TravelStream™ news feed for member rusert on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/rusert en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 08 Mar 2009 17:41:08 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1232197200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1232197200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1232197200/tpod.html Sun, 08 Mar 2009 17:41:08 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Kathmandu, Nepal

The First Step

I've never been so nervous to call a woman in my life. My heart was pumping like I'd just biked up a mountain, my mind wandering 40 years to the future, my feet were pacing in and out of cell phone service, and my breath came as easily as a lid on an old pickle jar. Then I shut it all down, laid my finger on the green telephone button and connected. I knew it was what I wanted to do, so I did it. I called my girlfriend's mother, Mrs. Visco.
I asked Mrs. Visco if we could get together to "talk about some things" before I left for India to visit Abigail. A couple days later Mr. and Mrs. Visco and I gathered for breakfast, I spilled coffee all over their kitchen table (and my leg), and I asked for their blessing to propose to their daughter. They said yes, and I said, "YESSSS!!!!!" One month later I was flying with big plans for my visit to Abigail in New Delhi, India.

The Engagement

Abigail's beautiful and smiling face greeted me at the airport in Delhi. We cruised back to her apartment where I was warmly received with a sign and welcome from Abigail's roommate, Amy. It was well after midnight when we got in so I found my sleeping quarters quickly- a cozy, cave-like, utility closet in the hallway outside of Abigail and Amy's room. Sleep came easily that night and went away just as fast. Early the next morning, Abigail and I packed our bag and headed out for a five-day trip to Nepal. The engagement ring, in its velvet navy blue box, in another little white box, in another oversized jewelry box surrounded by socks, a tie, and some bandanas to keep it from rattling around, came with us.

16 January 2009

Our destination was the Peaceful Cottage in the Katmandu Valley. The owner, Alex, a smiley, young Nepali man, greeted us at the top of the hill on which the cottage was built. Our surroundings were absolutely breathtaking. The air was so cool and clean with the softness of the mountain mist. The horizon was filled with the white-capped Himalayas on one side and the rolling, green foothills on the other. The refrain we rehearsed, was, "Isn't it a great thing to be young, in love, in Nepal, and (soon to be engaged- well, that was a part of my refrain anyway). Thousands of miles above the sea and even further from our own country, Abigail and I were settled at home in one another's arms.

17 January 2009

The sun was about to rise over the Himalayas, I was about to propose to Abigail, the woman of my dreams, and little did she know she was about to say yes to a blonde, bearded man from Minnesota.

The day began with spirits high. Abigail repeated, "This is so romantic," and I reassured myself, "Yes! Now is the time!" The sunrise was spectacular- though it was not at the forefront of my mind. I was confident and eager; distracted and disciplined. With a ring in my pocket, Abigail snuggled beside me, and the perfect setting for an engagement, the only thing that remained was timing. I waited for the families and other lovebirds on the roof to clear out from the top of the Peaceful Cottage. With everyone gone, I kissed Abigail once more as one last bit of encouragement- it was encouragement enough! I backed away and Abigail looked at me and said with a spark, "So passionate..." Sometimes communicating feelings is easier than I thought- especially when I'm not opening my mouth to speak!
I smiled and said, "I want to take one more picture." And the plan was in motion. One thing Abigail and I always do when we say goodbye on an email or a letter is, "I love you more than..." and then we fill in the blank with something we love a lot- I might say "more than listening to Prairie Home Companion" or Abigail has said, "more than a hairdryer" or "more than clear blue sky" (things especially appropriate for Abigail in Delhi). That was my approach- sentimental with room for creativity and romance. I started out silly and got progressively more cheesy and romantic. I set up the camera, pressed record (rather than taking a picture, I videotaped it!), and there, on the roof of the Peaceful Cottage, in the foothills of the Himalayas, I proposed.

ME: Abigail, did you know I love you more than pretzels?"
(Pause)
ABIGAIL: Well that's a funny thing to say-
ME: And I love you more than riding my bike through the hills, and more than singing hymns.
(I begin to walk toward her)
ME: I love you more than a tiny stream loves to trickle down a great mountain...
(I crouch beside her)
ME: ...and more than the sun loves to rise after a long night of rest.
(I grab the ring in my pocket)
ME: I love you more than traveling the world and more than everything all the countries can offer.
(I bring out the ring and look into Abigail's eyes)
ME: I love you so much that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Abigail, will you marry me?

ABIGAIL: AHH!! (a joyful shout that seemed like forever before she said...) YES!

We embraced, we kissed, we prayed, and just like that, Abigail and Thomas became engaged. The day continued wonderfully as we toasted with travel friends, celebrated over lunch with a Nepali family, and hiked around the foothills. Oh, and as for the video, well, I ended up kissing Abigail so much (partly because I was a bit nervous!) that we're going to do some editing to spare our friends and family before we show it.

Thank you all for taking time to enter in to Abigail and my story- here at its very beginning! I pray you are all well and that Abigail and I will be able to sit and enjoy your company sometime soon.

With gratitude and hope for all that is to come.

-Thomas

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1222133340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1222133340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1222133340/tpod.html Mon, 22 Sep 2008 23:49:09 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Mexico City, Central Mexico and Gulf Coast, Mexico

1. Cri-Cri, Chirp-Chirp

In the Dominican Republic dogs say, "How! How!" In the U.S. they say, "Ruff! Ruff!" Sitting in my quarters at the church in Mexico there were two unforgivable dogs barking incessantly. I wondered how to best sound out their bark but drew no conclusions as my wonderings drifted to the best and most permanent way of silencing them. Well, enough of that. This story isn't about dogs anyway; it's about bugs. I learned during my two weeks in Mexico that crickets don't say, "Chirp! Chrip!" they say, "Cri! Cri! "
It was a quiet Friday afternoon (except for those two howling oafs). My watch chirped to announce that 2:00 p.m. had rolled around. I had no plans for the afternoon but had a great need to take a break from writing the sermon I had been asked to deliver for Sunday. I knew that it would be a depressing break to sit around the apartment so I opened up my newspaper and flipped through the local events section. I looked for something dramatic, a beautiful, rich, and inspiring expression of Mexican culture and history. I found it.
"Cri! Cri!" Wow, I thought, what a dramatic sounding title! The image above the title was of a young forlorn-looking man with long striped stockings and a Robin Hood style hat. I thought this must be historical, this must be dramatic, this must be inspirational! All that, and it was at the National Auditorium! I checked the time thinking such a presentation would be shown on a Friday in the evening only to find that it would begin at 2:30 p.m. I had no time to think and 27 minutes for a trip that takes 25-30. I decided that even the thrill of the race would be a welcome and non-depressing alternative to sitting in the quiet staleness of my room listening to the damn neighbor dogs barking at their front door.
I ripped out the newspaper cutting, grabbed my raincoat and money, and went to wait for the bus to come by. It was now 2:04 p.m. The bus came by within a minute of standing out there and I hopped on. I was 75% certain that I knew where I was going and 22 minutes later I saw the great and prominent National Auditorium. I checked my watch, 2:26 p.m., I still had time! I ran up to the entrance and was stiff-armed by the usher who pointed me to the ticket booth. 2:28 p.m. Would there still be tickets? Yes! and they were cheap. I paid $10, got my ticket with a "gracias!" and ran back to the usher who kindly yielded this time and allowed me to step into the vastness of the National Auditorium. It was 2:30 p.m., I had made it just on time, a dramatic arrival for a dramatic show.
Everything worked out right- the directions, the timing, the bus, the ticket, but when I stepped into the auditorium it seemed that everything was wrong. Half the audience was screaming! It was dark with the show about to start so I couldn't tell what was happening. I found my seat despite my fear that soon I would be screaming too. I crept towards the middle of the row and stepped around a man and his young son. I wondered what this man was thinking bringing his innocent child into the chaos of this dark instance. Then, before I turned around to face the stage and the drama that was about to ensue, I looked up at the small faces dimly lit by the stage lights and realized the source of the screams.
They were all children! They were crying because it was dark, because they had rashes on their butts, because they were hungry, and they were all there because Cri! Cri! is a children's play! I got the scoop from the man with his son. "Cri-Cri" is the sound that a grillo (cricket) makes. I had assumed that Cri! Cri! was like Cry! Cry! and the show would be some historical Mexican drama: a tale of love through the Mexican revolution or a story of a young bull fighter who, at the height of his glory, was struck down in a tragic show of hubris. Instead, it was a show about slugs, bugs, crickets, and kids.
It was an amusing afternoon- the adrenaline of getting to the auditorium, the triumph of a timely arrival, the mystery of the crying audience, and the hilarity and embarrassment of realizing all the effort was child's play. The costumes were colorful, the orchestra was good, the singers were in tune, and the stories were fun. I probably understood a whole lot more than I would have in the Mexican Revolution Romance or the Bull Fighter stories. Kids really know where it's at: fun, imagination, color, music and learning all together! Since returning home it has been lovely to listen to the chorus of crickets and decipher whether they are calling, "Chirp! Chirp!" or, "Cri! Cri!" Listen one night and let me know what you think.

2. The Running of the Bulls

Among his great novels, Hemingway wrote and compiled a collection of short stories called, Men Without Women. I came upon it as I entered the church apartment where I stayed in Mexico City. I was a man without my woman, being that my girlfriend was thousands of miles away, so I picked it up. The first story, The Undefeated, tells of an aging matador and his final fight with a beastly bull. I took this story as a sign and commission and embarked on my journey to a Mexican fair with the Running of the Bulls.
I was told that the Running would be at 12:00. I figured that meant midnight- the Latinos are so wonderfully dramatic. My four-hour journey to the fair was similarly dramatic. A van in Mexico City carried me to the subway, the subway zipped me to the bus terminal, and the bus took me to Puebla, a larger city near my final stop. In Puebla I was told that I better hurry up to make it to the village in time for The Running. To quicken my ride I was told to look for "Fecha verde." I understood that to mean something green "verde." Maybe it was the bus line? I looked around and saw no green "Fecha" busses. Fecha... Fecha, wait, I thought, maybe it actually means something! I flipped through the tiny pages of my pocket dictionary as people paraded past me. Fecador, fecede, FECHA! It meant "arrow!" He was telling me to look for the green arrow, not green busses!
I spun all around and power walked until I found a green arrow. The first one I found led me past an open market. As I hurried past each store it sounded like someone was flipping through radio stations on a stadium-sized speaker. First, Brittney Spears was blaring in my ears, then someone barking about kitchen appliances, then hardcore heavy metal, then a soccer game. The music moved my steps along and the arrows brought me to the Oro Autobuses (that means "gold" so I guess I was looking for a colored bus company). I bought a ticket and within five minutes the bus was off. I was confident I would arrive in time for the run.
We arrived at the village of the Running at 3:30 p.m. The village was described as a quiet farmer's community. The village before me was scattered with scores of riot police, drunken Mexicans (it was a fair after all), and long, narrow and crowded streets. I was intimidated. I asked a nearby vendor where the Running was. He pointed down a street packed with people. I couldn't believe they would all be so brave with the bulls about to run. I checked with him again and my feeling of intimidation was replaced with despair. He told me The Running had ceased. I had missed it.
After all of this effort- the trip to Puebla, running through bus terminals, following green Fechas, asking directions- I had missed it. What would Hemingway think of me? What a failure I felt to be. I wished that I had been a man with a woman, because that woman would have asked if The Running was at 12 noon or 12 midnight. When I heard 12 I figured that meant midnight because it would be more dramatic like Hemingway's story of the matador. Torches, screams, a bull's glinting enraged eyes in the darkness... how could that happen at noon? Well it did, and it happened for several hours and came to an end only 30 minutes before I arrived. I felt like I had taken the horns right to my gut. I walked and sulked and hoped to gather my emotions before any of the macho Mexicans saw them tumbling out. The crowds were taking down the solid wood and steel barricades that had protected them from the bulls just minutes before. As the barricades went down my spirits fell with them into the dust.
Only one thing could pick me back up off the ground- the one thing that had brought me happiness consistently since my arrival in Mexico: tacos. Delicious, greasy tacos cooked at the street stands and served with green onions and spicy hot salsa. I found an old kindly woman cooking them in an alley. The grease, heat and spice of the taco gave my system a new sensation to contain and it distracted me from my failure. To further my cathartic coping I confessed my failure and stupidity to the vendor. She listened graciously.
Then in her eyes I saw a glimmer of hope. She told me that I had missed one running but there would be yet another! I put my half-eaten taco down on the plate, looked at her questioningly and she reassured me, "Sie, sie, Joven (young guy)." I devoured the taco, paid up, and she pointed me down the street. I followed the crowd of people to the gates of a big stadium and bought a ticket to the evening Running of the Bulls.

I had missed it in the streets, but I would see it in the arena. For three grueling, exciting, and uncomfortable hours I heard the cheers and jeers of the crowd as they shouted for the Toros (bulls) and the Toreros (the men killing the bulls). My circumstance began to make perfect sense. After all there was no running of the bulls in the streets in Hemingway's story, why would there be in mine? The rationalization worked for me and I settled into my seat to watch the Bullfight.
The first fight was the toughest to watch- Dolce, 476 kg, in all his hugeness and rage was no match for the picks, swords, and spears of the Toreros. The sequence of the age old battle of Man vs. Bull was fascinating. The enraged bull tore into the empty arena. He was egged on by men with their pink blankets flashing and taunting. The bull was heaving, nervous, pissed off, and tired. Then out came the Torero (matador) for the bull to make a few passes at. Dolce brushed an inch or two by the man's waist every time. After the matador got the crowd behind him with a few close passes, out came the picadores (guys with spears) on armored horses. The horse, blinded by a mask and ordered to stay put by its rider, was a big, easy target for Dolce. He dug his horns into the horses side, but it was all a nasty trick. As the bull pushed against the armored horse, releasing its rage into the horse's steel-plated ribs, the picador plunged his spear deep into the bull's back, drawing the first blood and staining the Dolce's back. He moved away after several seconds when he finally realized the intense pain of the spear. Then the matador teased Dolce away from the picador with his flashy blanket. Dolce remained strong and charged at the man, but in making his turn he stumbled. This first sign of weakness was the beginning of Dolce's end. The music sounded from the band, a tragic Spanish tune of trumpets, bass drum, and clarinets that signaled the picador to exit the arena. Then it was only one man and one bull.
For this final fight the man switched to his red cape and grabbed his sword. Dolce stood a moment, heaving, trying to collect himself and understand what was happening. I imagined him wondering, "What happened to my calling of mounting cows? Was I not breeding the beef this country needs? What do these men want with my flesh?" Dolce had no time to think once the red cape flashed. It turned him into a crazy killing machine. The music intensified as the bull got crazier and clumsier. The man began to make a spectacle of it all. He slapped Dolce on the back, yelled in his face, and gained more and more confidence as the bull lost more and more will to fight and will to live.
Then everything was silence. The music, the drunken men yelling, the bull, the cape, the man, it all stopped. The two of them faced each other only a few feet away. The man lifted the hilt of his sword to his ear and pointed the blade just above Dolce's lowered head. The silence was broken by the cry of the matador as he lunged toward Dolce and plunged his sword deep through the bloody holes in the bull's back. He planted it with precision and sliced into Dolce's vitals. Dolce the bull had his already spinning world brought to a cold and final halt. He dropped to his front knees first, proudly attempting to stay on at least some of his feet. Then his back legs buckled and dropped as well. The man laughed and shouted and the silence was smothered by the cheer of the crowd. A picador came in with a dagger and finished the paralyzed Dolce off by cutting into his brain.

Only the end came quick for Dolce, the bull. As the crowd cheered and awaited the decision of the judges, two grand and ceremonious horses were hooked up to the dead and bloody Dolce. They proudly dragged him out of the arena. The fight was over.
I wasn't sure how to think about the whole event. I know it tired me out and exhausted my emotions. I felt like I had just completed a busy chaplaincy on-call overnight in the hospital. Though it was a unique cultural expression and my understanding is that they feast on the bulls that are killed. I wonder what happens to the people who die in the Runnings. I was kind of glad I didn't make it in time to find out. I could have left a woman without a man.


3. Aldo the Anointed: A Week at Mission Mazahua

"I think we will see each other again." Have you ever heard someone say that to you? I'm not talking about anytime someone says they'll see you again. That is something maybe you heard from the principal after you left detention, "I'll see you again." Or maybe you heard it from a boyfriend or girlfriend before you snuck out of the bedroom window, "I'll see you again." What I'm talking about are those times when someone shakes your hand, holds on, looks you in the eye and says, "I think we'll see each other again." The person smiles in a way that can bring both a feeling of fear and fascination. Usually there are no plans to see that person again. What better to say at the hint of an awkward pause in the doorway, than, "I think we'll see each other again." However, when I heard that from a man named Aldo it made me wonder if that suggestion was good for more than a smooth departure.
Aldo is a Mexican man with family from Europe. He went to the best Mexican schools and worked for a dozen years at a job that paid him well even in U.S. standards. He just recently began work at Mission Mazahua where I spent a week of my 14 days in Mexico. Mission Mazahua is a place of promise, a place for rest. It is a small workers village atop a hill about 90 miles outside of Mexico City. Hearing Aldo's story gives me the sense that he was anointed for his new calling. I'm excited about the future of his work there and the future of the mission.
It was an enriching experience. The hills roll with the thunder there during the rainy and green season. The Hacienda (or worker's village) is well-settled on its columned colonial foundations with stone pathways, arched entries, and stained-glass windows. The vision of the mission is to create educational and employment opportunities for the local indigenous people. With a Christian philosophy and foundation at the mission, the days of work at the Hacienda begin with a devotion. I contributed to the community by leading hymns on the piano. That was a fulfilling first for me to lead on the piano. I also washed dishes and cleaned and painted walls. Most effective of all was the comic relief I provided with my frequent Spanish blunders.
The beauty of the Mission recalled for me many stories and scenes from my travels in Peru last summer. Both places enriched me in meaningful ways. In both places I learned of a lot of need nestled all the beauty. Just as I learned from my experience in Peru with The Future Seekers program, Mission Mazahua would welcome your presence to come and learn about the Mazahua people, the mission, breathe in God's Spirit, and build a roof or paint a church while you're at it. Norberto, the director of the Mission, was telling me about a project he'd love to have some folks help with. He said it'd just take five skilled adults (or 15 energetic youth) to come pour a roof for one of the rooms where high school age youth come and learn marketable skills and earn money to get through school.

If you, a church group, friends at school, or Spanish club, are interested in the mission, please write to me or the Mission, mazahua2@yahoo.com. You can also check out their website at http://home.woh.rr.com/mazahua/mazahua.html. Maybe you'll be seeing Aldo before I do. Let me know if you get the handshake and hear, "I think we'll see each other again" on your way out.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1189652880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1189652880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1189652880/tpod.html Wed, 12 Sep 2007 23:54:44 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States

How does one sum up a summer of learning, of adventure and insight? What was the source of life to bring these things about? After much reflection, I conclude that the source was a deep spring of generosity. Generosity sustained me from the beginning and renewed me until the end. My family and friends were generous in prayer and encouragement, and the Peruvians poured out generosity in food, shelter, and wisdom. In light of all I received, gratitude is the Alpha and Omega of my final entry.

Xenos: The Sacred Bond of Stranger and Host

After 30 hours in airports and airplanes from winter weather in Lima, to Panama, Miami, and Houston, I returned to summer sun in Minnesota at the end of August. Since my return I have spent a couple hours every day re-learning Ancient Greek for a seminary placement exam on the 14th of September at Princeton. In one of the earlier vocabulary lists I encountered the word xenos. The definition is a confusing coupling of both the words stranger and host. My confusion disappeared after learning of the sacred bond that links these two concepts. This bond comes from the religious duty and social obligation in Ancient Greek culture to harbor a hungry traveler without a place to rest. This is a beautiful phenomenon that did not entirely survive in 21st century United States.
Social obligations are different here. Today, in the states, if a travel-worn stranger knocked on our door and asked to spend the night our only social obligation would be to call the police! Such a response stems from a mix of disinterest in the stranger and/or an obsession with security (not always a bad thing...).
Thankfully this unshaven, gibbering stranger (me) was in Peru and things are different there. The Peruvians must feel a social duty to gringos. They often have a disinterest in their security and an obsession with sharing a beer, a meal, or a bed (to your dismay or delight this entry is void of any of my romantic endeavors). I experienced the bond of stranger and host. In exchange for what I received, I shared many stories of the U.S. and other places I have traveled. I was the source of great laughter, mostly due to my foreign and odd/incorrect forms of communicating.
Some of the stories I shared with my hosts were about my family. I'd like to share a new story with you, the generous hosts of my sporadic and at times unshaven entries. This occurrence reminded me of the religious duty that the caring Greek host felt for the traveler. In place of the caring Greek, my brother showed great generosity in response to the commitment and love he had for me.

My parents, brother, and his girlfriend, Patti, spent a few days together up north in our red cabin in Backus, MN. After a day of water-skiing, swimming, laughing and chatting, we dried off, kicked back and continued to relax. At 8:00 p.m., during a predictably perfect evening preparing dinner and enjoying the quiet, a random, noisy alarm shrieked in the cabin. I thought, "Yet again cell phones interrupting the serenity and peace of the calm and careless countryside." Slightly annoyed and curious we asked my brother, the source of the racket, why he had a random alarm go off at 8 p.m. His response transformed annoyance to gratitude and set my heart beating with thanksgiving.

He answered, "Sorry, it's my daily reminder to pray for Tommy Boy."

Mike, you are an incredible brother. Everyday, in fulfillment of his commitment to pray for me while I was away, my brother heard his alarm at eight o'clock, morning and night, to take a moment and pray for a blessed journey and my safety in Peru. I believe his generous offering of prayer and commitment to me was an integral part of the blessing of hosts that I encountered in Peru. It warranted just as much gratitude as any meal or set of directions I received this summer (no matter how hungry or lost I may have been).

I was lost just about everyday in Peru. All of the backtracking and wandering led not only to an empty stomach but to a great deal of dependence on my Peruvian hosts. I was astray and hungry; vulnerable and needy. In such a state it is difficult to know who to trust and easy to be taken advantage of. At times it is unwise to accept someone's generosity as it could be deceit or meanness. Yet, genuine generosity is something to honor, not deny. In a fit of suspicion and uncertainty I was ready to deny one Peruvians generosity flat out. It was a matter of security. Let me share a story of a Peruvian host, who I hoped was responding to his sense of a social duty to help, and not to harm a vulnerable, needy wanderer.

Struggling to decide what to do I sat up late in my hotel room and reasoned out my decision in my journal.

____________________________________________________________ ___________
20 Julio 2007

Am I incredibly stupid? I think maybe yes...

Ok, what would you do? You are on your way to the Peruvian Amazon. The only people you have known for more than a day are hundreds of miles away. A guy sits next to you on the bus and the two of you talk for 40 minutes. You understand less than half of it because you are still learning his language. He tells you he is a business man. He asks you if you have a place to say, you say, "no," and suddenly you are sharing a taxi with this man to some unknown destination. The two of you arrive at a modest-looking hostel with a lot of other business people there.
The man knows you're off to the jungle and suggests that you join him again in a taxi the next morning to a port village where you can hop on a boat to the Amazon. Sounds reasonable.
The night before an early departure he tells you that the taxi leaves at an unreasonable hour, 3 a.m. rather than 6 a.m. So, it is going to be dark, there will be nobody around, and who knows who will drive? What do you do?
My gut told me to think about it. I've heard many warnings about being safe. Friends tell me not to trust anyone. There is drug trafficking in the jungle. This guy arrived to the jungle on business. What kind of business is it? So, maybe we can assume he is a drug-smuggling kidnapper looking to take me for ransom. I'm dead. Or... maybe he's cool.
This guy was on the bus from Chiclayo. He couldn't have known that I would be riding that bus. Drug smugglers must have some other sweeter form of transportation like a jet or helicopter. He's only ever offered to help and never forced me into anything, including the option of sharing a taxi with him. Everything has checked out up to this point. The hotel was safe, comfortable, and well-priced. Other Peruvians have shown similar generosity in lending me a helping hand. And as for the warnings of my friends, I would have no friends at all if I never trusted anybody. I think I'll be ok. Either way, I will find out. God, keep watch over me.
____________________________________________________________ ___________


It worked out. My friend Amil's generosity and response to his social obligation was genuine. The taxi ride was safe and cheap, I arrived to catch the 6 a.m. boat, and I made a couple new friends, Mortimer and Nilia, that would later end up saving my tail (when I almost missed the boat on the Amazon). I shook Amil's hand in gratitude, took a picture with him, and said goodbye.

A graceful host is worth a song. Generosity breeds the same in others. There is reason to help those in need whether a social obligation, a religious duty, or simply a desire to be different. So, to all of you, consider taking in strangers. To be safe, take in foreign exchange students and not unshaven bums like me (unless they smile really nicely and look at you with hopeful desperation). Don't hesitate to offer directions to someone who looks lost. Buy or cook and share a meal with someone. Take an afternoon to show a newcomer your favorite part of your hometown. Pay for someone's bus fare. Set an alarm to remember someone in your prayers.
I had an incredible summer. It was incredible because of prayers like my brother's and answers to prayer like Amil. I am deeply grateful to all of you who have been committed to me in prayer and encouragement. I am deeply grateful for all of my Peruvian hosts who cared for a stranger and shared so much of their lives. Every stranger needs a host; every host can learn from a stranger. If only we can be generous so many more will be grateful.


]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1188230400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1188230400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1188230400/tpod.html Mon, 27 Aug 2007 13:19:33 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Cusco, Peru

Bus Tickets, More Debt for Deliverance.

I rode the economic bus to Cusco. For 11 hours en route it cost me $6.00. The other, much more comfortable option, cost $50.00. So, what difference does $44.00 make for a person travelling by bus here in Peru? Let me tell you...

Every week there are tragic bus accidents in this country. Since my arrival here in Peru I have heard reports of 17 deaths on account of a distracted driver, 24 deaths because the road was damaged from striking professors, and another day buses plummeting down the side of cliffs resulting in the death of 30. Two of these accidents were from the bus company that I paid $6.00 for to get to Cusco.
I expressed my concern about my coming trip to some friends. They told me that fatal crashes only happen on Tuesday and Thursday and the gringos always survive. I didn't believe them so my fear accompanied me into the taxi to the bus station. I shared my anxiety with the taxi driver, thinking he would understand my preoccupation since he drives around all day in the congested and dangerous streets of Lima. With a crucifix swinging below his rear-view mirror he told me to have faith. I certainly agreed with him, but there is also that joke about the guy stranded on the roof after a flood. God sends him deliverance, but he fails to recognize it. Could my deliverance really cost me an extra $44.00?
Safety is certainly one advantage of the pricey option; comfort is another. Comfort includes the amount of space in and around your seat, the food you eat, and the smell of the bus environment.
When you pay $50.00 for a bus ticket you share the bus with people who paid the same. When you pay $6.00, you share the bus with people who paid $6.00. Somehow the people who pay less always have more- more things. Things like bundles of potatoes that fall to the floor on a turn, chickens that squawk and smell like shit, crying kids in laps who have to go to the bathroom (and they do) though there is not one on the bus. Potatoes, chickens, and kids take up the limited space, stink, and make a lot of noise.
Now, let's talk food. On any journey more than ten hours you are going to want to eat something. My extra $44.00 gets me two meals served by a cute, smiling, Peruvian bus attendant. My $6.00 ticket gets me nothing. Nothing but the option to buy something from the old Señoras who enter the bus from some little pueblo with huge sacks on their backs. The first sack of the Señora was filled with fresh bread and juice. I got some for 50 cents and it tasted great. I was still a bit hungry though, and curious about the other sack. I heard a terrible, "thwack," turned, and saw the other Señora raise a huge butcher knife. She was hacking away at the entire body of a goat. How is this possible, I wondered? I learned that they stick the body of a goat in a huge stone oven, like a giant crock pot, until it is nice and tender. My neighbour bought a hunk. He offered some to me, I tried it, and it tasted good. I looked at the Señora, considering a purchase, she smiled showing a tooth or two. The smile had an unsettling effect unlike the smiling Señorita on the expensive bus so I passed on the goat.
Now, a bit about my neighbour on the bus. I sat next to a guy named Salvador (Saver). I think the only thing he saved was a bit of money by neglecting his personal hygiene. He had a grossly wild smell about him. It took me awhile to place the scent but then it struck me. I was back in my cousin Jeff's garage, buck knife in hand, skinning one of the two deer carcasses hanging from the rafters. That was Salvador. More than B.O., he had W.A.B.O: Wild Animal Body Odor. I guess if I could endure the smell of the deer I could endure the smell of Salvador. Although, I didn't have the satisfaction of looking forward to eating Salvador like I did with the deer so I guess it was a bit different...
Next time will it be $6.00 or $50.00 for my ticket? Probably somewhere between. My mother, concerned about the crashes might just send me a few extra bucks for a safer ride. I can do without the smiling Señorita, but hope to avoid the reek of dirty diapers and guys like Salvador. The extra debt for deliverance. It was interesting and economic to ride cheap once, but I'm not sure I would do it again.




2. Where were you during the Terremoto?

Checking in on me, a good friend wrote in an email, "Bridges fall in Minnesota, hundreds die in earthquake in Peru. What is going on?" Well, that is exactly the question everyone has been asking here in Peru since the terremoto, the movement of the earth. They ask, "Where were you during the earthquake?"

Here is my answer:

I felt the terremoto lounging in my bed in Aguas Calientes, the stepping stone little city to reach the Wonder of the World, Machu Picchu. My good friend Tyler, who was adventuring with me in Cusco for a week, slept soundly through the small tremor while I waited out the soft and almost comforting rocking of the earth. Ironic how there was so much chaos and destruction happening within the borders at that very moment in Lima, Ica, and Pisco.
Tyler and I saw something on the news about five deaths in Lima, felt sad for them, but were able to continue on and enjoy our night. The next day we visited Machu Picchu, still fairly clueless to the reality of the destruction. We were clueless to the reality of others and their responses to the question, "Where were you during the earthquake?"
Take the case of my cousin Cheridyn. She was at the foot of the colossal Marriot Hotel on the coast in Lima. As the tower shook and panes of glass shattered, the people could only watch and hope it wouldn't fall, pinned in by the unrelenting Pacific roaring behind them.
Take the case of Isabel, my Peruvian host mother. She was alone in her house in Lima. I had gotten off the phone with her only ten minutes before. The house shook. Frantic, she got out and into the street to join the hundreds of neighbours in the street. Some of them were screaming at the groans of the earth and the bursts of lightning above. They were crying, wondering if this could be the end of the world.
Thanks to be to God that it was not the end of the world for Cheridyn or Isabel. Cheridyn and every one of her Peace Corps comrades have mobilized in a relief effort. Isabel lived to welcome her family and me home in Lima, and also to cook Arroz con Pollo for me, my favourite Peruvian dish. But, not everyone was so fortunate.
Over 600 hundred did not live to answer the question, "Where were you?" Take the case of the young Peruvian man from Lima who travelled to Ica to meet his fiancé. His heart was fluttering like a butterfly for her just minutes before his body was crushed by one of thousands of unfounded, crumbling houses. Weeks after the disaster the front pages, the news at night still show lifeless children laying under tarps, whaling mothers, and macho but broken Latino men unable to hold back tears. This country is in a sombre state.
The mourning has not paralyzed the country, it has mobilized much of the world. The Peruvian President has made bold claims of reconstruction, countries around the world, poor and wealthy, are sending help in supplies, money, and their country-people. If there is anyone in or anything about Peru that you hold precious in your heart I would suggest visiting the following site: www.directrelief.org
"Bridges fall in Minnesota, hundreds die in earthquake in Peru. What is going on?" It is hard to say. Easier to say that bridges can fall on the way home from work; Cathedrals can crumble in the middle of mass. Life is precious, call an old friend, write to a loved one, smile at a stranger, and remind them that their life is precious too.

Con mucho Cariño, love, and a hopeful smile,

Thomas

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1186432800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1186432800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1186432800/tpod.html Mon, 06 Aug 2007 18:46:27 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Iquitos, Peru

Did you ever miss the bus when you were a kid? Can you recall the terrible feeling, sprinting after the big yellow travelling Twinkie stuffed with your classmates knowing there is no way it is going to stop for you. You give chase, though it is frivolous; you have to show a concerted effort with your upset parent standing by watching, pissed off that he/she is going to have to drive you to school. Well, during my three day journey on the Amazon River to the jungle town of Iquitos, those feelings returned to enter my adult body. Confused, panicked, embarrassed, but in the end relieved, here is my story...

We were half a day from Iquitos when we stopped in the port pueblo of Nauta. My new Peruvian friends, Nilia and Wally (an older married couple), and I thought, according to some anonymous information, that we had about an hour to pass at the port. With that, we stepped off for awhile to check out the little town and make some phone calls. I went to check my email and try to arrange a jungle tour for the next couple days.
I was sitting at an internet adobe waiting for the incredibly slow connection (I'm not complaining) to force open the Gmail webpage. There was a jungle woman smiling, waving, and whistling at me, trying to get my attention and making me feel terribly uncomfortable. Having enough diseases to fend off in the jungle I ignored her and struck up conversation with a friendlier looking woman sitting next to me. After 20 minutes of waiting for the internet to work I saw Wally and Nilia heading in the direction of the boat. We still had at least half an hour so I figured I could disregard their beckoning wave and see if Gmail would show up. Ten minutes later, still nothing. Nothing but that spinning globe in the upper right hand corner teasing me to stay longer by pretending to do something.
I noticed some commotion in the corner of my eye. It was a big crazy man running like he had his head cut off. Then I realized it was Wally, my friend! Bus as soon as I saw him he disappeared and yelled, "Tomás!! Corre!!!!!!! (RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!)." Figuring it was urgent I flipped a sol to the vender and looked for Wally. I had to squint to see him for he was running a block down the road towards the dock. I sprinted after him in my sandals with my bulging pockets swinging in the opposite direction of my legs. That awkward sensation, just like a backpack swinging crazily on a schoolchild's back, triggered a memory, and after a tempest of nervous activity I realized just what was happening. I was about to miss the bus!
Just as it occurred to me I ran into a sea of people. I remembered that the bus never waits, that the kids had to get to school on time so I barged through quickly, scaled the small ridge, and was about to dock the boat. I looked at the boat. It looked weird. Then I realized, "Tomás, that's not your boat."
Indeed, my boat, The Eduardo, had already left port. Everyone was leaning on the railing of the deck, watching the, "miss the boat" drama unfold. Some yelling, some laughing, and Wally´s poor wife, Nilia, jumping up and down flailing her arms like chicken wings. And on top of that, they were all getting smaller. The boat was cruising away. I had to think fast. I looked to my right. Wally was still with me! And he wanted to get to the boat as much as I did. I saw him climbing in a little skiff with a motor. I ran down and leapt in as well. The moment my feet hit wood we were off to catch the ship. We cruised up to the side, the dark water bubbling between the two boats and a ray of light from the ship's mast lighting our way to safety. Wally stepped over and on the ship. Just as I was about to casually do the same, the boats started moving slightly away. I grabbed The Eduardo with my hands, straddled the boats, and with a lunge rolled over to safety on the deck.
Everyone was smiling as the silly gringo (me) entered the ship. The captain was one of the first to approach me. He asked, "¿Que pasó?" And the only thing I could say was, "Desculpame (excuse me)" over and over again.
I'm indebted to my friend Wally for risking his way to get me back on the ship. It was more than any friend from my school bus riding days ever did for me. I don't know how I get by sometimes... I really don't. I continue to trust. I trust good people like Wally, praying and caring friends and family like you, and God. And I find the next day with all my things, my body in one piece, and another story to tell.


La Selva

Peru truly has it all. I have now surfed the Pacific, climbed the Andes, and explored the Amazon jungle of this marvellous country. The jungle excursion was brief but rich. I cruised on the Amazon River, ate fresh fish for every meal, swam with pink river dolphins, handled tarantulas, conversed with a jungle shaman, and had monkeys climbing on my back. Oh, not everything was perfect. I couldn´t forget the thirsty, Malaria-filled mosquitoes for every hair follicle of my exposed arms and shins. I haven't fallen over dead yet, so I think my pills worked.

A Swim in the Amazon
I´m always a little timid upon entering a new body of water. With currents, chiggers, and who knows what else lurking within it's depths it is probably good to be cautious. However, I had to throw caution to the river when I was presented an opportunity to take a swim with the pink and blue freshwater river dolphins (yes, they really are pink!) of the Amazon River.
To take the plunge is easier written than done. First of all, the locals won't take the plunge even if you paid them. They have a tremendous fear of the enchanting power of the dolphins told in the myths and legends of the jungle. Also, the water is pure brown, and nothing can be seen below the surface. Lastly, the Amazon is the largest (though not the longest) river in the world with more water flowing in it at any given moment. It's huge! And the greater the cage the greater the beast. Fisherman have captured catfish that weigh over 200 pounds, imagine trying to bring that ugly thing in. The largest fish in the Amazon, the Pirarucu, is over 15 feet long and can weigh over 400 pounds! And for any of you with doubts, size doesn't always matter. Cattle eating piranhas also hunt the waters weighing only a pound or two.
But, it was now or never so I disrobed and back-flipped off the front into the river. It was so cool and refreshing. A haven from sun, heat, and mosquitoes. All was perfect. Until... the river sardines showed up.
Curiosity. So many animals, insects, and people are curious in and about the jungle. The sardines of the river were my first living example of that. Like a fly to a fluorescent light they charged forward full speed ahead in total disregard of their own bodies just to have a pick at mine. It freaked me out! At first I denied the petrifying possibility that not everything in the river was afraid of my flailing arms and feet. At the same time I couldn't understand how I could kick or prick myself in those untouchable spots of my back. I checked for the string of my shorts. It wasn't that either. Then something flew out of the water right in front of my face. I screamed, and breathlessly asked my guide, Lobo (the Spanish word for "wolf"), what was happening. In his authoritative jungle guide accent he responded, "It's the sardines. They're curious." Then he laughed crazily and jumped in the water as well. His presence didn't stop the curious sardines from picking at me, but at least I knew that they wouldn't pick me to nothing. After a few more aggressive head butts and another thrilling sight of a dolphin I climbed back in the boat.


Curious George: Anything for a Banana
The monkeys I encountered in the selva (jungle) had a striking resemblance to Curious George. The Peruvians, however, have another name for these monkeys. They call them, Chorros, or in English, pick-pockets. They've been known to run away with food, sunglasses, and cameras from the baffled tourist. You might be thinking, "Wow Tomás, they'd have to get pretty close to do that." Well, they did get close.
Just as Curious George descended from his tree to examine The Man in the Yellow Hat's hat, these curious Chorros approached the little fishing boat with great shrieks, falling freely from limb to limb to the ground and ran to the front of the boat. Lobo had put a banana in my hand and returned to the back of the boat. The fastest and most curious monkey stopped at the front of the boat and checked out the banana in my hand. He looked me straight in the eye. I had no idea what he was thinking. He crept closer, now staring at the banana. Then with one great leap he jumped right on my chest, wrapping his tail around my neck and simultaneously grabbing the banana from my hand. I don't remember that happening in the book!
I have a new appreciation for the designation of our arms and legs as limbs and the accuracy with which we also call the extremities of trees, limbs. I became a Jungle Gym. Or a Jungle Tom... What an exhilarating feeling! To have wild monkeys, so cute, curious, and soft, climbing all over you. Maybe something like the kids you used to baby-sit, except lighter, cuter, with soft hair everywhere, and they went away as soon as you wanted them to. Or at least when the bananas were gone.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1184960100/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1184960100/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1184960100/tpod.html Mon, 06 Aug 2007 16:38:48 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Chiclayo, Peru

1. Cuidate (Take Care)

I had my first scare in Peru on Friday the 13th. I was pretty shaken up. Damn, it´s a nasty feeling to have someone try to rob you. They were street punks up to no good. As I was walking down the road to the Rojas house in Lima they asked, "De donde eres?" (Where are you from?). Being the friendly and curious gringo I am I responded, "Estados Unidos," and hurriedly carried on. They invited me to more conversation by asking what part. I had to decline. The young men didn´t seem the type to slow down for and chat with so I only yelled, "El Norte!" Hoping the exchange was over I pressed on. To my dismay, so did the punks, in the same direction...

"Cuidate" is a word that Peruvians often use along with or functioning as a goodbye. It comes from the verb cuidar which means, in the reflexive form, "to take care of oneself." I´ve heard this word over a hundred times since arriving in Peru, much more frequently than the typical Peruvian. It´s not because I meet more people and make a better impression on them. It´s for another reason. You see, "take care" does not quite mean the same thing in Peru as it might in the states. I often suggest to friends and family to, "take care" (of themselves) when I say goodbye. The intended meaning when I say it is something like, "Don´t stress yourself out too much at work," or "make sure to take a walk in the park, get some exercise and fresh air." Here in Peru the meaning is much more a matter of security and survival. It means, "Be careful not to get robbed," or "Take care not to get kidnapped," or "Don´t be stupid if someone stops you with a gun." After the night of the 13th, I was glad to hear the warning so many times.

Since the warnings, I always look behind me in the streets. Every minute or two I glance back to see what might be coming up. So in this case, I glanced back and there I saw my pals from the corner following me.

I sped up my pace, looked back and noticed they had sped up as well. By now I was thinking their friendliness was a little over the top- maybe even suspicious. I tested my hypothesis by crossing to the other side of the street. I think my actions hurt their feelings because the front man yelled out, "Hola! Gringo!" They all crossed the street and started to spread out. That was the, "Oh, Shit!" moment. They were cutting off any escape routes. So I located the nearest light and the nearest people not hostily approaching me and headed in that direction. I kept my eye on their movements. It was like a coach had planned the routes for them- "X´s" darting about the street, surrounding the one "O", me, backing into a wall. It seemed hopeless.

The young man demanded money from me. He reached into his pocket for something. I awkwardly stepped between the two aging Peruvian professionals that I had located, hoping he wouldn´t do anything too desperate with them there. I told him repeatedly I had nothing but books in my bag, and after 15 seconds of pure awkwardness and uncertainty he decided to leave.

The two strangers allowed me through the locked gate into the front part of their store. One said something about the police and cruised off on his bike. The other whistled down a taxi to take me the two blocks to the house.

I made it home. I was shook up, but with a shaking hand I wrote out my anxiety in my journal. I was really paranoid for the rest of the night and the next day. Now, I´m just more careful and pay attention when I´m told, "Cuidate."


2. Goats on a Combi

The most practical way to get around in Peru is the combi. I mentioned combis briefly in a previous entry but didn´t go into any detail. Combis are vans, about the size of a Dodge Caravan. The difference being that instead of 5 or 6 people being inside there are about 12-15 for any given journey. In the combi one can get just about anywhere in a city for about 35 cents. So it´s cramped, but it´s cheap.

Every combi is equipped with a loud, obnoxious screamer. A screamer is a young man (every once in awhile a woman), who is in charge of collecting fare from the passengers who board the rolling combi. Along with this responsibility they have several others. The screamer has to scream the street names at everything moving along every street, he opens and closes the door, he hangs outside the van at 45 m.p.h., and hits the side of the van repeatedly, yells, and whistles (to get peoples´ attention as well as to express the anger of his driver at some other competing combi that cut him off). Also, every once in awhile the screamer generously helps the clueless traveler, like me. One sunny afternoon outside the bustling city of Chiclayo, I learned that the screamer is also responsible to take care of animals that want to ride the combies.

On my way home from the ancient pyramids of Túcume (near Chiclayo), I saw a man crouched over and waving his hand. I thought he was bundling up corn at first but soon realized that he was doing something to an animal. It looked like a dog. A Canadian mentioned something about roadkill. I was immediately curious to have a look and incredibly surprised when all of a sudden the screamer banged on the door and demanded the driver to stop. I couldn´t believe it! The screamer had compassion for the poor animal and wanted to help.

He swung open the Combi door, leaped to the street, and immediately had his hands tied up with the other mans doing something to the animal. They were pulling, and tying, and writhing. It must have been terrible! Then they lifted up the beast. And by golly! It was a bleating goat! They were hoisting the goat up to the roof of the combi to bring it into town. Its eyes were crazy, its screams so much like a person yelling, "AHHHH!" I could only laugh and reach for my camera. Then we were off. We knew ole Billy was directly above us by the kicking of the roof. We knew he was upset by the cry of "AHHHH!" every time the door opened.

So the goat made it to the market. Likely, he has already visited several homes in Chiclayo, sitting quietly on a dinner plate at the dinner table of hungry Peruvians taking a big sniff, and saying, "Ahhh...¨ Combi screamer, job well done.


3. A Reflection: God at Work

As I have moved from one experience to the next, one group of loving people to the next, I see God at work more and more in my life. Along my journey I´ve been blessed with the generosity of the Rojas family, the hospitality of Cheridyn up north, the mission team from Texas, the congregation at Luz Divina, a mission family in Chiclayo, and I´m on my way to jungle shamans and pastors in Iquitos. What does it all mean?

I think these happenings show us that God is working constantly, sending people, thoughts, and feelings to guide us in following His will for us. In a recent devotion I read, "Everyday God sends us opportunities for spiritual growth." I think of spending a week with the team from Texas. My spirit grew in understanding of mission after conversations with missionaires like David from Argentina, church administrators like the newly elected bishop for the Gulf Coast area, Mike Rinehart, and ley leaders like Juanito Warner.

Working with these people led to another bountiful connection with leaders of the Lutheran Church in Peru like Pastor Benjamin and the children at Luz Divina. My spirit grew in capacity as it stretched into Peru to embrace the children and shadow the leaders of the church in their work. Two weeks later I felt that it was time to move on. And then God bestowed a great blessing upon me to run into Henrik, a Lutheran missionary in Chiclayo, Peru. What´s going on?

Henrik and I have been swapping emails for over a month. We lost track of each other amidst packed schedules. Then, by chance, I randomly discovered Henrik at Cristo Rey, a Lutheran church in Lima. After a group of gringos entered the building I asked who the older male one was and learned he was pastor Enríque. I thought nothing of it. Then, after five minutes it clicked. Enríque is the spanish version of Henrik! Next thing I knew, I had changed my plans, bought a bus ticket, and was sitting across from Henrik and his daughter on the way to the Mission in Chiclayo.

It was so exciting and interesting to spend a few days running around with Henrik. Also from my daily devotional, "Rubbing shoulders with people who trust in God is contagious." The whole family is an example of trusting God. After 20+ years in the mission field Henrik, his wife Patti, and daugher Becca are heading back to the states. They continue forward confidently, trusting their futures to God and the mission to the other faithful servants in Chiclayo.

It has been wonderful seeing God at work in my life. I live faithfully and act with greater passion and confidence. With every vocab word I learn and every person I meet I know God will make use of it in the future. "Now Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we cannot see" (Hebrews 11:1). We don´t always see God´s plan in full- it may be another life until we do. But by faith we can be certain that there is a plan. Such certainty brings me confidence in living. I pray it is doing the same for all of you.

God Bless,

Tomás
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1183669980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1183669980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1183669980/tpod.html Thu, 05 Jul 2007 17:56:04 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Ica, Peru

Hello again family and friends. I´m still alive. I know more spanish. I really need a haircut and a new change of clothes, but I´ve been having some more great experiences. Check them out if you like, I think the one about the dune buggy ride is fun if you only have time to glance at one.

Much love to you all, and please send me any thoughts and updates!


The Texas Mission Group

I spent one week in June as a member of a Lutheran mission team from Texas. Their loving generosity and committed service was the perfect reminder to me of God´s purpose for us on earth, to love and to serve. After many visits to churches and communities around Lima, a Vacation Bible School serving 500 Peruvian children, and several nights together eating, drinking, and laughing, the Texas team said goodbye. Before they left, I left them with a toast...

Dear friends from Texas and brothers and sisters in Christ,

During my first weeks here in Peru I had a thrilling and unique adventure in the Andes of northern Peru. One night my friends and I stayed with a village family deep in the mountains. They were so generous to take us into their home and feed us, and feed us, and feed us. We could not resist their generosity. We stuffed ourselves to the point of being sick, and even had to put dozens of little potatoes into our pockets. We just could not say no. Their kindness was irresistible.

The generosity of that family, like so many others here in Peru, is endearing and absolutely heart-warming. Sometimes I think I should stay in this country forever.

Then I realize that likewise, you all have shared with me something that I could not resist. That is, your loving and open arms as you welcomed me into your church family.

Thank you for filling me with comfort during my stay with you as well as filling me with hope and confidence for the future of this ministry. I hope to return to Texas some day soon and see you all again. I pray God continues to fill you up with the irresistible love that you shared with me and everyone here during your time in Peru.



Tomas, El Profesor

With little to do and a whole day to do it, I worked up the gumption to visit Luz Divina. Luz Divina is one of the four Lutheran churches in this city of 8 million that I visited with the group from Texas. After help and guidance from my dear Peruvian family, the Rojas´s, I arrived safely to the secure oasis of the church in the dangerous neighbourhood of Marquez.

As the combi (a vehicle hybrid between a bus and a minivan) sped off I hurriedly stepped to the street. I had been warned repeatedly about the danger of burglars and other tough guys in the area so I immediately located a store, bought a bottle of water, and asked for directions. By God´s grace a woman at the store perked up at the name of the church. She was a member and she agreed to be my compañera.

I stepped inside one of the church buildings in the neighbourhood and was greeted by dozens of smiles, hugs, and kisses. It was lunch time for the kids in the Children of the Future program sponsored by churches in the U.S. The program serves 84 children, providing them with lunch M-F as well as two hours of supervised study and play time every afternoon (let me know if you´re interested in the program, I´d be delighted to tell more). The timing was great because the first thing I was offered after a chair was a steaming plate of rice, noodles, and some tough and tasty beef.

Amidst my chewing, more kisses on the cheek, and telling people my name is Tomás, I met Elisabeth, one of the programs leaders. We talked for awhile upstairs. One hour later, using my modest Spanish skills and her modest English skills, I was Profesor Tomás. Imagine, it takes almost 10 years to earn that title back in the states!

What a blessing. One thing I had hoped for during my stay in Peru was to plant myself somewhere for awhile. I can´t imagine a place more fertile for personal cultivation and an opportunity more conducive for service and learning.

My first day I taught drawing. I think I´ll teach them Old McDonald tomorrow. I´ll be Prof. T for a couple weeks. Life is good. God continues to be generous.



A Ride in the Dunes of Ica

Listo? I hadn´t learned the word yet, but my automatic response of ¨Si¨ ended up being the right one, I think. I found out later that listo means ¨ready¨ in Spanish. Our daring dune-buggy driver, Dito, asked if I was ready, I said yes, and Silvana and I were off to the dunes.

I thought of the scene in the great Star Wars trilogy when Luke is cruising through the desert in search of R2D2. I felt like I was on my way to visit Obi-Wan in my sand cruiser. Chased by the crazy, barking sand people we had to drive at life threatening speeds to avoid our certain capture.

As we flew over the mountainous dunes, hundreds of feet tall, there were times I wasn´t sure if we´d make it home alive. With hearts pounding, we approached the crest of a dune and the only sand we saw was a mile away in the sun-bathed desert before us. We plummeted down the ridge, Silvana screaming, me laughing madly, the dune-buggy turning almost entirely sideways with lack of traction. In that moment I wished that I had known the word for ¨ready¨ back at the beginning because I´m not so sure we were. We lacked helmets, the seatbelts were faulty, and I knew nothing about our driver.

After a few more thrilling plummets the sun began to set on the desert sand and on our adventure as well. After a few attempts at sand-boarding it came sweetly to completion. We sat on the highest ridge in the area and watched the sun go down. Behind us a mist of sand blew and swirled into the air. It was tremendous. The shadows from the falling sun on the red and gold dunes painted an impressive picture before us. I have never seen desert look so wonderful.




Do they have the 4th of July in Peru?

Remember being asked that question in some form as a kid? I always responded so confidently, ¨No, duh...¨ only to realize I was wrong, because everyone has the day on their calendar. However, after celebrating the 4th of July here in Peru I would respond with a ¨Yes¨ even if I didn´t understand the joke.

No parades, no hot grills, no lakes, frisbees, or fireworks, but I had a wonderful 4th of July celebrations. Why? Because I was with my wonderful Peruvian family and my dear cousin Cheridyn. We were cooking, listening to country music, and drinking cervezas in the kitchen. With Cheridyn and Silvana taking charge in the kitchen I stomped around with a cowboy hat and danced with my mamá, Isabel. Then, with great ceremony, my brother Alberto, father Fabio, and I raised the U.S. and Peruvian flags taping them to the kitchen wall while bobbing our heads to, Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy by Big and Rich.

The meal was so American. We opened the beers early and appeased our appetites with nachos and guacamole. We had watermelon, homemade potato salad, green beans, and a variation of beer brats and buns. We sat down and ate listening to the Beatles. For desert, none other than America´s favourite cookie, an Oreo. In addition, we shared bounties of laughter and the little information about the U.S. Independence that Cheri and I retained from U.S. history class.

So, do they have 4th of July in Peru? Yes they do.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1182022860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1182022860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1182022860/tpod.html Thu, 21 Jun 2007 18:33:34 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Canchaque, Peru

The Andes. The backbone of South America, stretching over 5,000 miles along the western coast of the continent. The cascading waterfalls longer, the valleys greener, the peaks closer to the stars, and the mountain people more abundant than any mountain range I have ever stepped foot on.

There were five of us that set out for the three day journey. Cheridyn (a dear friend from St. Olaf and a Peace Corps. Volunteer in Peru), Ryan, John, David (a native of Peru and a coffee farmer near Canchaque, our guide) and I set out from the campo village of Canchaque, through the mountain dwellings of Suchile, and to our final destination, Huancabamba. The beauty and life of the land possessed me. Cheridyn and I walked ahead and descended into a valley of green mountain pastures where the small village of Suchile was tucked away. We passed flowing fields of golden wheat underneath the great blue and white sky and next thing we knew we were dancing, skipping, and laughing down the trail. I´ve never frolicked for so long and felt good about it...

Neither of us expected the excitement and energy to continue at that level, but as we hiked closer and closer to the village we realized we were in for one of the most unique experiences of our lives.

We walked in a village where no gringo had ever walked before (at least for a long, long time). This was confirmed by the enamoured stares and frightened cries of the children. Imagine them thinking, ¨Who are these white aliens?¨ The older villagers had enough years to have seen a white person before so they took a more proactive course of action in response to our presence. They brought out five small, simple, wooden stools for sitting. We sat in silence, staring at our surroundings.

An assortment of animals splashed in the mud around the kitchen hut. Pigs walked around with sticks shaped like a triangle around their necks, fastened by tweed. Chickens and turkeys walked about our feet, dogs looked for food and attention, sheep bleated in the field. It reminded me of Charlotte´s Web. I was just waiting for the animals to start dancing and sing in unison the song, ¨Chin Up!¨ from the movie.

Before the chorus of animals began to sing we were invited into a cramped, rustic, village hut. Inside was an arsenal of eats. Our stomachs were in for the baddest bowel battle of their lives.

The battle field was dark and eerie. Smoke was pluming from the archaic oven and the coals illuminated the faces of our overly generous hosts. The Señora stirred at the kiln with a grimace on her face from the heat and smoke. Then she packed their culinary cannons and fired the first volley of food.

Potatoes. So many potatoes! Five large bowls of potatoes (of which there are over 3,000 varieties in Peru). Cheri made the comment that the bowls that each of us ate were equivalent to the Thanksgiving portion of mashed potatoes at her family gathering. I gave thanks that we all survived the first volley.

The second volley was deadly. They unintentionally introduced us to the biological weapons of the sierra. Leche. Milk, directly from the cow that ate shit-encrusted grass outside the hut. I actually thought it tasted good. It was a milky pourage and some cheese. Everything would have been fine, except John was lactose intolerant. But how could we explain such a condition to people who asked if we breathe air in the United States like they breathe air in Peru... Poor John. And Cheri got a caveman sized portion for her modern woman-sized stomach. We were getting nervous. The main dish of turkey, rice, and potatoes was being passed around as we spoke. We had to act fast.

With reserves of room to pack food away Ryan and I skilfully scarfed all of our food down. I followed Ryan´s lead and asked for a second portion. This was a perfect distraction for Cheridyn to put several of the potatoes in her pocket and Ryan to take John´s cheese from his bowl. We ate, John writhed on his stool, trying not to puke, Cheri finished her few remaining potatoes and secured the ones in her pocket. We were alive, but the battle with our benevolent opponents was far from over.

The silence and staring was next. I imagined the first encounters of Spanish explorers with the Incan tribes of antiquity. No words to share. We lasted about 30 minutes in this manner. Then I decided it was time to present treasures from across the sea. I brought out baseball cards that I purchased to write notes on and share with Peruvians I met along the way. The people were appeased! They stopped firing food at us, stopped staring blankly at us, and began staring at statistics of baseball players like Jim Thome, Cal Ripken Jr., and Bo Jackson. I´ve never seen anyone so interested in the batting average of some no-name right-fielder from a major league baseball team. Later that night I noticed one of the male hosts lying down to bed with the card and a candle in his hand, continuing to stare with wonder at the treasurer from the United States.

Regardless of this small victory we still had to escape the dark battlefield. John was using all his strength to keep the food from exploding out his body and Cheri had to drop the potatoes from her pocket and some from elsewhere. Ryan soon discovered his excellent capacity to communicate with these people (he is fluent in Spanish) and used his expert skills to initiate the movement out of the dark, smoke-filled kitchen and we retreated into the wide and fresh Andean Infirmary.

The rest of the night included guitar strumming, singing songs of Simon and Garfunkel and some church praise songs (the only ones we had memorized), and a whole lot more sitting and staring.

Bedtime was interesting as well. The four men of our group slept on a queen-sized bed space on the rock solid floor with layer upon layer of old blankets. An eight foot wooden plank served as a pillow. I saw every 30 minutes pass on my watch that night.

The next morning our hosts were up with the sun. The four of us groaned out of bed, celebrated to see that Cheridyn had survived the night with the Señora, ate a quick and huge breakfast and began to make our farewells. The people asked for one more song before we left. We sang, "Leaving on a Jetplane." We took a group picture and were on our way.

It was a positively primitive and incredibly unique experience. There were moments that night when I seriously considered seeing if I could stick around and work and live with the people for a few weeks. They did invite us back, and I´ll be back in the villagehood in July... We´ll see.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1181593980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1181593980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/rusert/peru_journey/1181593980/tpod.html Thu, 21 Jun 2007 18:03:53 -0400 Embracing the Unexpected

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Lima, Peru

The first days of summer have been a trip. Driving 18-Wheelers in North Dakota, flying to and exploring Lima, partying with the Peruvian people, and surfing on the beach in Mancora have been some of the best stops along the way thus far. Here is my account:

Roll on 18-Wheeler, Roll on! (First, a story from the states)

1. I remember listening to the Alabama country music hit, ¨18-Wheeler¨, on our tape player in the van on the way up north with my family. I would look out the window, see a semi driving by, and furiously pump my elbow up and down until the driver honked the horn. It was always something to celebrate when they honked, but how much cooler it would be if I was the driver who blew the horn, I could only imagine. Until now...
My dear friend Jake´s father (Jon, the owner of Diamond T Ranch in North Dakota where I was cattle branding in late May) turned around in the semi we had taken to the granary and asked, ¨Ok, who´s driving?¨ I politely (and preventatively) hesitated to give my other friends a chance to volunteer. When nothing came of that I rose to the occasion and declared that I would do it. I thought it was a generous offer of Jon to give us a chance to drive the big rig and didn´t want to deny the generosity. It´s like being out hunting with your dad and at the end of the day, even though you´re not old enough to shoot, he hands the shotgun to you and teases, ¨Hey son, I bet you can´t hit that post... Why don´t you give it a try.¨ The correct response is not, ¨Oh... you´re right dad, I can´t hit the post.¨ Absolutely not, you overcome your timidity, pull the trigger, and see what happens. So I pulled up my briches, got in the driver´s seat, pulled the trigger, and we were rollin´on the highway.
I can´t describe the degree to which my man-o-meter rose the day I drove a semi. I was responsible for moving a rig weighing thousands of pounds more than any car, boasting an engine with more than 400 horse power, and I was almost 10 feet higher than the timid and tiny drivers who passed me below on the road (though they may have been timid because of my poor driving skills...).
It was a good day for the man-o-meter. Later that day I rode horse, branded cattle, tagged cattle, and even castrated one. If I were a cow the branding would hurt me, and so would the tagging, but after driving a semi that day the castrater would have been frivilous to do any damage to me.

2. Spanish Lessons: Set the wine free!

I have no program, no school, no homework. I only have millions and millions of people around me who speak Spanish and listen patiently and amusingly as I try to speak to them. I´m finding it very easy to be funny here in Peru. It´s not on account of my wit as much as it is my apparently charming lack of knowledge. For example, on the plane ride from Panama city to Lima I saw that the flight attendant was serving wine. I wanted to know if I needed money to buy it and asked the lady next to me, ¨Esta el vino libre?¨ Little did I know that this question basically relayed my concern that the wine was being held captive and I wanted to know if it had been granted freedom. Now I have learned the word, ¨gratis¨, meaning free, as in not costing anything. The lady was tired and forgiving and simply sad, ¨Si.¨
That´s learning a language. I´ve had many other blunders: pointing up and saying down, wanting to compliment someone on their hair and actually complimenting them on their non-existant horse, and finally telling a man I hardly knew that I loved him in a way that I should only say to a lover. The lessons continue to set me gratis... I mean libre.

3. My first day in Lima:

I had a wonderful first couple days in Lima, and I credit it almost entirely to my great new Peruvian friend, Silvana (only a few days before she returned to Peru we met in St. Paul where she was teaching for a couple years). I spent much of my time while wandering around thinking, ¨Tomas, what would you be doing right now without Silvana?¨ It has been a blessed beginning, and I pray it continues in this way. As we went from one part of the city to the other I was treated to meals, sights of the city, a little Dance Dance Revolution, walking Spanish lessons, and best of all, I was welcomed in to stay with her family in Lima. One part of being welcomed into the family was meeting Alberto, Silvana´s older brother. Alberto is 29 and is working as a computer engineer for a company. He invited Silvana and me to a party for a dear friend and co-worker of his. It was my first party in Peru, and it would be a perfect one.
The Perfect Party: Partying in this part of the world is incredible. It makes me wonder why God did not have me grow up here... At a party in Peru the three things that people do are singing, drinking, and dancing, and they do it all night long! Though, it kind of makes me wish I was sexy. The latin beats would start blasting, the feet kicking, and arms waving, and I could only contribute to the entertainment by showing my own clumsy moves. I´m not sure what will be more of a challenge- learning the language or learning how to be sexy...Don´t answer that.
At around midnight, everything stopped abruptly. The lights dimmed, everyone gathered, and we sang happy birthday to Tito, the host of the party. Afterwards we all shared a homecooked meal, contributed a few soles, and continued to dance and joke until almost 4 in the morning.
To dance and sing is the life for me. I hope I have a similar birthday sometime in the future.

4. Surfer Girls in Mancora and a Boy with a Surfboard:

I am mesmorized by the surfer girls. I have never seen one before. With bright smiles, charming eyes, and impressive command of the board, I find them beautiful. I figured the only way to the heart of a surfer girl was to become a surfer boy. So I rented a board and headed for the waves.
I watched the other surfter boys for awhile, trying to see what it takes to really be one. It starts with the board. No problem, they gave that to me. Then I noticed they all had wet-suits on. I did not. Their exposed skin was an impressive bronze; mine was a pasty white. Then I noticed something very interesting. They seemed to stand on their boards and ride the water; I was mostly on my belly bobbing on my board and drinking the water.
Needless to say I didn´t spend the evening hanging with surfer girls. In the end I wasn´t a surfer boy at all. I was just a boy with a surfboard. I think I got a few amused smiles from the girls, but other than that I only had a jellyfish bite, a rash on my belly, and a terrible sunburn, which brings me here, under an umbrella on the beach, watching the real surfer boys and girls and writing this entry to you.

5. Next stop, Canchaque:

Canchaque, the village city where my friend Cheridyn is serving as a Peace Corps. volunteer. In Canchaque, nobody speaks English, but everyone wants to speak with you. Just what I need for my second week of Spanish lessons.
]]>