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.

South American Salsa: First Taste

The line curves like a sleeping snake, piling row after row of people between red cords. I shift my sagging backpack to the other shoulder, cradling it with my hands to relieve an aching back and shoulders. I’ve been up for 20 hours on 4 hours of sleep. The line slowly seeps through immigration. My turn. A new stamp and signature in my passport. Brightly colored bills and oddly shaped coins replace a few of my greenbacks at the exchange booth. Then the waiting. And waiting. It is 1:30 a.m. Joined by layovers and lost baggage, a new friend and I fill out paperwork and figure out addresses. Will our host families still be waiting, too?


Waving arms. Relief and a kiss on the cheek. Amber and blue lights and night-shrouded buildings blend with the briny, cool breeze and Spanish. And sleep.

Sticky. Yellow sunlight and a soccer game at the park drift through the window. I don’t know my host mother’s name. How do I get her attention without offense? Smiling, curious conversation. Barbara Streisand and salsa on the radio with the windows down and white knuckles on the door handle. Delicious spices and tiny restaurants by busy streets feels like home- the one with tacos and smiles and warm skin.

A prescription paper and lawyer talk gets me through the guarded door at the hospital. A grandma with a broken hip waiting for pain medication and hairbrush. Observing family relationships, trying to stay out of the way but available to help.


A mall on a cliff by the sea. Soft Al-Paca shawl. The price tag reminds me that tuition is expensive. I get strawberry-banana smoothies close to a Starbucks and a lesson on Peruvian economy under the umbrella over the table. Dubbed Jack and Jill and generosity.

Taxi hopping and squished into a corner table, I try Pollo a la Braza. Savoring every last piece, I’m grateful to be distracted from a thousand details that crowd my overflowing brain. I don’t understand what he’s saying, so I nod and smile and put more chicken in my mouth and say thank you.



Latin sophistication gleams from the computer labs, an on-campus Starbucks,
guarded gates, and green trees at La Universidad Peruana de Ciencias Aplicadas.





“Make sure you spit all the water out,” I tell myself as I brush away the remains of my first 24 hours in Lima. Spending time with my travel Companion and Constant, the One who reads my Spanglish thoughts and feelings and lives in Lima. Bed.

 

Guess what? No bunk bed! Not sleeping
on a church pew, van seat, or cement floor!
 And a new mattress! Did I mention that hot
water comes out of the shower head? Definitely
a different kind of adventure :).





The DTS Outreach packing
list I handed out adapted
 to Peru



San Borja night shimmers through my window

South American Salsa: The Adventure (Almost) Begins

I can already feel the hum of the jet engines. The flight attendant steps to the center of the aisle with that awkward seat strap model. I could probably give the safety speech as well as her, but I take the safety brochure out of the seat in front of me and look at the pictures anyway. My mind is crystal clear and as taut as a bow string, the adrenaline surging through my body. I force myself to breathe deeply and stare out the window as the trees and cement blur into streaks of color. The wheels lift off the tarmac, and for a moment the plane seems weightless. No turning back now.


But all of that is tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I’ll be walking off of my third plane for the day and into the next adventure: Lima, Peru. Today, I’m still in Little Sweden, USA, savoring and storing up the last bits of home.

Whether you’ve been following for awhile or are new to my blog, welcome to the first entry in my latest blog series: South American Salsa. Yeah, salsa is probably a little too Mexican to be part of the title for a Peruvian adventure, but I couldn’t help it. Plus, salsa contains a plethora of different taste sensations and vegetables (I promise I won’t use bad words too often ;) that make a bowl of yummy goodness in the end. I’m hoping to give you an array of details and experiences that will delight our senses and piece together a new culture. And those of you who complain about my blogging laziness (ahem, Rob) will be happy to know that one of my classes requires that I update at least 2-3 times a month, so watch my Facebook status!

So here’s the basic scoop:

Destination: Lima, Peru

Place of Study: La Universidad Peruana de Ciencias Aplicadas (Peruvian University of Applied Sciences)

Length of trip: January 6- April 30

Reason for trip: get better at Spanish, see cool places, learn from new people, and discover more about Jesus

Going back to UNK in the fall? Yes- unless God changes the plan like He so loves doing

Best way to contact me? Email or Facebook

Welcome to the adventure! More to come.

8 Rules for Easy Moving- Part 2

Snow falls gently from the wintry grey sky, drifting on my eyelashes and stinging my face a little. I smile in spite of myself. With finals for my first semester just around the corner, a challenging month to recover from, and packing to do, I work at getting my brain to shut up and enjoy the peacefulness for a couple seconds.


In August, I wrote an entry called “8 Rules for Easy Moving.” I was nervous about a new start, and said:

“God’s reminded me that not all of the new things are bad and firsts only last for awhile. There are the things to look forward to, like taking a dance class for the first time in 12 years or the job that I was hoping for and got. Refining and expanding my Spanish. Being in college and knowing why I’m there this time. Unforseen ministry opportunities. And above all else, that I am not, and will not be, alone.”

My class had our end of the year dance performance yesterday and it was a blast! And I just took a Spanish final over sequence of verb tenses and the pluscuamperfect, imperfect subjunctive, and adverbial clauses (yeah, only Miss Judy understands- don’t worry about it). It turns out that UNK has over 500 foreign exchange students, so God just brought the world to me. And He’s blessed me with good friends and a great church.

I thought when I wrote the first edition of “8 Rules for Easy Moving” that I was moving for several years. Studying abroad in Peru next semester was not on the forefront of my mind, but with a plane ticket dated January 6th sitting in my inbox, it certainly is now. And while my brain says, “This is an amazing opportunity!,” my heart says, “But I just got here!” The truth is, I don’t feel adventurous or daring or ready to take on another culture in a couple weeks.

Therefore, God has been continuing a lesson on the amazing power of gratitude. Instead of His usual applications of a bad attitude or depression, He’s working on fear. A fear of both stepping into a new unknown and of leaving what has only recently become known. Of living with a family I don’t know. Of taking Peruvian Literature in Spanish! He has been challenging me to be grateful for what lies ahead, even if I don’t know what exactly it looks like. Because no matter what else is in my future, God is.

My mom, who is generally pretty smart, recently told me about a song by Casting Crowns:

“When I'm lost in the mystery

To You my future is a memory

Cause You're already there.”

And because He is, the unknown doesn’t seem so intimidating.

So as I take a couple minutes to enjoy the snow, cram for finals, and find my hiking backpack (which actually hasn’t had time to get lost yet), I will look to a challenge and call it an adventure.

Because God lives in Lima, too.