With the exception of the occasional late-afternoon tantrum (see previous post)
Saturday was a huge success.
Early spin class; grocery and bread buying with Ned and little Caroline (a decent substitute for fall Davidson Farmer's market runs; breakfast extravaganza with the Mangan-Buckingham crew; streaming Car Talk online; reading primary sources from the 1500's while sitting on the roof with the city laid out bellow; tasty lunch whipped up by Claudita; some Cusqueña Malta; more research; Mint Green Tea and Mate de Coca mix; stroll through the evening bustle to the internet café.
Don't think it really matters where I go from here.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Lil' Terror
Bah and Tim ofter talk about how at their house 2 year old calla is "the general." At my house here in Arequipa we have Santiago the almost-4 year-old anarchist.
A story:
I'm in the computer room working on a paper and listening to music when Santi walks in. He's very articulate and asks about what i'm doing and then declares that he doesn't like the music and is going to put on his own. "ok" i say as he goes over to the cabinet where his dad keeps the cd's and cassettes. Just our luck that the cassette collection is at 3 year old height, as is the cassette player.
With determination he loads one of the tapes that he has chosen into the player. The same speakers that run to the tape player also go to the computer so i'm hoping that i can let him press play but keeping piping in music from the computer.
No such luck. Santi realizes whats going on and pushes the function button so that the room is filled with 80's love ballads. About a minute passes before he very clearly asks if i like it, declares that he doesn't like it, and suggests that he try a different tape.
This goes on for a while until he takes a tape out and like any curious little kid starts pulling on the tape. I promptly take it away from him and explain that he'll ruin it and if he wants to use the tapes he has to take care of it.
The words are barely out of my mouth and i can see the storm coming. A tear at the corner of the eye. then the squenched up nose. he starts exaggerating his breathing. i've seen this one before... and there it is, his trademark SCREAM!!!!!!!!
Sorry pal, scream all you want, i'm not crackin. So you're trying punches now huh? nope, not yielding to that either. Soon dad arrives and backs me up. this provokes the little man and he escaltates his auditory assault.
NADIE ME QUIERE (NOBODY LOVES ME)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! fills the house.
Sorry kiddo, not buying the act.
Twenty minutes later and he's back, wanting to hug and tickle. Soon his parents take them to the little park outside. Plenty of love to go around. Till next time Lil' Mr. Hyde.
A story:
I'm in the computer room working on a paper and listening to music when Santi walks in. He's very articulate and asks about what i'm doing and then declares that he doesn't like the music and is going to put on his own. "ok" i say as he goes over to the cabinet where his dad keeps the cd's and cassettes. Just our luck that the cassette collection is at 3 year old height, as is the cassette player.
With determination he loads one of the tapes that he has chosen into the player. The same speakers that run to the tape player also go to the computer so i'm hoping that i can let him press play but keeping piping in music from the computer.
No such luck. Santi realizes whats going on and pushes the function button so that the room is filled with 80's love ballads. About a minute passes before he very clearly asks if i like it, declares that he doesn't like it, and suggests that he try a different tape.
This goes on for a while until he takes a tape out and like any curious little kid starts pulling on the tape. I promptly take it away from him and explain that he'll ruin it and if he wants to use the tapes he has to take care of it.
The words are barely out of my mouth and i can see the storm coming. A tear at the corner of the eye. then the squenched up nose. he starts exaggerating his breathing. i've seen this one before... and there it is, his trademark SCREAM!!!!!!!!
Sorry pal, scream all you want, i'm not crackin. So you're trying punches now huh? nope, not yielding to that either. Soon dad arrives and backs me up. this provokes the little man and he escaltates his auditory assault.
NADIE ME QUIERE (NOBODY LOVES ME)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! fills the house.
Sorry kiddo, not buying the act.
Twenty minutes later and he's back, wanting to hug and tickle. Soon his parents take them to the little park outside. Plenty of love to go around. Till next time Lil' Mr. Hyde.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Walking Man Walks
I woke up late today and thus had to scramble to get up to the clinic in Alto Cayma for my Friday intership. After a quick breakfast I made it down to the street but a combi from the line i usually take passed me by. Mmm being white can be frustrating. So i hopped on a different combi that I knew went in generally the same direction. Sure enough i made it up the hill but the place where i got off was nowhere near the normal route. So i started trekking up through the neighborhoods. Unlike the dry mud of Reynosa, the roads here are a fine grey sand and rock mix. Most of the houses I pass are little more than sillar (the volcanic rock that is so common here)with a sheet metal roof. Sometimes they would have mortar between the block. I continue winding through the streets, ocassionaly dropping down into gullyey, making my way in the general direction of the clinic. Along the way i stop to ask several different people for directions. A bus driver, a construction crew, a friendly taxista, several women walking here or there along the road. Each interaction was a great opportunity to smile, say hey, and meet someone new. An hour or so later i walked down the familiar street to the clinic feeling proud that i had made there myself. For the next few hours as I observed Dr. Christian with patients i kept imagining which part of the neighborhood they were from. Did i walk by their house earlier?
This is what i love.
This is what i love.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Buzzed... Literally
Lately my hair had been getting to the point where it was falling down over my eyes. Leaving spinning I would have to put my cap on backwards just to keep the sweaty mess out of my face.
A haircut was in order so today after class with the sun shining Ned and I decided to take a stroll down to the main square and search out a peluquería (haircut place). After some looking we found one with several stylists sitting around looking bored. Perfect.
I sat down in the chair under a poster sized glamour shot of Taylor Swift and then realized how do you translate "give me the usual" when you're thousands of miles from your normal barber. The answer is you don't. More universal however, are a pair of clippers and the different guards that can be put on those clippers. It's an easy scale, one is the shortest and then you get longer from there. What could be easier?
I look up at Taylor. Go for she says from behind the makeup and airbrushing.
"Pura maquina, numero cinco por favor" (just the clippers, number 5 please) I hear myself say. The stylist looks briefly surprised and then goes to work.
Afterwards I look at myself in the mirror. It's been 8 or 9 years since my hair was this short. It's shocking but it feels great. Will people like it? Eh, who cares it'll grow back. Here's to being "doormat" once again. Pictures will come soon, i'm sure.
A haircut was in order so today after class with the sun shining Ned and I decided to take a stroll down to the main square and search out a peluquería (haircut place). After some looking we found one with several stylists sitting around looking bored. Perfect.
I sat down in the chair under a poster sized glamour shot of Taylor Swift and then realized how do you translate "give me the usual" when you're thousands of miles from your normal barber. The answer is you don't. More universal however, are a pair of clippers and the different guards that can be put on those clippers. It's an easy scale, one is the shortest and then you get longer from there. What could be easier?
I look up at Taylor. Go for she says from behind the makeup and airbrushing.
"Pura maquina, numero cinco por favor" (just the clippers, number 5 please) I hear myself say. The stylist looks briefly surprised and then goes to work.
Afterwards I look at myself in the mirror. It's been 8 or 9 years since my hair was this short. It's shocking but it feels great. Will people like it? Eh, who cares it'll grow back. Here's to being "doormat" once again. Pictures will come soon, i'm sure.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Forget Homework, this is Family Time
One of the great things about being abroad is experiencing times when you have absolutely no control over your schedule. Tonight was one of those times.
In the afternoon I decided to go for a run with Ned after class to change pace a bit before starting in on work. The run was beautiful and invigorating. Ned and I hung out a bit until, around 7pm, I call home to check and see if the family is going to be in and to let them know that I’ll be home to do homework soon. Before I can say any of this Claudita offers up the news that we are going to a Chinese place at 7:30pm to celebrate granny’s birthday. Somewhere along the line I missed this little detail.
What’s the address of the house where you are?
Well, I…
Which change of clothes should we bring you?
Have a fair bit of work…
We’ll be there in a couple of minutes
Ok, great let’s eat!
The food ended up being delicious and, as always at these family gatherings, the conversation was amusing. Example: I’m getting fat. Yes, you are. It’s because of x,y, or z. Also, did you know that the carbonation in soda will upset the child’s stomach? Yes, that’s why you have to stir it with a fork first to release the gas…
The funniest part of the night though had to be after the meal. Someone asked “who’s ready for dessert?” and my little brother
Three hours after being picked up and 5 hours after innocently starting my run we pull back into the house.
That was great! I love being here.
Where’s my bed?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Birthed into the Night
The other night I had my most uncomfortable and wonderful combi ride yet.
Necessary background information: "combi" is the name given to any of the vehicles that make up the informal transportation system here and in most parts of Latin America. Combi's range in size from just larger than a minivan to fullsize buses. Once you learn the routes combis will take you absolutely anywhere you want (or maybe don't want) to go and will do it at breakneck speeds. They should probably carry a surgeon general's warning because riding almost certainly hazardous to the health.
The most enduring combi fact: they are always packed.
So, the other night i am walking along Calle Villaba toward la Puenta Grau, on my way home from Monday movie night in the centro. I hear a combi coming up behind me so i stick out my hand and flag it down.
It turns out to be the smallest type and it is completely full. The cobrador slides open the side door and i stare up at the wall of bodies and think "no way in hell i'm fitting in there!" Naïve American. Somehow I force my way on, along with two or three others.
Combis operate according to the laws of diffusion. They are closed systems with limited space and thus any empty space is filled. In accordance with this principle i find myself positioned so that my knees are slightly bent and my butt is protruding into the space right in front of some poor gent's face. I would only have to bend my knees a little bit more and let go of the hand rail in order to sit comfortably on his lap. Saddly, this would probably be frowned upon.
Even in my semi-squat i am too tall and have to crane my neck down to the point where my nose is in the hair of the young woman in front of me. "mmmm nice conditioner lady!"
Out of the corner of my eye i can just glimps the cobble stones passing bellow the door.
We're starting to turn, the bus must be about to cross the bridge. We're stopped on the incline-- this might not be good. The clutch grinds, the driver barely has time to touch the gas before the poor, overburdened combi stalls and the engine cuts out. The lights flicker out. Back on, he's trying again. Grind, cough, engine dies, lights off.
My legs are getting sore, with all this weight i doubt this van will ever start. Maybe i should ask to get off and walk... No one else seems disturbed in the least though.
We wait while they try a few more times, finalmente he really guns it and we get rolling. The curb is visible now, high and yellow. We must be on the bridge. Somewhere far bellow our feet, the floor, the bridge, Rio Chile rushes through the ravine. The road changes to pavement, i feel us round the traffic circle. We're gathering speed. I must be getting close now but i can't see the intersections. How many have we barreled though? Two, three? "Baje la esquina" someone else calls out.
Somehow a small woman makes her way out from the bowels of the van, I decide to follow her out. I swear, if this experience had a soundtrack my exit would be accompanied by a loud "POP!" I feel like the baby beaver we once saw pop out from underneath his mother at the zoo. Or maybe this is what it feels like to come out at birth. A sudden transition from warm, pressing darkness to immense open space, able to breath and use one's limbs for the first time.
I strike out int the night breathing in the cool air and luxuriating in all the emptiness around me. That was fantastic, i'm so glad i'm here.
Necessary background information: "combi" is the name given to any of the vehicles that make up the informal transportation system here and in most parts of Latin America. Combi's range in size from just larger than a minivan to fullsize buses. Once you learn the routes combis will take you absolutely anywhere you want (or maybe don't want) to go and will do it at breakneck speeds. They should probably carry a surgeon general's warning because riding almost certainly hazardous to the health.
The most enduring combi fact: they are always packed.
So, the other night i am walking along Calle Villaba toward la Puenta Grau, on my way home from Monday movie night in the centro. I hear a combi coming up behind me so i stick out my hand and flag it down.
It turns out to be the smallest type and it is completely full. The cobrador slides open the side door and i stare up at the wall of bodies and think "no way in hell i'm fitting in there!" Naïve American. Somehow I force my way on, along with two or three others.
Combis operate according to the laws of diffusion. They are closed systems with limited space and thus any empty space is filled. In accordance with this principle i find myself positioned so that my knees are slightly bent and my butt is protruding into the space right in front of some poor gent's face. I would only have to bend my knees a little bit more and let go of the hand rail in order to sit comfortably on his lap. Saddly, this would probably be frowned upon.
Even in my semi-squat i am too tall and have to crane my neck down to the point where my nose is in the hair of the young woman in front of me. "mmmm nice conditioner lady!"
Out of the corner of my eye i can just glimps the cobble stones passing bellow the door.
We're starting to turn, the bus must be about to cross the bridge. We're stopped on the incline-- this might not be good. The clutch grinds, the driver barely has time to touch the gas before the poor, overburdened combi stalls and the engine cuts out. The lights flicker out. Back on, he's trying again. Grind, cough, engine dies, lights off.
My legs are getting sore, with all this weight i doubt this van will ever start. Maybe i should ask to get off and walk... No one else seems disturbed in the least though.
We wait while they try a few more times, finalmente he really guns it and we get rolling. The curb is visible now, high and yellow. We must be on the bridge. Somewhere far bellow our feet, the floor, the bridge, Rio Chile rushes through the ravine. The road changes to pavement, i feel us round the traffic circle. We're gathering speed. I must be getting close now but i can't see the intersections. How many have we barreled though? Two, three? "Baje la esquina" someone else calls out.
Somehow a small woman makes her way out from the bowels of the van, I decide to follow her out. I swear, if this experience had a soundtrack my exit would be accompanied by a loud "POP!" I feel like the baby beaver we once saw pop out from underneath his mother at the zoo. Or maybe this is what it feels like to come out at birth. A sudden transition from warm, pressing darkness to immense open space, able to breath and use one's limbs for the first time.
I strike out int the night breathing in the cool air and luxuriating in all the emptiness around me. That was fantastic, i'm so glad i'm here.
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