I had hardly arrived when I was met by my friend Yael, who I had originally met in Spain and who visited me in Colorado about two years ago. She welcomed me with open arms, a kiss on the cheek, and a readiness to give me a tour of Santiago. We stepped out of the hostel into the congestion and pollution of downtown. Almost as soon as I had decided that I would hate to live in such a gigantic, fast paced city, we turned a corner, and I found myself in a quaint, quiet part of town, that was almost European in its architecture. I found myself reassured that even big cities have their finer parts.
The day was spent at museums, La Moneda, a small restaurant with amazing food, and walking tours of various parts of the city. The highlight was watching a group of men playing chess in a plaza. I decided that if I ever lived in Santiago, I would like to join those men for a few games, though I knew I could not match their intensity and speed. The day turned to evening quicker than I expected, but the welcome was not complete. We ate dinner at Yael’s house with her family. It was a delicious meal with conversation and laughter and Shabbat prayers. I felt very much at home with her family despite being in a foreign country and at a table with religious customs very different than any others I had experienced. My fatigue grew as the hours went by. I struggled to recall all the Spanish I knew, but I did not feel ignorant, or uncomfortable. I simply existed there at Yael’s house, happy to be beginning this new adventure.
We had one more stop before the night was over. Another Chilean friend I had met in Spain had recently gotten married and there was a celebration at her apartment in honor of the signing of the legal documents. Although tired, I was happy to go and see Magda and meet her new husband. There were a lot of people at the party, and I found myself stumbling through the Spanish language to be able to keep up the conversations. There was no amount of piscola (a very strong local drink) that could bring my language skills to fluency, so I did as best I could. When we left, I struggled not to fall asleep as Yael drove me back to the hostel. It had been an incredible day, the best welcome I could ask for, but my whole body begged for a bed and I was eager to comply with its wishes. I said goodbye to Yael, and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next week was filled with random events, which at this point in my journey are hard to recall. The rest of the group staying at the hostel were all hired through Teaching Chile to work around the country. I got to know a few people and enjoyed their company over the course of the week. Jon Mark, another teacher from Tennessee, and I both shared a similar passion for travel and the mountains. We joined forces one day to try and walk to the base of the behemoths that stood just outside of the city. After walking about two hours, we realized we were probably still 15 miles away, and we decided to turn back, but the trip led us through some very cool neighborhoods outside of the center of the city.
There were many nights that week where I found myself hanging out with the other teachers in the hostel, making jokes and drinking a bit too much red wine. When I wasn’t with the other teachers, I was being led around to restaurants, Jazz bars, and Pablo Neruda’s house (amazing) by my local friends. Despite the tours from Chileans and good times spent with the other teachers, I was getting anxious to part ways in order to live out my own individual adventures. I was set to leave for La Serena, the city I was contracted to teach in, at the end of the week and tried to wait patiently for my turn to leave the group.
The day before I left, Yael, and two other Chilean girls (both I had also met in Spain) Yipsy, and Maca, took me to the mountains. We took to the highway and made our way past small pueblos in order to arrive at Cajón del Maipo, a beautiful area nestled in the Andes outside of Santiago. Although there was too much snow to do any hiking, being in the mountains with friends refreshed my spirit and breathed life into me. It seemed like all of us were in need of the reprieve, and we took it in as fully as we could before heading back to the city. I was gracious for the opportunity to be in the mountains, and before saying goodbye, thanked my friends and made promises to see them again soon, even though I would be a 6 hour bus ride away. Little did I realize, the next few days would take me a lot further away than I had thought.
Upon arriving in La Serena, I was disappointed. Although the man I was staying with, Ricardo, was exceptionally kind and welcoming, the city itself in no way met my expectations for a place to spend my stay in South America. I was promised beautiful beaches, mountains, and a very “special” city. I found myself instead in a suburban neighborhood with cookie cutter homes. The biggest highlights of my tour were the Híper Lider (Chile’s equivalent of a Super WalMart), the mall, and street after street of chain restaurants and stores. I had been looking for an experience that would be very culturally different, but was shocked to see that I had landed in a place that reflected the things I loathed most in American culture. I was also told at the same time that I was not going to be hired as a teacher, but as a teaching assistant, despite my qualifications to teach on my own. Everything about La Serena seemed wrong and I thought that maybe I could find hope in the local climbing area, but when I got there, it was covered in graffiti, trash, and was being used my several homeless people as a favorite place for defecation. This was not what I had been promised and could not see myself living in La Serena for more than a few days.
I called the Director of Teaching Chile, told him of my disappointment, and he gave me an encouraging response, telling me I should “follow my heart”. His promise of a full reimbursement made me believe that I could manage to escape with the funds I would have, and his support made me believe that I could leave in good standing with the program. I would later find out that he was lying and would turn vindictive and spiteful, but at the time I was confident that I could leave La Serena without any hard feelings and with enough funds to get me safely to my next destination.
I bought a bus ticket to Peru. I had made a few contacts in the city of Huaraz a couple weeks before leaving for Chile. There was one job in particular that seemed perfect but that didn’t come to fruition in time. I thought that I could give it another chance, and so booked a ticket to Arica, the closest Chilean town to the Peruvian border. I had no idea what I was getting into, but knew that I could not stay in La Serena. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t where Eldo had called me to be.
The voyage from La Serena to Huaraz lasted 60 hours. Most of the time I was crammed in overnight busses where I could not manage to sleep. Occasionally I would have to change busses or go to different bus terminals. Crossing the border into Peru, I found myself sharing a ride with 5 others Peruvians, all of us crammed into an ancient, beat-up Oldsmobile. I couldn’t help remembering what Ricardo, my would’ve been roommate in La Serena, said about crossing the border: “You’ll know you’ve made it to Peru because all of your stuff will be gone.” The shared car ride tested my nerves, but I quickly befriended another passenger, Yolanda, and realized that Ricardo didn’t know what he was talking about. Both the driver of the car and Yolanda, genuinely wanted to help me out. After getting dropped off in Tacna, Peru, Yolanda showed me how to get to the right bus terminal to get to Lima, and bid me farewell without any false expectations of payment or reward.
The bus rides through Chile and southern Peru spanned huge expanses of some of the most barren landscapes I have ever seen. The bus was dwarfed by mountains of sand and rock that held no green spaces and made the soul colder and quieter in contemplation of why such harsh lands exist. I have never felt so scared and alone purely by looking at a landscape as I did while crossing those deserts.
My final, 8 hour ride landed me in Huaraz. Three days had passed since leaving La Serena. My neck was stiff, my stomach ached from starchy bus food, and all I wanted was a place to lay down horizontally to rest. I arrived at 6 in the morning, grabbed a taxi to my friend’s parents’ hostel, and was once again welcomed with open arms despite the bags under my eyes and complete inability to speak Spanish from such a strong fatigue. I was told that my room was on the fourth floor. I made my way up the stairs and before collapsing on the bed I looked out of the window to see that Huaraz was going to provide me with another protector. I barely got a chance to introduce myself before falling fast asleep.
Huascarán was there as I awoke. He made me feel comfortable and convinced me that Huaraz was the place I needed to be. From my fourth floor window, he stood out perfectly visible in the clear day sky, the second tallest mountain in South America, a picture of beauty that can only be inhaled through ready lungs and seen with willing eyes. He would be who I called after for help in these unknown times. He would provide comfort and advice. He was there to watch over me.
I am convinced that Huaraz is where I need to be at the moment. Though I have no job, very little funds, and am also coping with all the elements of culture shock, I feel comfortable here. My friend’s family who is watching over me has been a lesson in generosity and kindness and the people I see on the street reflect a potential for me to learn and grow that I could not imagine finding anywhere else on this continent at the moment. I feel happy, and I know that if that feeling wavers I will only have to look out my window to know that I am being taken care of.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The New Blog
Having informed all of you about my Blog, I invite you to read the welcome and check out the Yosemite and Desert pictures and articles. I also realize the glitch in titling this blog "stories from my travels abroad" and beginning the blog with items from the U.S. This is merely to provide you with entertainment for the next few months until I go to S. America in August and the real posts begin.
Thanks for checking out On The Move.
-Josh
Thanks for checking out On The Move.
-Josh
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)