The Real World?

I am very sorry to admit:

1) I work from 7:50 until 6:00, Monday through Friday.
2) I have a two story house and cable television (both given to me for free by the school).
3) I live in a suburban, cookie cutter home neighborhood (because of the free house).
4) I haven't climbed all week.
5) I am on this link
6) I made more money last month than I have made in the past year and a half (yes, I am sorry about this).

It seems I am a member of the real world now. However, the list of good, non-real world things is:

1) I am surrounded by 15,000+ ft peaks.
2) Quechua ladies say hello to me in the campo when I go climbing.
3) I have learned 6 words/phrases in Quechua in order to respond back (then the women giggle at me)
4) The climbing I have found and do get to do is world class, no joke.
5) I now know how to get great deals at the open air market that originally had vendors that would take advantage of me.
6) My Spanish has vastly improved.
7) I am many students' favorite teacher.
8) The school administration still thinks I am a rebel (but is happy to have me).
9) I'm in flippin' Peru!
10) This was a dream I had a year ago, and I am living it.

Not bad. Still happy to be here.

....but my head is filled with a lot of new, wild adventures once this one is over. I can't wait to get them started.

Friend's Visit Peru & Cochamó

I've been out of touch the last few weeks. I guess to live adventures one has to disappear for awhile. I was on summer vacation and was fortunate enough to have friends visit from The States before I went to Chile and Argentina for the remainder of my time off. It was good to get to know this new road, on this new continent, and explore.

In Chile, I was impacted greatly by my experience in a remote climbing area called Cochamó. It was a perfect trip. I have written most about that experience.

Below are links to two parts of my adventure: Friend's Visiting in Peru & Cochamó.

Crew Visits Peru

Cochamó

What? No Pictures?!?!

I know, I know. I was extremely fortunate to receive a care package from friends and family that included a camera, and yet, have not added photos. I am eager to get pictures out to all of you, but at the same time that I got the camera, I was also in and out of the hospital battling some vicious food related illnesses that had me bed ridden and hooked up to I.V.s. So no opportunity to take pics, but plenty of time to write. Below is a short story about Peruvian travel. I hope it suffices until I can get pics out to everyone in the next weeks.

Hope everyone is healthy and living life to its fullest.

-Josh

Combi Ride

A combi is a small bus, similar to the old Volkswagon models, but never as cool. Often beat up, and run down, it is the principle form of semi-long distance travel in Peru. It’s appeal to foreign travelers lies in the fact that it is a quintessential culture shock. People are crammed together in bench seats that are merely medal frames with fabric wrapped around them. There is no cushioning, nor hint of an effort to put any in. The leg space is barely adequate for Peruvians; for gringos, it’s a medieval torture device.

I have ridden plenty of combis in my time here, and was once even enamored with the immersion into the characteristic Peruvian form of transport. Every combi ride was a clear elucidation that I was actually in Peru, living the dream. But since my three hour trip from Yanama back to Huaraz, I have changed my opinion about any part of the combi experience that may have had appeal.

It was the first time I forced to sit in a specific seat in a combi. Apparently, the driver wanted to make the experience seem like a real, legitimate bus ride. Usually I opt for the position that will promise a fraction of legroom, but this time I was mandated onto a small rectangle of space that they were trying to pass off as seating for two. My knees protruded through the seat in front of me and into my fellow passenger’s back. I apologized, but there was no chance of me being able to move in order to accommodate his comfort, or my own. To my left side was a short old man, and to my right a sack of potatoes crammed into the aisle. The sack made any stretching into free space a challenge, and the man that they had sit on the sack made it an impossibility.

There were enough seats in the combi to sit fifteen uncomfortably. Twenty-five of us squeezed in for the first half of the journey, until one woman left and then three more came aboard for the second half. The amount of discomfort was exponentially increased by the fact that there was relatively little ventilation and a free release of body odors from every possible human orifice. The only shame to release flatulence came with the audio and not the olfactory. Silently the petulant gasses arose, and silently they pervaded the atmosphere.

The road was not pleasant. It was windy and washboarded. It surmounted a ridge of 15,000 feet and then descended toward a rocky canyon below. I had hoped to see untouched granite cliffs, but was only able to glimpse the dirty pours of the man seated centimeters away from me. The road curved through endless switchbacks, inducing nausea to passengers seated in the rear. A call for bolsitas was ushered from the motion sick populous of the last row and small, plastic bags were sent to them to assist in any emergency.

The vomiting started about an hour and a half in. A little kid seated in the aisle spewed forth his breakfast to the cacophonous melody of the unmistakable wretch. Clearly he was in pain, as second after second his guts contracted and his throat echoed the sound of complete submission to the body’s will. But this was of no concern to the driver, nor to many of the other passengers, the kid’s mother included. The combi continued its descent hitting every curve just as fast and abruptly as the initial ones that were the catalyst for the child’s projecting forth of traditional Peruvian food. I noticed that the event at least offered a new odor to intake, albeit much worse then those released after food digestion had already taken place, but new nonetheless.

The word ‘agony’ came to mind just as the mini torture chamber arrived to its stop. I emerged from the cage as a victim of a natural disaster emerges from rubble, using all my might to escape the clutches of that which had toppled me and turned me into the broken body that was moving forth to free itself. I had taken on the smells or all the other passengers as well as stinging pains in both knees and in my lower back.

The honeymoon must be over. I no longer believe the combi to be quaint or a good chance at a cultural experience. I believe it to be painful and an unfortunate necessity to get where I need to be. I’ll continue riding them, out of pure need, but have forgotten any romantic illusion that I may have had about them before.

Learning Compassion

I want to look at the kid with no hands. This is no freak show, and I am no voyeur of misfortune and suffering. I want to look because there is much to be learned by observing. But I don’t want him to see me looking. His life has been full of people staring at him, and I don’t want him to think that I am staring for the same reason as them. This is no freak show, and I am no voyeur.

He walks with a limp and begs for coins by thrusting two stumps out at passersby. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound callous, but reality rarely has use for euphemisms. Something awful must of happened to him. I don’t think it was a birth defect. Something about his shame seems to reveal that he is still getting used to his state. He looks at his wrists with the same contempt as those who stare. It’s a twisted, pained look of disbelief, the way an expecting mother might look at an empty crib after having a miscarriage. Again, I’m sorry for such a brutal analogy, but you have to understand the look that this kid carries. I see the pain in his eyes and will not belittle that suffering by putting flowery words over what is real. Whatever metaphor makes you cringe, whatever simile makes you angry and want to stop reading, that is what must be elicited in order for the point to be conveyed. His is an existence that pertains to those feelings of disgust, rage, pity and disbelief. He, a kid of 15 years old, with no hands, scrapping at the injustices of poverty and surviving in a cruel world.

What little money he collects he uses to buy food. He nourishes himself to sustain his life and continue on to the next day, repeating the same routine: beg for money in the street, suffer the stares, buy food. His earnings are only enough to buy a few stuffed potatoes, deep-fried. I don’t know where he sleeps or bathes. I only see him on the street corner, pleading for coins.

I want to look at him. His being, his life, his suffering is such a contrast to a life that I live and that I understand, that contemplating him seems like an impossibility. His existence is a high-level physics equation that will most likely just be answered with chaos theory. Is it possible that such a hard life can coexist coincidentally with a resolve to continue living? It must be an anomaly of some sort, a perverted distortion of how life should be, a freak of nature.

Freak of nature. If he hasn’t been called that directly, he has been told with glances, those quick shots of vision onto where his hands should be after the mind has processed the irregularity. Peruvians and foreigners alike look at him in the same way. There seems to be some universality in how we judge the less fortunate. That initial look, before the return for a second glance, the one based in pure instinctual disgust, is the one that he sees and feels daily. The look that is a precursor to one’s better sense, the look that comes before the looks of pity, compassion, or attempts to understand. The look of hard, initial surprise and even terror that he is met with constantly. It is that look that he bears daily.

Stabbing words need not be uttered. His own mind is capable of calculating that he is an outlier in this equation. Just look at everyone else around him, holding, grabbing, clinging, pointing, praying, giving high fives and hand shakes, writing love notes and using tools, making fists in anger, peace signs in support and middle fingers in disdain. He can barely hold the coins that are piteously placed between his two blunt appendages, while others are out there, limbs intact and reaping the benefits of their normal lives.

I want to look because I know he can teach me something. In looking, I see my own shame in having believed at any point that my life has been hard. In looking, I recognize my prejudices and realize that I too have given looks of horror and I don’t want that to be the only look I give. I want to smile at him, make a joke, or show in some way that I am trying to understand just as much as him, why we exist, here in this city, at the same time. I want him to know that while I look, adventures abroad or living deliberately or whatever other bullshit I have indoctrinated myself to believe to be my purpose, will arise from the experience of looking as meaningless. All that matters is that I am making an effort to understand his place in all this, because as I look, suddenly, my place doesn’t matter so much anymore. I’m pointless. He is reality. I am illusion. The kid with no hands, by being, becomes my guru, teaching me to leave myself, my worries, beliefs, infatuations, angers and frustrations. He forces me to look, but what’s more, he makes me see. He makes me see the world in its entirety. He makes me see the yin and the yang, the darkness and the light, the nothingness that our universe is expanding into. He makes me see that existence is multidimensional, illusory, and fixed all in one. He is suffering and beauty at the same time. How can that be possible? It need not be possible. It just is.

I want to look at the kid with no hands because I want him to know that I think he’s beautiful. I want him to see that I am thankful for his existence, because he has imparted priceless wisdom on me. I want him to know that he’s my teacher. I want my look to convey everlasting respect and admiration. I want it to beat the other looks that he gets. I want it to be the only look he remembers. I want him to know that I am not looking at him, but seeing him, and in that seeing, I am understanding. I want him to know that I am sorry, for ever thinking that my life was hard, or for ever looking at anybody with eyes of disgust. I want to look at him, because he makes me know compassion.

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