Saturday, July 5, 2008

35 hours into Pisco

The harsh rattling coming from the trunk of the taxi station wagon where I sit is almost unbearable as we traverse the dirt roads of Pisco, strewn with giant rocks, bricks, trash and rubble. The taxi driver, a man with a badged vest to prove his trustworthiness, is imploring me and Iman to turn the taxi around and hire him to drive us the 40 minutes to Paracas straight away. He tells us that there we can rest, feel safe, enjoy ourselves and still go on the same tours to sand board and to Islas de Ballestas. Pisco is not safe, he warns me. Pisco is in panic. There are barely roads, people are without homes, gringos are not safe. I know all these things. Partly because just 10 minutes ago while disembarking the bus Iman discovered his backpack had been stolen, and partly because as the driver is speaking, I open my backpack to discover that, though my backpack was not taken, my digital camera, ipod, skype headset, webcam, money and debit card were. Besides that, I have eyes. I feel as though I have just stepped into a 3rd world country. It´s a barren wasteland. The dust from the city coats my throat and even my tongue. I am terrified. I have never been robbed and I have never felt unsafe in Peru before, but I know I should stay, try to think rationally, calm down, figure out the best next move and get out a good cry. There´s a good story here I think to myself. I had no idea.

I am still a bit shaken up and scared to leave the safety of our bizzarely nice hostal that night. But I have to call via land lines to cancel my debit card and this requires either a phonecard or a headset, neither of which I have at the moment. Plus, Iman reminds me, I need to eat dinner. During the five block walk to the central plaza we carefully step over rocks and around huge piles of whatever while avoiding the side swiping moto taxis. It is getting dark and I am nervous, but this is quickly being replaced by a tugging guilty feeling. Iman is discussing our next plan of action. We can take a tour of the Ballestas Island in the morning and leave that afternoon if we wish. There are plenty of tour guides heckling us once we reach the square, shouldn´t be too difficult. We walk past a church and beside it an insurmoutnable pile of dirt topped by a massive, damaged, stone archway, then three little boys playing with a loose cable wire in the dirt. There are deserted lots, even around the main plaza, but there are also certain buildings which stand strong, the bank, the main pharmacy, my hostal. I spontaneously turn to Iman, ¨Honestly, I really don´t feel like seeing seals anymore. At this point, I want to find someone to ask how I can help.¨ It just doesn´t feel right. I don´t know how anyone has come here in the past 11 months to go on a tour and not stopped to reevalute their plan. These people need help. They are living in tiny, ¨temporary,¨ wooden boxes set up by volunteers and the government. I later learn that the majority of Pisco were living in tents until three months ago when the government followed through with some of the aid.
On our way back from the pharmacy a familiar, local tour guide magically appears once again to close the deal. His friend down the block called him when we passed to tell him we were on our way back past his ¨office,¨ a wooden box on the sidewalk corner. They have perfected the salesman routine, taking tourists on excurions is how they feed their families. I interrupt our salesman midsentence. ¨Actually, we don´t want to go on the tour anymore. We want to help. Can you tell us where or how we could help these people?¨ I ask. Ahhh, he says. His tone shifts immediately, as does his entire personality. The ensuing coversation is about the poor people of Pisco, the lies of the government, the pretty facade they have painted on the city to hide the fact that it has been almost 11 months since the 7 point something earthquake hit his city and it is still in shambles. I cannot help it, I am crying. He is telling me about children with no clothes and people without houses and I am just so sad. People closest to the central plaza have received the most aid, but there are so many on the outskirts who have nothing. I ask him if he will take us to these places tomorrow and he agrees. His name is Jimmy and he is now my friend. He will pick us up at 8:30 am tommorow. That night I sleep fitfully and am certain I have a fever. It is very cold here, much colder than Lima. I feel the heat of four blankets trying to seep into my bones, yet I am still shivering. I pray I am not getting sick, because I have a feeling that tommorow will require 100%.
We awaken the next morning and I do not bother showering. I have a feeling I will get dirty today. First, we pile into a moto taxi and are taken to the places that ¨have been forgotten¨ and need help the most. Iman and I have decided to access the situation before we spend any money. I stayed up awake last night and decided that I was going to split up some of my donations for Ayacucho and allot them here. Everyone who generously donated to my effort, did so to make a difference. I have decided that these funds can possibly be more useful here at the moment. The moto taxi swerves around rock piles and through endless lots of trash til we arrive at his home. It is a neighborhood directly next to the ocean. The water flooded their homes and they were left with nothing. They have been forgotten, he tells us. We amble up to one of the typical houses, a wooden structure, painted blue, about 15 by 12, I´m guessing here. Basically it´s small, think a small to average sized bedroom in the states. We talk to a woman cleaning clothes. Gradually a small crowd gathers and they each want to show me their respective homes. I am so thankful that Jimmy and his friend Peter, whose names have clearly been Americanized for our benefit, are with us. They help us communicate. We want to help. Tell us your stories, what do you need. Girls who look younger than my youngest brother Eddie appear carrying their babies. I see shacks where a mother sleeps on the floor with her pregnant daughter, daughter´s husband and two daughters, etc etc. The taxi driver brings out his precious infant, the mother is Sandra, a girl of 15. Later, we will give her two prescriptions which she gave us for her and her baby, which she hasn´t been able to afford for the past month. What we see is overwhelming. I wish I could post pictures, but since my camera was stolen, that will be a bit diffcult for a while.
Later that day, Jimmy and Peter take us to the market. We have a list of the names of all the 45 families in that area. Imar and I have decided to buy a thick blanket for each family, this comes out to a little over 800 soles. Then we buy food, a giant sack of rice, sugar, tiny bottles of oil, baby food and a packet of ramen noodle soup for each family. This on top of the 200 plus soles we each spend at the pharmacy with the stack of unfilled prescriptions we have been given. It is not much, but it is all we can afford. I have taken about $250 of my donation money and spent it here. It´s about 800 soles.
When we arrive back with all the supplies we hole up in one of the wooden boxes of the locals and divy out the portions. We have 200 plastic bags and we measure one kilo of rice and of sugar into their respective bags with the help of some of the women of the neighborhood. There are people lined up outside the door, peering in at me through the window flap, which is covered by a blanket. Women try to get my attention to ask for more, all the while I am just worried we may not have enough baby food for everyone. It is hot and I am sweating because apparently Pisco is very hot once the sun comes out. It is insanity, our own disorganized, yet fully functioning grassroots volunteer project. Peter begins screaming out the names of each family and as they come forward through the crowd of noisy women, one of my helpers hands me one of the blankets wrapped around the food rations we have prepared with help from the locals in our headquarters. ¨Carmen Moromo!,¨ ¨Andrea Topio!¨ Women surge forward. I know her, they tell us. She is my sister, my mother, my sister in law. Peter keeps order and insists that unless they pick up their portion and he can see them, they will be skipped. I am eternally grateful to Jimmy, whose birthday is today, and Peter, who has brought his adoreable one year old daughter and his wife along this second time. We could not have pulled this off without him. When all is said and done we take pictures with our new disposable cameras and head back to our hostal. We have decided a good thank you would be a big birthday dinner with Jimmy, Peter and both their families. We will treat. I don´t know what else to say except I wish I could have done this for every family in Pisco every day for the past 11 months, because it felt so good to change their lives, if only for a day. We care, we are here. We can´t stay, but please know you are not forgotten. I wish I had the courage to tell them all these things. Instead I pick up the 3-year-old who has been following me around and ask who is up for a game of futbol.

3 comments:

Beezus said...

You are amazing. Love ya!

Lauren said...

i could read your blog over and over and never get tired of it, perhaps crying a little more each time!!!

edcayce said...

It is fascinating to read your blogs. You bring to us that other part of the world which we can never imagine. It is fascinating. Keep writing dear, Love you, Papa.