Some (random) thoughts

Merry Christmas! Coherent narrative storytelling/reflection just isn't going to work today. Sorry.

An official YAV newsletter will be coming soon. I promise.

I preached in Spanish twice this past week, with barely any notes (I was told that if I "read" my sermon, no one will listen). I'll upload a video on youtube later, although anyone who wants to watch me incoherently ramble in Spanish for fifteen minutes about the meaning of Christmas is certifiably insane.

I went camping on the beach two nights ago, watched the sun set over the pacific and slept on a blanket under the stars.

Evaporated milk is probably the most popular item at every single supermarket and in an average Peruvian family's home. On an unrelated note, I personally think evaporated milk is disgusting.

A group of us from Santa Isabel church took used clothes, 20 loafs of paneton (Peruvian-style fruitcake) and a bunch of soda up the hill to share with some of the very poor squatter families that live there. It was one of the first "service" events that I've participated in with a church here, and I loved it. The best part is that the church members all felt really good afterward and want to make community service a more important part of their church life.

At 5:40am on Friday I leave for Cuzco for two weeks of vacation that will include Macchu Pichu, Lake Titicaca/Puno and Colca Canyon/Arequipa. I have a hard time explaining to my Peruvian friends the difference between this "real" vacation and the "work-related" retreats/reunions that the YAV group takes every 6 weeks or so to various touristy beach/mountain locales.

Peruvians celebrate Christmas at midnight on the 24th with hot chocolate, fireworks, presents (new clothes are the normal Christmas gift) and a huge turkey dinner. All the TV stations play a Christmas countdown, much like on New Year's Eve in the states.

On New Years, they do the whole thing all over again. But with less turkey and more champagne. And with the added tradition of using all of the family's old clothes to dress a homemade mannequin and then setting the clothes on fire to symbolize leaving the old year behind and starting the new year fresh. I assume this is why people first give each other new clothes for Christmas. Apparently it's also good luck if you wear yellow underwear for new years.

I don't have a car here. And I don't even miss it. How long will it be before people in the US actually become convinced that walking, public transportation and massive carpooling is DEFINITELY worth it?

I've officially finished 1/3 of my YAV placement. That was fast.

"Crash" was on TV the other night ("Vidas Cruzadas" is the title of the dubbed Spanish version). I watched it with my host family and remembered why it's my favorite movie ever.

Remember, if you want to see photos, they're all available from the "Picasa" link on the left side of the page.

Starting in January, I'm going to be preaching a lot more in both Santa Isabel church and Kilometer 13 church. Let's hope my Spanish extemporaneous public speaking skills improve.

Slowly, I'm starting to feel more spiritually fulfilled by the worship services here. The "sociologist" in me is finally getting bored as I've gotten used to a lot of the differences between here and home. This is allowing me to take in the spirit of community and presence of God here on a personal level.

I'm still long overdue on making a boring, overly intellectual/pretentious-sounding blog post that reflects on the political/theological differences between "evangelical" churches here and mainline denominational churches in the US as they relate to respective differences in social/economic realities. But of course the real objective is to try to use big words to impress you and make you think that I'm SO READY to go to seminary and single-handedly fix the problems of the church/world.

I know this is looking WAY far ahead, but when I come back to the US I don't even want to SEE a grain of white rice or a beet for at least 3 months.... Except for the "beet" part. I don't want to see a beet again, period. Ever.

Ceviche and Tallerin verde with carne de res, however, will always be favorites.

Some days I find myself speaking spanish so well that I forget that I'm speaking a foreign language, and later on when I chat online with people from back home it's hard to remember certain English words. Other days it seems like I can barely form complete sentences in Spanish, and when people talk to me I ask them to repeat themselves at least 3 times before I eventually just say "ohhhh!" and then nod my head and pretend I understood what they just said.

Two years ago, if you told me that right now I would be spending Christmas Eve with a host family in Lima, Peru while working as a Young Adult Volunteer for the Presbyterian Church, I would have suggested that you seek psychological counseling....

Well, probably not. But I most likely would have laughed excessively and said "really?"

I missed Christmas Vespers at Trinity. I going to miss spending Christmas morning with family and relatives back home in Decatur. I'm going to miss spending New Years with more family and relatives at "home" in Montreat. And I'm going to miss the Montreat summer staff reunion and college conference during the New Year, too.

Fire and Brimstone

This past weekend I went to a wedding in Chincha, a medium-sized desert town about 3 hours south of Lima. According to the invitation, the wedding should have started at 7:30. When we got there at 7:30, we discovered that according to the official wedding program, the ceremony was scheduled to start at 8:00. So naturally, everything got started at a little after 9. Such is life.

The ceremony started with a few upbeat praise songs before the pastor got up to preach a sermon. I haven't been to all that many weddings in my life, so I'm no expert, but I think it's safe to say that I witnessed the angriest, most depressing sermon/reflection/message ever delivered for a wedding. Yes, EVER. Throughout all of history (what are the chances, right?) Seriously. The pastor stands up after the praise band is done, welcomes everybody and proceeds to read one of the "classic" wedding scriptures in the bible. No, not Corinthians 13 (Love is patient, love is kind...). Nor Colossians 3 (Love binds all virtues together in perfect unity...), Genesis 2 (God makes woman to be a companion for man) or even Ephesians 5 (man leaves father and mother to become one with his wife). Nope, this particular pastor instead chose the old reliable Exodus 20:14: "You shall not commit adultery."

My jaw literally dropped. At 9:30 on a Saturday night, I had to sit through a 1/2 hour sermon railing against fornication and infidelity ... during a WEDDING! And this guy was angry too! I couldn't believe it. I've gotta say that I was actually kind of offended and saddened for the couple from Santa Isabel church getting married. Here we are at what should be the most memorable night of their lives and instead of a reflection celebrating marriage as the closest humans ever get to loving each other as God loves us, the pastor criticizes our generation for sexual promiscuity, lack of commitment, and estrangement from God. He said that Christians need to be defenders of marriage and family. You would think that a conservative/fundamentalist preacher would be the LAST person to make marriage/weddings all about sex, but that's exactly what this guy did. The sermon was all about sex, but instead of praising what he saw as the "good" kind of sex - monogamous and pure, within the commitment of a heterosexual marriage - he instead just blasted all the "bad" kinds of sex: lustful, instant gratification, outside of marriage etc. I just hope the couple was still able to enjoy the gift of the "good" kind of sex that night for the first time, because the sermon was definitely a mood-killer. To top it all off, after the sermon was over, he was explicitly clear during the vows that the husband is the head of the household and the wife must SUBMIT to him. No questions asked. To love your husband is to obey and faithfully follow him till death do ye part. And accordingly, the organist (who was actually just playing an electronic keyboard) was playing an eerie sounding, slow tune slowly crescendo-ing and building higher and higher by half steps, like during an old-fashioned horror/suspense movie right before disaster strikes. It's almost as if the message to the bride was "are you SURE you want to go through with this?" (and fundamentalist Christians wonder why people don't want to get married any more...)

The only thing that kept me sane was the conversation I had afterward with my host family and some other friends from Santa Isabel church that were in attendance. I'm not sure how quickly they would have brought it up themselves, but after the ceremony was over one of the first thing's I said was that I thought the sermon was awful and angry-sounding. Luckily, they agreed with me. I'm not sure what I would have done if they told me that such sermons were normal in Peruvian Christian weddings. They said that even though they agreed with the pastor that the state of marriage is in trouble, it was disrespectful to use an actual wedding ceremony to launch an angry diatribe against "fornication."

Beginning Again

Things have changed in the past month. Most importantly, I am now living with a new host family. For reasons that I don't feel comfortable discussing on a public blog, I had to leave the family of Daniela, Juan Carlos, Giulia, Juan, Damaris and Dayra. It was an extremely difficult decision to make, but now I am finally at peace with it. I'm happy to be living with my new host family, who are members of Santa Isabel Church. I live on the second floor of a 2-story house with my host parents Javier and Raquel. It still feels strange to call them host "parents" because they actually don't have any biological children, and they're barely 10 years older than I am. Javier and Raquel got married about 1 1/2 years ago, and Raquel is now 3 months pregnant, so before I finish my placement here I will have a new baby host "sibling!" The rest of the family, Blanca, Roberto, Kelli and Manuelito, live downstairs. Blanca is Javier's mother - she's very warm, friendly and animated, not to mention a great cook. Roberto, Javier's brother, is a huge Beatles fan and probably knows more about US culture, arts and politics than I do. His wife, Keli, is quiet and stays busy at home as a full-time mom, taking care of her and Roberto's 3 month old son Manuelito, who's the cutest, chubbiest baby I think I've ever seen.

One of the hardest parts about switching host families has been the fact that my new host family is definitely much more
"well off" than my old one. In my new home I actually have an internet connection in my room (which maybe I shouldn't have shared -- now you know that I have no excuse for not keeping in touch...), as well as a cable TV and DVD player. And not to mention I have hot water for showers! (Even if it is one of those electric heaters that warms the water up right as it's coming out of the shower head. Which I luckily haven't been shocked by, yet...) The reason I say having all of these familiar comforts is one of the "hardest" parts about staying with my host family is that I expected my YAV year to be all about the challenge of living simply, like the majority of the world does, without modern distractions like the internet and cable TV. I basically just felt like living here, with my new host family, wouldn't be "hardcore" enough, like it's against the principles of the YAV program. I mean, that's what we're trying to get AWAY from for a year, right? I didn't want to get sucked back into my old college habits of wasting countless hours with internet and TV.

But as my fellow Peru YAV Sean says, the YAV program is not about "martyring yourself." It's not a hardcore contest. I've realized that my guilt over not living in a mud hut without electricity or running water speaks volumes to my own extremely western/privileged attitude towards the whole experience. I mean, how "cool" would I be when I came back and told all my friends that I spent a year taking cold showers while living in poverty in South America? I definitely didn't realize how much I had been romanticizing the "idea" of living simply. And now that I'm complaining about being in a more comfortable situation, what will everyone's response be? "Oh poor Alex" they'll say "his noble ideals are being challenged because he has to suffer through another year of having access to cable television and the world-wide web at his fingertips."

I obviously haven't discussed any of these issues with people here in Peru. I somehow think they would have a hard time understanding why I would WANT to live in the most miserable, impoverished situation possible. It's not going to help me rack up "cool" points with them like I was secretly hoping it would with my fellow white, middle class American liberal Christian friends. Without even realizing it, in my self-righteous crusade to try and understand the way the "rest of the world" thinks, feels and lives I developed attitude that would probably leave those same people utterly dumbfounded.

OK, now that I've sufficiently bashed my old way of thinking, I'm going to take a moment to justify the initial aversion I had to my old living situation. Because I've been missing my friends, family, old habits etc so much during the past couple months, I think being able to get on the 'net 24 hours a day creates a significant obstacle to forming genuine, meaningful relationships with my friends, partners, family, "brothers and sisters in Christ" or whatever you want to call the people around me here in Peru. Instead of spending time talking, laughing, learning and growing with my host family, it's all to easy to retreat to my room, close the door, and be virtually transported back to my US life in an instant with email, instant messenger, blogs, skype phone calls, world news ticker updates, facebook, youtube etc. I don't know if I am willing to admit that I'm "addicted" to the internet, but I think most people who know me really well will tell you that I am, well, addicted to the internet. The only reason I'm hesitant to admit that myself is because for the 2 months I had with my first host family, when I would just spend an hour or two 3 days a week in the internet cafe, I was doing just fine. I'm a very adaptable person, and not having internet access wasn't too big of a challenge (like it should be if I'm really "addicted"). It was fairly easy for me to find other things to do. I had other ways to entertain myself, and I would spend the time that I would normally use to read blogs about the college football season and write on peoples facebook walls to instead hang out with my host family. The problem comes when the internet is easily accessible and available. That's when I have a hard time not doing anything else.

More than "martyring yourself" by living simply, I think the YAV program is about learning to play the hand that your dealt. Because of a situation largely out of my control, I've been dealt a hand that has put me in a living situation that's quite comfortable and in many ways, not too different from the one I was used to back in the good ol' U.S. of A . And instead of pouting about not being challenged with a scenario that pushes me further outside of my comfort zone, I need to be thankful for what I have. And I still have plenty of opportunities for personal growth. First off, I've been given the opportunity to be much more honest with myself, and in the process I've admitted the secretly selfish motives I had behind my supposedly self-less intentions. I also now have a wonderful opportunity to learn some self-discipline. If I really want to learn how to live simply and free myself from my mindless internet addiction, having to force MYSELF to learn how to moderate and optimize the time I spend online will go a lot further to this end than simply being forced to do so by outside circumstances.

I think that's about all for now. There will definitely be more blog entries to come about the details of my new family and the experiences I've had with them (I've been with them for nearly a month now). If you're curious about what exactly happened with my old host family, send me an email and I'll fill you in. Finally, my new address is:

... available on my facebook page! If you're friends with me on facebook, you can see it. If we're not "facebook friends" and you want my address, email me and I'll give it to you.

Christmas letters are welcome! Thanks for reading and keeping in touch. Please continue to keep me in your thoughts/prayers.

Pictures of Breakfast Tacos

For those of you who are curious, I've posted ALL the pictures I've taken in Peru thus far (which isn't all that many, because I'm not a huge photographer-type person) on my Picasa website. It's listed in the photo links section on the sidebar.

Included in these pictures is documentation of my first cooking experiment in Peru. I made breakfast tacos this weekend for a group of friends from Santa Isabel's congregation. It was an adventure. Unlike back home in the States, they don't sell tortillas that are pre-made and packaged here. So the first step for this past weekend was learning how to make homemade flour tortillas (yeah, yeah, I know, I should have used corn, but the flour ones looked easier). Let's just say that the first batch kind of looked more like biscuits than tortillas -- how was I supposed to know that MORE water = THICKER tortillas?! I thought it would be the opposite!

I also couldn't find pre-made refriend beans. So I got to do that the old fashioned way as well: with a bunch of vegetable oil, pinto beans, salt, pepper and a little garlic. But somehow, everything came out edible, and nothing caught on fire. And everyone at the meal CLAIMED that it tasted really good! I think it was the first meal I've had in weeks that didn't include ANY rice OR potatoes! The Peruvians were all worried about the gastronomical after-affects of eating a bunch of eggs, beans, sausage and cheese all mixed together. I just told them that North Americans fart a lot.

Anyway, if you have any homemade refried beans/tortilla tips, let me know! (I'm talking to YOU Guatemala YAVs!)

The White Randy Jackson

Last week, I served as a member of a "jury" for an elementary school singing contest. Yep, not kidding. My friend Eva helps me teach English at Santa Isabel (she definitely speaks English better than I speak Spanish, despite the fact she's never traveled outside of Peru), and her husband is the music director of the local elementary school. Every year, the school has a big concert/contest where choirs and individuals from all grade levels perform. He always has trouble finding people who are "qualified" enough to serve on the jury to judge the contest. Eva told me all of this a few weeks ago after finding out that I played trombone for 8 years during elementary, middle and high school. And then she asked me if I would be on the jury. I told her I would be on it as a last resort - that her husband should continue looking for people, and if he just couldn't find anyone else, I would do it. And you can figure out what happened from there.

Before the contest, I had to prepare my "resume" that detailed my musical experience. So I wrote down on a piece of paper that I played trombone in concert band and marching band from 8 years. For good measure, I added that I was in my church's handbell choir (which mainly consisted of going to practice about twice a month--and all we really did was play stuff like chords for "Silent Night" during Christmas). After I showed my resume to Eva, she insisted that we spice it up a bit. So I didn't just play trombone for 8 years - I played trombone and studied music for 8 years at the "Institute" of Decatur High School. And when the MC of the concert/contest announced the jury, I was introduced as "Professor" Alex Cornell, a "specialist" in wind instruments, who studied music for eight years at an Institute in the United States of America! They didn't mention that, as a judge of a singing competition, I hadn't EVER received ANY type formal instruction in voice/singing/performance, and the last time I had practiced or participated in any sort of organized singing group was when I was in the church choir in 5th grade. In fact, until my sophomore year of college I thought the only meaning of the word "jury" was the group of people who decides if the defendant in a court of law is guilty or not guilty.

So suffice it to say, as I'm sitting there between ACTUAL music professors (or so I thought--you never now...) getting introduced at the beginning of what would eventually be a 5 hour concert, I couldn't help but feel a little silly and out of place. I was mainly just praying that I wouldn't inadvertently ruin the promising future of some 5 year old musical child prodigy by giving him or her an undeserved low score. I really had no idea what I was doing -- seriously, I don't even watch American Idol!

To evaluate the performers, we (the jury) had to give them scores from 1 to 5 in four categories: pitch, rhythm, diction and performance. Let me just take a moment to say that the spanish word for performance is "interpretación," which I thought (wrongly) meant "interpretation" (duh). I didn't find out until the next day that it actually means "performance." So while they were supposed to be graded on pitch, rhythm, diction and performance, I graded them on pitch, rhythm, diction and interpretation. I quickly learned that it didn't matter that much anyway. As long as you don't give 1's and don't give 5's (unless somebody is REALLY good or REALLY bad), everything will be okay. Throughout the night, my judging method was more or less "hmmmmm, let's pick a random number between 2 and 4." Especially for the 3 year olds. That's right, there were 3 year olds (just choir groups, not individuals). How are you supposed give a group of 12 three year olds a score for "pitch" when the only thing the choir director is concerned about is preventing them from wandering off the stage in the middle of their "performance?" They were all really cute though....

Luckily, one of the other members of Santa Isabel Church, who was once a professional musician, was also on the jury, and he let me copy off of his paper. I'm also lucky that all we had to do as members of the jury was to grade those 4 categories with a number between 1 and 5 and add up the four numbers for a final score. If there was a "comments" section, I'm pretty sure my cover would have been blown. During the couple days leading up to the contest, I pictured us (the judges) giving verbal feedback, American Idol style. I figured I could just be like a "celebrity" judge. They could put me last in the line-up, and after all of the serious judges who knew what they were doing gave technical feedback, I would be waiting at the end as the US native-gringo who just told them if their outfits looked funny or that they gave "a great effort."

I DID end up giving a couple "5's" in the competition. There was one kid who was I think 7 years old who was AMAZING. I learned later that evening that he's been on TV singing multiple times. He sang a mariachi song in a full mariachi outfit. At the beginning of his performance, as the audience sat in silence waiting for him to sing while the instrumental introduction to the song played he suddenly yelled the Spanish equivalent of "put your hands together!" to get everyone to start clapping. From that point on, I was sold.

So that's my first ever jury duty experience - in either a courtroom OR a concert. I guess this is what the "new experiences" of being a Y.A.V. are all about.

Culture shock...

First things first: no more virus. Sasser = matado. Which is good news.... sort of. I hate to admit it, but the virus kinda won. With the help of my computer friend, I ended up just starting over and erasing my hard drive. But, like I good boy scout, I came to Peru prepared for just such a situation. Before I left the states, I backed up everything on an external hard drive, and brought along all of the re-installation disks for my operating system, drivers, programs etc. And all the new documents I've created IN Peru since then, I've saved to my flash drive. So even though I had to erase everything to kill the virus, I had all of the important stuff backed up. And now all is back to normal. So we'll call it a draw. But now I have NOD32, so you won't be so lucky next time, Sasser...

* * * * * *

I've been in Peru for 11 weeks now, and so I thought I'd do a little reflecting on how things are going.

At this point in my work, I feel frustrated a lot of the time. Mainly frustrated with myself. See, I speak Spanish fairly well, and people frequently compliment me on how well I speak. Still, after living here for 2 and half months, the daily challenge of using a foreign language ALL the time has gotten to me. Sometimes when people talk to me, I just hear a blur. On the other end, I often just lack the vocabulary I need to express myself. It's REALLY frustrating not only to hear someone repeat something 3 times without understanding it, but even more so when YOU repeat yourself 3 or 4 times without being understood, even though you think you've explained whatever it is you're trying to say perfectly. My Spanish is getting better, but I really have to admit that I thought it would be a lot easier by this point.

I've also felt frustrated with my own ethnocentrism. I find myself blaming things that are different or "worse" than home on the Peruvian or Latin/South American culture. "They're just not as educated or advanced as we are." I would have told you you were crazy if you told me I'd find myself saying or thinking things like that before I left. Back before I came to Peru, when it was all just hypothetical, I always hated the typical "western = better, rest of world = inferior" worldview. I never understood it when I met people in the US who'd spent a lot of time traveling or living in another country, yet they seemed like the most snobbish Americans ever. I felt like this type of "ignorant" attitude in people who had NEVER in their lives left the US, (or the South, or Texas....) was easily forgivable and explainable, but to hear it from people who'd spent months or years traveling abroad just baffled me. But now, I'm kind of starting to understand how even these well-traveled and "cultured" people could sadly have the same type of mindset.

Back home, especially for white, upper-middle class university students, appreciating new perspectives and acknowledging the value of other cultures, peoples, worldviews etc is relatively easy, because it's all in THEORY. You're just doing it at 9:30 on a Monday, inside a modern, western university classroom, with other white, upper-middle class students and a white, upper-middle class professor. And after the 50 minute class period is over, you don't really have to think about it again until next Wednesday; meanwhile, you're going back to your dorm room to spend 4 hours surfing YouTube.

However, when you're living abroad in a culture where you don't speak fluently the language you need to survive, and when cyclical poverty, domestic violence, drug/alcohol abuse, gang activity and non-western thought processes actually become daily realities rather than bite-sized, easy-to-swallow textbook concepts, theory goes out the window. Life back home seems so simple, so easy, so FUN! in comparison.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Alex, aren't you supposed to be an 'expert' at this kind of stuff, Mr. Sociology gruaduate? Aren't their GLOBAL social processes at work?" And, YES, I know there are "global processes" going on far beyond the scope of what I see at a micro-level during my daily life in Comas. I FREQUENTLY find myself applying what I've learned in classes to what I see here in Peru. But at some point it all just becomes "blah blah blah, globalization, blah blah blah, free-trade, blah blah blah, the multi-national corporations, blah blah blah, neo-colonialism, blah blah blah, self-fulfilling prophecy, blah blah blah..."

And maybe the fact that I pretend to understand the macro-level socio-economic theoretical concepts (how's that for a string of fancy words that doesn't really say much?) just makes it worse. Because then it just makes me go back to the attitude of "I understand this situation, because I'm an enlightened Westerner, and the Peruvians don't." In conversations with people, I just find myself thinking "if only they understood, if only they thought like I think, things would be better." And I can't stand it when I find myself having these thoughts.

I could definitely go more into some of this, but I can't right now. I don't think living in Peru is turning me into a cultural imperialist or anything like that. I'm just frustrated, because I'm learning that I'm a little more prejudiced, ethnocentric and "ignorant" than I first thought.

The Virus

For all of you computer-literate type people out there, the name of my laptop's virus is "The Sasser Worm" (cue ominous scary music). I looked up information about it online, and it sounds pretty scary. All of the ways I read about to kill it are kind of beyond my computer knowledge.

I have a friend here who is a computer systems engineer, but I think he's having trouble understanding the problem, because although I speak spanish pretty well, I'm not too good with the whole computer jargon vocabulary.

If you ever start up your computer and soon see the message "LSA Shell (Export Version) experienced a problem and needed to close," followed by another pop-up window that says "The system process C://WINDOWS\system32\lsass.exe terminated unexpectedly with error status code 128" and a countdown timer telling you your computer will shut itself down in 60 seconds, then you're in trouble....

Protesting the Devil

On Friday, I went to my first protest here in Lima. Generally, I’m a fan of protests. Free speech and Democracy in action. It’s the “cool” thing to do when you’re a college-ish aged white kid – standing up to the establishment. Even better – this was a church protest.

Every year, the kids at Kilometer 13’s compassion program hold a protest against Halloween. A protest march, that is. All of the kids bring posters that say things like “Say No to Halloween, Say Yes to Jesus!” And they have pictures of jack-o-lanterns in red circles with slashes through the middle. Many of the kids wear sandwich-board style signs with messages on both sides. One girl, who must have been about 4, wore an adorable pink sandwich-board sign with white cloth frills around the edges that said “No Al Halloween”on the front and “Christo Te Ama” on the back. Unfortunately, I’m still kind of paranoid about bringing my camera places in light of getting robbed a month ago, so I don’t have pictures of this event. I really, really wish I had brought it, because the photos would have been awesome to share.

So as you probably already knew, I wasn’t exactly in favor of the cause behind this particular protest, but that doesn’t matter. I kept that little fact to myself. Living with this bit of hypocrisy is a small price to pay to be able to say that I participated in a protest march against Halloween on the streets of Lima, Peru. There were about 60 or so kids marching, and 5 or 6 older leaders to help keep them in order. We walked a good 9 or 10 block loop, the whole time shouting “¡No al Halloween! ¡Si al Cristo!” and other variations on this basic theme. People in the neighborhood came out of their houses and stores to watch us. Most just stared in bewildered silence, but a few clapped along.

I’m still not exactly sure why the churches here are so anti-Halloween. They say it’s all about the Devil. I must say I’m kind of unfamiliar with the origins of Halloween and trick-or-treating myself. I kind of like the idea of kids dressing up and getting free candy. I guess the pagans just have all the fun holidays…

Oh well, I thought the protest was tons of fun. Of course, I’m still pro-Halloween. But I’m definitely not anti-Halloween protest marches. If the churches here want to be against Halloween, I say go for it. All the kids had a blast. They had been talking about it with excitement earlier in the week. I think they’d be pretty disappointed if next year the adults told them that things had changed and Halloween was okay now. They have a blast drawing pictures and making posters. And who doesn’t like the idea of marching around a neighborhood en masse shouting “¡No Al Halloween!” at the top of your lungs?

Fulbito Feats and Follies

I wrote this entry about two weeks ago, I think so imagine that the date on it says October 17 or so. This entry is also posted in the group blog for the Peruvian YAVs: http://www.presbyterianllamas.blogspot.com/

I play fulbito at 7:30am every Saturday with the youth from Kilometer 13 church its surrounding neighborhood in Comas. It’s definitely one of the highlights of my week. Fulbito is miniature soccer, played on a concrete “field” that’s the same size as a basketball court. The goals are maybe 1/3 the size of regular soccer goals, and six people play on each team instead of 11. When we play at Kilometer 13, there are usually close to 20 people there, so two teams play while a 3rd team waits to play the winner of a short game to two goals. Fulbito is much more popular than regular “fútbol” here in Lima if for no other reason than the fact that there just isn’t space for full-sized grass fútbol fields. I haven’t quite been to all of them, but I would venture to guess that every neighborhood in Lima has at least one fulbito court.

I’m sure at some point someone in Hollywood has made a movie about kids in Latin America playing serious pick-up fulbito, and I just haven’t seen it. (I don’t need to see it – I already know that it’s about how the neighborhood kids are really good at fulbito, but they’re also really poor. They play a game against a group of richer kids with more resources and less social/family issues…. Blah blah blah, eventually they overcome their obstacles, the ragtag underdog team wins the big game and everyone lives happily ever after). Seriously though, there are all sorts of movies that follow this same formula as it applies to street basketball and even baseball, why not fulbito?

I really do feel like I’m in a movie sometimes when I play fulbito on Saturdays. We play with the same ragged, faded soccer ball every week. The top cross bar of one of the goals on our court is broken, and has been tied on with rope. The court doesn’t have walls or a fence, so when the ball gets kicked out of bounds, someone has to run into the street to retrieve it, dodging traffic as they go (don’t worry, whenever this is my job I’m always very careful; I’m not trying to win the “which YAV will get hit by a car first” prize). The walls of many of the nearby buildings are covered in graffiti, and trash lines the streets. Mostly the same guys show up to play every week. Some of them have nicknames. Most of them wear the same shirt and pair of shorts each week. Many wear shoes with holes in them, or with soles that are coming apart and flap in the wind like the tongue of a dog panting on a hot day. Some of them start playing at 6:30 in the morning, as soon as it’s light outside (or so I’m told – I haven’t quite gotten up that early yet to find out).

Usually I feel like I’m “Smalls,” the main character in The Sandlot. When I showed up the first week, I was the new kid in town, and an obvious gringo, clad in “fancy” running clothes. With very few exceptions, I hadn’t played soccer since I was 13. But I came with Julio, a youth from the church that plays regularly. He introduced me to everyone one by one and assigned me to a team and position. Near the very beginning of my very first game, I took a throw-in after the ball went out of bounds and accidentally threw the ball to someone on the other team. He was left with only the goalie to beat, and immediately scored an easy goal. An argument then ensued over whether the goal should count or not, since the guy wouldn’t have scored if it hadn’t been for the stupid gringo on the other team taking the throw-in. Afterwards, I offered to switch out and let someone else play for me. Of course they told me everything was okay and insisted that I keep playing.

Since that first week, I’ve made plenty of other mistakes and looked pretty silly a zillion times, but I’ve slowly been getting better, remembering some elementary fundamentals from my preteen, rec-league soccer days and figuring out some basic strategies that are unique to fulbito. Two weeks ago, I even scored my first goal. Our best player beat a defender on a breakaway, and I followed, sprinting behind him. As he prepared to take a shot, I “crashed” the goal. The goalie blocked his shot, but by sheer luck the deflection bounced right to me and I drilled it into the back of the net. (Just kidding. Do you seriously think our goals would have nets? I just had to say that for poetic effect. But yes, I scored.) The third team that was watching went nuts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal as I casually jogged back to my side of the court and high-fived my teammates, but I’m sure they would tell you that I was grinning like an idiot.

However, my real “Sandlot” moment happened this past Saturday. We had been playing for a good hour or so when one of the players on the other team decided to take a “one-touch” shot as hard as he could off a deflection. The ball soared over the goal, over the street, and over the roof of the house on the other side. As you probably know if you’ve ever been to a city in Latin America, the houses here don’t really have “side yards” between them. Each block is basically one big concrete street front, divided between different houses of different sizes and colors. So we couldn’t just run after the ball, because there’s no space between buildings. The funny part is that I had been playing goalie, meaning I would normally have the responsibility of retrieving the ball when it goes out of bounds. I just sort of looked back at everyone and said something to the effect of “now what?” A few of the guys climbed up on the concrete bleachers that line one side of the court to try and see where the ball went. (I kept waiting for one of them to say “great, no we can’t play ball no more!”)

I was sure the ball had landed in the yard of a massive, monster guard dog, but at least the ball wasn’t signed by Pele or Ronaldino or David Beckham or anything like that. (This is a good thing, because I didn’t exactly bring an erector set to Peru…) As we all sort of stood around, scratching our heads, one of the guy finally decided to go knock on the door of the house that the ball went over. Eventually a man opened the door. I can only imagine how the conversation went from there: “yes, a soccer ball didn’t happen to crash through your roof a moment ago, did it?” He went back inside, and sure enough a couple minutes later he emerged with the ball. I guess the families in this neighborhood are probably used to soccer balls flying into their backyards during breakfast time on Saturday. We thanked the man, took the ball and kept playing.

So if a movie about fulbito hasn’t been made yet, now’s the time. And I want some royalties. But if I’m not entitled to any profits, all I ask is that you don’t include “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” in the soundtrack.

- Alex

Quick Update

Although I've somehow managed to go 8 weeks in Peru without getting majorly sick, my laptop has come down with a virus, I'm afraid. So that means I'm kind of having trouble writing updates on my laptop, saving them on a flash drive and uploading them at an internet cafe, like I normally do.

So just know that I'm doing well. The Peru YAVs had a wonderful retreat in Huanuco, the land of eternal spring (seriously, the weather was georgous). I left Lima Friday night and returned tuesday night. We all got a chance to enjoy great food, weather and fellowship.

I guess I just hope that the retreat re-energized us enough to make it through big, bad November. November is supposedly the most difficult month of the YAV year, as culture shock is at its worst, because the differences between Peru and the United States that we don't mind when they're new and exciting start to get you down when they become old, stale and unchanging. So far I'm doing well as far as that goes. I have good days and bad days. On my good days, I feel like I could actually be a for-real missionary some day - you know, as a career. On my bad days, I can't help but despair that I won't be able to go home for another 9 months. To cope, I've thought about making a "Top 30 Reasons to Prefer Peru to the US" list, and then reveal one every day during November. Right now I'm having trouble getting to 30, but I have at least one: Thankfully, in Peru, in order to see/hear Sarah Palin on TV, you have to really try hard to look for her. Apparently in the US, you guys aren't so lucky....

Also, yesterday I went to a "Pollada" (yeah, the closest translation would be a "chicken bar b que) with the kilometro 13 church. So I'll leave you with the steps to have you're own pollada.

1. Get a chicken from the market.
2. Cut its head off
3. Cut the claws off the feet.
4. Save the feet.
5. Cut out its intestines.
6. Save everything else.
7. Grill or fry to taste.

Yeah, I'm leaving out some steps. But you get the idea. This is why I tell people in Peru I don't know how to cook. In the US, I would tell someone with all confidence "yes, I can be in charge of grilling the chicken for the family bbq." If you say that in Peru, they'll hand you an entire chicken. And you better save the heart, liver and other internal organs -- some people think those are the best parts!

Something tells me it's all happening at the zoo....

A couple things: First of all, I’ve changed the settings of my blog so anyone can comment – you don’t need a log-in name. So feel free to add comments. Try to say who you are, if you’re not logged into gmail. I’ll delete anonymous comments if they start getting out of control.
Second: I’ve been here for six weeks now, which is longer than I’ve ever been outside of the country. Weird.
Third: I still haven’t eaten guinea pig (“cuy”) yet, but this weekend the YAVs have a retreat in Huanuco/Tingo Maria. This will be the first time that I’ve left Lima. People have told me they eat a lot more cuy outside of Lima, in the provinces. So wish me luck…

Last Wednesday, we went to the zoo.Well, it wasn’t just a zoo. We went to Parque Sinchi Roca. “We” were myself, Damaris, Daniela, Julia, Cristiano, and Dayra. According to Daniela, Sinchi Roca is the largest park in Lima. And I believe her. It’s huge. And it’s really nice, as far as things in Comas go. For one, it’s green. There’re actually trees and grass. And a giant pool (which was closed until summer), a tiny man-made lake with paddle boats and motor boats you can rent (reminiscent of Lake Susan in Montreat, but smaller, if you can imagine that), camp sites, plenty of soccer fields, a small zoo (obviously), amusement park-type rides, food/drink/souvenir stands and even TRASH CANS!!!! (big, outdoor public trash cans are almost non-existent in Lima).

Yesterday was a holiday, which I didn’t find out until the day before yesterday – I had been planning to go to work with the compassion program all day. I’m still not sure exactly what the holiday was. Daniela told me the name of the holiday, (which I forgot) but she didn’t know exactly why it exists. So since most families were off from school/work, the park was packed. Kids playing soccer. Couples picnicking on blankets in the grass. Huge groups of people circled around performers doing drama and comedy. All in all, it was a pretty cool scene. The whole scene overall kind of reminded me of Brackenridge Park in San Antonio on a nice weekend.

We actually didn’t get to the park until after 5pm, so we didn’t have too much time to explore before it started getting dark. The actually weren’t going to let us in to the zoo part of the park at first, but then Daniela pointed at me and said that it was her son’s last day in Peru before he went back to the United States, and they let us in. The zoo was very small, and mostly included animals from South/Central America. There were a couple gorgeous parrots and toucans, a bunch of different kinds of monkeys and small birds, a baby leopard, a giant constricting snake of some kind, a fox, and an adult puma. They were all in cages/exhibits that were probably much smaller than they should be. But you could get up really close and shake hands with/feed the monkeys, which was cool.

It was a fun afternoon. The entire family agreed we’ll have to go back some time, when the pool is open and when we have more time to see everything.

A little more serious...

I started writing this entry on October 7, 2008. I finished it this morning (10-13).
I was robbed twice within the span of one week. Pickpocketed once, and also just plain robbed. If you’re curious (and I hope you are) about what happened, then copy, paste, and save this entry, because it’s quite long. (I would say you might want to print it out so it’s easier to read, but I probably shouldn’t flatter myself, and plus that would be a huge waste of paper and ink...but if you want to, go for it!)
DISCLAIMER
Before I get started, I need to get a couple of things out of the way. First, I have not been physically hurt/injured in any way. Second, the ONLY person that can be blamed for what happened is me. (Well, of course, you can obviously blame the robbers – because you should never really “blame the victim.” And we can all try to blame God. Job did that, and I think Job was pretty justified, even though God disagreed and put Job in his place.) What I’m trying to say is that my host family, my site coordinator Debbie, my partners in mission here in Peru, and the Young Adult Volunteer / World Mission staff of the Presbyterian Church (USA) can NOT be held responsible for ANY of the unfortunate events whose descriptions follow. They have all exercised and continue to exercise good judgment in terms of looking out for my safety and well-being. When I agreed to participate in a program that involves living and working in a South American mega-city of 9 million people while I myself am a foreigner from the US, I understood that there were certain risks involved. That being said, I assure you all that I am not living or working in any environment that poses a severe threat/danger. My host family is still wonderful. My work placements/churches/mission partners are still wonderful. I’m still – honestly – really glad I’m here. I don’t want to come home. If you want to fly out to Lima to protect me by trying to bring me home, then go right ahead. I’ll be happy to introduce you to my host family, churches and other YAVs. And we can hang out, catch up, eat some ceviche etc. But then I’ll make you fly home by yourself, because I’m staying here.
Sometimes, crappy things just happen. And after all is said and done, I’m still here to blog about it, with the hope that we can all learn from my experiences, and in the long run, become better disciples of Jesus Christ and citizens of the World because of it.
Finally, I should probably mention that the following narrative is pretty much an uncensored account of the robbery. It includes pretty much everything that I remember and the things that were going through my head. So naturally some of it is not necessarily relevant/important information. This blog entry is simply my way of remembering, processing and reflecting.
ROBBERY #1 – Setting the Scene
ANYWAYS, the first time I was robbed was last Wednesday. I had been at the internet café in my neighborhood very near my house. I had been checking my email, chatting with friends and family on Skype, and catching up on news, college football etc. At 8:30pm, I left the café to come back home. I decided to come back by way of Avenida Universitaria, the main road that borders my barrio (neighborhood). This route is longer than the way I usually come to the internet café (through the neighborhood park), but Juancito and Daniela told me that going down Universitaria is usually safer than going through the park at night. As I was walking down Universitaria, I saw 3 guys probably in their late teens ahead of me, crossing the street in my direction. They continued down the sidewalk about 30 meters in front of me on my side of the road. They were walking in the same direction I was walking. While they were crossing the street, they kept looking over their shoulders in my direction. It seemed like they were looking at me, but I convinced myself that they were probably just checking to see if any cars were coming as they crossed. But even after they had safely crossed, they still looked back in my direction.
When they got to the corner, which just happened to be the road that leads to my house, they turned out of my sight (the entire block is lined by a 8 foot high brick wall that serves as the periphery of the local high school). At that point, I definitely had a bad feeling about these guys. But for some honestly inexplicable reason, I continued walking forward instead of turning around and going back to the internet café. I slowed down and walked down the last half of the block really, really slowly. I guess I somehow thought that they would just continue walking after they turned the corner, and if I walked slowly, by the time I got around the corner, they would be really far ahead of me. But right before I got to the corner, I saw their shadows and heard voices around the other side. Right when I realized they were there, all three of them were suddenly coming around to greet me, and I was quickly surrounded.
ROBBERY # 1 – The Assault (it’s not as scary as it sounds)
One of them (he looked like he was maybe 16) asked me “eres de alla?” and pointed toward the neighborhood where I lived. As I simply said “sí,” one of the other guys behind me put me in a headlock. At this point, they all started talking/shouting at me really, really fast, and I honestly don’t know what they said. I can just assume it was something like “give me your money, don’t move, give me what you have in your pockets” etc. I didn’t really try to figure out what they were saying, because I knew what they wanted. They reached into my pockets and took everything. I was holding in my hands the earphones/microphone set that I use on Skype, but for some reason they let me keep that. My pants were kind of falling down as they tried to take everything out of my pockets. Being kind of self-conscious (and trying to avoid being the victim of a more serious crime…), I tried to reach in and help them take my stuff out. At this point the guy with his arm around my neck pressed tighter and said something to me. I think he thought I was reaching for a concealed weapon. So I took my hand back out of my pocket and let them continue taking my stuff themselves.
As everything was happening, a taxi drove past slowly. There were at least 2 or 3 passengers inside, all of them watching what was happening. I looked at them pleadingly, hoping they’d help. Of course, the taxista didn’t stop. He just kept driving, with the windows rolled all the way up.
ROBBERY # 1 – Counting the losses
The whole ordeal probably lasted only 20 seconds. When they got everything, the one guy finally let me go, and they ran back across Universitaria in the direction from which they originally crossed. Thankfully, they didn’t want my pocket Spanish-English dictionary or my YAV pen!!! (Neither one could be easily replaced here in Peru, I think.) They just dropped them on the ground as they took off. As the three cholos ran, they kept looking back, watching me (somewhat nervously, I think). I guess they were just waiting for me to shout an insult, try and call the police, chase after them etc. But instead, I just picked up my pen and dictionary and stood there watching them, dumbfounded and hurt (emotionally, not physically). In all, I lost my cell phone, which I bought in Peru for about 75 soles (~$25); the little coin purse that had served as my wallet, which contained something like 25 or 30 soles (about $9); and my USB flash drive, which had a 4GB capacity and cost me about $40 in the US (but I had all the files on it already saved on my laptop at home). They didn’t physically hurt me, and they didn’t ever show me any type of weapon.
ROBBERY # 1 – The aftermath
So all things considered, as far as getting robbed goes, it wasn’t too bad. As I continued the walk back to my house, a mototaxi came up behind me (different than the taxi that drove by earlier). The driver told me he saw what happened and told me to get in so he could take me home. He asked me if I had family here in Comas. I told him yes – I was staying here in this neighborhood. He told me he lived right there, near the corner and that he thought he might know the kids who robbed me. He asked me who my family was. I explained to him that I’m a volunteer missionary from the US, and that my “family” here isn’t really a biological family, but a host family – and that they’re Daniela and Juan Carlos. He said he knew Juan Carlos and he would accompany me to the house. When Daniela answered the door, the mototaxista simply told her who he was and then said good-night and took off. I think he did this because he didn’t want to have to awkwardly explain how he saw me get robbed.
As soon as I got inside the door, I told my family what happened, which made everyone upset. Juancito kept asking me if I was going to cry. Daniela told me that I shouldn’t have stayed out so late, that I should have called for someone to come get me instead of trying to walk back solo, and that she had considered checking on me in the internet café earlier since I had been there for so long. She had decided not to, because she didn’t want to be an overbearing, worrisome host mother (the same decision my real mother would have made, I think). And Damaris kept threatening to use her belt to beat up the guys that robbed me.
It turned out that the mototaxista and Juan Carlos don’t really know each other all that well. After talking on the phone with him for about 15 minutes, Juan Carlos told me that we were going out to try and find the guys who robbed me.
So then Juan Carlos and I left. We basically just walked around the neighborhood for half an hour. Every few minutes, Juan Carlos would point at somebody and ask me if he was one of them. Naturally, we never found the guys. I thought all of this to be kind of a dumb idea at the time. So what if we DID find the three guys, and then turned them in to the police or whatever? They’d probably be back on the streets within a couple days, and the next time they saw me, they probably wouldn’t be as “friendly” as before. But I realized that what we were doing served more of a purpose than simply looking for the guys that robbed me; Juan Carlos was basically “introducing” me to the neighborhood.
Juan Carlos grew up in El Retablo (the name of my neighborhood). He’s kind of a big deal around here. He knows pretty much everybody. In the past week since that night, I’ve walked around the neighborhood running errands with Juan Carlos a couple times. Each time, there are other people out, and they see us together. Usually, we run into a couple people Juan Carlos is friends with, and he talks to them for awhile and introduces me. As more and more people see me out with Juan Carlos and the rest of the family, word eventually spreads that I’m not just some single gringo tourist who took the wrong bus out from downtown and got stuck in Comas, but rather I’m part of the neighborhood. I have social connections, and I don’t necessarily have a lot of money and fancy stuff to be stolen.
ROBBERY # 1 – What I learned
As the people from my site placement/church assignments found out what happened, I’ve been hearing a steady stream of not only condolences, but also warnings and advice to prevent it from happening again. “Don’t go out after dark.” “Don’t ever go anywhere alone.” “Parts of Comas can be dangerous.” “Why didn’t you call somebody to come get you?” “You always have to be conscious of your surroundings.” “You need to learn karate or self-defense.” The most interesting advice I heard, which was actually something we also discussed during orientation, was to always carry my bible with me in a way that people could see it. I don’t think people here actually believe that the bible will mysteriously “protect” you like some charm, but rather potential thieves will see it and fear possible repercussions (mystical, social etc). Or as Harry (our site coordinator’s husband) put it somewhat jokingly, “they’ll know you’re an Evangelical, and they’ll leave you alone because the Evangelicals are the only ones who will visit them in prison.” [Side note: “Evangelical” refers to any and all protestant/reformed Christian groups in Latin America. It doesn’t mean exactly the same thing as it does in the States…]
SEMI-RELATED TANGENT to lighten the mood
So during the past couple weeks, I’ve been carrying my bible with me everywhere I go. I figure it can’t hurt, right? And I haven’t been robbed again during that time (well…. um, except for the pickpocketing story described below. But I honestly don’t think whoever picked my pocket even knew I was carrying a bible). Really, the only direct result from carrying the bible everywhere is that I have a lot more candy than I did before. Now you might be wondering to your self, “Self, what in the world does carrying a bible have to do with getting candy?” Well, let me tell you!
When you ride the bus in Lima, especially during the middle of the day when busses aren’t particularly crowded and people aren’t in as much of a hurry, you will eventually get used to people (usually men) standing up in the front of the bus to address the passengers. They say “Hi, may I have your attention. My name is such-and-such. I am such-and-such years old. I believe in Jesus Christ. Currently, for such-and-such reason, I can’t really provide for my family, which includes such-and-such people. So today I would like to offer you these such-and-such candies. They’re really good. The price is such-and-such. Please help me. Thank-you for your attention, and my God bless you.” The person then proceeds to walk up and down the aisle, offering his candies, breath mints, chocolates or miniature staplers (seriously!) for sale. The first time this happened, I thought to myself “yeah right, nobody’s going to buy any of that.” But I was seriously wrong. On a bus with 30 people, I would say at LEAST 4 or 5 people usually buy something. That would never happen in the US.
So if I’m sitting there on the bus with my bible in my lap, how can I NOT buy candies from these people? They’re legitimately much worse off than I am economically. But they’re not simply begging for money and solely trying to evoke guilt/pity. They’re actually selling something, offering something in return, attempting to “earn” whatever they can. And the price of the little candies is usually something like 10 for the equivalent of 25 cents. And 25 cents goes much further here than it would at home. Plus, these people are explicitly telling everyone they’re Christian. I figure if I’m carrying my bible for “protection,” I should probably “practice what I preach,” so to speak (otherwise, my cover’s blown… just kidding).
The only problem is I’m not much of a candy-eater. Currently, I have a growing pile of candy on my dresser in my room. Sometimes I give it to my host siblings. But I recently realized that the candy is my insurance policy. If (God forbid), something happened to me here in Lima and I somehow lost my money, possessions, and the support of my host family, at least I would have the candy. And then I would have a means of income. I could just get on the busses and say “Good afternoon, let me have your attention for a moment. My name is Alex Cornell. I’m 22 years old. I believe in Jesus Christ. I recently lost my host family here in Lima, and now I’m all alone, unable to afford a flight back to my home in the United States. So today I would like to offer for sale these candies. I have all different flavors, and can sell them for 5 centamos a piece. Thank-you for your time, and may God bless you.”
DISCLAIMER, again
Okay, back to the subject at hand. Before I continue with the pickpocketing story (which is much, much shorter and not nearly as exciting), I’m going to simply copy and paste the very last part of what I wrote up top to introduce this entry just to ensure you that I’m not miserable or any nonsense like that:
My host family is still wonderful. My work placements/churches/mission partners are still wonderful. I’m still – honestly – really glad I’m here. I don’t want to come home. If you want to fly out to Lima to protect me by trying to bring me home, then go right ahead. I’ll be happy to introduce you to my host family, churches and other YAVs. And we can hang out, catch up, eat some ceviche etc. But then I’ll make you fly home by yourself, because I’m staying here.
“ROBBERY” # 2 – The story
So TODAY (I’m currently writing this at home on my laptop on October 7), I went to the Red Uniendo Manos office in Pueblo Libre (a district of Lima that’s about an 75 minute bus ride south of my house, more or less in the direction of downtown). I left my house at 7:15 this morning in order to observe the English class that Leslie teaches to the Uniendo Manos staff that officially starts at 8:00 every morning. My own English classes at my churches start this Saturday, and I still don’t know what I’m doing, and Leslie has actually taught English as a foreign language professionally, in a school. So I figured I could learn a lot from the way Leslie does things.
The math whizzes out there are realizing that I was about 45 minutes late. The class starts at 8am officially, which in Peru means that people won’t start arriving until 8:30. The reason everyone shows up late to an event in Peru is that everyone knows that the event won’t start on time, because everyone knows that people show up late in Peru (this “self-fulfilling prophecy” is the only concept I’ve felt confident in applying here in Peru from my western sociology background). I was planning on being about 30 minutes late to the class, but I had to wait at the bus stop for over 15 minutes before my bus finally appeared – which is a long time to wait for a bus in Lima. So when a bus finally did come, I took it. Even though it was definitely the most crowded bus I’ve EVER seen in my 5 weeks here in Lima. The cobrador had to push me on board through the mass of humanity. So by now, you’ve probably figured out what happened. There was no fancy scam, teamwork or “distraction” used to target me and pick my pocket. When I reached in my pocket to pay my fare a few blocks into my ride, after a bunch of people had gotten off and the bus wasn’t quite as congested, I realized my wallet was gone (this was my “backup wallet” since my small, handy coin purse wallet had been stolen 5 days earlier in the event described in the above dissertation). Luckily, I had all my coins I needed to pay my fare just sitting in my pocket beneath the wallet, so they weren’t stolen. All that was in my wallet that was stolen were 30 soles (a little less than $10) – that’s the amount I had usually been carrying on me on a daily basis. Now I’m planning to start carrying less – about 10 soles unless I’m POSITIVE that I’m going to need more.
“ROBBERY” # 2: Immediate Reaction/Thoughts/Reflections
So for the next hour in the bus, I just sort of sat and stewed, unable to believe “it happened again.” I probably re-checked all of my pockets 5 or 6 times during the hour, trying to make my wallet magically re-appear. I felt discriminated against. Robbed twice in the span of a week. I was angry, sad and frustrated. It wasn’t so much the fact that I lost 30 soles and a cheap wallet that upset me; it was the principle of the thing. That someone would have so little respect for me as a person that they would steal from me. They thought I looked like I had tons of money to lose. I was sure as soon as I squeezed myself onto that bus, people saw me and thought “look at the gringo, I’ll bet he’s got a bunch of cash on him. And his wallet’s probably right there in that pocket…” I felt like a victim of discrimination. My skin, hair and eyes are a different color from most everyone else here. I don’t speak the native language fluently. I have an accent. And so people think they can take advantage of me. It made me so angry. You can’t just judge/stereotype people from their appearance like that. On the inside, I don’t fit the stereotype of a white, male American. Why can’t they get to know me first? I can’t wait to go back to the United States, where this kind of thing doesn’t happen any more. In the USA, we stopped discriminating, judging, and stereotyping people based on their appearance and manner of speaking in the 60s, right? Because WE don’t see race or gender. Everyone’s equal in our country… right?
I even planned a little speech in my head about what I would say next time I got on a bus. It would have nothing to do with selling candy. I’d simply stand up and say “Hi, my name is Alex Cornell. Yes, I’m from the United States. English, not Spanish, is my first language. No, I’m not a tourist. I’m a volunteer missionary from the Presbyterian Church. But I’m not standing up here to preach or share the Gospel. I’m sure most of you have already heard the message of Jesus many, many times. I’m simply asking you not to rob or take advantage of me. I have already been robbed twice in the past week, including earlier today. I don’t have a lot of money. Spread the word. Tell your friends and family if they see me, I have nothing worth stealing. Thanks for your time, and may God’s peace be with you.”
Of course, I didn’t actually give this speech the next time I got on a bus. I’m not sure how people would react if I did, but it probably wouldn’t be too good.
FURTHER REFLECTION
Looking back, I really don’t think it was a big deal in the great scheme of things. Worse things have happened. Now you might be saying to your self: “Self, if it wasn’t such a big deal, then why is his blog entry about it nearly 6000 words long?” And I would say that first of all, you should have known that I’m a wordy person.
And second, I said it wasn’t a huge deal and that worse things have happened, because in this big world of ours, plenty of people have much more pressing things to worry about than being pickpocketed or robbed of inconsequential material possessions. Instead, people have to worry about war, starvation, cancer, AIDS, murder, rape – you know, fun stuff like that. But the people whose daily realities are dominated by these more serious issues AREN’T upper-middle class white US citizens* (i.e. the readership of this blog). To me — to us — it IS a big deal. Before today, I had NEVER been assaulted or pickpocketed. And only rarely had the possibility of such crime seemed high enough to make me worry about it or take precautions. I can hardly imagine this happening to me in Decatur or Trinity’s neighborhood in San Antonio. I’ve walked places (or gone for runs) by myself at much later hours of the night at school or at home without even giving it a second thought.
In his hit “song” (and by “song” I mean “speech”), “Wear Sunscreen,” Baz Lurhman advises his listeners to “live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.” I have lived in neither of those places. But let’s just say that where I have lived (before now) is much closer (metaphorically, not physically) to northern California than New York. Lima obviously isn’t New York City, but considering that it has 9 million people, that I’m an obvious foreigner, that I don’t speak the language totally fluently, and that I’m living and working in a non-touristy, working class neighborhood, I think Baz Lurhman’s (yeah, I have no idea how to spell his name) sentiment still applies.
People who know me well know that I’m INCREDIBLY “soft.” A pushover. Afraid of confrontation. Always warm and smiling. Willing to sacrifice my comfort for that of others. Friendly, playful, open and trusting. I’ve never been to Berkley, but Baz Lurhman would definitely identify me as a Northern California softie. But naturally, during the past couple weeks, I can feel myself growing a lot “harder.” Suddenly, I don’t want to get to know strangers or other people. I don’t want to smile everywhere I go. I’m not going to stop and talk to anyone or blindly trust someone I don’t know. When I walk through the neighborhood or get on the bus, I want to look serious, cold, closed-off, and just a little mean. I’m not just some happy-go-lucky tourist from the US that anyone can rob or pickpocket. If you look like a friendly, selfless, submissive person, you appear to be a much easier target for someone who wants to rob or take advantage of you. They’re not planning on “listening to your story,” getting to know you, making friends or even seeing you again.
As I think about the implications of all these changes in my attitude and outlook, I can’t help but be kind of worried/scared. I don’t want to finish my YAV year having become tough, cold, jaded, and paranoid. I guess I don’t want to lose my cheerful, idealistic innocence. But is it possible for me to live here in this new environment for a year and NOT become “hard?”
I think the relationships, friendships and partnerships that I am developing here in Lima are really, really important. Along with my growing faith and relationship with God, I think they are the only chance I have at retaining any of my “softness.” Barack Obama had it wrong. I’m going to cling to my religion because I’d rather NOT cling to a gun.
We are hesitant to trust others because we know there are plenty of bad, mean-spirited people out there that will hurt or take advantage of us if we trust them. Yet I think a culture characterized by distrust breeds bad, mean-spirited people. What was it Yoda said? I think it was “fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” Or something like that. Yoda was a wise dude. I am convinced that one of the primary causes of violence is fear. That, and violence itself. If you’re afraid of being robbed, acting big, bad and angry is a good strategy to defend yourself . . . most of the time. However, let’s assume there will always be people out there looking to steal from others. If everyone is tough and mean, the only plausible response the thieves can take is to become even tougher and meaner. There’s always a bigger fish (or a bigger gun, as the case may be). This doesn’t seem like a good answer to the question “What would Jesus do?”
FINAL THOUGHTS
So where do I go from here? There’s no way to avoid looking like an out of place US citizen.* When people look at me and see someone with white skin, lighter hair and lighter colored eyes, they’re probably 90% sure I’m from the US. As soon as I open my mouth to speak, they have no doubt. For example, I was simply walking down the street to Kilometer 13 church with the pastor a couple days ago when this guy stopped me and asked me in English, “Hi, how are you? Where are you from?” I had never seen him before. I wasn’t looking at him. I hadn’t said anything. He was just standing on the street, saw me walk by and knew he would have a chance to practice his English. I really can’t hide. (This is the reason Sean said he was going to tell people he was from Germany and doesn’t speak English). What I CAN do is try my best to look like what I am – a church missionary LIVING here for a year rather than a tourist or US study-abroad student that would be carrying a lot of money.
There’s only so much about “street smarts” you can learn from reading books on tourism or culture. I think for the most part, you just have to live and learn. For my part, I’m simply going to try to look like I don’t have a lot of money/electronics (which of course is true – I never carry much of either), and not look like I’m scared or timid. And if I ever do get robbed/assaulted again, I’m not going to let the robbers get away so easily. That’s right – I’m going to do the Christian thing. I’ll say:
“Wait, you forgot my wristwatch.”
“Do you want my jacket?”
“You can have my shoes too, if you like.”
I’m dead serious. I didn’t bring a single piece of clothing/jewelry that is worth a lot or I wouldn’t mind losing (okay, I honestly would probably be pretty sad if I lost one of my Montreat staff end-of-summer t-shirts or my Trinity track and field fleece, but I’d get over it). But seriously. More than one Christian author have pointed out that Jesus’ advice to “turn the other cheek” and give up not only your jacket to someone who wants to sue you, but your shirt, too is more than just being pacifistic and submissive. Jesus was giving his disciples a strategy in self-defense. When you turn the other cheek, you look your aggressor in the eye to let him/her see your own humanity and realize his/her own cruelty. When you unexpectedly offer up the rest of your clothes to someone who wants to take your jacket, you’re making it obvious how little you have, while at the same time exposing the extent of your enemy’s greed.
OKAY, FINAL THOUGHT (for real this time)
If you’re poor, you don’t worry about being robbed.
I’m not the first person that’s ever been robbed in Comas. Native Limeños get robbed here, too. But not poor ones. The advantage Limeños have is that they will probably be okay as long as they don’t look obviously wealthy or have something worth stealing (based on clothes, jewelry etc). If you’re a tall white person, however, you probably run the risk of being robbed no matter what kind of clothes you have on. Because our country is just so much wealthier than the rest of the world. Want to stop illegal immigration? Terrorism? Crime and theft against US citizens* traveling abroad? Then get rid of the despicable gap in the distribution of wealth between U.S. and the rest of the world.
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS (I think…)
Q: Why would you make all of this public knowledge? Isn’t this just unnecessarily worrying your friends/family? Don’t you have some sort of rule that says “what happens in Peru stays in Peru”?
A: Yes, I’ve obviously questioned the wisdom in making all of this public. I care very much about my family’s peace of mind. I don’t want them to unnecessarily worry. But they were going to worry anyway. And I’m too honest of a person to try and “hide” it until I’ve safely returned home. Originally, I started writing this just as a personal way to reflect and process my thoughts about what happened. I wasn’t planning on sharing it. However, the experiences of the past week obviously made a big impression on me, and it seems almost impossible not to share. Furthermore, I’ve also realized during my 6 weeks here so far that I’m not just a “missionary” to my partner congregations here in Lima, but more importantly, I’m a missionary to the United States. As far as actually “preaching the Gospel” in the traditional sense with which we often associate “missionaries,” I think I am supposed to do much more “testifying” to the folks back home than the people here in Peru. As I continue to serve here in Lima, I want to openly and sincerely share my experiences of Christ and culture with everyone in the States. I want you to see another part of the world through my eyes, so you can “serve through me” without actually being here. And that means sharing the messy, hard, scary parts as well as the fluffy, happy, feel-good parts, because some times the scary parts have more to teach us than the happy ones.
Q: Wow, it really took you that long to figure out the whole “being a missionary to the US” part of the YAV program?
A: Yes. Shut up.
Q: Are you changing your habits (not just your general philosophy on life) in light of being robbed? [PLEASE READ THIS IF YOU PLAN ON COMMENTING/EMAILING ME TO GIVE ME ADVICE!!!]
A: Yes. If I’m ever out after dark, someone comes to walk me home. I never leave home on my own after dark. When possible, I get someone to accompany me whenever I’m going somewhere. I never carry more money than I need (usually not more than about $3 or $4 worth). If I’m getting money from an ATM or casa de cambio, I get someone to come with me. I always carry a PHOTOCOPY (not the real thing) of my passport. I never take candy from strangers (okay, obviously that’s not true – I BUY candy from strangers, but I never take it for free). I visibly carry my bible everywhere I go (for more info, see above).
Q: Are you voting absentee?
A: Yes, already sent in my ballot. ¡Obámanos!

FUN FACT: Double spaced, 1” margins with 12 point Times New Roman font, this journal entry is over 16 pages long – longer than any paper I’ve ever written.

*[Another side note: I say “US citizen” instead of “American,” because I’m still in “America.” Spanish has both an adjective and a noun to describe people from the United States. English doesn’t. I’m still working on it. Could I say “ex-pat?” I’ve hear that word a lot in reference to people from the United States in other countries, and I think I qualify, but I’ve never been 100% clear on what “ex-pat” means….]

Random thoughts and anecdotes

This past Saturday, I played fulbito (mini-soccer) with some youth from Kilometer 13 church and the surrounding neighborhood. They were all a whole lot better than I was, but they were still nice enough to let me play. If I play every Saturday, maybe by the end of the year, I’ll be halfway decent.

After the worship service at Santa Isabel on Sunday, I went to lunch at the house of Juan Ambrosio and his family. Juan is the president of the consistorio (the church’s governing body) of Santa Isabel, and he’s the person who has designed the schedule for my placement there. In the back of the house, they have a little pen filled with guinea pigs. When I saw the guinea pigs, I hesitantly asked Juan if they were pets or food, even though I already knew the answer. Of course, he told me they were for food. They were just so cute though…. We didn’t eat guinea pig for lunch that day, we just had soup. But I learned in orientation that guinea pig (known as “cuy” in Peru) is a Peruvian delicacy, especially in the mountains/rural areas, so I’ll probably have to eat it some time. Because it’s such a special food, you can’t really politely refuse it. To decline cuy would be very offensive.


As Young Adult Volunteers, our job isn’t really to teach the people in our placement sites how we do things as “advanced,” “modern” westerners. Really, we’re just supposed to be present and form meaningful relationships, rather than produce tangible changes or “improvements.” We should be doing more listening than talking and more learning than teaching. But I think I might have to break this rule in order to teach the congregations of Kilometer 13 and Santa Isabel something that will revolutionize the way they experience contemporary Christian music. It’s rather simple: you clap your hands on beats 2 and 4, not 1 and 3. Those of you who aren’t musically inclined might not know what I’m talking about, but if you are, you probably know EXACTLY what I mean. Unless the band is practicing the song for the first time and doesn’t have a drummer, you just don’t clap on 1 and 3. When they learn this, it’s gonna be big…


A couple weeks ago, I went to a concert at the UBL (University Biblica Latinamerica) by a group called Siembra. Siembra is a Christian folkloric Peruvian music group. Quite simply, they were amazing. They sing beautiful harmonies about God, peace, and the Peruvian people and land. Their instruments include the guitar, a drum, churango (mini-guitar) and zampoña (or something like that – I can never remember what it’s called, let alone how it’s spelled – it’s basically windpipes). They kinda sound like the Peter Paul and Mary of Peru. They’ve been around for awhile and have made a lot of CDs – I bought a double CD “anthology” at the end of the concert for a whopping 10 sols (about $3.50). If you like folk/acoustic/Spanish/traditional music, you should look them up.


Damaris calls me “Aleps.” She’s perfectly capable of saying “Alex,” but for some reason, she prefers “Aleps.” Don’t ask me why. I first thought this was pretty annoying, and I used to correct her every time she said it. But now I think it’s kind of endearing.


This past week, I was finally asked to pray in front of everybody for the first time. Twice, in fact. Once before “class” started in the Compassion program, and another time at the end of worship this past Sunday at Santa Isabel. I won’t say it was a piece of cake, but I got through it. At least God knew what I was trying to say…


I’ve finally figured out why all the food here is so heavy on grains and meat! It’s just because that’s what Peruvians consider to be a balanced diet. I discovered this in the kitchen of Kilometer 13 Church, where the cooks prepare the kids’ lunches in the Compassion program. Painted on the wall of the kitchen is Peru’s version of the “Food Guide Pyramid.” Except instead of a pyramid, it’s a pie graph (no pun intended). The pie graph has three sections: grains, meats/dairy, and fruits/vegetables. Grains account for 60% - and included in the “grains” group picture is flour, potatoes, rice, SODA, VEGETABLE OIL, and CANDY. Yes, I’m not kidding, there is a picture of a bottle of vegetable oil, a bottle of “Inca Cola” (the local favorite soft drink), and pieces of candy included in this nutrition graph. The meats and dairy section of the graph accounts for 30%, and the “fruits AND vegetables section only gets 10%. Yes, this is quite odd from our point of view. But it makes sense to me, because these percentages are pretty much exactly what I’ve had to here in Lima for the past month.


I have decided that the reason soccer isn’t popular to watch on TV in the United States is money. Soccer is non-stop action. There are no timeouts except for halftime. There are only quick moments of downtime when someone gets injured and after a team scores a goal (but it’s pretty common to have games in which no goals are scored). Even when there’s a penalty, the “quick restart” is part of the strategy of the game. For these reasons, you just can’t show commercials during soccer broadcasts. It doesn’t work. Instead, of futbol, we watch football, which is the KING of convenient breaks in the action to show commercials – timeouts, changes of possession, quarter breaks, touchdowns, field goals, etc. (Don’t forget my favorite – the “two minute warning.” Ha!) “America’s pastime,” baseball, requires breaks every half inning, and in basketball each team gets a million timeouts. Soccer is the most popular sport all over the world except for the US…. Hmmmm, maybe now we know why.

Parasailing!!!

On Monday, I jumped off a cliff. Several hundred feet in the air. Yep. With a parachute. And a trained parasailor strapped to my back. (Sailor = one who sails. Parasailor = one who parasails. Yes I made that up, but I think it works). I met up with Miriam, a friend from Trinity University (where I went to school) who’s studying abroad here in Lima this semester. We both wanted to go parasailing, so she brought along a few friends from her program (all of whom opted to watch instead of fly…) and we went out to the cliffs at Miraflores where all of the Parasailing companies are. Miraflores is the ritzy, touristy district of Lima, and parasailing is one of THE touristy things to do.

To go parasailing, all you need is wind, something to jump off of, a harness and a parachute. You go to your windy cliff, strap on your parachute, run hard to get the parachute in the air above you (kind of like flying a really, really big kite), and then just run off the cliff. After that, all you do is sit back, relax, and let the professional parasailor do the flying, while you take lots of pictures. Once we were up in the air, flying along the Peruvian coast and over the streets and buildings of Lima, all my fear actually disappeared. The beginning part – jumping off the cliff – is pretty scary, but the actual flying is extremely calm and peaceful. “Breathtaking” is putting it mildly. Luckily, the weather was just about as good as it gets in Lima. Check out the link to the pictures.

After we went parasailing, we ate ice-cream in one of the Miraflores shopping malls on the cliff that overlooks the beach. Then I got on the bus for my 2 hour ride back to my house in Comas during the Monday rush-hour. Miraflores is like a totally different world from Comas. A group of gringos speaking English is commonplace in Miraflores (which is exactly what we were). I did more talking in English yesterday hanging out with Miriam and her friends than I had done since orientation. Overall, it was really fun to take a day to be a touristy “American” (yes, I know South Americans are “American” too, but unlike Spanish, a word meaning “United States-ean doesn’t exist in English). I got a chance to share some of my thoughts and experiences with people who shared some of my perspectives. But at the same time, I also got a little taste of what the “reverse culture shock” is going to be like when I go back to the states after my year in Peru is finished. It feels weird to think that I probably spent more money yesterday in 5 hours (just by eating and parasailing) than I probably did in the previous two or three weeks combined. And the parasailing was NOT expensive by US standards – only $35.

But I have no regrets. How often do human beings get to fly...?


If you're ever looking for me
Don't forget to look above
Because I still believe in flying
And I still believe in Love

- David Lamotte

A week in the life

I’m still easing into my daily work routine. I start the work week off right – Mondays are my free day. I also have Tuesday and Thursday mornings off. Starting on September 30, on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I will teach English classes at Santa Isabel Church, which is about a 20 minute bus ride from my house. Eva, a member of the church speaks English and has taught English before. It sounds like she’s going to be pretty much running the show, and I’ll be helping her out. Starting tomorrow, tuesday nights I will attend a prayer service at Santa Isabel, while Thursday nights I will go to Bible study with Santa Isabel. On Wednesdays and Fridays from 8:30 to 5:30 I’m working with children at Kilometer 13 Church as part of their “Compassion International Program,” which I’ll explain in great detail later.

As many people reading this probably know, I am planning on attending seminary after my year of service here in Peru. I think Debbie, my site coordinator and “third mother” here in Peru (the second being my host mother and the first obviously being my real mother), designed this plan of work for me knowing that it would be great preparation for being a “real pastor” one day. I say this because like any good “pastor in training,” the weekend is where I make most of my money (okay, that joke’s bad enough when you’re an actual pastor and even worse when you’re a church VOLUNTEER!). Starting next Saturday, I will be going to Kilometer 13 at 7:30am, bright and early to play fulbito with the church youth. Fulbito is “mini-soccer” – with smaller goals, and it’s played on a concrete “field” that’s about as big as a basketball court. I've only played once so far - and I was pretty much the goalie the whole time, because when I play in the field I pretty much just run around after the ball trying not to get kicked in the shins. After futbolito on saturdays, we eat breakfast. From 9:30 to 11:00 (again, starting next Saturday), I will accompany the pastor, Hernando, and a psychologist (I can’t remember his name – I’ve had to learn a lot in the past couple weeks) on visits to the homes of children in the Compassion program. Most of the kids have lots of issues at home, so we’re there mainly as counselors for the families. Hernando says that together, the three of us will be a great “pastoral team:” he’s a professional pastor/theologian, the psychologist is obviously a psychologist, and I’m a “professional” sociologist (because I majored in sociology). Any time he’s explaining this “pastoral team” concept to someone and he implies that we’re all equally qualified in our respective disciplines, I have to try really hard not to laugh. It’s not that I think I didn’t learn anything by majoring in sociology at Trinity (far from it). It’s just that Hernando and the psychologist each have master’s degrees and about 20 years of life experience that I don’t have, so to hear him talk about me, a 22 year old volunteer missionary with a newly minted bachelor’s degree and who doesn’t even speak Spanish fluently in the same breath as the two of them is rather amusing.

Starting October 4, from 11 – 12:30 every Saturday I will teach basic English at Kilometer 13. Then, from 12:30 to 4, I have time to eat lunch and take a siesta. At 4pm (again, starting Oct. 4) I’ll teach “intermediate” English for people who already know simple vocabulary and grammar. Pastor Hernando’s plan for these intermediate classes is that each class will start with a Bible passage or Christian message in English that we’ll have to translate. But this format won’t be advertised – the class is just advertised as free English classes for the neighborhood. After we get them to come to classes, we get to sneakily evangelize them! (Bait and switch? Not exactly – we’re still teaching English) Finally, my Saturdays conclude with the “adolescents” worship service in Kilometer 13 from 6:30 to 8pm. First we play games, and then Hernando preaches, or occassionally one of the youth does it (this is what I'm told - which means I'll probably have to do it eventually...) Sundays, I spend the whole day at Santa Isabel. I help out with Sunday school from 9:30 to 11, and church from 11 to 12:30-ish. Then I eat at a restaurant with some of the church members. Starting in a couple weeks, I will do "visitations" after lunch with the President of the Consistorio (basically the church ‘session’ or government – Santa Isabel doesn’t have a pastor). I think these will be similar to the family visitations I am supposed to do on Saturdays for Kilometer 13. I finish up Sundays with another worship service at Santa Isabel from 7pm to 8:30. And that’s what an average week will look like. Theoretically.

The Compassion Program at Kilometer 13 has definitely been my favorite part of my job so far (it's also the only thing I've done regularly). I’m still piecing together exactly what the program’s purpose is. Basically, it’s daycare and lunch for kids from 2 – 16 years old, provided for free by the church to the neighborhood. There are two sessions – one in the morning from 9am to 1pm and one in the afternoon from 1pm to 5pm. The sessions overlap a little bit, and each child can only come to one session per day. If you come to the first session you get lunch right before you leave; if you attend the second you get lunch right away. I guess the thing I’m not clear on isn’t how the Compassion Program works but rather what the laws are as far as going to school in Peru. My best guess is that the schools work the same way as the Compassion program (minus the whole free lunch part) – you either come to classes in the morning or in the evening. It just seems odd to me that all these kids would just be wandering the streets or burdening their parents for half the day if it weren’t for the Compassion program. Outside of food, the Compassion Program is basically like Sunday school. The younger kids sing songs, play games and draw/color. The older kids have a Bible curriculum and even complete homework and tests on Christian living. Each child has a “Padrino” or “Madrina” in the United States (or maybe some other countries). Padrino/madrina literally means “Godparent.” These are the sponsors of the program. They donate money to Compassion International, the NGO which provides the funding for the staff, food, materials etc. Kilometer 13 Church provides the building and the teachers/tutors. Every couple weeks each child has to write a letter to his/her padrino/madrina (I’m just guessing – it could be more/less often).

In all, there are over 200 children who participate in Kilometer 13’s Compassion Program. They are divided into 3 age groups that share 5 classrooms. The youngest group are 2 – 4 year olds, then 5 – 12, and one for 12 +. My host mother, Daniela, is one of the teachers for the middle age group. About an hour or so into my first day working she informed me she was leaving to go to the market to buy something (which ended up being a cake and soft drinks to welcome me, paid for with money that all the students contributed). So without warning, I was left alone for 40 minutes or so with about 18 kids who I’d just met that didn’t speak English. That was fun. Fortunately, I prevented them from killing each other. They were pretty rowdy since it was my first day there, and they’d been anticipating my arrival for weeks. And the fact that they were obviously really happy I was hanging out with them didn’t mean that they were going to listen or follow my directions. I eventually taught them how to play “Here I sit” (or “aca me siento,” as I roughly translated it), a game we play in Montreat that helps you learn people’s names. They liked it a lot, but it’s a game that gets old quickly. Once they were bored with it I couldn’t think of any other games that were suitable for an indoors, classroom-type space and that I could lead in Spanish. So I finally sat them all down and taught them how to sing the first part of “Jesus Loves Me” in English. Soon after, Daniela returned to rescue me.

Well that's about it for now. Today's random story: yesterday Santa Isabel had a "rummage sale" after the morning worship service. Among the things for sale was an old t-shirt - made in Peru - that says ATLANTA OLYMPICS '96 with a picture of a bald eagle and American flag. It was only 1 sol (about 35 cents), so I had to buy it!

DON´T READ THIS ENTRY!!!

When you’re working as a YAV in Lima, Peru for a year, you frequently find yourself with a lot of free time (and by “a year,” I mean “3 weeks as of tomorrow”…). So I’ve been reading a little Kierkegaard to pass the time. And by Kierkegaard I mean “Kierkegaard For Beginners” by Donald Palmer, which is basically a comic-book style introduction to Kierkegaard’s work. If you’re unfamiliar with the “For Beginners” series, you should check them out – they’re nifty little books that cover all sorts of topics/people in philosophy and sociology.

Anyway, Kierkegaard was a Danish philosopher who lived during the 19th century and is basically regarded as the father of Existentialism. He was Christian, and much of his writings are about religion, faith etc. In one thought experiment, Donald Palmer/Kierkegaard describes how God put Adam and Eve in a garden full of trees and singled out just one of them, saying “THIS tree is the tree of knowledge of good and evil. You can eat of ANY tree in the garden EXCEPT this one.” In doing so, God induced a state of dread in Adam and Eve. But they dread nothing – no thing – but rather possibility. The prohibition made them aware of their own freedom – the possibility that they could, very easily, disobey God and eat from the one tree they were specifically directed not to touch. And of course, living with this dread of possibility was too much for them to handle. So they did the one thing they had the freedom to do, but were prohibited from doing.

Thus the inspiration behind the title of this entry. In the blog-world of “Pensamientos Peruanos,” I am God, and you, the reader are Adam (or Eve). Out of all of the entries I’ve written, this is the only one I EXPLICITLY forbade you to read. Obviously my prohibition made you aware of your freedom to disobey Me (and by now, you’re probably sorry you did – this is 5 minutes of your life that you can’t get back!), and thus the forbidden fruit had to be tasted.

Don’t worry though, I don’t have any virtual flaming swords lying around, so I can’t banish you from my blog forever. You’ll just have to keep reading, and hope that I stick to descriptions of my daily life in Lima rather than philosophical musings.

At least I don't have to worry about being shocked by an electric water heater in the shower

So after church yesterday, I’m walking through the local open-air fresh food market with Daniela (my host mother). I’m looking at all of the nice vegetables, fruit and meat, taking in the sights and smells, when all the sudden, there’s a pig head. Yeah. It’s just the head of a full-grown pig, obviously bathed in preservatives, but it’s detached from the rest of it’s body. And it’s just hanging under one of the tents at a little above eye-level STARING straight at me. It was kind of creepy. And by “creepy,” I mean “awesome.”

Anyway, today’s entry features sub-headings! As well as descriptions of who people are in parentheses after their names (you may have noticed that above). I’ve described who these people are before, but if you’re like me, you probably won’t remember – or you just didn’t read the previous entry or two – shame, shame, shame!

Paging Dr. Atkins

Peru is the starch capital of the world. Seriously, I hope not too many of my friends and family are too attached to skinny, long-distance runner Alex, because in all likelihood the Alex that returns to the States next August will NOT be that guy. I knew that Peru was going to be a meat ‘n potatoes kind of place, but I didn’t know it was going to be a meat, white rice, white bread and potatoes kind of place. Yes, most regular meals here include BOTH potatoes (they’re frequently french fries) and white rice. And white bread is a breakfast staple. On top of that, I think Daniela (host mother) must use about a half a bottle of vegetable oil with every meal she cooks. Don’t get me wrong, the food here is really, really good – it’s just also really, really bad for you! The other day, Daniela told me that the family doesn’t really save any of their income. But they don’t use it to buy extravagant things either – they just spend it all on food! “Y por eso, somos muy gordos!” (and because of this, we’re very fat!). They aren’t that poor (by Peruvian standards…), they just like to eat.

So much for “Machismo”

Last Tuesday, Juan Carlos (host father), Juan (host brother) and I had a “guys night out.” What did we do? We went shopping at the mall of course. There was a family wedding on Saturday, so first we had to buy suites for Juan and me. The store we went to was basically a Macy’s-type department store in what was I think just a US-style shopping mall. We never did find one that fit perfectly. Every suit jacket there was really big. It almost felt like we must have been in a “big and tall” store – especially when you consider the fact that Peruvians normally aren’t that tall (and considering the average caloric intake, surprisingly they aren’t that big either). We eventually did find one that was reasonably priced and that fit well enough. I tried to pay for half of it, but Juan Carlos wouldn’t let me. I tried again when we bought dress shoes, and this time we made a deal that I would pay for dinner for the 3 of us that night. And conveniently located in the parking lot of the mall was a KFC. I had become wary of all of the greasy, unhealthy food I had been eating recently, so at first I wasn’t too thrilled to be getting fried chicken and french fries for dinner. But then I remembered that KFC recently stopped using trans fats!!!!!....... and then I thought about it for a second and realized that they probably weren’t too concerned about trans fat in South America. Oh well. The worst part is that while KFC still serves its gross mayonnaise-y cold slaw in South America, for some reason they DON’T serve their amazing biscuits! What’s the point of going to KFC if they don’t have the biscuits?!

Weddings and Receptions

As mentioned above, I got to wear my fabulous new suit Saturday night at the wedding. (WHICH, by the way, was in an ANGLICAN church. How many people can say that they’ve attended an event at an Anglican church in Latin America but not a Catholic one?) The bride was Juan Carlos’ (host father) sister, and she was marrying umm, some guy… who I soon learned was a professional singer. After they exchanged vows, Juan (host brother) informed be that the groom was going to sing a song. I thought this to be a strange Peruvian custom. He started singing the first couple phrases, and I thought “dang, this guy has a pretty decent voice.” Midway through the song I finally figured he must be a professional singer. I was kinda disappointed that the groom doesn’t have to sing at ALL Peruvian weddings.

Damaris (6 year old host sister) was pretty much the star of the wedding. As the flower girl, she was the first person in the spotlight, and never really left it. I think she found a way to work herself into nearly every picture taken of the newlyweds and families at the reception. Which brings us to the reception. The wedding and reception were in San Isidro, which is one of the upper-class, high-end financial districts of Lima (my host family and I were kind of out of our element – I had to tie Juan Carlos’s necktie for him before the ceremony because he didn’t know how). The reception was pretty tame – just a little music and dancing. But there was champagne and fingerfoods EVERYWHERE. Seriously, I think I nearly ate my weight in cookies and candy and pastries and meat kabobs. And then I learned that we were having DINNER at “part 2” of the reception, at a nearby hotel. So there was more wine and champagne, and some sort of fancy Peruvian pork and cheesy potato dish that I couldn’t eat much of because I was already stuffed. Although the wedding had started at 7, we didn’t get home until about 1am.

Meet the Gringo

Have I mentioned that I have yet to actually start my “work” yet? Our Lima orientation lasted all the way until Friday, and we had the weekend to rest. On Sunday, I was introduced to the congregation of the creatively named “Kilometer 13” church (one of 2 churches that I’ll be working with). It’s in a little bit poorer area of Comas (the name of the district of Lima that I live in). I arrived with Daniela during Sunday school (the rest of the family doesn’t go to church0. They had all of the Sunday school age groups together taking turns with bible trivia. I knew most of the answers for the younger kids’ questions – and I might have done alright with the older kids if the questions hadn’t been in Spanish! Once the worship service started, I was called up to the front to be presented by Hernando (the pastor) to the congregation pretty much immediately. Debbie (the YAV Peru site coordinator) must have given him a copy or summary of my YAV application, because he almost literally read my entire resume to the congregation – right down to my high school class rank! It was kind of uncomfortable. Afterwards, I got a chance to introduce myself. I basically told them I was happy to be there and excited about learning from them and also teaching the congregation about my personal faith and culture. And I asked them to be patient with my Spanish. Luckily, they didn’t ask me to pray (it would have been in Spanish of course) – I really thought they were going to!

The format of the service was pretty much standard for Protestant (“Evangelical”) churches in Latin America. We sang a few contemporary songs and a more traditional-style hymn, all led by a praise band. Then the pastor read scripture, delivered the sermon (~ 40 minutes long, maybe a little less), then we sang one more song to collect the offering, and finally the “President” of the what Presbyterians would call the session read some announcements and then called on a lucky soul to pray (again, not me!) before we departed. After the service was over, I met with the pastors and a few members of the session for a few minutes before I was bombarded by members of the “youth group” (which is high school, college and “young adult” ages). They all introduced themselves and invited me to help out with their worship service the next Saturday. I quickly learned from Hernando (the pastor) that I was not obligated to do anything that anybody but him asked me to do – my schedule was already set. He told me some other things too – suffice it to say that if I’ve learned one thing already, it’s that there is NO escaping the headache of petty church politics, no matter what hemisphere you’re in.

Para Concluir (if you hear this during an evangelical sermon in Peru, that means there's still a good 15 minutes left)

That’s about it. I think I’m definitely still in the “honeymoon” phase of living in a new culture. I’ve gotten over the initial discomforts of adjusting to a new routine, and now I’m just enjoying being here. It’s pretty exhausting to be speaking Spanish all the time, but I’m able to understand the Limeños more and more. Juan Carlos still has to repeat everything he says about 2 or 3 times before I can begin to figure out what he’s saying, but I’ll get there eventually.

I’ll leave you with my personal guide on “How to Take a Cold Shower.”

Wait. Take the cold shower at night, not first thing in the morning when everything will just be even colder. As soon as you’re done with the shower, you can get straight into your nice, warm bed.
Exercise. Go for a run. Or a bike ride. Or, if you’re living in a South American mega-city, do a bunch of push-ups and sit-ups in your room. The point is to get hot and sweaty so a cold shower doesn’t seem like such torture after all.
Pray. Or, if you’re not into that type of thing, meditate. Do something to get yourself ready for the challenge ahead. A cold shower is never something that should be sudden or spontaneous. If you aren’t prepared, you’ll be in for a rude awakening (if you think about it, that’s basically what a cold shower is….)
Once you’re ready and disrobed, step into the shower before you turn on the water. Once you’re in, turn the water on all the way to get it over with – think about it, if you know the pool is cold, you don’t stick your toe in and slowly submerge yourself. Instead you dive right into the deep end. (This is the worst part, but you probably already guessed that).
Once you’re good and soaked, turn the water off. It’s not going to help anything if it’s just running while you’re standing there soaping yourself up. Getting nice and soapy isn’t too bad – the soap is actually kind of an insulator.
Rinse off. The same way as before, turn the water on all the way and stand directly under it. Don’t sell yourself short, subject yourself totally to the cruelty of the water in all of its frigid glory for longer than you think is necessary. There’s nothing worse than finishing a cold shower, starting to dry yourself off, and then seeing a mound of suds in your armpit and realizing you have to do it over again.
Dry. If you’re able to dry yourself with a soft, warm freshly washed, towel, do so. But if you have access to nice, toasty, recently washed and machine-dried towels, chances are you’re probably not in a place that you’d have to take a cold shower in the first place…
Jump into your cozy, warm bed. Congratulate yourself on being super hardcore. Give yourself a pat on the back for decreasing your ecological footprint, saving energy and water. If you’re me, take comfort in the fact that you won’t have to do this again for (at least) another 3 or 4 days!!!