Photo Update!

House visits with my health promoters have been going really well. The families have begun to set up hand-washing stations and purify their water. They seem really excited about moving forward with the project, and it's great to see progress!

 

And ladies and gentlemen ... please meet my new host family!
From left to right: Keysi, Samir, Oreste, Me, Norma and Charlie

New Place

It's a spacious studio right in the city center. Private bath. Front door exiting to a tiled boardwalk, right near Pampas' hottest kiosk. Water 24/7. Proximity to the town's loud speakers. And a window large enough for little kids to stare at me while I cook.

Did I score or what?

I didn't even mention the best part: My new host family is amazing. I've known them for over a year. We've baked chocolate chip cookies together. Made pizza. Filmed music videos. They ask me about my projects and offer to help. They let me sit at their kitchen table when I have a bad day and beat me at chess. They tease me. Adore me.

And that was all before I moved in.

I suppose I should probably back up since many of you had no clue I was moving host families. Which is actually kind of surprising considering how much it has consumed me for the past few months. I won't bore you with the details, but allow me to sum up.

November: Move in.
December: Get to know each other.
January: Bond with host brother.
February: Host dad finally talks to me.
March: Ok.
April: Good.
May: Good.
June: Ok.
July: Ok.
August: Gets awkward.
September: Gets more awkward.
October: Spend whole days in the health post to stay out of the house.
November: Talk to counter part about moving out. Find place.
December: Tell family I'm moving out. They freak out.
January: SUPER awkward. Awful. Miserable.
February: Move into new place!

I like my old host family. But long story short, I realized that in order to save our relationship and do this Peace Corps thing right, I had to find a different place to live. So I went to ask my "adoptive" host family (a family that had embraced me from the beginning) if there was room for me. They was, but it would take a couple of months to make it "Peace Corps approvable." I didn't want to go behind my old host family's back, so I told them my plan to move.

And they kind of flipped out. There was a lot of yelling. Peace Corps came in and saved the day. I went home for Christmas. Came back. Spent whole days out of the house or locked in my room. No one talked to me. When they did, it was biting. Then they tried to convince me to stay. They put in a fridge. Then Peace Corps approved the new place. Silent treatment again. I moved out. They took down my photo.

But now, I'm living in my new place with my new family, and going to my old host family's every day for lunch. It's working out really well.

Super cool bonus? I have three new host siblings, one of whom (Keysi) has made various appearances on my blog as the star of a music video we made and active member of my youth group, PALMA. Both parents are teachers and care a lot about education, which is blatantly obvious when you meet their incredibly bright kids:


  • Oreste, 18, is studying to be an accountant, has taken to calling me "hermanita" — which means "little sister" — and does this thing where he talks in a high-pitched voice just to be funny.

  • Keysi, 14, loves math, art and volleyball. She competes in chess tournaments and changes at least three times a day, always looking her cutest. This year she took a test that placed her as the top student of her grade in the whole department.

  • Samir, 10, didn't talk to me for the first year that I knew him. Then, out of nowhere, I see him in a regetón video Keysi made, and now I've discovered he's really talkative, outgoing and a total dork. My little rock star.

There's still some awkwardness. And my old host siblings still won't talk to me. But for the first time in my service, I feel at home where I am.


My front door. Note the hot PC logo to the right.

My big front room/office.

My kitchen ... sort of.

My conference table and library.

My bedroom. And for those who are wondering, yes that is a hospital bed. The health post lent it to me. The part under my pillow can even be pulled into an upright position.

Moving Day

I´m officially moved into my new home!!

Pictures/stories/more explanation coming soon!

PC Book Club: The Irresistible Revolution

I question whether to even write about this book, for fear of miscommunicating its message. I want to scream, "Go out now! Please! And borrow this book from someone!"

But if I did that, you probably wouldn't do it because you don't even know what it's about. And thus, the effort would be moot, so I'll try to sum it up as best as I can.

This book made me hopeful yet horribly uncomfortable, which, I suppose, is exactly what its author, Shane Claiborne, had in mind. The Irresistible Revolution is not a calling to arms, it's a calling out — demanding all those who are comfortable in their cushy lives to be uncomfortable in their complacency.

He gets a little soapbox-y at times, demanding social justice, equal rights and distribution for the poor, the abolition of the death penalty, the end to the war in Iraq and the complete rethinking of modern Christendom. But his rantings aren't political. Or at least not wholly. They are rooted in love. And the fundamental idea that you should love your neighbor as yourself.

In Claiborne's case, he thinks as Christians — as humans — we have a duty to love not just our neighbors, but everyone. Which would make a laundry list like that make sense. I mean, if you truly love someone, of course you'd want them to have the same rights as you, the same access to basic necessities, a chance at redemption, to live without bombs, or mislead or turnoff millions of people with an incomplete (and often inaccurate) depiction of how Christian life should be.

The motive for this movement is Christian, but the actions are simply human. If you at all feel that we are all connected in some way, that there is an inherit injustice in allowing others to have nothing while others have too much, the stories inside this book will shake you to your core without even needing to crack open a Bible.

Claiborne's posse, The Simple Way, is a community in the strictest sense of the word. They share everything. They pool their resources and share the workload to make sure that everyone has enough. He compares it to a rich parent with lots of kids. If every person pitches in a little, a lot is gathered in order to take care of everyone.

And this concept doesn't just apply to his small network in Philly's inner city. It's a global community — a family — equipped with blogs and online wire transfers to make sure that when, say, a Tsunami hits Indonesia, those who truly need it, have it.

As Claiborne puts it, there is always enough for everyone's need, but not enough for everyone's greed.

This idea of redistribution, he stresses, is not just a radical new way of neutralizing poverty and righting the world's injustices. It just makes the most sense. We spend so much time crawling over each other, only a few ever reach the top. But if we stop and work together — maybe even tie together a few of our ropes — everyone gets to climb. 

This dogma is reinforced over again with this guy's stories. He's been everywhere, working with his global "Family," and it's almost hard to believe the same guy who sat mending lepers' wounds in Calcutta was also praying with war children in Baghdad and sleeping with the homeless in inner-city Philadelphia.

The worst thing someone can do, Claiborne calls out, is sit back and watch while poverty and injustice happen in the world. And no, writing a check to Save the Children isn't enough. There's a gap between the rich and the poor that's bridged but doesn't allow them to interact. If the two sides ever met, he says, and the rich (and by rich, he means even those in middle-class America) saw the crime of hoarding while others go without, the world would be a much different place.

The concept isn't crazy, Claiborne insists:

"What's crazy is a matter of perspective. After all, what is crazier: one person owning the same amount of money as the combined economies of twenty-three countries, or suggesting that if we shared, there would be enough for everyone? What is crazier: spending billions of dollars on a defense shield or suggesting that we share our billions of dollars so we don't need a defense shield? What is crazier: maintaining arms contracts with 154 countries while asking the world to disarm its weapons of mass destruction, or suggesting that we lead the world in disarmament by refusing to deal weapons with over half of the world and by emptying the world's largest stockpile here at home?
"What's crazy is that the US, less than 6 percent of the world's population, consumes nearly half of the world's resources, and that the average American consumes as much as 520 Ethiopians do, while obesity is declared a 'national health crisis'?"

The ability to eradicate poverty, find peace and balance out the world is there. It's just a matter of first learning how to love.

In between his tales of altruism, he pulls inspiration from Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi and Mother Theresa. One of my favorites is this quote by Mother Theresa: "We can do not great things, only small things with great love. It is not how much you do but how much love you put into doing it."

Claiborne complements this by writing, "The revolution begins inside each of us, and through little acts of love, it will take over the world."

He never says it's easy to give away all your possessions to the poor and join in the fight for justice, he just says it's right. And if you do decide to give it all to gain a new world, there's an entire family ready to embrace you and make sure you need for nothing.


Some more quotes from the book:

"We are not a neo-denomination because we are not trying to spread a doctrine or theology. We are not even trying to spread a model of community. We are just trying to discover a new (ancient) kind of Christianity. We are about spreading a way of life that exists organically and relationally and is marked by such a brilliant love and grace that no one could resist it."

"Recognizing that something is wrong is the first step toward changing the world."

"One friend was asked by a skeptic, 'You all are just a little group of radical idealists. What makes you actually think you can change the world?' And she said, 'Sir, if you will take a closer look at history you will see ... that's the only way it has ever been done.'"

Matthew 25:40 — "Whatever you have done for the least of these brothers of mine you did for me."

Rainy Season

There I was, looking out over the perilous lake that stretched before me. I could see my salvation in the distance — not 100 meters away. But how to get there?

My eyes scanned the horizon. My heart started to race.

There! A dry patch of land, stretching thin between to bubbling pools. Stepping slowly, I made my way through the narrow passage, only to find myself at another dead end.

But wait! The smooth, shimmering face of a nearby rock caught my gaze a meter away. Could I jump? Will I make it?

Knowing no other option, I made the leap – nearly falling as my toes hit the smooth surface.
I stopped to catch my breath. My haven was still another 90 meters away.

Another thin stretch, another broken bridge. I crisscrossed my way through the death trap. I was 60 meters away. 40.

I cursed under my breath as I backtracked 5 meters to correct a dead-end path.
20 meters. 10.

I skimmed the wall that lined the dangerous pool. My hands flat against the hot cement.
5 meters. 2.

One more leap, and I'd be free. I braced my body for failure, but allowed my mind to hope.
I bent low and soared. My feet crashed against the hard asphalt, and I stumbled forward.

Freedom! Freedom! Aretha Franklin belted out in my head.

I turned and looked at the defeated mess behind me. Overhead, the hot sun began its daily ritual of drying the puddles and mud pits. But tonight it would rain again.

And tomorrow, I'd have to face the mocking maze from my house to the pavement once more. 

Portraits Project: Lalo

Lalo, 40, groundskeeper and part-time clown

"Hello!" He calls to me. 
It's 6:30 a.m., and I'm only half-awake. 
"Hello," I croak back, squinting to see him in the early morning sun. 
"Good morning," he says (only it sounds like "gooed more-neen"), and continues to  sweep tiny plastic plates and bits of cabbage into a dust pan. 
I nod, make what I think is a smile, and head past him to the bathroom, almost tripping over a chicken on my way. While I'm brushing my teeth, I can hear him humming. 
Last night had been another late one for their polleria. There was a soccer match — Peru vs. Ecuador — and people came by for chicken and to catch a glimpse of the game until 1 a.m. Volume was at full blast, and whenever anyone scored, an announcer shouted Gooooooooooooooooooooool!! for an entire minute straight. 
I barely slept a wink.
I step out of the bathroom, and Lalo looks up to smile at me again. 
"How did you sleep?" he asks. 
"Fine," I lie. "How about you?"
"Oh, great!" he says, and I believe him. 
He sweeps another bit of shredded cabbage and dumps it in large plastic bin. 
Garu, our baby howler, squeals behind him, causing Lalo to turn his head in concern. 
"What's wrong, my love?" he asks her. "Are you hungry?"

He dumps the broom and dust pan, and rushes to Garu, who's now hanging off the metal gate. Grabbing some chicken left over from the night before, he makes a tiny plate and places it at her feet. 
"Monkey?" he asks, sounding like "mone-key," and points at her with a huge grin. 
"Monkey, yes," I say, nodding. Lalo reaches out to pet her head, and Garu grabs his finger. He makes a face and grabs his chest as if Garu herself were pulling at his heartstrings. 
It's then that I come to my senses and realize that there is a baby howler monkey in my back yard, hundreds of miles away from the jungle. 
"Lalo," I ask. "How did you find Garu?" 
This is when he tells me his story. 
He was raised in the circus, traveling all around Peru. He was a clown, his sister a dancer. When he came to Tumbes, he met Nancy, his media naranja and future mother of his three kids. He decided to stay to raise a family and now works as a groundskeeper at the elementary school where his wife teaches second grade. 
Many of his family members still travel with the circus though they are now based mostly out of Trujillo. They had recently gone to the jungle and brought Garu back to him as a gift. Every once in a while, Lalo gets asked to perform at birthday parties or anniversaries. His nickname around town is "El Payazo," and now I understand why. 
As he tells me this story, he make wild gestures and faces. 
"Do you ever miss the circus?" I ask. 
He looks a me thoughtfully and pours some water in a small dish for Garu.
"Sí, claro," he says. "But my loves are here now."
He smiles at me again with his wide grin.
A moment passes.  
"Well, I better get going," I say, turning to head back to my room. 
"Gooed Bye!" he calls back to me. 
"Bye!" I call back, and now, smiling, I close my door behind me.

Camp ALMA

Well, it happened. After one year, four months, and 28 days of being with the Peace Corps, it happened.
I got the warm fuzzies.

This past weekend, in the bustling town of La Union, 22 volunteers held a 3-day leadership camp for teenage girls in Piura and Tumbes. Thirty girls showed up in total to hear successful women speakers, play team-building activities and do other, you know, camp-y stuff. Like water balloon volleyball and sing Boom-chick-a-Boom.

If you've been to camp, you've heard Boom-chick-a-Boom:

I said a boom-chick-a-boom! (campers repeat)

I said a boom-chick-a-boom! (campers repeat)

I said a boom-chick-a-racka chick-a-racka chick-a-boom (campers repeat)

Alright (campers repeat)

Ok (campers repeat)

One more time ...

The song is sung through once and then followed by different "styles." Cheerleader-style (with perky voices and jerky arm movements). Fat-man-style (with a deep voice, and big, heavy stomping). Mouse-style (high-pitched voices and revealed upper teeth).

You get the idea.

Well anyway, the whole weekend was spent covering super intense themes, like feminism, sexual health, domestic violence, entrepreneurship, and volunteerism. There was even a panel of five professional women (including a police officer) to answer questions and talk about how they arrived to where they are. Each theme was accompanied by discussion groups and activities. And at the very end, the girls broke up into groups according to where they live and developed a plan of how they were going to improve their own community.

It was awesome. And the girls really seemed to have a great time. As a special treat, we even put together a mini soap opera that some of us did during dinners. I played the friend of the main character, Jessica.

The plot was that two bad guys (Don Macho and Señor Sinvergüenza) are trying to destroy the camp. "Girls can't be leaders!" they scoff. And the whole time they are plotting this evil plan, Jessica and our friend Alex start making goo-goo eyes at each other, and a love story develops in the margins.

Eventually the bad guys kidnap Jessica — who is the weekend's MC, and thus destroying Camp ALMA — and Alex and I chase after her. Sr. Sinvergüenza stops us in our path as Don Macho takes off with Jessica, and I challenge him to a duel (fyi--we used empty plastic Coke bottles as swords ... It was awesome). Amidst the dueling, I convince him to give up his machista ways and admit that girls are awesome and can work together alongside men.
Meanwhile, Alex chases after Don Macho, only to be foiled by getting his glasses knocked off his head and left blind. Jessica sees this chaos around her and decides no longer to stand idly by and let Don Macho win. So she yells at him and makes him listen to lots of healthy self-esteem and pro-women rantings, which, in turn, makes him melt. Yay! Girls rule!
The campers were really into it. Always booing when the bad guys came onstage, swooning when Alex walked in, or cheering for me when I kicked Sr. Sinvergüenza's butt in Coke-bottle sword fighting. They loved it.

That is until, the final scene.

After the last battle, Alex and Jessica have their climactic romantic moment, and Alex leans in to give her this huge, wet, passionate kiss — and Jessica stops him.
"Hold up," she says. "I only just met you. How about we get to know each other before we suck face."
This, of course, was to go along with the sexual health and domestic violence sessions we had where we talked with the girls about taking their time and really getting to know a boy so they don't end up having babies at 13.

The girls hated it. They actually booed when all of us left the stage. They wanted the passion! The kisses! The lust! And we gave them a responsible reality.

Ah well, maybe next year.

At any rate, the girls had a great time. And the morning they were all getting ready to leave, breakfast was late. So in hopes of keeping them from becoming too antsy, I asked if they wanted to play a game or sing a song. Naturally (in true camp fashion), they wanted to sing Boom-chick-a-boom.

We sang for over a half hour. And at one point, while I was rapping like a regatonista, it happened. The warm fuzzies.

I just looked out and saw the enthusiastic, smiling faces of those girls, and it hit me.

I wondered how many of them had been told that they could do anything? How many had heard how far they could go? How much they could change their own communities? Peru? The world?

I wondered how many had thought of their future as something different than what had always been done before. Something other than just their mothers' pasts?

Even if we hadn't invited nine speakers to come and blanket them with wisdom, or even if we'd left out the tug of war or human board game, we had an effect on those teen girls. If only because we believed in them enough to drag them all the way out to La Union, Piura to meet other incredible girls like them and sing Boom-chick-a-boom.

The majority of them will probably go back to their site, do their planned activity, and that will be it. Nothing much will change.

But I have no doubt in my mind that some of them walked away from Camp ALMA with a nagging, a tugging toward something bigger. Something that will blow all of us away.

And that was enough for me.

Laura, 13, rolls for her team during the Human Board Game.

The girls playing a communication game, where one girl had a picture and she describes that picture to another girl who then draws it without looking at the original image.

The cast of Cuerpo de Pasión

All 30 of the girls from ALMA.