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!