It started out just like always. I left my computer lab classroom -- where I was working alone -- to get a copy of the key from the main office. I pass a group of boys loitering on the stairs. They whisper amongst themselves, shout a "HE-LLO!" and then look at me smiling. No, scratch that, these are not smiles, these are smirks, they are mischievous and they make me uncomfortable. I drop a routine "good morning" back and then cringe as soon as I have passed them. I wait for it, and of course it comes. The whistling, the "psssssst" sound, the "linda" and "bonita" whispers directed towards my back. I keep walking and watch as the next gaggle of boys in the hallway get the signal from their friends (the boys I´ve just passed). She´s coming. Get ready. The whole routine is repeated again (several times) until I reach the door of the Director´s office, Angel (his name, not an adjective). I deliberately chose to sneak out of my classroom while classes were still in session because I thought maybe, just maybe, I would avoid this whole routine. But today is different, I am not accompanied by a teacher and now all these boys that I am working in my classroom -- alone. On the way back up to my classroom, the forces have doubled. There are more stations of underage prepubescent boys and they are rowdier. The gaggle outside my classroom has become particularly obnoxious, shouting louder and more insistently as I pass. I am supposed to be a teacher here for God´s sake. I (being my mother´s daughter) can finally bear it in silence no more. I whip around and try talking to them. "In the United States, that is considered rude." They play dumb. "No entiendo blah blah." Of course my vocab is escaping me when I most need it. "Basta," I finally say firmly. Enough. I shut the door.
Minutes later, after they have been banging on my door for five minutes straight, screaming, I finally crumble when I see that they have scaled the walls and are now at the windows 10 feet high above the concrete walls to my room, staring in at me with those smirks. The are yelling loudly in Spanish while they bang, and I can´t stop thinking of the flying monkey´s from "The Wizard of Oz." I feel infuriatingly helpless, like a piece of meat and though I know it´s irrational, I am kind of scared. I know positively that they will not stop. My vision blurs and I´m not sure whether to run outside screaming and rip them from my windows or burst into tears. Without many options, I fall victim to my second choice. I storm out of the room and again walk the miserable 45 seconds to Angel´s office. I barely make it through the door before I collapse in sobs. This is so embarrassing. A sweet, plump secretary whose name I have of course forgotten, takes me in her arms as I sputter out my story. My whole body is shaking. Was I really that scared of a gang of high schoolers? What´s the worst they could have done? I don´t care. I repeat over and over in Spanish "no estoy accostumbrada a eso," (I´m not used to this) and it takes me about 20 minutes to really calm down. Poor Angel says it´s his fault, I shouldn´t have been unaccompanied. What? You think I traveled from another CONTINENT alone, traveling a month before hand alone, to arrive in this little high school and require a 24 hour babysitter? I cannot get used to that. Angel tells me to go home, I have a meeting later that he will reschedule. No way, I tell him. "Today is just a bad day," I tell him. "I´m so sorry for reacting this way." I have things I need to get done and I have over three months ahead and I cannot cancel my whole day on behalf of a nasty group of high school boys. Ugh, boys. "They are just going to have to get use to our little gringita," the lady who is stroking my hair tells me. "But they were like animals," I tell her. Flying monkeys to be exact.
The males here take the heckling tradition to a new level, even I am obviously wearing thin. These are kids. My students. I feel disrespected, but fellow women seem to think I am overreacting. They seem to be saying ¨get over it,¨ that´s just how it goes. Why? I am repeatedly told that Chile is a machismo culture, I don´t even want to know how I´d hold up as a teacher in Italy. Well, if harrassing every single girl who passes you, when in some cases you are half her age, means machismo, I am over it. I don´t care what you call it, consider me twice the feminist I was yesterday. I can´t wait to get these boys in my own classroom and get them to focus on speaking English in front of others, instead of focusing on my face.
I know today is just a bad day. I woke up with a crick in my neck and upper back that has barely subsided and it´s gray and freezing outside. I lay in bed at night and think of all the lessons I must organize and I think I work myself into a tizzy. Stress, the cold and a stiff neck led to homesickness and that was topped off with flying monkeys. This poor day never had a fighting chance. But, man do I feel better after writing this all down...
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Beginning to Blend
Today after lun
ch I am scheduled to participàte in a futbol match. Six teachers (who rotate spots) against six students, all female (thank God). Some of you who know me may ask? WHY IN THE WORLD AM I ENTERING MYSELF IN A GAME THAT REQUIRES HAND-EYE COORDINATION AND A BALL? To fit in of course. Besides, I played real football with Kevin and his friends once, and there were boys in that match. I´m not SO challenged. Anyway, I want the teachers here in my high school to know that I am trying, that I do like them, that I want to integrate. My weekends are looking a bit dull (Dorita and abuelita can only entertain me so much), so I am making friends. I hear Chilean barbecues are "la raja," aka ragers. Maybe I will lead the teachers in a warm-up, oh the possibilities. 
Which reminds me, last night the English department held a "tecito," to welcome me to the staff. Every single teacher in the school sat around U-shaped tables, with Marcela and I at the head (quite embarrassing) and Silvana stood up and introduced me (for about the 8th time) and welcomed me. So ... of course, I started tearing up. I don´t know what´s wrong with me these days ... waterworks.
It´s just that, there was this big sign they had made that said "Welcome Teresa," and sandwiches and tea and coffee and terrible tasting cookies. I am discovering that in situations such as these, all the mastery I have gained of the Spanish language disappears in a very unkind way. I am speechless, literally. One on one I am decent; sitting at the head of a buffet table with 45 trained Chilean eyes fixed on me ... not so much.
However, in the classroom (thus far) I am a hit. I pretend not to speak Spanish and feel completely at ease among the rows of students, even the seniors. This week has been so much better because I am observing only the classes that I will be teaching and so I am meeting kids I will see every week for the next four months. When I introduce myself, I really introduce myself. "I am from the United States," I tell them, "I hope you´ve heard of it." I tell them that I´m a volunteer so I don´t get paid. I want to stress to them "I´m here because I want to be here, not because I have to be here." There are always a few girls who stare at me, smiles from ear to ear, eyes sparkling. The class never understands everything I say, but usually they can grasp bits. I get that. It´s exactly how I get by with my broken Spanish. I love these kids. Today in a freshman class, groups of girls kept begging me to listen to their favorite songs on their MP3´s and to dance. Of course I did both. "Do any of you girls like to dance?" I asked. They nodded their heads furiously. "Would you like to have dance classes after school once a week?" "SIIIIIII!!!!!" Alrighty then. Consider it done. They asked me if I had been a cheerleader. The unfortunate answer is yes. They seem excited. "You want to create a cheerleading team?" I ask. Again, "SIII!!!!"
This is too easy.
Brave, lone representatives from each class inevitably ask me, "How old are you?"
I make a lock-and-key motion across my lips. "I´ll never tell," I reply.
Right, like I´m gonna tell a bunch of 18-year-olds that they must do the assignment given by the 24-year-old teacher. One girl nails it on the first try. "I think you are 24," she says in Spanish. My blood pressure rises. I stick to the lock-and-key move. It´s working for now.
Last night I also met with the two English teachers from the two elementary schools, with whom I´ll be working once a week. They tell me that almost noone goes to college here. Today, a director at the school gave me a number. Maybe 20 out of 200 continue to college. They don´t have the money or they can´t pass the entrance exam. They usually go to technical schools, to be a secretary, learn a craft, etc.
The English teachers tell me about the Chilean education "problem." Students incessantly strike against teachers in Santiago, teachers strike with students against the government here. Students here are lazy, they tell me. They fail their tests and their parents don´t care. The parents are never home. The children do whatever they want and their parents buy them $200 cell phones. "But if the parents aren´t home, is this because they are working?" I ask. The difficult answer is yes. Lots of single mothers here. "But it is the same in the United States too," I tell them. "Just more segregated." This "problem" belongs to this entire city, dare I say country. In the U.S., it is easily ignored. The middle and upper classes can easily spend a life time without ever having a conversation with someone of a lower-socioeconomic class.
I´ve noticed a different tone in the grown-up conversations I´ve had here. The Chilean people see their situation as dire. They tell me they are very poor, with a very bad education system, but I cannot help but compare their conditions with those of Peruvians. Peru is by FAR the poorer country. The Peruvian economy is pitiful. Chileans seem to know they can do better. They demand more. Perhaps, the Peruvians are just more resigned to their conditions. Obviously I´ve only seen so much, met so many. This is just my assessment.
However, without a doubt, these people could use some help -- a fresh take on teaching English -- but they are on the right track. I was recruited by the Chilean Ministry of Education, that´s a start. Michelle Bachelet, their female president (hell yeah!!!) has done alot for this country. However, there is, without a doubt, extreme poverty in this city, but can´t that be found in almost every American city as well?
"Why did you choose Chile? Why did you want to leave the United States?" a 4th year asked me yesterday.
"To meet all of you of course," I replied.
I mean, I´m just glad to be here.
ch I am scheduled to participàte in a futbol match. Six teachers (who rotate spots) against six students, all female (thank God). Some of you who know me may ask? WHY IN THE WORLD AM I ENTERING MYSELF IN A GAME THAT REQUIRES HAND-EYE COORDINATION AND A BALL? To fit in of course. Besides, I played real football with Kevin and his friends once, and there were boys in that match. I´m not SO challenged. Anyway, I want the teachers here in my high school to know that I am trying, that I do like them, that I want to integrate. My weekends are looking a bit dull (Dorita and abuelita can only entertain me so much), so I am making friends. I hear Chilean barbecues are "la raja," aka ragers. Maybe I will lead the teachers in a warm-up, oh the possibilities. 
Which reminds me, last night the English department held a "tecito," to welcome me to the staff. Every single teacher in the school sat around U-shaped tables, with Marcela and I at the head (quite embarrassing) and Silvana stood up and introduced me (for about the 8th time) and welcomed me. So ... of course, I started tearing up. I don´t know what´s wrong with me these days ... waterworks.
It´s just that, there was this big sign they had made that said "Welcome Teresa," and sandwiches and tea and coffee and terrible tasting cookies. I am discovering that in situations such as these, all the mastery I have gained of the Spanish language disappears in a very unkind way. I am speechless, literally. One on one I am decent; sitting at the head of a buffet table with 45 trained Chilean eyes fixed on me ... not so much.However, in the classroom (thus far) I am a hit. I pretend not to speak Spanish and feel completely at ease among the rows of students, even the seniors. This week has been so much better because I am observing only the classes that I will be teaching and so I am meeting kids I will see every week for the next four months. When I introduce myself, I really introduce myself. "I am from the United States," I tell them, "I hope you´ve heard of it." I tell them that I´m a volunteer so I don´t get paid. I want to stress to them "I´m here because I want to be here, not because I have to be here." There are always a few girls who stare at me, smiles from ear to ear, eyes sparkling. The class never understands everything I say, but usually they can grasp bits. I get that. It´s exactly how I get by with my broken Spanish. I love these kids. Today in a freshman class, groups of girls kept begging me to listen to their favorite songs on their MP3´s and to dance. Of course I did both. "Do any of you girls like to dance?" I asked. They nodded their heads furiously. "Would you like to have dance classes after school once a week?" "SIIIIIII!!!!!" Alrighty then. Consider it done. They asked me if I had been a cheerleader. The unfortunate answer is yes. They seem excited. "You want to create a cheerleading team?" I ask. Again, "SIII!!!!"
This is too easy.
Brave, lone representatives from each class inevitably ask me, "How old are you?"
I make a lock-and-key motion across my lips. "I´ll never tell," I reply.
Right, like I´m gonna tell a bunch of 18-year-olds that they must do the assignment given by the 24-year-old teacher. One girl nails it on the first try. "I think you are 24," she says in Spanish. My blood pressure rises. I stick to the lock-and-key move. It´s working for now.
Last night I also met with the two English teachers from the two elementary schools, with whom I´ll be working once a week. They tell me that almost noone goes to college here. Today, a director at the school gave me a number. Maybe 20 out of 200 continue to college. They don´t have the money or they can´t pass the entrance exam. They usually go to technical schools, to be a secretary, learn a craft, etc.
The English teachers tell me about the Chilean education "problem." Students incessantly strike against teachers in Santiago, teachers strike with students against the government here. Students here are lazy, they tell me. They fail their tests and their parents don´t care. The parents are never home. The children do whatever they want and their parents buy them $200 cell phones. "But if the parents aren´t home, is this because they are working?" I ask. The difficult answer is yes. Lots of single mothers here. "But it is the same in the United States too," I tell them. "Just more segregated." This "problem" belongs to this entire city, dare I say country. In the U.S., it is easily ignored. The middle and upper classes can easily spend a life time without ever having a conversation with someone of a lower-socioeconomic class.
I´ve noticed a different tone in the grown-up conversations I´ve had here. The Chilean people see their situation as dire. They tell me they are very poor, with a very bad education system, but I cannot help but compare their conditions with those of Peruvians. Peru is by FAR the poorer country. The Peruvian economy is pitiful. Chileans seem to know they can do better. They demand more. Perhaps, the Peruvians are just more resigned to their conditions. Obviously I´ve only seen so much, met so many. This is just my assessment.
However, without a doubt, these people could use some help -- a fresh take on teaching English -- but they are on the right track. I was recruited by the Chilean Ministry of Education, that´s a start. Michelle Bachelet, their female president (hell yeah!!!) has done alot for this country. However, there is, without a doubt, extreme poverty in this city, but can´t that be found in almost every American city as well?
"Why did you choose Chile? Why did you want to leave the United States?" a 4th year asked me yesterday.
"To meet all of you of course," I replied.
I mean, I´m just glad to be here.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
I Don´t Speak Grammar
Two days into my four month stint in Vallenar and I basking in my happiness. I am in a city of about 50,000 people and teaching five different classes in a high school of about 900 students. This city, these people, my school, all seem to be things that I hadn´t even realized I was missing. The past month I have been a nomad, in search of self-sufficiency and a ferocious sense of independence and trust in myself at the mercy of the universe, and I feel I've found it, I've felt it. I've honestly learned new things about myself, but now here, stationary in this new city and living with Dora (the mother of the English teacher at my school, Marcella) and her mother, I have stumbled upon a family again. And in Chile, family does not mean ¨my mother and my grandmother,¨it means cousins and children and aunts and uncles and neices and nephews and friends and their families and boyfriends and colleagues. These people don´t understand why I don´t live with both my parents and my boyfriend all in one house. ¨Why leave?¨they ask me. How do I tell them, ummm ... ¨in America, we have this habit of leaving our families once we turn 18 and then finding a college as far away as possible and living in co-ed dorms with our friends for the next four years...¨ Just kidding. But, really, that´s kinda what we do, and after four years of absolute freedom, it´s tough to move back. The kids in my high school all go home at 1 p.m. to have lunch with their families ... as of course do Marcella and I. Honestly, I have the cutest surrogate family in the world, complete with awkward drama -- Marcella is dating a much older man, who has yet to officially to divorce his wife from who he´s been separated for 18 years -- and awkward conversation ... what do I say to the 84-year-old grandma who is missing an eye (literally) and speaks a Spanish that sounds like gibberish to my American ears ...? ¨Pretty blouse!¨I told her this morning, (I´m trying, OK?). Two hours in, Marcella bluntly told me about her ¨situation,¨aka how she´s living with her boyfriend Edgardo and after a year her mother has yet to allow him into her house. Ahhh, finally, colorful family dynamics. How refreshing.
The teachers at the school are so welcoming and I think I honestly met about 150 people today (students included), which is terrifying to me as it took me an hour to engrave Marcella, Dora and Silvana´s names into my brain. Oh, and Silvana is another English teacher at the school who I adore, and she lives with her parents and her four-year-old daughter, Sophie (boyfriend very much in the picture since forever ... I dunno what´s up with that...). Currently I am at Silvana´s house using her computer and downloading illegal music (finally!). People keep inviting me to their houses for tea and bread (duh) and though the teaching part is gonna be challenging I am so ready to begin. After all the orientation and traveling, it´s so nice to finally be thrown into this alternate universe. A boy in my class screamed out that he loved me today, and when I tried to explain anything to the other boys they just looked at me and smiled at each other ... that part is a bit embarrassing. ¨You need to be very very serious to overcompensate,¨a fellow teacher told me today. OK, but um...how??? I am not serious. Ever. I am sarcastic and weird and incapable of taking myself seriously (particularly as an English teacher).
¨What is the past progressive?¨ Silvana asked me today in front of some students. ¨Ï have no idea,¨I told her. Similar to the class I observed in Santiago where they were studying the phonetic alphabet. People were asking me to identify symbols I had honestly never seen in my life. I know the English alphabet, and believe it or not that´s worked fine thus far. I´m here because I speak English, not grammar. The Chilean Ministry of Education told me so, seriously.
Oh, and as far as being back in high school in general, it is truly bizarre. I´m the new girl again. But I don´t care. For some blessed reason my doubts have floated away. Working with the kids today I was not nervous or worried about my blatant professional deficiencies. I was just myself and I have to believe that that´s enough.
In our Santiago training, our teachers reminded us to have fun, enjoy, take time for ourselves. ¨Don´t forget that at the end of the day you are all volunteers who aren´t getting paid,¨they reassured us. And, honesly, it must have worked because, though I have no illusions that planning hour and a half lessons for different grades each night is going to be easy, I have so many ideas! A talent show, English songs, ice breakers, games, dance classes... my head is spinning, but my fingers are about to freeze right off because in South America central heating just simply ¨doesn´t exist,¨(I am told). I will adjust, I always adjust. (Note, if anyone feels like sending me thermal pj´s, that would be cool...). Lunch
is now my dinner and instant Nescafe tastes better than a latte (OK, not really). Bread is my breakfast, yogurt, coldcut sub and dinner and walking my 15-minutes to school each day down a giant hill that´s ¨under construction,¨ will be just another part of my routine. Tonight on the phone with Kev in an internet cafe using Skype there was 80´s music blasting in the background. ¨Is there a concert going on?¨ he asked me. ¨Nope, that´s just the internet cafe soundtrack,¨ I told him. The randomness of South America will never cease to amaze me. I am truly in awe of this continent´s randomness. Clowns riding trucks, a lone transvestite walking the plaza in Copiapo, raggaeton played during the school breaks, a fire alarm throughout the city at noon, oh and absolutely NO GP´s (that´s game plan for those of you who are not my friend). I am worshipper of the game plan, the routine, the schedule. I need to mentally prepare. Organize events in my mind (I have a problem, I am aware). Today I was finally told to relax. Chileans don´t have game plans (how do you live?!?), they are absolutely never on time and they have no sense of your personal plans. ¨Take a chill pill,¨ Peter from Pisco had told me weeks ago. Looks like I will be learning to ¨chill¨sooner than later...
The teachers at the school are so welcoming and I think I honestly met about 150 people today (students included), which is terrifying to me as it took me an hour to engrave Marcella, Dora and Silvana´s names into my brain. Oh, and Silvana is another English teacher at the school who I adore, and she lives with her parents and her four-year-old daughter, Sophie (boyfriend very much in the picture since forever ... I dunno what´s up with that...). Currently I am at Silvana´s house using her computer and downloading illegal music (finally!). People keep inviting me to their houses for tea and bread (duh) and though the teaching part is gonna be challenging I am so ready to begin. After all the orientation and traveling, it´s so nice to finally be thrown into this alternate universe. A boy in my class screamed out that he loved me today, and when I tried to explain anything to the other boys they just looked at me and smiled at each other ... that part is a bit embarrassing. ¨You need to be very very serious to overcompensate,¨a fellow teacher told me today. OK, but um...how??? I am not serious. Ever. I am sarcastic and weird and incapable of taking myself seriously (particularly as an English teacher).
¨What is the past progressive?¨ Silvana asked me today in front of some students. ¨Ï have no idea,¨I told her. Similar to the class I observed in Santiago where they were studying the phonetic alphabet. People were asking me to identify symbols I had honestly never seen in my life. I know the English alphabet, and believe it or not that´s worked fine thus far. I´m here because I speak English, not grammar. The Chilean Ministry of Education told me so, seriously.
Oh, and as far as being back in high school in general, it is truly bizarre. I´m the new girl again. But I don´t care. For some blessed reason my doubts have floated away. Working with the kids today I was not nervous or worried about my blatant professional deficiencies. I was just myself and I have to believe that that´s enough.
In our Santiago training, our teachers reminded us to have fun, enjoy, take time for ourselves. ¨Don´t forget that at the end of the day you are all volunteers who aren´t getting paid,¨they reassured us. And, honesly, it must have worked because, though I have no illusions that planning hour and a half lessons for different grades each night is going to be easy, I have so many ideas! A talent show, English songs, ice breakers, games, dance classes... my head is spinning, but my fingers are about to freeze right off because in South America central heating just simply ¨doesn´t exist,¨(I am told). I will adjust, I always adjust. (Note, if anyone feels like sending me thermal pj´s, that would be cool...). Lunch
is now my dinner and instant Nescafe tastes better than a latte (OK, not really). Bread is my breakfast, yogurt, coldcut sub and dinner and walking my 15-minutes to school each day down a giant hill that´s ¨under construction,¨ will be just another part of my routine. Tonight on the phone with Kev in an internet cafe using Skype there was 80´s music blasting in the background. ¨Is there a concert going on?¨ he asked me. ¨Nope, that´s just the internet cafe soundtrack,¨ I told him. The randomness of South America will never cease to amaze me. I am truly in awe of this continent´s randomness. Clowns riding trucks, a lone transvestite walking the plaza in Copiapo, raggaeton played during the school breaks, a fire alarm throughout the city at noon, oh and absolutely NO GP´s (that´s game plan for those of you who are not my friend). I am worshipper of the game plan, the routine, the schedule. I need to mentally prepare. Organize events in my mind (I have a problem, I am aware). Today I was finally told to relax. Chileans don´t have game plans (how do you live?!?), they are absolutely never on time and they have no sense of your personal plans. ¨Take a chill pill,¨ Peter from Pisco had told me weeks ago. Looks like I will be learning to ¨chill¨sooner than later...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Back to School
I'm sorry I haven't written but, I have new friends. I've been in Santiago for the past week for teaching orientation, staying in a big hostel and pretending I'm a freshman in college. I've been drinking far too much, staying up late playing cards and eating, as usual, way too much bread. Even if my 
body hates me, I still just so terribly happy. I've got a new group of friends who are all Americans except for one lovely Brit named Kate and I honestly cannot remember the last time I laughed this much. In one short week I have made friendships with some people that I truly hope are a part of my life til the end. I've been part of an obnoxious-sized jogging line of health-conscious volunteers, sprinting through the streets of smoggy Santiago to the sound of catcalls of laughs, and I have been to a high school in Santiago and helped teach an English class full of girls who whispered and giggled to each other no matter what I said.
¨How old are you?¨I asked.
¨Maritza¨one answered after a long blank stare.
Unexpectedly, I have gone back in time and landed right back in college -- if only for a week.
I graduated two months ago and I am somehow back in the impractical, cramped, wooden desks (you remember, the ones where the desk is already attached to the chair for who-knows-what reason), working in pairs and preparing for presentations before my peers. It is a bit ironic. Basically, we are cramming -- in an orderly fashion. Out of 85 or so of us, I believe about five people have taught before and almost noone is ESL certified. We are in many ways unprepared (some TEFL courses take about two months), but we have many things working for us: we are young (98% of us), we are energetic and we speak English ... fluently. However, many of us are also petrified. My mother informed me yesterday that a new teacher has between 10 to 30 seconds before a class to make a positive impression. I am likeable (I tell myself). I love children. I relate well to others. I really hope the teenagers I will be teaching don't realize that I am only six years older than them.
This is going to be very very tough. Tomorrow I leave at 9 a.m. for a 10-hour bus ride to the small north region of the country. I am going to Vallenar in the Atacama desert. I may be teaching my firs
t class of high schoolers early Monday morning. I am so very nervous. What if they don't like me? What if I freeze and can't keep the class going for 90 minutes? What if my host family judges me because I don't go to church. What if the nearest post office is two-hours away? The unknown has always given me heartburn... not to mention digestive problems. I don't want to leave my new friends, but if I stay here and keep drinking at this rate, I may be dead in a month's time.
This week, stuffed in my miniature desk and acting as a willing participant in a volunteer´s lesson plan I was suddenly touched and inspired. A boy was standing before us, nervous and stammering -- speaking deathly slow (as we have been instructed) -- and drawing pictures of food items on the board and I was suddenly so very proud of him, and of myself and of every person in the room. No, we don´t know what we are doing, and yes, we will inevitably make fools of ourselves at some point, however, we are here. We are trying. I sit beside all my new and amazing friends who know not one single word of Spanish as they stumble through an exercise and I am so proud of them. I have the edge of knowing the language. But, regardless, we have all made ourselves willing participants and sitting ducks for the Chilean Ministry of Education. We want to travel, we want to live abroad, we want to learn Spanish, we continuously hear the call of volunteering. Everyone´s reason is different, but it doesn´t change that we have chosen to allow the U.N. to place us in whatever small city, in whatever small school for four months, and without any teaching experience.
I am so excited to begin the newest phase of my life. I can't wait to learn even more about myself and meet the newest people who are going to shape my experiences for the next four months. But I'm still scared. I don't want to leave my latest roommate Bree and start all over, again. But I should know by now, the best is yet to come.
body hates me, I still just so terribly happy. I've got a new group of friends who are all Americans except for one lovely Brit named Kate and I honestly cannot remember the last time I laughed this much. In one short week I have made friendships with some people that I truly hope are a part of my life til the end. I've been part of an obnoxious-sized jogging line of health-conscious volunteers, sprinting through the streets of smoggy Santiago to the sound of catcalls of laughs, and I have been to a high school in Santiago and helped teach an English class full of girls who whispered and giggled to each other no matter what I said.¨How old are you?¨I asked.
¨Maritza¨one answered after a long blank stare.
Unexpectedly, I have gone back in time and landed right back in college -- if only for a week.
I graduated two months ago and I am somehow back in the impractical, cramped, wooden desks (you remember, the ones where the desk is already attached to the chair for who-knows-what reason), working in pairs and preparing for presentations before my peers. It is a bit ironic. Basically, we are cramming -- in an orderly fashion. Out of 85 or so of us, I believe about five people have taught before and almost noone is ESL certified. We are in many ways unprepared (some TEFL courses take about two months), but we have many things working for us: we are young (98% of us), we are energetic and we speak English ... fluently. However, many of us are also petrified. My mother informed me yesterday that a new teacher has between 10 to 30 seconds before a class to make a positive impression. I am likeable (I tell myself). I love children. I relate well to others. I really hope the teenagers I will be teaching don't realize that I am only six years older than them.
This is going to be very very tough. Tomorrow I leave at 9 a.m. for a 10-hour bus ride to the small north region of the country. I am going to Vallenar in the Atacama desert. I may be teaching my firs
t class of high schoolers early Monday morning. I am so very nervous. What if they don't like me? What if I freeze and can't keep the class going for 90 minutes? What if my host family judges me because I don't go to church. What if the nearest post office is two-hours away? The unknown has always given me heartburn... not to mention digestive problems. I don't want to leave my new friends, but if I stay here and keep drinking at this rate, I may be dead in a month's time.This week, stuffed in my miniature desk and acting as a willing participant in a volunteer´s lesson plan I was suddenly touched and inspired. A boy was standing before us, nervous and stammering -- speaking deathly slow (as we have been instructed) -- and drawing pictures of food items on the board and I was suddenly so very proud of him, and of myself and of every person in the room. No, we don´t know what we are doing, and yes, we will inevitably make fools of ourselves at some point, however, we are here. We are trying. I sit beside all my new and amazing friends who know not one single word of Spanish as they stumble through an exercise and I am so proud of them. I have the edge of knowing the language. But, regardless, we have all made ourselves willing participants and sitting ducks for the Chilean Ministry of Education. We want to travel, we want to live abroad, we want to learn Spanish, we continuously hear the call of volunteering. Everyone´s reason is different, but it doesn´t change that we have chosen to allow the U.N. to place us in whatever small city, in whatever small school for four months, and without any teaching experience.
I am so excited to begin the newest phase of my life. I can't wait to learn even more about myself and meet the newest people who are going to shape my experiences for the next four months. But I'm still scared. I don't want to leave my latest roommate Bree and start all over, again. But I should know by now, the best is yet to come.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Extreme Taxi
My taxi was late -- 40 minutes late -- and the Lima traffic was only getting worse. The whole city is under construction, literally. There is a new bridge underway that will climb above most of the city, in an effort ot reduce congestion on the roads. I thought Erick (the family friend who hosted me for the past two days) was exaggerating. "You need at LEAST an hour to get to the airport to catch your flight at 9:30 p.m., you should leave by 6:15, the latest," he warned me. Well, at 6:50, the cab bumped to the curb in front of Ericks aparment in the San Borja section of the city. At 8 p.m. I was standing in a line at the check-in counter for TACA that had not moved in 10, then 15 minutes. I was ready. I am becoming accustomed to these mishaps. The whole near-death taxi ride, flying through bumper-to-bumper intersections in disarray, I mentally prepared to miss my flight. I had a feeling it was not going to happen. Sure enough, upon approaching the TACA desk and insisting that I did indeed speak Spanish, I was told there were no more seats on my plane. I was momentarily thrown off, "But ... I have my seat number ... right here," I told him. No matter. They had overbooked and I would be compensated: a room at the Sheraton with breakfast, lunch and dinner comped. Plus, provided transportation to and from the airport and a $200 voucher for any flight with TACA in the future... I had no plans for the next day in Santiago. In fact, I would have preferred to arrive the next day with the rest of the volunteers from my program, and have my transportation and lodging already taken care of... I tried to put on a show -- the gracious, yet inconvenienced American -- meanwhile I'm thinking ... Hell yeaaaayah!
I am personally put in a taxi by the TACA Airlines representative with two other Chilean boys who have just hiked Machu Pichu for their winter vacation (why does everyone my age feel the need to climb that thing??? The bus ride up the mountain is oh so nice...). I feel like I know Lima better than they. I have stopped in this airport about six times now in the past year. They keep gasping as the taxi avoids imminent death time and time again. "Extreme taxi!" they shout smiling. They have noooo idea...
Sitting in the taxi enroute to the airport earlier I got to thinking, and I have had some of my most interesting conversations in South America, sitting in the back seats of taxi's. Just earlier that day, I had set off to meet Carlos (from Ayacucho) who was in Lima on business, to retrieve something I had mistakenly left at his house, and I heard the most fascinating life-story...
This man asked where I was from (if I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question each day ... I'd be staying at the Sheraton in every city), when I told him the U.S., he seemed to know the States very well. Turns out he had lived there for 10 years -- Washington, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and of course, Florida -- before he was deported. "Finally... material for my next blog," I thought to myself.
It had taken him seven months to get to the U.S.. He had taken the long route -- the illegal one -- passing though almost every country in South America before landing on "free soil." He began work in construction. "Good money," he told me. "I used to make $18 an hour ... now, taxi," he said with a resigned laugh. "15 soles a day (an hour...I can't be sure) -- $5" he said. He had built hospitals, prisons and was responsible for the drywall in Gloria Esteban's house. (Sidenote: apparently her husband Emilio is quite kind.) He had also worked on a house with 20 bedrooms -- "a palace!" he exclaimed, of a basketball player for a Miami team. He married in '95 to a Puertoriquena who was nuts and that lasted six months. But he was dating another Puertoriquena from New Jersey when he was suddenly deported one day.
There had been warning -- years back he'd been walking out of the grocery store when an officer asked for his papers in English. "No hablo Ingles," he had answered. The officer then flippantly began chastizing him in Spanish. "He was from my country!" the driver told me, "and he was asking me in Spanish how the hell I got into HIS country." He was given a court order and petrified, never showed. Years later, exiting a nightclub in Miami, he was taken straight to jail for two weeks -- he had a warrant out for his arrest. Leaving jail, they led him straight to waiting immigration officers who sent him directly on a flight back to Lima. He arrived at his mother's house without a single posession and stayed in bed for three months depressed.
So THAT'S how it happens ... I thought. I had no idea. I have no way to say who's right or wrong, but I have learned that life isn't like that. It's not black and white -- always grey. The law is the law and there's always reasons for it. But how insightful to actually listen to someone's story. I've heard many racist remarks in the U.S., without regard to where I was living at the time, but it's so hard to keep a closed mind after listening first-hand to unlikely stories from the backseat of a taxi in South America. I read a quote recently, "Traveling is fatal to bigotry and prejudice." It's so true, at least if you keep an open heart and are willing to meet and listen to people from the countries you're visiting. On this trip I've discovered that I so prefer meeting the locals in a city and spending time hearing about their lives, than I do meeting fellow backpackers in hostals just passing on through. In hostals it's always the same, "Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going and for how long?" And from then on it's just a contest to see who has been more places and has traveled the longest. But really, what's the point of all that traveling if you didn't take the time to meet the people who make each place unique? I'm so nervous but thrilled to actually LIVE in a small town in Chile for four months with a family and students, rather than sightsee and come away with photos, but no real grasp of what the country is all about and the stories of it's people. That's why I try to blog about the people I've met here, more than my day-to-day activities. I am inspired by stories and those are the things I want to share the most.
That being said, I still want to convey my jubilee at entering my giant hotel room with a balcony overlooking Lima and throwing myself on my very own king size bed (the two Chileans had to share one, another very funny conversation). This morning I had french toast for the first (and probably the last) time since leaving the U.S. and I indulged in some lazy t.v. time this morning after being without it for weeks. Yesterday I was devastated because I discovered that my laptop I left with Erick in Lima -- which had been acting strange last month -- is officially broken. It looks pretty serious, and it also means an i-pod is not in the near future (I soooooooo miss my music), however, I think I may go amble into the stately dining room in a minute for my third free meal. It will invariably be a buffet (like the last two) ... I.Love.Buffets. Not bad, not bad at all.
I am personally put in a taxi by the TACA Airlines representative with two other Chilean boys who have just hiked Machu Pichu for their winter vacation (why does everyone my age feel the need to climb that thing??? The bus ride up the mountain is oh so nice...). I feel like I know Lima better than they. I have stopped in this airport about six times now in the past year. They keep gasping as the taxi avoids imminent death time and time again. "Extreme taxi!" they shout smiling. They have noooo idea...
Sitting in the taxi enroute to the airport earlier I got to thinking, and I have had some of my most interesting conversations in South America, sitting in the back seats of taxi's. Just earlier that day, I had set off to meet Carlos (from Ayacucho) who was in Lima on business, to retrieve something I had mistakenly left at his house, and I heard the most fascinating life-story...
This man asked where I was from (if I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question each day ... I'd be staying at the Sheraton in every city), when I told him the U.S., he seemed to know the States very well. Turns out he had lived there for 10 years -- Washington, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and of course, Florida -- before he was deported. "Finally... material for my next blog," I thought to myself.
It had taken him seven months to get to the U.S.. He had taken the long route -- the illegal one -- passing though almost every country in South America before landing on "free soil." He began work in construction. "Good money," he told me. "I used to make $18 an hour ... now, taxi," he said with a resigned laugh. "15 soles a day (an hour...I can't be sure) -- $5" he said. He had built hospitals, prisons and was responsible for the drywall in Gloria Esteban's house. (Sidenote: apparently her husband Emilio is quite kind.) He had also worked on a house with 20 bedrooms -- "a palace!" he exclaimed, of a basketball player for a Miami team. He married in '95 to a Puertoriquena who was nuts and that lasted six months. But he was dating another Puertoriquena from New Jersey when he was suddenly deported one day.
There had been warning -- years back he'd been walking out of the grocery store when an officer asked for his papers in English. "No hablo Ingles," he had answered. The officer then flippantly began chastizing him in Spanish. "He was from my country!" the driver told me, "and he was asking me in Spanish how the hell I got into HIS country." He was given a court order and petrified, never showed. Years later, exiting a nightclub in Miami, he was taken straight to jail for two weeks -- he had a warrant out for his arrest. Leaving jail, they led him straight to waiting immigration officers who sent him directly on a flight back to Lima. He arrived at his mother's house without a single posession and stayed in bed for three months depressed.
So THAT'S how it happens ... I thought. I had no idea. I have no way to say who's right or wrong, but I have learned that life isn't like that. It's not black and white -- always grey. The law is the law and there's always reasons for it. But how insightful to actually listen to someone's story. I've heard many racist remarks in the U.S., without regard to where I was living at the time, but it's so hard to keep a closed mind after listening first-hand to unlikely stories from the backseat of a taxi in South America. I read a quote recently, "Traveling is fatal to bigotry and prejudice." It's so true, at least if you keep an open heart and are willing to meet and listen to people from the countries you're visiting. On this trip I've discovered that I so prefer meeting the locals in a city and spending time hearing about their lives, than I do meeting fellow backpackers in hostals just passing on through. In hostals it's always the same, "Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going and for how long?" And from then on it's just a contest to see who has been more places and has traveled the longest. But really, what's the point of all that traveling if you didn't take the time to meet the people who make each place unique? I'm so nervous but thrilled to actually LIVE in a small town in Chile for four months with a family and students, rather than sightsee and come away with photos, but no real grasp of what the country is all about and the stories of it's people. That's why I try to blog about the people I've met here, more than my day-to-day activities. I am inspired by stories and those are the things I want to share the most.
That being said, I still want to convey my jubilee at entering my giant hotel room with a balcony overlooking Lima and throwing myself on my very own king size bed (the two Chileans had to share one, another very funny conversation). This morning I had french toast for the first (and probably the last) time since leaving the U.S. and I indulged in some lazy t.v. time this morning after being without it for weeks. Yesterday I was devastated because I discovered that my laptop I left with Erick in Lima -- which had been acting strange last month -- is officially broken. It looks pretty serious, and it also means an i-pod is not in the near future (I soooooooo miss my music), however, I think I may go amble into the stately dining room in a minute for my third free meal. It will invariably be a buffet (like the last two) ... I.Love.Buffets. Not bad, not bad at all.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Follow that Backpack!
It was a bit unreal watching as our bus slowly floated down a narrow channel of Lake Titicaca, amidst waves a couple feet high and a persistent current. ¨If it suddenly vanishes and sinks to the bottom with all our backpacks, I honestly won´t even be surprised at this point,¨ I said to my new traveling companions Rachel and Adam (from Canada and England, respectively). It had been a long day since we had left Puno, Peru at 7:30 that morning, and we 
were barely halfway to LaPaz and it was already about 2 p.m.. Travel agencies and heckling hotel owners will swear to you, ¨Direct bus! Semi-cama! Seis horas!¨ But, seven hours later, sore and exhausted, we were standing lake-side paying yet another sort of fee to cross the lake to the pueblo on the other side, and the likelihood of our bus getting safely to the same pueblo on its´dingy barge seemed improbable. But this of course was just the icing on the cake.
Hours earlier, seated in the back row of a different bus, 10 minutes from the Bolivian border, one of the bus attendants marched through the aisle, ¨Americanos?!!!¨ I wearily raised my hand, a lone American on a tourist bus. Unusual? No. I have quickly learned that we are not liked by the rest of the world and though I have thoroughly searched every city I´ve visited, I have met in total, three Americans thus far, and that is not alot. Sometimes I feel like a lone soldier fighting to represent my country in a respectable way when people I meet make comments like, ¨Oh I couldn´t stand that guy! He just sounded soooo ... American.¨ Helloooo ... American, right here. Anyway, regardless of all the American prejudice I´ve encountered, I was still stunned when the gruff man shouted that I would need to pay $135 at the border. WHAT??? $135? ¨I am only staying for four days!¨ I argued. ¨I didn´t read anything about this in Lonely Planet!¨ (Sidenote: However tempting, DO NOT keep any sort of Lonely Planet book as your Bible, it will fail you time and time and again ...) My main feeble argument to this man, however, was, ¨No lo tengo ...¨ (I don´t have it ...) I´ve already had everything that was worth anything stolen from me on a bus ride (very much like this one I might add), do you honestly think I now travel with American dollars ... $135 of them? Well, the answer is no, I do not. And after several weeks in Peru where three soles is roughly a dollar, this amount of money was almost difficult for me to grasp. Apparently, for anyone interested, this entry charge is a sort of backlash of the Bolivian president, because, what do you know, we charge Bolivians a fortune to enter our righteous country. (Don´t even get me started on having to fend for myself against Bush complaints overseas.) So, luckily, Adam accidentally got dollars out of the ATM the night before and he spotted me the money.
This, however is not all, the next hour is spent being removed from one line of non-Americans to the next. I also need a photocopy of my passport and a record proving I´ve had my yellow fever shot. Of course, these two facts are told to me at separate times, inevitably adding 15 minutes to my sentencing. I do have my yellow fever shot, but received it in Ayacucho last year and (of course) have misplaced it since then. I am lucky. The scary Bolivian border patrol man is very busy and barely glances at my other immunization chart, before cutting right to the chase and demanding my money. I have managed to sneak into Bolivia. Hours later, back on the bus stuffed full of back packers, bumping along the other side of Titicaca, I feel guilty, angry, frustrated and homesick. Things could be worse: the bus could have drifted on down the lake as I imagined without ever touching land, or it could have left without me at the border (very common). Even so, I can´t shake the feeling I´ve wasted too much money with this border tax plus the flight I resignedly booked from LaPaz back to Lima on Wed., in an effort to squeeze in a few more days of exploration. But then I look at my window at the houses made of mud bricks scattered along the shore of Lake Titicaca, with the gorgeous icy-blue mountain peaks in the distance and I secretly smile. I will make the most of this city in the little time I have. Plus, it will make a great story everybody assures me.
It´s funny, pre-bus crossing, at another hour stop in Copacabana, backpackers were lined up for the bus connection fighting to get their packs squeezed underneath in the storage compartment (the alternative is having your pack thrown atop the bus). Some were not very lucky. A flustered girl plops down beside us in one of the two empty seats when asked by another passenger for the empty seat. She explains that she is saving it for her friend. HA! We all hide smirks. I ask if her friend is on the bus yet. ¨No, he´s outside waiting to get our bags on,¨ she tells me. The bus is full. There is literally only one seat left and it is being saved by a girl whose luggage I can see parked next to the bus. Not smart people, not smart. The boy vying for the space has already safely se
en his backpack to storage. Rule number one, never take your eyes off your backpack. The buses and companies here hold zero responsibility for lost or stolen items. I try to advise the girl that she might want to jump off and stay with her friend because once the next person sits the doors will close and the bus will pull away without her boyfriend or her backpack. When she´s finally gone we all talk smack. A backpacker without street smarts is not a respectable backpacker we agree.
LaPaz is breathtaking. It is huge and its´ houses cling to the sides of a canyon. It´s unlike anything I´ve ever seen, but the altitude is killing me, my head hurts and everytime I move with a hint of speed I feel a bit nauseous. Still, I push my body and meander the twisting streets as long as I can, finding llama fetuses and mini guitars sold side by side (not in the market for either). I am going to make this $135 last an American lifetime damnit.
were barely halfway to LaPaz and it was already about 2 p.m.. Travel agencies and heckling hotel owners will swear to you, ¨Direct bus! Semi-cama! Seis horas!¨ But, seven hours later, sore and exhausted, we were standing lake-side paying yet another sort of fee to cross the lake to the pueblo on the other side, and the likelihood of our bus getting safely to the same pueblo on its´dingy barge seemed improbable. But this of course was just the icing on the cake.Hours earlier, seated in the back row of a different bus, 10 minutes from the Bolivian border, one of the bus attendants marched through the aisle, ¨Americanos?!!!¨ I wearily raised my hand, a lone American on a tourist bus. Unusual? No. I have quickly learned that we are not liked by the rest of the world and though I have thoroughly searched every city I´ve visited, I have met in total, three Americans thus far, and that is not alot. Sometimes I feel like a lone soldier fighting to represent my country in a respectable way when people I meet make comments like, ¨Oh I couldn´t stand that guy! He just sounded soooo ... American.¨ Helloooo ... American, right here. Anyway, regardless of all the American prejudice I´ve encountered, I was still stunned when the gruff man shouted that I would need to pay $135 at the border. WHAT??? $135? ¨I am only staying for four days!¨ I argued. ¨I didn´t read anything about this in Lonely Planet!¨ (Sidenote: However tempting, DO NOT keep any sort of Lonely Planet book as your Bible, it will fail you time and time and again ...) My main feeble argument to this man, however, was, ¨No lo tengo ...¨ (I don´t have it ...) I´ve already had everything that was worth anything stolen from me on a bus ride (very much like this one I might add), do you honestly think I now travel with American dollars ... $135 of them? Well, the answer is no, I do not. And after several weeks in Peru where three soles is roughly a dollar, this amount of money was almost difficult for me to grasp. Apparently, for anyone interested, this entry charge is a sort of backlash of the Bolivian president, because, what do you know, we charge Bolivians a fortune to enter our righteous country. (Don´t even get me started on having to fend for myself against Bush complaints overseas.) So, luckily, Adam accidentally got dollars out of the ATM the night before and he spotted me the money.
This, however is not all, the next hour is spent being removed from one line of non-Americans to the next. I also need a photocopy of my passport and a record proving I´ve had my yellow fever shot. Of course, these two facts are told to me at separate times, inevitably adding 15 minutes to my sentencing. I do have my yellow fever shot, but received it in Ayacucho last year and (of course) have misplaced it since then. I am lucky. The scary Bolivian border patrol man is very busy and barely glances at my other immunization chart, before cutting right to the chase and demanding my money. I have managed to sneak into Bolivia. Hours later, back on the bus stuffed full of back packers, bumping along the other side of Titicaca, I feel guilty, angry, frustrated and homesick. Things could be worse: the bus could have drifted on down the lake as I imagined without ever touching land, or it could have left without me at the border (very common). Even so, I can´t shake the feeling I´ve wasted too much money with this border tax plus the flight I resignedly booked from LaPaz back to Lima on Wed., in an effort to squeeze in a few more days of exploration. But then I look at my window at the houses made of mud bricks scattered along the shore of Lake Titicaca, with the gorgeous icy-blue mountain peaks in the distance and I secretly smile. I will make the most of this city in the little time I have. Plus, it will make a great story everybody assures me.
It´s funny, pre-bus crossing, at another hour stop in Copacabana, backpackers were lined up for the bus connection fighting to get their packs squeezed underneath in the storage compartment (the alternative is having your pack thrown atop the bus). Some were not very lucky. A flustered girl plops down beside us in one of the two empty seats when asked by another passenger for the empty seat. She explains that she is saving it for her friend. HA! We all hide smirks. I ask if her friend is on the bus yet. ¨No, he´s outside waiting to get our bags on,¨ she tells me. The bus is full. There is literally only one seat left and it is being saved by a girl whose luggage I can see parked next to the bus. Not smart people, not smart. The boy vying for the space has already safely se
en his backpack to storage. Rule number one, never take your eyes off your backpack. The buses and companies here hold zero responsibility for lost or stolen items. I try to advise the girl that she might want to jump off and stay with her friend because once the next person sits the doors will close and the bus will pull away without her boyfriend or her backpack. When she´s finally gone we all talk smack. A backpacker without street smarts is not a respectable backpacker we agree.LaPaz is breathtaking. It is huge and its´ houses cling to the sides of a canyon. It´s unlike anything I´ve ever seen, but the altitude is killing me, my head hurts and everytime I move with a hint of speed I feel a bit nauseous. Still, I push my body and meander the twisting streets as long as I can, finding llama fetuses and mini guitars sold side by side (not in the market for either). I am going to make this $135 last an American lifetime damnit.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Insomnia ...
It is 2 a.m. and despite countless efforts to still my mind, I cannot fall asleep. I have recruited two Brits I met at the bus station waiting for the Arequipa bus to bang on my door at exactly 2:25 a.m. (note: that is 25 minutes away) to get me up in time for our tour which leaves the hostal at 2:30 a.m.. Looks like I will not be needing that wake-up call. I always get nervous when I cannot sleep. Was it the mate de coca? Did somebody spike my chicken empanada (please note, I realize, under normal sleeping patterns that this is an irrational train of thought)? Or maybe my mosquito bites hint at a little-known disease which develops into a sort of restless insomnia ... Normally, anyone who knows me at all knows ... I sleep. It takes me about, oh, four minutes tops from the time my head hits the pillow til I am grinding my teeth in dreamland.
Anyhow, since I am awake, here is a quick update. I am currently at a hostal in Arequipa (which, I might add, does not reek of urine). The day excursion I have signed up for is a tour of the Colca Canyon which is allegedly beautiful and one of the deepest canyons in the world. You can also spot condors riding the currents in those parts at specific time, which, I hope, is why they feel it necessary to leave at 2:30 in the morning, though, at this point, I don´t even mind.
I left Ayacucho feeling satisfied and as though I completed all I had intended. I gave the kids their gifts and their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. Then we went to the zoo and I suffered some dejavu as we crammed 18 small children and six adults into a station wagon taxi. At our destination, doors and trunk were opened and children just spilled out onto the dirt. Dead serious.
Before our excursion, Bertha also lead me to the house of the family whose mother died and I met the husband and two of the boys (there are six). Also visiting was the mother´s sister from the jungle with her litter of children with barefeet and dirty faces. She stood before us and in Quechua mumbled through heart breaking sobs. She was dressed in the traditional Peruvian garb complete with hat and multi-layered skirt and seeing her cry, I felt tears welling up and offered her all I could. "I had a brother who died just over a year ago. I´m so sorry for your loss,¨ I said as I mustered up my best hug to this woman who was in all ways but one, of a different world than I.
My last day was exhausting and sad as I said goodbye to old friends and new ones as well. A group of CCS volunteers and I walked to Magia Negra one last time and devoured pineapple pizza and pitchers of beer before Mery walked with me to the bus station. Just before I got on she handed me about five chocolate bars and the dainty silver necklace she was wearing. It was very sweet and I realized what a wonderful friend she had become in such a short time. I was very blessed to have met her, and hopefully we will keep in touch.
As I chart out my last week of free time in Peru, I have new plans to visit Lake Titicaca and then Boliva for a few days. La Paz is supposed to be amazing and I bought a new camera today, so I can actually document my trip personally here on out! Bus comes in 10 minutes... Good night, good morning, ciao.
Anyhow, since I am awake, here is a quick update. I am currently at a hostal in Arequipa (which, I might add, does not reek of urine). The day excursion I have signed up for is a tour of the Colca Canyon which is allegedly beautiful and one of the deepest canyons in the world. You can also spot condors riding the currents in those parts at specific time, which, I hope, is why they feel it necessary to leave at 2:30 in the morning, though, at this point, I don´t even mind.
I left Ayacucho feeling satisfied and as though I completed all I had intended. I gave the kids their gifts and their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. Then we went to the zoo and I suffered some dejavu as we crammed 18 small children and six adults into a station wagon taxi. At our destination, doors and trunk were opened and children just spilled out onto the dirt. Dead serious.
Before our excursion, Bertha also lead me to the house of the family whose mother died and I met the husband and two of the boys (there are six). Also visiting was the mother´s sister from the jungle with her litter of children with barefeet and dirty faces. She stood before us and in Quechua mumbled through heart breaking sobs. She was dressed in the traditional Peruvian garb complete with hat and multi-layered skirt and seeing her cry, I felt tears welling up and offered her all I could. "I had a brother who died just over a year ago. I´m so sorry for your loss,¨ I said as I mustered up my best hug to this woman who was in all ways but one, of a different world than I.
My last day was exhausting and sad as I said goodbye to old friends and new ones as well. A group of CCS volunteers and I walked to Magia Negra one last time and devoured pineapple pizza and pitchers of beer before Mery walked with me to the bus station. Just before I got on she handed me about five chocolate bars and the dainty silver necklace she was wearing. It was very sweet and I realized what a wonderful friend she had become in such a short time. I was very blessed to have met her, and hopefully we will keep in touch.
As I chart out my last week of free time in Peru, I have new plans to visit Lake Titicaca and then Boliva for a few days. La Paz is supposed to be amazing and I bought a new camera today, so I can actually document my trip personally here on out! Bus comes in 10 minutes... Good night, good morning, ciao.
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