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.

Portraits Project: Cecilia

Cecilia, age 40, mother

"ROW-bean!" A voice squealed. "ROW-bean!"

I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, but I didn't need to see the face to recognize the voice.

"Hola Ceci!" I called. She waved me over – lifting her hand, wrist up, and pushing it down toward her, as if she were in a boat without an oar.

"ROW-bean! Come here!"

I walked over to the short, stout woman with the wide smile buying cilantro from the corner store. She gripped my shoulders and gave me an eager kiss on the cheek.

"Row-bean, how are you? What are you doing? Where are you going? Come to my house!" She said in one breath.

"I'm well, señora," I replied. "How are you?"

"Good, good. Row-bean, where have you been? You haven't visited me in so long. You have to come to my house. Let's chat."

"Oh, thank you, Ceci, I would love to, but I can't. I'm sorry," I said, bulking up the sound of my regret. "I have to get back to work."

"Nonsense," she waved my words away. "You have to come over and have some dessert."

I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 a.m.

"Really, thank you, Ceci, but I don't think I can," I said, then added, " you know, full chamba" for emphasis.*

Ignoring my response, she put her hand on my arm eagerly.

"Row-bean, Row-bean. You know what we need to do? You have to come with me soon to visit my mom in the country. I tell her all about you. What are you doing this afternoon? Let's go this afternoon! We'll make ceviche and go for a walk on the paths along the hills. You'll meet my mom. Yes, that's what we'll do this afternoon. Come over around 3."

"That's really kind of you, Señora. I would really love to, but I have another engagement." Her smile was not deterred. "But that sounds really fun. We should definitely plan on doing it sometime soon."

She nodded vigorously, and her smile brought crinkles to her eyes.

"Yes, Row-bean. Soon, soon. When can you come with us to the country? You let me know."

"Of course, Ceci. I will let you know as soon as I can."

She took my hand with both of hers and brought me in to kiss my cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Row-bean. We'll see each other soon. You'll come over, and we'll chat."

"Yes, of course, Señora. Take care. We'll see each other soon."

*full chamba is Peruvian slang for "super busy working"

The first of many faces: Sheick

Recently, my friend Zach came to visit me for a week in Peru. He saw the sites, charmed my host family, and believe it or not, even rode a donkey. He brought me news of the U.S., tales of his life in NYC and half a suitcase of Sour Patch Kids. And as if that weren't enough, he risked life and luggage through customs and brought me a camera.

My own camera, sadly, was pick-pocketed in early July, and Zach's replacement was a very welcomed surprise — but it came at a price.

He told me that he would give me the camera, but only if I agreed to do a project. A portraits project of the people in my life here in Peru.

I'm not a photographer. But a deal's a deal. So, I present to you the first of many faces. (And thanks, Zach.)

________________________________

Sheick, age 6, first-grader

“Do you want to read a book with me in English?” I asked. Sheick nodded, chin to chest, face to sky, and back again.

I showed him my hand, and he took it, walking with me to the back step. We crouched down to face the banana trees and crowing roosters.

“Do you like Winnie the Pooh?” I asked. He nodded, vigorously again, until I was afraid his head would fall off his neck.

Laughing, I started at page one.

Sheick didn’t speak English. It didn’t matter. By page two, he ran his playground fingers across the page, shouting the names of the figures he saw.

“Weenie-poo!” … “Tigre!” … “Abejas!”

“Yes, bees,” I said.

By page three, he grabbed the book from my lap and declared it was his turn to read to me. With careful concentration, he sounded out the English words on the page in perfect, first-grade Spanish. It made no sense. He didn’t care.

At page four, he returned the now-smudged book to its prior place in my lap. We read on, trading pages. English to nonsense. Until all was well in the Hundred Acre Woods.

He looked at me. I looked back. I closed the book, and he grabbed it, flipping pages and running his palm across the drawings. Suddenly, he shoved it back into my hands.

“Again!” he demanded. “And this time in Spanish.”