The Hill: A Defining Memory of Colonel Gary Herchenroeder

October 17, 2012

The news came this afternoon, and I've been fighting misty eyes and painful lump in my throat since. The news gets passed around Facebook and the statuses full of respect and sadness appear like wildfire. And tonight, as I absently make pancake batter, wash dishes, take a quick shower and prepare for a study session for Microbiology, I’m not really here.  

Tonight, I’m nineteen. And it’s not night, although I’m thinking that I should be in bed. But no. I’m panting heavily and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The horizon has faded to a dark grey as the sun yawns and shakes off the night.  For me, sleep feels like . . . well, like three very long miles ago. The Ozark hills and autumn leaves have lost their allure. I glance up and see a few of the ROTC physical training group strung out before me, and I can hear a few others behind me. This is no longer fun for any of us. I grit my teeth and return my eyes to where my next step should go.

“That’s it, Miss Esh!” I hear from behind. Within a few seconds, Colonel Herchenroeder jogs merrily past, giving me a bright smile and a thumbs up, before easily quickening his pace to joke with some guys at the head of our ragtag bunch. How does he do that?

Half a mile later, I’ve reached my limit. I’m coming around the last curve before the huge hill before the level stretch and then the gym where I can stop running. But as I heave in another breathe and look up the slope to where the road disappears, I feel my eyes prickle with exhausted tears. There’s just no way!

Then I hear the Colonel. “Almost there, Esh!” He’s at the top of the hill, and one look at my doubtful face has him trotting down the slope at an amazing speed. He meets me toward the bottom of the hill, whips around and slows to match his pace to mine. “Don’t stop.” Too tired to really acknowledge him, I rally my focus and clumsily move my feet. “Come on.” And I take the next step. And for the next few minutes, he jogs me up the hill, a constant stream of encouragement flowing from his mouth. And I can’t give up. Cuz he’s there and he wants me to finish. And then we’re at the top and he’s saying, “Can you make it from here?” And then he’s turning around and calling the next person’s name. And pretty soon, I’m at the gym and I feel like I just conquered the world. I didn’t quit because he wouldn’t let me.

I was only under the Colonel for three or four months. I didn’t join up. I haven’t seen him, spoken with him, or even heard much about him for over five years.  But a couple weeks ago, something the pastor said about doing life together as Christians made me think of Colonel Herchenroeder, and I couldn’t wait to rush up to the pastor afterward and share this story. And this isn’t the first time I have. Why? Because I’m still learning from those few minutes on a chilly autumn morning when he believed in me, for me. 

The One Where I Had Soap in My Eyes

Last night, I was washing my face in the bathroom when I heard a whisper in my heart: “Suppose tomorrow night you fell asleep and never woke up. What could you reasonably do in the next 24 hours that would make tomorrow a worthwhile last day on earth?” As you can imagine, I was a bit taken aback by the question- who asks that of a person while they’ve got soap lather in their eyes anyway? Oh wait. I know exactly Who. So as I’m rubbing my face dry with that old tan towel, I ponder it. The first thing that comes to mind is my bucket list. I’m a idealist visionary, so I’ve had one for as long as I can remember. But then I realize that the question included an adjective: reasonably. So here’s some things I could not do in the next 24 hours:

• Work in a medical clinic in East Africa (I might be able to make it to Heathrow Airport in London, but that’s a long shot and who wants to die in the customs line?)

·         Get married (In my normal life, I can’t even get a date in the next 24 hours!)

·         Feel a baby grow inside me

·         Publish a book

·         Graduate from college

·         Learn Jujitsu (Yeah, you read that right!)

·         Have a refuge room in my house and a hospitality ministry

·         Spend a summer in Ireland

·         Speak French

Hmmm. Well, that makes this bucket list thing a lot more difficult. As a matter of fact, I’m back to square one. After brainstorming, I came up with things that I could do:

·         Notice how sunlight makes the grass glow iridescent green

·         Ask God to protect my sisters’ futures and meet them in their present

·         Call my mom and rejoice with her that God can make beauty out of ashes

·         Write my dad a letter that tells him how much his sacrifices over the years mean to me

·         Email the people I have hurt and ask for their forgiveness

·         Let the sunset painted on a rose touch my heart

·         Pray for God’s blessing on the people that I love and the ones I find hard to love

·         Smile at my neighbor who rides his skateboard down the balcony at all hours of the day and night

·         Hug my 2-year-old friend Bentley (if I can catch him)

·         Blow off my homework and help file papers at the crisis pregnancy center

·         Give all my savings to Samaritan’s Purse or Gospel for Asia and maybe to the people I know are struggling

·         Sit next to the crying girl on the bench and tell her about a God who can heal the brokenness and the shattered pieces (it won’t matter if she thinks I’m weird)

All of the sudden, my bucket list looks so much narrower, so much more doable. And it makes me wonder why I’m not already doing it. I realize that I’m too busy doing important things to worry about stuff so little. But if my only future were tomorrow, the small stuff suddenly seems so much bigger and all the hours I spend doing important things are wasted time.

So why don’t I live that way? It’s because I’m scared. Scared to death that if I don’t get an A in Microbiology, I will jeopardize my career. That if I don’t graduate from college, I’ll be stuck in a miserable job. That if I’m not beautiful and charming and fiery and strong and perfect, no one will want me and I will have to spend the rest of my life alone.  That if I don’t live a big life full of adventure, I will come to the end and feel insignificant. Fear is what causes the stress and anxiety, the late nights before a test, the constant safety measures to ensure success, the pleasing everyone- even the ones that aren’t in my life yet. Somewhere deep down, I am deathly afraid of making an irreversible mess of my life. So I fill it with blinding busyness that is supposed to eliminate the risk from my future.

But what if my only future were tomorrow? I feel the pressure and the fear seep out into a puddle on the bathroom floor (don’t worry, it’s not yellow). I want to be faithful to the important things—and my responsibilities are still among them. But I hope that I will one day they will cease to be insurance and begin to be blessings and ministry.

So now it’s tomorrow. And I still went to class this morning, but I noticed the roses on the way. And I called my mom to say just to say happy Friday. As soon as I’m finished writing, I’m going to study for my Viking World test. But I took a walk and enjoyed the cool breeze and the sunshine and the iridescent grass first. I want to learn to live in the balance of both of my futures- the one that’s imaginary and the one that is now.

Twenty-five and August Afternoon

I drag myself off the bed and shrug my shoulders a couple times to get rid of the ache in my shoulder. My brain is still thinking in Spanish as I wander away from Latin American Literature and open the door of my apartment. It’s time for a study break. Warm, muggy air seeps into my goosebumps as I wonder whether it’s more ethical to turn the air conditioning off and on as my body temp fluctuates or to just leave doors and windows open when it gets too cold inside. Utilities are included in my rent so maybe I have to think about the cost to the community at large.

 For the third or fourth time, I notice that the cicadas start singing much sooner here than back at home—and that whatever that room-sized machine behind the laundry room hums very loudly. The gray sky hangs low over the old play equipment in the empty lot behind the apartment complex- a nice break from the intense sunlight that turned my face pink yesterday. In the quiet, I can almost hear the lilting of a mournful, beautiful Hindi song. A sense of peace settles in on my insides.

The last week has been hectic- moving up to Nebraska again, trying to budget grocery money, fall classes beginning with a roar, and discovering that high school algebra is lost memory. I’ve called home asking whether it’s cheaper to buy prescriptions at Walgreen’s or Walmart and how you make hash. This morning at 6:30 it was whether or not to drop math, and if so, which Spanish class to add instead. My dear mom has plenty of practice and patience with my verbal processing, for which I’m so grateful.

As if microbiology and paying rent on time weren’t enough to think about, my twenty-fifth birthday is just around the corner. It seems like one of those big ones where you’re supposed evaluate life and figure out how you got where you are and if it’s where you thought you’d be 10 years ago. The answer is, “Well, sort of.”

I’ve had the opportunity to chase some of my dreams- spent time in missions, but never thought it would be in Mexico. Have higher level education- well, I’m slowly working on that one. Speak another language- wanted it to be some tribal language in Africa, but you know, Spanish works, too. Marriage is still somewhere out there on the horizon, distant yearnings for little ones, but that one can definitely wait awhile. In all, I’ve had some amazing experiences that many adults twice my age never get to have.

On the other hand, I’m twenty-five and have only lived in my own apartment for a week. I’m a newbie at budgeting finances on a monthly basis, and most of the people I see on campus are probably 5 years younger than me. I’m not sure whether or not I can still dress like a hippie and not be “immature for my age.” Some of these experiences that a lot of people have much younger than me are still brand new. And because I’m competitive and perfectionistic, I have to work on not feeling embarrassed about it.

But I have the life I’ve had, and I don’t regret the majority of it. And now I’m hitting another part of growing up, which I’m sure will be filled with tears and victories and headaches and chuckles. So I’ve decided it’s okay to feel exceedingly proud of myself for not only making a white sauce, but substituting it in for cream soup in a casserole. Or be excited that somehow the random decorating stuff I’ve accumulated all seems to be blue and white and brown and fit my ghetto apartment with the empty lot out back. And I like that I’m humming a Hindi song, wearing Peruvian pants, and reading about early Latin American history in Spanish, even if I have to drop College Algebra for now and take the prep class next semester.

That’s my life at twenty-five. Messier, more unexpected, and more beautiful than I planned it at fifteen. So as I step away from a muggy August afternoon and get settled in for some more pre-columbian America, I will smile with God at whatever the next twenty-five years (and this evening) hold. I can only imagine.

South American Salsa: Satin Reflections

Sky satin whirls through air, frolicking with bright reed flute notes, deep drum beats, teasing smiles. Stomping feet and brisk yips echo in the festive atmosphere executed by polite waiters, complementary Pisco sours, and juicy tequeños dipped in avocado. I savor the salty, crispy, cheesy, way-too-greasy bite and then refocus my attention on the dancers. Weaving gaily, twirling, with their professional smiles firmly in place, they show off traditional dances from Piura, Arequipa, la selva and other regions of Peru. The array of styles, steps, and music hint at the diversity of Peruvian culture. I bob my head to the rhythm, enjoying the show and thinking that it’s a good way to spend a last weekend in Lima.

What? Wait . . . It really is that. Once we begin our post-semester traveling on Friday, I will only spend two more nights in Lima. The next week will go so fast- a little homework, one in-class final, packing, a funeral mass, a good-bye lunch and any other lasts I should squeeze in. Puno and Lake Titicaca on the weekend, and then Iquitos and the Amazon the next week. Back in Lima for 36 hours to do final packing and goodbyes, and then boarding a Miami-bound plane on April 29^th. And then Kansas and Kearney and friends and reverse culture-shock.

The last few months have flown by in a whirl of combies, classrooms, challenges, outings, and laughter. I will miss the heat of the sun on my back as I test out icy ocean water. And the spicy flavor of anticuchos or ají de gallina or papa a la huancaína. My red and white apartment building with yellow flowers spilling over the wrought-iron fence. The energy and convenience of a big city. Moving to salsa music, classes in Spanish, maybe even the occasional, “Please, sir, you know that’s a lot. Give me the taxi ride for 7 soles or I’ll ask Juanito over here instead.” But I think I’ll miss the people in my program the most. Bonfires on the beach, Bembos ice cream dates, funny stories about messing up Spanish or falling out of combies, random conversations on the steps inside the entrance to UPC.

I won’t miss the constant “Hey, baby, nice body” comments or whistles from strangers, the every-Peruvian-for- himself driving chaos, or the being cheated because I’m a foreigner parts of Lima. The constant feeling that everyone is staring at you, the pretending to look mean as I navigate streets on my way home.  

I have learned a lot here. About subjunctive tenses, the usage of por vs. para, the meaning of “phrasal verbs”or how word order affects meaning. About the diversity and complexity of the Peruvian culture. About social problems facing Peru past, present, and future. About humans’ rights and indigenous politics in Peru and Latin America in general. As I reflected in a final essay earlier this week:

“That’s the thing that leaves me thoughtful. Perhaps because I grew up in a family that had to stretch paychecks to have food on the table, or because I have spent years praying for, studying, and working with marginalized groups, I have always felt a connection with indigenous groups and poverty-stricken families. The past few months spent living with the other side of society—shopping all the time, spending Fridays at the beach, or staying in resorts- have made me realize how easy it is to get caught up the materialism rampant in upper classes and wealthier countries. While having a maid serve my meals and do my laundry really bothered me in the beginning, I can feel it slowly becoming normal.

“I have had amazing experiences during my time here, but I do not feel the same connection to Peru as I have to other cultures that I have spent time in. The old saying goes, “you get out what you put in.” My life here has revolved around me—my studies, my friends, my classes, my fun. And that scares me. I have at least two more years of studies in a place generally isolated from extreme poverty. My life will easily fill with activities, classes, friends, and fun . . . I realize that staying aware of the hardship faced by so many people every day will take a conscious effort on my part. I hope that I choose to stay connected with the people who have lived a much harder life than I. If I forget, I become part of the problem.”

Ready to watch some dancing!

The after-the-dances dance party on the stage. Limeans love to dance!

A few corrections. . .

Huayco is actually spelled huaico.
And it was over 600 families that were left homeless by the landslides. One woman was left dead and 21 peopl injured. According to the newspaper "Nuevo Ojo," these are some of the worst landslides in recent years. At this point, help has been promised by officials, but until yesterday afternoon, there had not been any organized aid in motion.

South American Salsa: Huayco!

“Disculpe, Señor,” my host mom leans her head out into the drizzle and motions the man over to the car. “¿Hay paso enfrente?”

No, not for hours.  They are just letting a few people through at a time. I peer through the droplet-laden darkness at the tightly packed car lights blinking in front of us. The line is kilometers long. Retreating from my frustration into a little Rascall Flatts and Carry Underwood, I try to find a position that will make my back ache less. With four girls, several grocery bags, a laptop, and a DVD player packed in the back seat, wiggle room is counted in millimeters.

The rain started about half an hour before we arrived at the country club. My host family had rented a bungalow up in the mountains about an hour outside of Lima, wanting to spend Easter weekend relaxing together. Just as I was coming back to the car to carry the last of multiple grocery bags, suitcases, and pots across the club grounds, I spotted my host mom waving frantically at me from across the gravel parking lot. As I reached her, she excitedly told me that there was a “huayco” and to come see. I had no idea what a huayco was, but it seemed to be important. We joined scores of other vacationers at the entrance to the club just as traffic on the nearby highway came to a halt.

Within seconds, an inch or two deep flood of water raced down the highway. Behind me, the gravel driveway filled with water 3 or 4 inches deep and proceeded to flood the soccer field. While my host mom quickly removed her shoes and ran to move the car to higher ground, I watched people tear down tents with impressive speed and race to their cars, bags in hand. Huayco! Huayco!

Rosy, another girl who lives with my host family, recorded footage as we discussed whether or not to leave. They had cut the power to the whole club, and as we later discovered, the whole town because of the large amounts of water. Without electricity, there would be no cooking, spoiled meat, and a host of other complications. My host dad’s mother called to tell us there had been huaycos in the closest town. We reloaded everything as quickly as possible and left for Lima.

That was two hours ago. Rock and mud blocking the road has backed up frenzied traffic , not only here in Chosica but also in nearby Chaclacayo. We are all tired, tense, bored, and squished. My host mom turns up Barbara Streisand on the radio, illiciting complaints as the Katy Perry music video on the laptop in the backseat is drowned out. No longer able to handle three different styles of music and honking horns, I grit my teeth and pull out my headphones. This is going to be a long night.

We inch forward. Streams of people sheltered by trash bags rush past us the opposite direction, looking for high ground. Rain dances in the headlights.  

Suddenly, traffic jolts forward, opening up a space to take a different road. After half a second of thought, my host mom follows 2 other vehicles up the mountain. A native of Chosica, she thinks that there may be a way to get around the landslide on this parallel local road used by the mototaxis. After several off-roading maneuvers that should really only be attempted with a 4-wheel drive (not this little city car), rocks scraping the underbelly of the car and all passengers out, we finally get to the main road on the other side of the landslide. The highway that had been so clean a few hours ago was now covered with inches of mud. After driving past 3 or 4 kilometers of 3 lanes of paralyzed traffic heading up the mountain, we headed down to Lima. I flopped into bed at 1:30 a.m. after a midnight meal of anticuchos and potatoes.

This morning, the T.V. informed us that there had been 8 landslides in the Chosica/Chaclacayo area, leaving 300 families without electricity and water, and drowning one woman in her home. Many homes have been damaged or destroyed. Road crews will be working for days to clear the highways.

My back is still sore as I write this, and I’m admittedly locked in my room getting a little personal space back. I’m just now realizing how lucky we were to get down. I’m also realizing what these families will be dealing with in the next few months as they try to put life back together. Please pray for them, if you get a second.

Water fills the soccer field and runs off into a
very full drainage ditch- this is maybe half an hour
after the first water crossed the parking lot of the club.

Torrential rain in the mountains created the landslides in Chosica

Rosy, Ariana, and Marisol packed in the back seat with me.
Scared faces, everyone!

Some roads were completely filled, stacked feet higher than
this road, with rock from the mountain

Mud and rock covers the road

City of Chosica, where the most huaycos hit

Traffic backs up for miles. . . 3 lanes going
one way in parts!

South American Salsa: Precious Moments

Sand spits in my face as we race up the dune, and I press my lips together to avoid an open mouthed laugh. We crest the dune and the wheels spin over thin air for a moment before diving down the vertical slope. My stomach drops delightfully as we hit the end of the slope and take sharp right, tires throwing clouds of moist sand. A few minutes later, we come to a stop at the top of dune and our driver does a quick photo shoot before untying the sand boards from the frame of the buggy. Steph, Chelsie and I each take a turn whizzing down the dune.

And that was just the first afternoon at Las Dunas Resort in Ica, a 4 hour bus ride south of Lima. Over our two and a half days there, we managed to fit in pool time, horseback riding through the dunes, a visit to the unique Islas Ballestas (home of sea lions, pelicans, seagulls and penguins), a 2 hour soccer game (my bruises are still healing), and a karaoke night. The weekend was a part of our package price for the semester, and it was a blast!

Since we returned from Ica a couple weeks ago, life has been filled with class, homework, friends, and Spanish tutoring. A while back, I felt challenged to put more effort into my language study. My Spanish tutor, Zule, has been very good at working with me to get a deeper study on areas that I have problems in. This week, one assignment was to write an article in Spanish on a city I’ve lived in or visited. After I correct it, I’m hoping it will become my first Spanish blog post! I have also gone to a couple of our “conversation tables”—basically, people from my group get together with other UPC students and talk about life. Two days a week we talk in Spanish and the other two in English. Although I haven’t been a regular, I have enjoyed the hours spent there in the last couple weeks.

I’ve also had the chance to meet some new friends. Last Saturday, I was invited to a private beach by the daughter of one of my host mom’s friends. It was a nice chance to speak Spanish for an extended period of time and relax away from crowded Lima. I had the opportunity to get to know my new friends Karla, Andre, and Renzo. We strolled through a well-known, upper-end shopping center called Asia on the way back to Lima- I even got serenaded by Mariachi band from Mexico!

Today, I was invited to visit the mother and godfather of my Peruvian friend, Alicia, who I met 6 or 7 years ago working at Bethany Home. I randomly ran into Alicia in Walmart a couple weeks before I came to Peru and talking with her relieved some stress about coming to a new country. Today I was able to deliver some vitamins to her mother, share a delicious lunch, and chat with Alicia and husband over Skype. It was fun to be with her family and talking to her, even though we are thousands of miles apart. Through listening and participating in their conversation, I learned another perspective on some of the politics and recent history of Peru that was a little different than what I have heard in several of my classes, which has left me with some things to process.

With just five and half weeks left in Peru, I’m feeling both excited to return to the States and surprised at how fast these last few months have flown by. With my remaining time here quickly filling with work and fun, I am grateful for the opportunities, lessons, and friends that I’ve made and am expecting many more precious moments in Peru J.

Pool area at Las Dunas Resort- so very refreshing after
a hot day in the desert!

Hanging with the dune buggy :)

We survived!!!

Speeding over the dunes! Look out below!!!

Las Islas Ballestas- home to all sorts
of intersting sea creatures!

Penguins on las Islas Ballestas! No icebergs here!

Horseback riding in the dunes! It's been
awhile, but I loved it!



Dr. Aviles' birthday dinner back in Lima. We went to this
yummy Thai place with a really cool atmosphere. MMM!!!

Relaxing at the beach south of Asia with my new friends!

Draping tree flowers at the resort

More pretty tree flowers- God takes my breath away sometimes :)

South American Salsa: Single Scream

The other night, I had a hard time falling asleep. It was the scream that kept me awake. I couldn’t drown it out, no matter how high I turned up my Ipod. Just thinking about it gives me shivers. Imaginary, but powerful, it echoed in my inner being. The single scream of thousands women and girl subjected to rape and sexual abuse as a result of political violence in Latin America. Deep, gut-wrenching, raw, alone- that is how it sounds.

In my Indigenous Politics class, we have been studying a period of political violence in Guatemala that lasted from the sixties into the mid-nineties. Basic summary: several guerrilla groups with socialist leanings rise up against a dynasty of military dictators. Indigenous groups, which make up a signifigant proportion of Guatemalan population and have been historically marginalized and deeply impoverished, tend to side with the guerrillas, whose communal ownership doctrine closely parallels deeply-rooted traditional beliefs. The Guatemalan government begins a scorched-earth campaign in the late ‘70s and into the early ‘90s, attacking not only guerrillas, but anyone suspected of aiding them. In their practice, that meant just about anyone who lived in the mountains and had Mayan features. Torture, massacres, forced disappearances and forced relocation were among a few of their favorite tactics for destroying the enemy and protecting themselves. The extent of the violence spurred the Truth Clarification Commission (CEH), published 3 years after the official end of the war in 1996, classified incidents as genocide. In recent years, members of the military involved in the scorched-earth campaign are beginning to be held accountable by the justice system for their war crimes.

Enter women. I’ve just scraped the tip of the iceberg in reading about rape in war-- specifically, a few articles about rape in recent conflicts in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Guatemala, and Peru, and a couple books that included victims’ testimonies of rape as a part of war strategy in Darfur conflict and other civil wars in East Africa.  Based on common themes in my reading, this is a summary of what I understand: The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (CIDH), the Red Cross and the U.N. recognize rape in war as a form of torture and classify it as a crime against humanity (Violacion, 263). In many ethnically based conflicts, women are seen as dangerous because of their reproductive capacity (Franco, 29). Thus, being the bearers of the enemy, ethnic cleansing practices often include the rape, torture, and execution of pregnant women, forced abortion and forced impregnation, not to mention gang rape and a host of other atrocities.

All of these tactics were systematically employed by the Guatemalan military and paramilitary groups, who were responsible for 93% of the humans’ rights abuses during the conflict (Bird, 27). The Peruvian military also used many forms of rape as torture in Peru’s conflict with the Sendero Luminoso in the 1980s. For example, many women, some suspected to be associated with the Sendero Luminoso and others who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, were gang raped by the military according to rank and then shot (Franco, 28). The eye-witness accounts and victim’s testimonies that I’ve read are gruesome, and as I’d like to keep this PG-13, I won’t go into detail. It is also worth mentioning that rape is just one form of torture employed by these militaries. Evidence found by truth commissions in both countries indicated massive humans’ right abuses in several different categories.

As I read, the obvious question is: How did we get to this? How can one human being do this to another?

I have several beginning thoughts on this, the first of which is that “ideas have consequences.” I’m borrowing this principle from “Discipling Nations,” a book on holistic, sustainable community development by Darrow Miller. Basically the theory goes like this: Our ideas or worldview leads to our beliefs. Our beliefs lead to actions. Our actions have consequences, good or bad. So our ideas matter. In fact, they are vitally important.  

When I was a kid, there was a popular saying that went: “Believe in something or you will fall for anything.” However well-intentioned, this statement is destructively misleading. What you believe produces consequences in your life and in others’ lives. Unfortunately, at both a personal and international level, we often look no deeper than the consequences or the actions because the closer to the root we get, the stickier and more uncomfortable the issue becomes. That, however, is a whole soap box in itself, so let’s get back to the point.

What collective ideas could have caused practices like those in Guatemala and Peru? The idea that another race is subhuman, for one. This idea has some responsibility for several major consequences in Latin America and other parts of the world, like ethnically based social and political inequality, genocide during the Guatemalan civil war, etc.

 How about this one: “look out for number one.” At a personal level, this idea is responsible for destroyed relationships, lack of integrity, greed, and compromise. At a national level, it takes on names like corruption, ethnocentrism, and genocide. In Guatemala , it looked like a “scorched-earth” policy that protected only the military and left tens of thousands of innocents dead.

My second thought is that cruelty doesn’t develop overnight. I’ve never heard a kid say, “I want to be a torturer and rapist when I grow up.” But given a certain environment, a few too many compromises, some wrong ideas, and a sense of impunity, perhaps undergoing abuse themselves, a process of desensitization can occur, leaving disastrous results in its wake. Those who participated in ethnic cleansing and torture through rape in Peru and Guatemala made a series of choices and compromises, granted sometimes out of fear for their own lives and those of their families, which built the character and capacity for cruelty.

And one more thought for now- personal is so deeply connected to collective. There has to be me before there is we. Societies, families, nations are made up of individuals- individual ideas, individual compromises, a combination of individual actions. As much as it would be nice to think that what I do (which is a consequence of my ideas) only affects me, that is not reality. When combined, what I think and what you think can break, create, destroy or build people, relationships, cultures, and nations.

So, to sum up:
-I’ve never been a fan of Machiavelli, and what reading I have done has convinced me that the end does not justify the means. Torture should never be used as a widespread, systematic form of punishment or information gathering, even in times of war. 
-Ideas have consequences, so what I (and we) believe matters.
-Twisted character is a process, not an event.
-Individual action (or lack of action) creates a ripple effect that has a way bigger impact than imagined at the beginning.

Now, as the scream of victims fades a bit, a different tune echoes in my heart, sending chills down my back:

“Oh, be careful, little mind, what you think.”



Sources:

Bird, Annie."Genocidal General Wins Presidential Elections in Guatemala." Upside Down World. 7 Nov. 2011.

Franco, Jean. "Rape: A Weapon of War." Social Text, Vol. 25, No. 2, Summer 2007. Duke University Press.

Miller, Darrow L. and Stan Guthrie. Discipling Nations: The Power of Truth to Transform Cultures. YWAM Publishing: 2001.

"Violación Sexual Contra la Mujer." The Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Lima, Peru. 19 Mar 2002.

Sanctuary in the Clouds

     The train sways back the other direction as I crane my neck to see the first glimpse of the snow-capped Andes. Ragged violet peaks poke out from behind green mountains and rushing foliage, glimmering a little in the early morning light. Leaning apologetically around the Asian guy next to me, I wait for the one second gap in the trees and snap a photo (or 20 :).

     We've been following the Urubamba river for the last hour, the landscape gradually changing from valley farmland into steep, towering mountains. Now I'm noticing jungle plants and moss laden trees hanging over the angry toffee river to my left. On my right, mountain and jungle wild flowers rush past in a blur of pink, yellow, and purple, clinging stubbornly to the wall of earth three feet from my window. I think the French couple across the table from me find my enthusiasm mildly entertaining.
   
     Two hours later, I vaguely listen to the tour guide's explanation of Incan mythology as I touch the stone wall in Machu Picchu. Seven hundred years ago, an Incan stone mason had hewn an exact angle, specially designed to resist the strong earthquakes that plague the area. Smooth. So tightly fitted that shoving a nail file in between the stones would have been impossible. Incredible craftsmanship blending natural rock with quaried stone, buildings carefully constructed on a mountain ridge. What was the stone mason's story?

   The afternoon sun sets the ancient city in sharp relief, dwarfed by the hulking moutains that pierce the blue sky. I look down the mountain at the narrow, ancient path that hugs the cliff and connects Machu Picchu with this high eroding stone checkpoint where my friends and I have settled. Conciously preventing my jaw from hanging open, I try to absorb  the landscape in all its detail. Sharp green cones rise suddenly from the floor of the ground. What mysteries lie hidden, protected in the great folds of the mountains? The thread of the Urubamba squeezes between their planted feet and Aguas Calientes seems like a tiny, insignifigant leggo amongst overstuffed living room furniture. The smell of wet leaves and earth freshens the thin air. At any moment, I expect Tarzan to come swinging through the trees. I can't believe this is my life. Do I really get to be here, to see this? The blessing swells in my chest, quickening my heartbeat and stealing my ability to speak. To see this place is to glimpse how grand and majestic and protective and vulnerable is the heart of its Creator. A thought to be analyzed later. For now, my soul drinks in the wild, hidden beauty of this sanctuary in the clouds.

P.S. My blog and my computer cannot seem to communicate well. Check out Facebook for pictures!

South American Salsa: Real Peru

It doesn’t matter than it’s after midnight. It would appear that the entire community of Cerro Azul enjoys a good party. Oh, good defined as salsa blasting from loud speakers, vendors selling homemade hemp bracelets and party whistles, and all lights on in the town square, complete with its stage, church, central gazebo, and park. People laugh and call out to friends, wander through the booths holding hands, or gather by the live band.

The aroma of meat sizzling mixes with the briny ocean breeze as the six of us weave between plastic tables and jolly townspeople. Settling in one of the squished open-air food areas, Ana Belen orders anticuchos (grilled cow heart on a kabob) and picarones (rings of deep fried dough dipped in syrup) for everyone. I try to keep up with the excited Spanish conversation bouncing around our table full of women, but it’s been more than 24 hours since I heard or spoke English. My limping brain catches only bits and pieces- enough to look like I understand and respond to direct questions. A bottle of bright yellow Inka Cola appears in the center of our table and the bubble-gum pop is quickly distributed in tiny disposable cups. The band begins its next song.

I momentarily stop trying to understand Spanish over hundreds of voices and thrumming rhythm and reflect on the last couple days. We left Lima yesterday (five hours later than originally planned), and drove to a beach house on Playa Los Lobos, named for the sea lions that used to live here before the people moved in. Tucked far away from developed hotels and malls, Los Lobos still feels relaxed and uncrowded. Maybe it was being away from the city, my computer, and busyness, or perhaps it was the spacious, window-filled, blue and white beach house with no hot water, but something inside feels deeply relaxed.
I always feel noticed, observed when I’m outside here. My light skin, hair, eyes, and height (yep, I’m tall here) make it difficult to blend in and practically scream, “Please take advantage of my ignorance.” I always feel on guard, alert. Earlier tonight, I went up to the second story balcony and finally felt anonymous in the darkness, free to listen to ebb and flow of the sea and watch the moon play across the clouds without anyone staring. Just me and God sharing a companionable silence.

My eyes meet a stranger’s observation, and I quickly tune back into our table as the anticuchos and picarones arrive. I’m a little scared of the anticuchos until the first mouth watering bite.

After wiping our fingers, we jabber our way through the booths and music. Ana Belen asks the guy at the drinks stand to mix me up some Pisco Sour, the national alcoholic beverage of Peru. It burns all the way down, leaving an aftertaste of lemon. I like it- the shot glass is enough for now, though.

After a walk on the malecon (beachside sidewalk), we crawl back in the car- two in front, four in back- and begin the 2 hour drive home.

This weekend, I connected in a way I haven’t yet. Museums and historical sites are important, but the real culture of a country is here- in the streets, eating the local food, speaking the language. Real isn’t always easy to deal with- it bugs me to get up at 8 a.m. and not leave until 1 p.m. and live in constant flex. Or to not know the polite way to say “I don’t like papaya juice- please don’t bless me with it every morning.” It’s in “real” that I learn, though. To laugh at myself. Remember that I can sleep in dirty sheets and take cold water showers and force down food I don’t like with a big, grateful smile. Learn to let not knowing or being in control be okay.

I got a taste of both sides of real Peruvian culture this weekend- the hard, learning part and the salsa dance, anticuchos, laughter part. I love it. I hate it. It’s good for me. This is why I am here. Beautiful.

P.S. On Sunday, we went a couple hours outside Lima to a party at Ana Belen’s friend’s house. Great food and a pretty agricultural valley. I even got told I dance like a latina!

Seagulls play in late afternoon sea

Ariana, me and Ana Belen (my host family) get out of Lima
for awhile. Ariana and Ana Belen love the sea!

Ariana and friend Marisol spent hours frolicking in the waves.
I spent hours lying on the beach with a book.

On Sunday, we headed north of Lima to the agricultural valley of
Huaral. It was nice to see green!

Ana Belen's friend raises guinea pigs or "cuy" for food. Yep,
they're not pets here! I hear their meat is highly nutritious
and low in fat content. We'll see if I get up the guts to try it.

Like most Latin American parties I've been to, dancing and salsa
music is a must. I love it! Go girls!

If I'm going to talk about real Peru, I can't leave out the reality
of Peruvians who aren't as fortunate as my host family. There are
no beach houses in their lives.

Had to add this one! Take a deep breath and listen
to the waves :)!

Oh, I don't think I mentioned the pet baby rabbit that runs
around the house making a mess all day. Nazca is so cute!
She's not allowed in my room however. . . except this once ;).

South American Salsa: Shadow Puzzles and Incan Relics

So many thoughts, none of them fully formed. I can feel these shadows clashing, bouncing apart, and chinking together, like magnetized puzzle pieces desperate to find an opposite charge. How do I meld them?


I wander through the glass-walled displays, 800-year-old ponchos and gold llama diadems and squat, crazy-eyed idols arranged in tapestry of history. Our guide’s explanations weave together the ancient pre-Incan legends that I’ve read in Peruvian Literature. This culture, relics of which live on in the nooks of the Andés and isolated Amazonia, fascinates me. Perhaps because of the missionary biographies that have been a steady part of my literary diet since childhood. Perhaps because it’s where I pictured myself as a girl- lost in some jungle or desert region with a tribe no one had ever contacted before. Perhaps because no matter how much I study, I will always have more to learn.

Protests against foreign mining projects in Cajamarca, Peru.
Photo from culanth.org

The whirling shadow thoughts suddenly spin into perspective.

Indigenous peoples have been fighting for the freedom to occupy their homelands and preserve their culture for centuries. They have taken the brunt of injustice, violence, and prejudice in exhaustingly repetitive manner. Targeted for systematic destruction in every former European colony in the Americas, it is a miracle (literally God’s protection) that any remnant of their race or culture survive. Now they are being heard by the world, presenting a combined rhetoric of indigenous rights, environmental protection, and human and minority rights. Prejudices are finally being written out of law. Indigenous peoples are being recognized as exactly that- people, complete with souls, power, and a voice. I love it.

Ruins of the Mayan culture outside Palenque, Chiapas, Mexico.

But yet . . .

Many want special rights to land or autonomy based upon their ethnicity. Is that just for society at large? They want their culture to be protected, guarded, untouched. Yet no one is forcing them to have TVs in their homes. A deep attachment and appreciation for their ancestors’ traditions and lifestyle also keeps them in the poverty that they rail against. Many hate being excluded or marginalized in society at large, yet their own community-oriented culture has very clear insiders and outsiders. The past should not have happened the way it did. Yet, continual rehashing of past victimization can cease to be legitimate and begin to be manipulation, particularly in countries like Bolivia or Ecuador where indigenous parties have the power to topple presidencies. Do they want reconciliation? Should they?

The contradictions leave me frustrated. Torn between fascination, empathy, and a desire to see all people treated fairly. Knowing that forgiveness can heal prejudice and pain. Knowing from personal experience that human nature clings ardently to pain and bitterness because it feels safer than forgiveness.

Images flash before my mind’s eye. Washing my face in a stream in San Cristobal, pretending not to observe the highland women in their bright skirts and braids and Tzotzil chattering. Guatemalan villages tucked away in folded shores of Lake Atitlan. Rigoberta Menchú’s story, which has brought this inner conflict to the surface again. Hakani. The anger at those who extort ignorance in the packing plants of Maneadero and in the maquiladoras of Juárez. My friend, Roxana, who keeps house for the family I live with in Lima. The poignant photos of indigenous groups betrayed and caught in the crossfire of the Peruvian civil war. My own perhaps selfish frustration of being lumped into the same group as the conquistadors because of my race, whose actions I pray I would not have taken part in. The conclusion that each ethnicity and each person has played the role of both victimizer and victim at some point.

But where the heck does that leave us?

Broken, selfish, hurting- human.

Perhaps in need of divine intervention. Scratch that- definitely in need of a just, compassionate, impartial God. One whose heart delights in myriad cultures, but whose Truth transcends them. A God who extends grace and asks us to do the same. Who requires a surrender of control and of self and offers unconditional love in return. A King who broke social norms and spent his time with the marginalized, and then forgave his killers with his dying breaths. A God who rose with the right to say, “I’ve lived it. I get it. I’ve overcome it.” A living, active, engaged God who whispers, “Follow me.”

What if we actually did?

South American Salsa: Wrought Iron and Sunshine

Black wrought iron curls against a brick red apartment building, roses and lily-like flowers peeking standing in clear relief. I take a deep breath, shift my bag of snack food, yogurt, and chocolate to the other hand, and resist the urge to wiggle my shoulders in the delightful energy of the late afternoon sunshine. This has always been my favorite time of day, when light bathes buildings yellow, the breeze hints of nighttime cool, and humanity shrugs off a long day and anticipates sunset.

Ashley, Chelsie, and I adventure off the beach
Maybe a little more of an adventure than we
expected :)

My bright pink shoulders have finally turned a milky gold. Somehow, I managed to escape reburning at the beach yesterday, a tiny miracle compared to the crashing waves and hot sand. Images of yesterday’s adventures flash in quick succession. Walking way too far in search of a sandy beach amidst jewel colored, ocean smoothed rocks. The desperate, stupid decision to hail a cab instead of call one. A nerve-wracking ride through the cracking buildings and hair-raising traffic to an unknown destination. Relief when the beach actually existed and bonus, had sand. The oasis of green, mosaic, watery, vendor-filled park after a day in the sun. Chilling with Ashley and Chelsie in a cool house with peaceful pictures. Navigating a new combi route, squished between strangers. The apartment where I live, the one with black iron art and brick red walls and roses.

Nighttime celebration of Lima's 477th birthday!

Yesterday was one more adventure to add to my first 2 weeks in Peru. There was the crowded, luminescent celebration of Lima’s birthday in Plaza de Armas, complete with too loud speakers, cultural shows, and a trip to McDonalds (yeah, snicker mcflurries!). Oh, and the trip to the zoo with classmates and Peruvian friends. And admiring oil paintings by a cathedral in Miraflores. The artisan’s market with soft al-paca fur, bright colors, and booths (love it!). And reading ancient pre-Incan legends in Peruvian Literature. Then the song we dissected in Conversation class that almost made me cry for home (though I wasn’t sure which one). Being able to tell a taxi driver how to get to my apartment. Hiding behind sunglasses so people don’t stare as much. Laughing with Roxana, our housekeeper, when we startle each other coming around the corner. The peaceful nights through my window that suspend squares of light and salsa notes in the dark air.

Balancing my bag of goodies, I smile as more salsa music drifts through the courtyard of my apartment complex. The outer door snaps open to my key’s prompting, and I head inside to rest before next week’s adventure.